That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed:
Then as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn;
And, at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?
THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild;
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care, and guilty gain!
When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam,
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.
Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear :
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds:
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's sequester'd store.
For them the moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,
The meadows incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare,
That o'er the glimmering hearth they share
But when the curfew's measur'd roar
Duly, the darkening vallies o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied-canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose:
Their little sons, who spread the broom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or through the primros'd coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-mown hay:
Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;
Or hasten from the sultry hill,
To loiter at the shady rill;
Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest,
To rob the raven's ancient nest.
Their humble porch with honied flowers
The curling woodbine's shade imbowers:
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound ::
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime:
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.
THE APPROACH OF SUMMER.
WHEN in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bower to build :
While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron mantle on,
And mists in spreading steams convey,
More fresh, the fumes of new-shorn hay;
Then, Goddess, guide my pilgrim feet
Contemplation hoar to meet,
As slow he winds in useful mood,
Near the rush'd marge of Cherwell's flood;
Or o'er old Avon's magic edge,
Whence Shakspeare cull'd the spiky sedge,
All playful yet, in years unripe,
To frame a shrill and simple pipe.
There through the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet evening objects intervene :
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants,
The woodman, speeding home, awhile
Rests him at a shady stile.
Nor wants their fragrance to dispense
Refreshment o'er my soothed sense;
Nor tangled woodbines' balmy bloom,
Nor grass besprent to breathe perfume:
Nor lurking wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot;
Rustle the breezes lightly borne
O'er deep embattled ears of corn:
Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Full loud the chaffer-swarms rejoice.
Meantime, a thousand dies invest
The ruby chambers of the west!
That all aslant the village tower,
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level streaming rays
Far seen its arched windows blaze;
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstacies;
And Fancy to my ravish'd sight
Pourtrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views,
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path 1 fondly stray
In musings lap'd, nor heed the way;
Wandering through the landscape, still
Till melancholy has her fill;
And on each moss-wove border damp
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.
But when the sun, at noon-tide hour,
Sits throned in his highest tow'r ;
Me, heart-rejoicing Goddess, lead
To the tann'd haycock in the mead :
To mix in rural mood among
The nymphs and swains, a busy throng;
Or, as the tepid odours breathe,
The russet piles to lean beneath :
There as my listless limbs are thrown
On couch more soft than palace down;
I listen to the busy sound
Of mirth and toil, that hums around;
And see the team shrill tinkling pass,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.
But ever, after summer show'r,
When the bright Sun's returning pow'r,
With laughing beam has chas'd the storm,
And cheer'd reviving Nature's form;
By sweet-brier hedges, bath'd in dew,
Let me my wholesome path pursue:
There issuing forth, the frequent snail
Wears the dank way with slimy trail,
While, as I walk, from pearled bush
The sunny-sparkling drop I brush;
And all the landscape fair I view
Clad in robe of fresher hue:
And so loud the blackbird sings,
That far and near the valley rings.
From shelter deep of shaggy rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock;
From bowering beech the mower blithe
With new-born vigour grasps the scythe;
While o'er the smooth unbounded meads
His last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.
But ever against restless heat,
Bear me to the rock-arch'd seat,
O'er whose dim mouth an ivied oak
Hangs nodding from the low-brow'd rock :
Haunted by that chaste nymph alone,
Whose waters cleave the smoothed stone;
Which, as they gush upon the ground,
Still scatter misty dews around:
A rustic, wild, grotesque alcove,
Its sides with mantling woodbines wové;
Cool as the cave where Clio dwells,
When Helicon's fresh fountain wells;
Or noon-tide grot where Sylvan sleeps
Or hoar Lyceum's piny steeps.
Me, Goddess, in such cavern lay,
While all without is scorch'd in day;
Sore sighs the weary swain, beneath
His withering hawthorn on the heath;
The drooping hedger wishes eve,
In vain, of labour short reprieve!
Meantime, on Afric's glowing sands,
Smote with keen heat, the traveller stands:
Low sinks his heart, while round his eye
Measures the scenes that boundless lie,
Ne'er yet by foot of mortal worn,
Where Thirst, wan pilgrim, walks forlorn:
How does he wish some cooling wave
To slake his lips, or limbs to lave!
And thinks, in every whisper low,
He hears a bursting foun'ain flow.
WILLIAM COWPER.
Born 1731-Died 1800.
COWPER's biography is remarkable amidst that of all other poets, and indeed of all other men, for being almost exclusively the history of his feelings. It is a record, not so much of the changes in his external or even intellectual circumstances, as of those in the affections and emotions of his heart. Hence it is intensely interesting, without deriving that interest either from variety of incident or even from the progress and publication of his literary works. The events in his life are few, and those few such as cannot be understood, but in connexion with a full developement of the states of mind and feeling, which preceded, accompanied, and were occasioned by them. From his letters, which are the finest specimens of epistolary writing in the language, and from the affectionate and instructive biography of Hayley, the pupil may gain some adequate knowledge of that singular and sensitive being.
The personal character of Cowper, to those who could appreciate its merits, must have been in the highest degree attractive and interesting. His friends loved him, indeed, with a strength of attachment, and watched over him with a vigilance and an affectionate delicacy of attention, which it is rare to witness. His keen sensibilities,- -so keen, that they shrunk instinctively from the slightest exposure, did not prevent the stronger features of his mind from growing into full richness and maturity, but rather blended and harmonized with them into a beautifully original combination. His character wore all the softness and delicacy of a flover that has grown in the shade, without exhibiting its pallid sickliness of
With a warm-hearted benevolence towards all mankind, and a peculiar tenderness of feeling even for the inferior orders of being, he united a rich humour, a delightful fund of pleasantry and wit. At the same time a fervent piety diffused its influence alike throughout his character and writings,
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