The stream of pure and geniune love
Derives its current from above;
And earth a second Eden shows,
Where'er the healing water flows;
But ah, if from the dykes and drains
Of sensual nature's fev'rish veins,
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,
Impregnated with ooze and mud,
Descending fast on every side,
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewell the soul-enliv'ning scene!
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flow'ry beauties dead.
The stream polluted, dark, and dull,
Diffus'd into a Stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with overflowing tears:
Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY
DEAR ANNA-between friend and friend,
Prose answers every common end;
Serves, in a plain and homely way,
T' express th' occurrence of the day;
Our health, the weather, and the news;
What walks we take, what books we choose,
And all the floating thoughts we find
Upon the surface of the mind.
But when a poet takes the pen,
Far more alive than other men,
He feels a gentle tingling come
Down to his finger and his thumb,
Deriv'd from nature's noblest part,
The centre of a glowing heart:
And this is what the world, who knows
No flights above the pitch of prose,
His more sublime vagaries slighting,
Denominates an itch for writing.
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme
To catch the triflers of the time,
And tell them truths divine and clear,
Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear;
Who labour hard to allure, and draw
The loiterers I never saw,
Should feel that itching, and that tingling
With all my purpose intermingling,
To your intrinsick merit true,
When call'd t' address myself to you.
Mysterious are his ways, whose wer
Brings forth that unexpected hour
When minds, that never met before,
Shall meet, unite, and part no more :
It is the allotment of the skies,
The hand of the Supremely Wise,
That guides and governs our affections,
And plans and orders our connexions :
Directs us in our distant road,
And marks the bounds of our abode.
Thus we were settled when you found us,
Peasants and children all around us,
Not dreaming of so dear a friend,
Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.*
❤ An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the resigence of Cowper, which faced the market-place
Thus Martha, e'en against her will.
Perch'd on the top of yonder bill;
And you, though you must needs prefer
The fairest scenes of sweet Sancerre,*
Are come from distant Loire, to choose
A cottage on the banks of Ouse.
This page of Providence quite new,
And now just op'ning to our view,
Employs our present thoughts and pains
To guess, and spell, what it contains:
But day by day, and year by year,
Will make the dark enigma clear;
And furnish us, perhaps, at last,
Like other scenes already past,
With proof, that we, and our affairs,
Are part of a Jehovah's cares:
For God unfolds, by slow degrees,
The purport of his deep decrees;
Sheds every hour a clearer light
In aid of our defective sight;
And spreads at length before the soul
A beautiful and perfect whole,
Which busy, man's inventive brain
Toils to anticipate, in vain.
Say, Anna, had you never known
The beauties of a rose full blown,
Could you, tho' luminous your eye,
By looking on the bud, descry,
Or guess, with a prophetick power,
The future splendour of the flower?
Just so, th' Omnipotent who turns
The system of a world's concerns,
From mere minutiæ can educe
Events of most important use;
And bid a dawning sky display
The blaze of a meridian day.
*Lady Austen's residence in France
The works of man tend, one and all,
As needs they must, from great to small,
And vanity absorbs at length
The monuments of human strength.
But who can tell how vast the plan
Which this day's incident began!
Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion,
For our dim-sighted observation;
It pass'd unnotic'd, as the bird
That cleaves the yielding air unheard,
And yet may prove, when understood,
An harbinger of endless good.
Not that I deem, or mean to call
Friendship a blessing cheap or small.
But merely to remark, that ours,
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers,
Rose from a seed of tiny size,
That seem'd to promise no such prize;
A transient visit intervening,
And made almost without a meaning,
(Hardly the effect of inclination,
Much less of pleasing expectation,)
Produc'd a friendship, then begun,
That has cemented us in one;
And plac'd it in our pow'r to prove,
By long fidelity and love,
That Solomon has wisely spoken:
"A threefold cord is not soon broken."
FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON
Late Rector of St. Mary Woolnoth
SAYS the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.
Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company-pray do but note 'emYou would think that the wise men of Greece were all there,
Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.
My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but sniv'ling and blowing of noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear.
Then lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And op'ning his mouth with a smile quite engaging The box in reply was heard plainly to say, What a silly dispute is this we are waging!
If you have a little of merit to claim,
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.
Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus,
We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,
But of any thing else they may choose to put in us
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