I must now take a nobler still up:
Give my Fancy, a prick,
My Invention, a flick,
And my Genius a pretty smart Fillip.
For the Bus'ness in hand
You are to understand,
Is indeed neither trifling nor small :
But wch you may transact
If your scull is not crackt
As well as yo best of them all.
And so may your Dear Wife
Be ye joy of your Life,
And of all our brave troops y Commandress,
As you shall convey
What herein I say
To ye very fair Lady, my Laundress.
That to Town I shall trot
(No I Lie, I shall not,
For to Town I shall jog in ye stage)
On October ye Twentieth,
For my Father consenteth
To make me yo Flower of yo Age.
So bid her prepare
Every Table & Chair,
And warm well my Bed by yo Fire,
And if this be not done
I shall break her Back bone
As sure as I ever come nigh her.
I am Jovial & Merry,
Have writ till I'm weary,
Am become, with a great deal of Talking, hoarse :
So farewell-sweet Lad!
Is all I shall add,
IN A LETTER TO C. P. ESQ.
ILL WITH THE RHEUMATISM
[Written (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
GRANT me the muse, ye Gods! whose humble flight
Seeks not the mountain-top's pernicious height;
Who can the tall Parnassian cliff forsake,
To visit oft the still Lethean lake;
2 height Southey: heights 1825.
Now her slow pinions brush the silent shore,
Now gently skim the unwrinkled waters o'er;
There dips her downy plumes, there upward flies,
And sheds soft slumbers in her votary's eyes.
IN A LETTER TO THE SAME
IN IMITATION OF SHAKESPEARE
[Written (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
TRUST me, the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
From the nice scale of judgment, honours more
Than does the lavish and o'erbearing tide
Of profuse courtesy: not all the gems
Of India's richest soil at random spread
O'er the gay vesture of some glittering dame
Give such alluring vantage to the person,
As the scant lustre of a few, with choice
And comely guise of ornament disposed.
[Written 1768 (?). Published in T. Wright's Life of Cowper, 1892.] THE Sky begins to lower and thick'ning Clouds Portend a speedy storm, the Vocal tribes No longer Sonnets sing; all, all are mute; The Beasts forbear to graze and seek the shade : Yon herd of Swine--see, see how fast they run; 'Tis said they see the Wind—
A solemn and awful silence now prevails,
Save when the breeze the Thunder's harbinger
Just rustles through the Grove: on ev'ry brow
A dark despondence reigns, and hark! it comes;
I heard the sudden roar,--my Soul, be calm,
Look up and view its progress, be serene,
Calm and collected, as becomes a Man.
Again it roars—and now the Lightning flies;
Not faster flies the timid Hare from Hounds;
Nor from the victor flies the vanquish'd Foe,
Than Trav'llers seek for Shelter; e'en my Dog
Cow'rs at my feet and looks up for protection.
And now 'tis dreadful truly-Heav'n and Earth,
How hard it rains! the Atmosphere's on fire!
Chaos presides! Confusion quite surrounds me!
Yet, yet again the broad expanded glare
Of vivid Lightning flashes o'er the Plain
Leaving a sulph'rous stench; Heav'ns what a Peal!
In a Letter to C. P.-7 there] thence Southey. 8 in] on Southey.
Still; still it roars incessant! What to this
The din of armies on the hostile Plain?
An Atom to a Mountain.—
See the sky opens-shuts--and forky fires
Dart oblique to the Earth; and o'er my Head
Tempest rides forward on the Whirlwind's wing:
Still the Almighty flashes for his Spear;
His Chariot wheels most awfully resound:
Well! be it so, my Soul; consoling thought!
He is thy maker and, I trust, thy friend;
Then wherefore tremble, wherefore shudder thus?
No, I will cease to fear, tho' even now
The Ear of Nature feels so strong a Shock
As scarce before it felt: yet as a Man,
A Christian Man, I shudder now no more.
When God in Thunder spoke from Sinai's mount,
Israel approach'd with Awe; if Moses then
Could mediate for the People, and avert
The great Jehovah's anger, sure his Son,
The fam'd Immanuel, the Prince of Peace,
Can ransom from his wrath and reconcile.
But oh! my Soul how poor a Portrait this!
How weak the Colours and how faint th' Idea,
Of what one day thou must be a Spectator!
Oh! bright and blessed morning to the Just!
