CHAPTER XX WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800 'His talent is but the picture of his character, and his poems but the echo of his life. Poor charming soul, perishing like a frail flower transplanted from a warm land to the snows! the world's temperature was too rough for it; and the moral law which should have supported it, tore it with its thorns." - -TAINE. WILLIAM COWPER, whom his best biographer, Southey, speaks of as "the most popular poet of his generation, and the best of English letter writers," was born at Berkhamstead, England, in 1731. His mother, whom to the last he affectionately remembered, died when he was only six years old. His constitution was from his infancy remarkably delicate, and his extremely sensitive nature was subject to fits of melancholy. He received his education at Westminster School. Being designed for the law, he was placed under an eminent attorney, on leaving whom he entered the Inner Temple. At the age of thirty-one he was nominated clerk in the House of Lords, but an unconquerable timidity of character prevented his entering upon the duties of the appointment. He was next appointed clerk of the journals; but an occasion occurring which rendered it necessary for the clerk to appear before the bar of the House, had such an effect on his nerves that he resigned his place. A morbid melancholy seized him, and it was found necessary to place him under the private care of a physician. After a time he recovered his mental faculties. He settled at Huntington, where he entered into a close friendship with a clergyman of the name of Unwin, in whose family he became an inmate. Mr. Unwin died in 1767, and Cowper and Mrs. Unwin settled at Olney. He had, as yet, written but little, but in 1782 he issued a volume of poems, which, however, attracted but little public attention. But a second volume, in 1785, established his WILLIAM COWPER a reputation as a poet. This volume contained his celebrated poem, "The Task," blank verse production, written at the suggestion of his friend and admirer, Lady Austin. The same lady was also the occasion of the popular ballad, "John Gilpin," the story of which she related to amuse Cowper during one of his fits of melancholy. About the same time he translated the "Iliad" of Homer into blank verse. In 1794 the King granted Cowper a pension of three hundred pounds a year, but the royal bounty was too late to yield much profit or pleasure. Its recipient was in a state of utter dejection, - a kind of morbid insanity, from which he rarely emerged into the enjoyment of unclouded reason. He continued to write, in short lucid intervals, until his death in 1800. Cowper's personal appearance is thus described by Hay ley, his friend and biographer: "He was of middle stature, rather strong than delicate in the form of his limbs; the color of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish gray, and his complexion ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not finical; in his diet, temperate and not dainty. He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, and his extreme shyness sometimes produced in his manners a mixture of awkwardness and dignity; but no being could be more truly graceful when he was in perfect health and perfectly pleased with his society." ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me: Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. O welcome guest, though unexpected here! But gladly, as the precept were her own : 5 ΙΟ 15 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother when I learnt that thou wast dead, 20 25 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 30 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu. But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more. 35 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 40 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot ; ́ But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, That once we called the pastoral house our own. 45 50 Short-lived possession! but the record fair That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 55 60 The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheek 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, 65 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 75 I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), 80 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? So little to be loved, and thou so much, 85 |