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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- 110
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- 120
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

TO MRS. UNWIN *

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned
they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own 'st that praise, I spare thee
mine.

THE CASTAWAY †

1

Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home forever left.

2

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.

The friend and constant companion of Cowper for thirty-four years.

The last poem that Cowper wrote: founded on an incident in Admiral Anson's Voyages. It portrays imaginatively his own melancholy condition.

3

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

4

He shouted; nor his friends had failed To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

5

Some succour yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow;

But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

6

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

7

He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;

And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried "Adieu!”

8

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more; For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.

9

No poet wept him; but the page

Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear:

And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalise the dead.

10

I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

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Where in the midst, upon her throne of green,
Sits the large lily as the water's queen;
And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;
Draw then the strongest contrast to that stream,
And our broad river will before thee seem.
With ceaseless motion comes and goes the
tide;

Flowing, it fills the channel vast and wide;

"Describe the Borough."-Though our idle Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep tribe

May love description, can we so describe,

That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,

And all that gives distinction to a place? This cannot be; yet, moved by your request, A part I paint-let fancy form the rest.

10

Cities and towns, the various haunts of men, Require the pencil; they defy the pen. Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet, So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? Can measured lines these various buildings show, The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row? Can I the seats of wealth and want explore, And lengthen out my lays from door to door? Then, let thy fancy aid me.—I repair From this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor, Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach; Where hang at open doors the net and cork, While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide, 21

The weary husband throws his freight aside A living mass, which now demands the wife, The alternate labours of their humble life.

1 Homer, Iliad II.

This poem was inscribed to the Duke of Rutland, to whom Crabbe had been chaplain,

and takes the form of Letters from a resi

dent of a sea-port (Crabbe was a native of Aldeburgh, Suffolk) to the owner of an inland country-seat. The date of the poem is 1810. Crabbe's reputation, however, was established by The Village in 1783, and his place is with those later 18th century poets who clung to the 18th century forms, though reacting against the artificiality and frigid conventionalism that had so long reigned. In homeliness of themes and naked realism of treatment, the poet of The Village and

The Borough stands quite alone. See Eng. Lit., p. 226.

40

It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; Here sampire-banks and salt-wort bound the flood;

There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the mud;

And, higher up, a ridge of all things base, Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place.

Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat; While at her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he purposes to land, From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray

Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.

50

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Those laden waggons, in return, impart
The country-produce to the city mart;
Hark to the clamour in that miry road,
Bounded and narrowed by yon vessel's load;
The lumbering wealth she empties round the
place,

Package, and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case;
While the loud seaman and the angry hind,
Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.

Near these a crew amphibious, in the docks, Rear, for the sea, those castles on the stocks: See the long keel, which soon the waves must hide; 81

See the strong ribs which form the roomy side; Bolts yielding slowly to the sturdiest stroke, And planks which curve and crackle in the smoke.

Around the whole rise cloudy wreaths, and far Bear the warm pungence of o'er-boiling tar.

Dabbling on shore half-naked sea-boys crowd, Swim round a ship, or swing upon the shroud; Or, in a boat purloined, with paddles play, And grow familiar with the watery way. Young though they be, they feel whose sons they are;

90

They know what British seamen do and dare; Proud of that fame, they raise and they enjoy The rustic wonder of the village boy.

Turn to the watery world!-but who to thee (A wonder yet unviewed) shall paint-the sea? Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms;

Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun
Shades after shades upon the surface run;
Embrowned and horrid2 now, and now serene,
In limpid blue, and evanescent green; 170
And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,
Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced

eye.

Be it the summer-noon: a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place; Then just the hot and stony beach above, Light twinkling streams in bright confusion

move

180

(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends,
And with the cooler in its fall contends);
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps
An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps,
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand,
Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand,
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,
And back return in silence, smooth and slow.
Ships in the calm seem anchored; for they glide
On the still sea, urged solely by the tide;
Art thou not present, this calm scene before,
2 rough

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In part conceal-yon prowler on his way.
Lo! he has something seen; he runs apace,
As if he feared companion in the chase;
He sees his prize, and now he turns again,
Slowly and sorrowing-"Was your search in
vain?''

Gruffly he answers,

"Tis a sorry sight!

A seaman's body; there'll be more to-night!" Hark to those sounds! they're from distress at sea; 241

How quick they come! What terrors may there be!

Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern

To pass off one dread portion of the night;
And show and song and luxury combined
Lift off from man this burthen of mankind. 280
Others adventurous walk abroad and meet
Returning parties pacing through the street;
When various voices, in the dying day,
Hum in our walks, and greet us in our way;
When tavern-lights flit on from room to room,
And guide the tippling sailor, staggering home:
There as we pass, the jingling bells betray
How business rises with the closing day:
Now walking silent, by the river's side,
The ear perceives the rippling of the tide; 290

Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the Or measured cadence of the lads who tow stern;

Others behold them too, and from the town
In various parties seamen hurry down;
Their wives pursue, and damsels urged by
dread,

Some entered hoy, to fix her in her row;
Or hollow sound, which from the parish-bell
To some departed spirit bids farewell!

Thus shall you something of our BOROUGH
know.

Lest men so dear be into danger led; Far as a verse, with Fancy's aid, can show; Their head the gown has hooded, and their call Of sea or river, of a quay or street, In this sad night is piercing like the squall; The best description must be incomplete; They feel their kinds of power, and when they But when a happier theme succeeds, and when meet, 251 Men are our subjects and the deeds of men; 300 Then may we find the Muse in happier style, And we may sometimes sigh and sometimes smile.

Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat.
See one poor girl, all terror and alarm,
Has fondly seized upon her lover's arm;
"Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers,
"No!

I will not'-still she cries, "Thou shalt not
go."

No need of this; not here the stoutest boat Can through such breakers, o'er such billows

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From parted clouds the moon her radiance
throws

On the wild waves, and all the danger shows;
But shows them beaming in her shining vest,
Terrific splendour! gloom in glory dressed!
This for a moment, and then clouds again
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign.
But hear we now those sounds? Do lights
appear?

I see them not! the storm alone I hear:
And lo! the sailors homeward take their way;
Man must endure-let us submit and pray.
Such are our winter-views; but night comes

on

270

Now business sleeps, and daily cares are gone;
Now parties form, and some their friends assist
To waste the idle hours at sober whist;
The tavern's pleasure or the concert's charm
Unnumbered moments of their sting disarm;
Play-bills and open doors a crowd invite,

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827)

SONG
1

How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,
Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide.

2

He showed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
And led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

3

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

4

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

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