Oh! Day of doom, of infinite distress,
To those who unprepar'd Messiah meet;
When thron'd in Clouds, surrounded by the Host
Of Heav'n, worshipping, the Judge descends:
Consummate Triumph. Hark! the Trumpet sounds,
The Breath of Michael blows th' Amazing blast;
The Dead arise, the Living all are Chang'd,
And Adam's family appear before Him.
Amid that throng, in that Assembly vast,
Must thou, my soul, appear and there receive
A Plaudit glorious or Silence sad:
Sink deep in Thought, Oh, deeper, deeper still :
May it ne'er be forgotten, on my Couch
Be it my dreaming subject; when awake,
Oh! be it still remember'd: for its worth
What tongue can speak, or any language tell?
Then from this hour deep on my heart engraved
Be all my duty needful; Ha! that blaze,
That Shock tremendous that appals me thus
Says I am not prepar'd-but I submit;
No more will I rebel against thy sway
Nor dispute thy dominion, Gracious God!
My sins shall suffer, and by Grace divine
I will forsake them all and trust alone
For true felicity, for pleasure high,
To Thee who only can true pleasure give.
The Storm abates-less too the Thunder roars,
The Vault of Heav'n grows brighter, and the Sun
Strives to Emerge from yonder dusky Cloud;
More faint the flashes grow-and distant fly;
Nature resumes her charms, and from the Grove
Musick again is heard: the Warblers there
Attempt a feeble strain: The Dog Star now
Throws his warm beams around the weeping Scene;
Salubrious Zephyrs gently fan the Air:
Love, Life, and Joy return by due degrees
And Harmony once more revisits Earth.
[Written July, 1780 (MS. in the British Museum). First six lines published by Hayley, 1803; afterwards in The Gentleman's Magazine, Dec. 1806.]
I AM just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told.
I am lawful, unlawful--a duty, a fault,
I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought.
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
And yielded with pleasure-when taken by force.
Alike the delight of the poor and the rich,
Tho' the vulgar is apt to present me his breech. 8
[Written in letter to Newton, Aug. 31, 1780. Published by Southey, 1836.]
THE curate and churchwarden,
And eke exciseman too,
Have treated poor Tom Raban
As if he was a Jew.
For they have sent him packing,
No more in church to work,
Whatever may be lacking;
As if he was a Turk.
Thus carry they the farce on,
Which is great cause of grief,
Until that Page the parson
Turn over a new leaf.
Thus sings the muse, and though her fav'rite cue Is fiction, yet her song is sometimes true.
[Written 1781 (?). Published from the copy among the Ash MSS. in Unpublished Poems of Cowper, 1900.]
METHINKS I see thee decently array'd
In long flowed nightgown of stuff-damask made;
Thy cassock underneath it closely braced
With surcingle about thy mod'rate waist;
Thy morning wig, grown tawny to the view,
Though once a grizzle, and thy square-toed shoe.
The day was, when the sacerdotal race
Esteem'd their proper habit no disgrace,
Or rather when the garb their order wears
Was not disgrac'd as now, by being theirs.
I speak of prigs-
IMPROMPTU ON READING THE CHAPTER ON POLYGAMY, IN MR. MADAN'S THELYPHTHORA
[Written 1780. Published in The Gentleman's Magazine, Dec. 1780.]
IF John marries Mary, and Mary alone,
'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. But if John weds a score, oh, what claws and what scratches!
It can't be a match-'tis a bundle of matches.
ON MADAN'S ANSWER TO NEWTON'S COMMENTS ON THELYPHTHORA [Written May 13, 1781. Published by Southey, 1836.] M. QUARRELS with N., for M. wrote a book And N. did not like it, which M. could not brook, So he call'd him a bigot, a wrangler, a monk, With as many hard names as would line a good
And set up his back, and claw'd like a cat,
But N. liked it never the better for that.
Now N. had a wife, and he wanted but one,
Which stuck in M.'s stomach as cross as a bone.
It has always been reckon'd a just cause of strife
For a man to make free with another man's wife;
But the strife is the strangest that ever was known,
If a man must be scolded for loving his own.
ON A REVIEW CONDEMNING
THELYPHTHORA
[Written Oct. (?), 1780. Published by Southey, 1836.] I HAVE read the Review; it is learned and wise, Clear, candid, and witty-Thelyphthora dies.
"Methinks I sce"-7 The 1900: Thy A.
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