The Poetical Works of William Cowper

Thus swiftly dividing the flood,
To a slave-cultur'd island we came,
Where a demon, her enemy, stood—
Oppression his terrible name.
In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
A scourge hung with lashes he bore,
And stood looking out for his prey
From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he view'd,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued.
I saw him both sicken and die,

And the moment the monster expired,
Heard shouts that ascended the sky,
From thousands with rapture inspired..

Awaking, how could I but muse

At what such a dream should betide ?
But soon my ear caught the glad news

Which served my weak thought for a guide,-
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves
For the hatred she ever has shown
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own.

SWEET MEAT HAS SOUR SAUCE;

OR, THE SLAVE-TRADE IN THE DUMPS.

A TRADER I am to the African shore,

But since that my trading is like to be o'er,

I'll sing you a song that you ne'er heard before,

Which nobody can deny, deny,
Which nobody can deny.

When I first heard the news it gave me a shock,
Much like what they call an electrical knock,
And now I am going to sell off my stock,
Which nobody, &c.

'Tis a curious assortment of dainty regales,
To tickle the negroes with when the ship sails,
Fine chains for the neck, and a cat with nine tails,
Which nobody, &c.

Here's supple-jack plenty, and store of ratan,
That will wind itself round the sides of a man,
As close as a hoop round a bucket or can,

Which nobody, &c.

Here's padlocks and bolts, and screws for the thumbs, That squeeze them so lovingly till the blood comes; They sweeten the temper like comfits or plums,

Which nobody, &c.

When a negro his head from his victuals withdraws, And clenches his teeth and thrusts out his paws, Here's a notable engine to open his jaws,

Which nobody, &c.

Thus going to market, we kindly prepare

A pretty black cargo of African ware,

For what they must meet with when they get there,
Which nobody, &c.

"Twould do your heart good to see 'em below
Lie flat on their backs all the way as we go,
Like sprats on a gridiron, scores in a row,
Which nobody, &c.

But ah! if in vain I have studied an art
So gainful to me, all boasting apart,
I think it will break my compassionate heart,
Which nobody, &c.

For oh! how it enters my soul like an awl;
This pity, which some people self-pity call,
Is sure the most heart-piercing pity of all,
Which nobody, &c.

So this is my song, as I told you before;
Come, buy off my stock, for I must no more
Carry Cæsars and Pompeys to sugar-cane shore,
Which nobody, &c.

EPIGRAM.

To purify their wine, some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And hence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
"Tis in the blood of innocence alone-

Good cause why planters never try their own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS;

OR, TITHING-TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a country clergyman* complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the parsonage.

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest,
The burthen of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe

When tithing-time draws near.

He then is full of frights and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come, jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,

To make their payments good.
In sooth the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express'd,
When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distress'd.
Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates ;-
He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows,

Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can. So in they come-each makes his leg, And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg, And not to quit a score. "And how does miss and madam do, The little boy and all ?" "All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call p"

The dinner comes, and down they sit :
Were e'er such hungry folk?
There's little talking, and no wit;
It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Yet not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins. Come, neighbours, we must wag,"

The money chinks, down drop their chins,

Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has lost By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear;
But yet methinks to tell you true,

You sell it plaguy dear.”

Oh why were farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?
A kick that scarce would move a
horse,

May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home; "Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum Without the clowns that pay.

* Mr. Unwin.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.,* 1788.

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords.

CowPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou readest) of England's peers,
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

NO FABLE.

THE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wander'd on his side.

1788.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphst adorn'd with every
grace

That spaniel found for me,)
Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd
His lilies newly blown ;

Their beauties I intent survey'd,
And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly
caught,

Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

* The poet's cousin.

The Gunnings, daughters of Sir Robert Gunning, and great-nieces of the celebrated beauties of George II.'s reign.

But with a cherup clear and strong, My quick approach, and soon he Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended I return'd;
Beau, trotting far before
The floating wreath again discern'd,
And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd
Impatient swim to meet

dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, "The world,"
I cried,

"Shall hear of this thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:

MOTTO FOR A CLOCK.*

QUA lenta accedit, quam velox præterit hora!
Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil!

THUS TRANSLATED BY HAYLEY.

Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how great!
Waiting to seize it-vigilantly wait!

ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER HANGINGS.†
(June, 1788.)

THE birds put off their every hue,
To dress a room for Montagu.
The peacock sends his heavenly
dyes,

His rainbows and his starry eyes;
The pheasant, plumes which round
infold

His mantling neck with downy gold;
The cock his arched tail's azure show;
And, river-blanched, the swan his

snow.

All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,

Where rises and where sets the day.
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing
shower,

Nor blasts that shake the dripping
bower,

Shall drench again or discompose,
But screen'd from every storm that
blows,

It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montagu.

* Cowper wrote this motto for a clock which Bacon had sculptured for George III. The clock and lines adorn Her Majesty's presence chamber in Windsor Castle.

She

+ Mrs. Montagu was the daughter of Mr. Robinson, of West Layton in Yorkshire. was a celebrated literary lady who wrote "A Defence of Shakespeare," &c., and entertained literary people at her house. The feather hangings adorned one of her reception rooms where the "Blue Stocking Club" met.

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