"The minx shall, for your folly's sake,
Still prove herself a shrew, Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses blue."
SURVIVOR Sǝle, and hardly such, of all
That once lived here, thy brethren! at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past), A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry, with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employed too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!
*Yardley oak stood in Yardley Chase.
Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,
And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig.
Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees
Oracular, I would not curious ask
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.
By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right—— Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And time hath made thee what thou art-a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks That grazed it, stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now.
Thy popularity, and art become
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.
While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship-first a seedling hid in grass:
Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose,--till at the last The rottenness, which Time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee.
What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all
That we account most durable below!
Change is the diet, on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain, now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds,— Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live, plant, animal, and man,
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads,
Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain
The force, that agitates not unimpair'd; But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe.
Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay.
Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root-and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents,
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warped into tough knee-timber, many a load !* But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest, waged For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour, which had, far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbid'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock,
quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.
So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not in virtue, and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverised of venality, a shell
Stands now, and semblance only of itself!
* Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion,
are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.-C.
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white; And some memorial none where once they grew. Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine.
But since, although well qualified by age. To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may.
One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charged his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet,
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme. .
EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON. LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come : Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. They in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell; Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.
DEEM not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn, Thy friend, though to a cloister's shade consign'd, Can e'er forget the charms he left behind, Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn! In happier days to brighter prospects born, Oh tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind, Like thee, Content in every state may find, And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn; To steer with nicest art betwixt the extreme Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease; To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream ; Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy, The guide to pleasures which can never cease!
THE RETIRED CAT. [1791.]
A POET's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick,- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique,
'Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending debonnair, An apple tree or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There, wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
* His own cat. Cowper had many pets. Lady Hesketh enumerates five rabbits, three hares, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a jay, a starling, two goldfinches, two canaries, and two dogs.
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