TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792. [The poet mentions the fact in a letter to Mr Rose.] WHENCE is it that, amazed, I hear From yonder wither'd spray, This foremost morn of all the year, The melody of May? And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favour shewn, Am I selected from the crowd, To witness it alone? Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long Have practised in the groves like thee, Or sing'st thou rather under force Thrice welcome then! for many a long And joyless year have I, As thou to-day, put forth my song But thee no wintry skies can harm, To make even January charm, LINES WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HAND-WRITINGS AND SIGNATURES MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE. [Newton had been requested to negotiate this little matter with Cowper and though the latter remarks on the verses "trifling enough I readily confess they are; but I have always allowed myself to trifle occasionally; and on this occasion had not, nor have at present, time to do more;" yet we perceive, from the fact of the verses having been three times altered, and the copies of the alterations sent by post, that, in poetry at least, his trifling was not without solicitude. As an example of Cowper's emendations, the second copy may be acceptable: the final improvement was Lady Hesketh's suggestion. In vain to live from age to age March 6, 1792. In vain to live from age to age W. COWPER. EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST. March, 1792. [The bird was a favourite of Miss Sally Hurdis, the sister of the Rev. Mr Hurdis, the poet's correspondent, and author of the Village Curate.] THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears, And tears by Sally shed For absent Robin, who she fears, With too much cause, is dead. One morn he came not to her hand Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplext, She therefore raised him here a tomb, Had half a score of coxcombs died Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, But Bob was neither rudely bold Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, TO DR AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. [This gentleman had been sent for from London, by Mr Hayley, to attend Mrs Unwin, in an attack of paralysis. May 26, 1792.] AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me, Were in the power of verse like mine to give, I would not recompense his art with less, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. Friend of my friend! I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. [A correspondent in the Northampton Mercury had expressed some doubts regarding Cowper's real sentiments on the Slave Trade, because he had declined to write on the subject. In order to answer, without seeming to reply to, these remarks, this Sonnet and the following Epigram appeared in that paper, April 16, 1792. From his correspondence, also, Cowper's detestation of the principle of slavery sufficiently appears, though, with equal feeling and good taste, he regarded the vulgar atrocities, and the popular excitement connected with the traffic, as unpromising subjects for a sustained and dignified poem.] THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the blest above. EPIGRAM. To purify their wine, some people bleed To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood. Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, And thence, perhaps, this wondrous virtue springs. 'Tis in the blood of innocence alone. Good cause why planters never try their own. SONNET ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. [JUNE 2, 1792.] [Hayley first addressed Cowper in a letter enclosing a sonnet ; the poetical compliment is here answered.] HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown, Not more to admire the bard than love the man. CATHARINA: THE SECOND PART. ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ. BELIEVE it or not, as you choose, The doctrine is certainly true, June, 1792. That the future is known to the muse, And poets are oracles too. I did but express a desire To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire, Such prophecy some may despise, And therefore attains to its end. |