The Works of William Cowper - William Cowper

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      Olney, June 22, 1782.

      My dear Friend,

      If reading verse be your delight,

       'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;

       But what we would, so weak is man,

       Lies oft remote from what we can.

       For instance, at this very time,

       I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,

       To soothe my friend, and had I power,

       To cheat him of an anxious hour;

       Not meaning (for I must confess,

       It were but folly to suppress,)

       His pleasure or his good alone,

       But squinting partly at my own.

       But though the sun is flaming high

       I' th' centre of yon arch, the sky,

       And he had once (and who but he?)

       The name for setting genius free;

       Yet whether poets of past days

       Yielded him undeserved praise,

       And he by no uncommon lot

       Was famed for virtues he had not;

       Or whether, which is like enough,

       His Highness may have taken huff,

       So seldom sought with invocation,

       Since it has been the reigning fashion

       To disregard his inspiration,

       I seem no brighter in my wits,

       For all the radiance he emits,

       Than if I saw through midnight vapour

       The glimm'ring of a farthing taper.

       O for a succedaneum, then,

       T' accelerate a creeping pen,

       O for a ready succedaneum,

       Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium

       Pondere liberet exoso,

       Et morbo jam caliginoso!

       'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd

       With best tobacco, finely mill'd,

       Beats all Anticyra's pretences

       To disengage the encumber'd senses.

      O Nymph of Transatlantic fame,

       Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,

       Whether reposing on the side

       Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide,

       Or list'ning with delight not small

       To Niagara's distant fall,

       'Tis thine to cherish and to feed

       The pungent nose-refreshing weed,

       Which, whether, pulverized it gain

       A speedy passage to the brain,

       Or, whether touch'd with fire, it rise

       In circling eddies to the skies,

       Does thought more quicken and refine

       Than all the breath of all the Nine—

       Forgive the Bard, if Bard he be,

       Who once too wantonly made free

       To touch with a satiric wipe

       That symbol of thy power, the pipe;

       So may no blight infest thy plains,

       And no unseasonable rains,

       And so may smiling Peace once more

       Visit America's sad shore;

       And thou, secure from all alarms

       Of thund'ring drums and glitt'ring arms,

       Rove unconfined beneath the shade

       Thy wide-expanded leaves have made;

       So may thy votaries increase,

       And fumigation never cease.

       May Newton, with renew'd delights,

       Perform thine odorif'rous rites.

       While clouds of incense half divine

       Involve thy disappearing shrine;

       And so may smoke-inhaling Bull

       Be always filling, never full.

      W. C.

       Table of Contents

      Olney, July 16, 1782.

      My dear Friend—Though some people pretend to be clever in the way of prophetical forecast, and to have a peculiar talent of sagacity, by which they can divine the meaning of a providential dispensation while its consequences are yet in embryo, I do not. There is at this time to be found, I suppose, in the cabinet, and in both houses, a greater assemblage of able men, both as speakers and counsellors, than ever were contemporary in the same land. A man not accustomed to trace the workings of Providence, as recorded in Scripture, and that has given no attention to this particular subject, while employed in the study of profane history, would assert boldly, that it is a token for good, that much may be expected from them, and that the country, though heavily afflicted, is not yet to be despaired of, distinguished as she is by so many characters of the highest class. Thus he would say, and I do not deny that the event might justify his skill in prognostics. God works by means; and, in a case of great national perplexity and distress, wisdom and political ability seem to be the only natural means of deliverance. But a mind more religiously inclined, and perhaps a little tinctured with melancholy, might with equal probability of success hazard a conjecture directly opposite. Alas! what is the wisdom of man, especially when he trusts in it as the only god of his confidence? When I consider the general contempt that is poured upon all things sacred, the profusion, the dissipation, the knavish cunning, of some, the rapacity of others, and the impenitence of all, I am rather inclined to fear that God, who honours himself by bringing human glory to shame, and by disappointing the expectations of those whose trust is in creatures, has signalized the present day as a day of much human sufficiency and strength, has brought together from all quarters of the land the most illustrious men to be found in it, only that he may prove the vanity of idols, and that, when a great empire is falling, and he has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it, the inhabitants, be they weak or strong wise or foolish, must fall with it. I am rather confirmed in this persuasion by observing that these luminaries of the state had no sooner fixed themselves in the political heaven, than the fall of the brightest of them shook all the rest. The arch of their power was no sooner struck than the key-stone slipped out of its place, those that were closest in connexion with it followed, and the whole building, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. If a man should hold this language, who could convict him of absurdity? The Marquis of Rockingham is minister—all the world rejoices, anticipating success in war and a glorious peace. The Marquis of Rockingham is dead—all the world is afflicted, and relapses into its former despondence. What does this prove, but that the Marquis was their Almighty, and that, now he is gone, they know no other? But let us wait a little, they will find another. Perhaps the Duke of Portland, or perhaps the unpopular——, whom they now represent as a devil, may obtain that honour. Thus God is forgot, and when he is, his judgments are generally his remembrancers.

      How shall I comfort you upon the subject of your present distress? Pardon me that I find myself obliged to smile at it, because, who but yourself would be distressed upon such an occasion? You have behaved politely, and, like a gentleman, you have hospitably offered your house to a stranger, who could not, in your neighbourhood at least, have been comfortably accommodated any where else. He, by neither refusing nor accepting an offer that did him too much honour, has disgraced himself, but not you. I think for the future you

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