Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart;—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port in some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,
'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;'
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed,—
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,—
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell! Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,—
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
Cowper's translation of Homer has been censured and praised in no measured terms. Compared with Pope, it is wanting in smoothness and beauty. But as a translation it does more justice to the simplicity and naturalness of the original than any of its competitors, though occasionally stiff and feeble. The night-scene of the Eighth Book of the Iliad may be taken as a specimen. The Trojans have given the Greeks a total-Agamemnon fears a fatal '—overthrow, and lie on their arms by their watch-fires all night.
Big with great purposes and proud, they sat,
Not disarrayed, but in fair form disposed,
Of even rank, and watched their numerous fires;
As when around the clear bright moon, the stars
Shine in full splendour, and the winds are hushed;
The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland height
Stand all apparent,—not a vapour streaks
Cowper's mother was descended by four different lines from Henry m.
The boundless blue, and ether opened wide,
All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheered.
So numerous seemed these fires, between the stream
Of Xanthus blazing, and the fleet of Greece
In prospect all of Troy, a thousand fires,
Each watched by fifty warriors seated near."
As a translation of another kind, take the thirteenth in his version of adame Guion's Hymns.
The Soul that loves God finds him everywhere.
All scenes alike engaging prove
To souls impressed with sacred love!
Where'er they dwell, they dwell in Thee,
In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.
To me remains nor place nor time;
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care
On any shore, since God is there.
While place we seek or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But with a God to guide our way,
"Tis equal joy to go or stay.
Could I be cast where thou art not,
That were indeed a dreadful lot;
But regions none remote I call,
Secure of finding God in all.
I hold by nothing here below;
Appoint my journey and I go;
Though pierced by scorn, oppressed by pride,
I feel thee good-feel nought beside.
* This translation is not perfect. 'In fair form disposed, of even rank,' is too much; though Pope's 'in order round,' and Sotheby's 'in orderly array,' is no better. And ether open'd wide, all glitters; is not clear, nor is it adequate. 'A flood of glory bursts from all the skies,' Pope's rendering, is charac teristic of the translator, but is not Homer. Sotheby's is better
' and ether, widely riven, Expands to other stars another heaven.'
Five stanzas out of nine.
Better still, reveals with other stars another heaven.' Newman renders,' from behind the cloven blue, unclouded heaven bursteth.' As a whole, however, and regarded as a translation, Cowper's version deserves very high praise. Like Homer, he has an eye for the poetic side of nature, and excels in what is simple and real. It is necessary, of course, in judging of his merits, to compare him with the original.
The common overgrown with fern, and rough
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed,
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
With luxury of unexpected sweets.
And though himself so polished, still reprieves
The obsolete prolixity of shade.
God made the country, and man made the town.
O for a lodge in some vast wilderness-
Some boundless contiguity of shade.
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still,
My country.
Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall!
Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtain, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate.
Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.
"Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat
To peep at such a world-to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;—
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss :
And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,
Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence. . . . Meditation here
May think down hours to moments.
May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light—My Mary.
For still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still-My Mary.
To Mary. Out of thirteen stanzas.
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife :
O'erjoyed was he to find,
That though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
I am monarch of all I survey.
Alex. Selkirk's Soliloquy.
Their tameness is shocking to me.
|