The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum

Cries, hark: the foes come!
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violin proclaim

Their jealous pangs and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach
What human voice can reach
That sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given;
An angel heard, and straight appeared,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 309

To all the bless'd above:

So, when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

WILLIAM COWPER

He

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. William Cowper was born in 1731. studied law, but had little interest in the profession. He lived in the Temple until he was thirty-two, but had little to do with the practice of law. He with a few others there formed a literary club, and that and social life occupied the greater part of his time. He was appointed clerk of the Journals of the House of Lords, but was ill fitted for the work and so shrunk from it that he made several attempts to commit suicide. Finally he became insane. He was sent to a private asylum and after a year and a half recovered. He went to live with a family near Huntingdon by the name of Unwin. Later the family moved to Olney and there Cowper met the Rev. John Newton, who inspired him to write the hymns, many of which are found in most hymn-books to-day.

Not long after this he again became insane. After his recovery he wrote most of his poems. His poetry seemed to cure him of his melancholy, and as he grew healthier his poems became more wholesome and sweet. It was during this period that he wrote "John Gilpin." "The Task" is his longest poem.

THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard them last.

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!"

The meek intelligence of those eyes

(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.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers

Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
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 word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern.
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 311

By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned 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,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Shortlived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Shall outlive many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
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 confectionery 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 contracts and breaks,
That humor 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 honors 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, the jessamine,

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), 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 as 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.