Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/146

That constellation set, the world in vain
 Must hope to look upon their like again.
A. Are we then left
B.
Not wholly in the dark,
 Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark,
 Sufficient to redeem the modern race
 From total night and absolute disgrace.
While servile trick and imitative knack
 Confine the million in the beaten track,
 Perhaps some courser who disdains the road,
 Snuffs up the wind and flings himself abroad.
Contemporaries all surpassed, see one,
 Short his career, indeed, but ably run.
Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers,
 In penury consumed his idle hours,
 And like a scattered seed at random sown,
 Was left to spring by vigor of his own.
Lifted at length by dignity of thought,
 And dint of genius to an affluent lot,
 He laid his head in luxury's soft lap,
 And took too often there his easy nap.
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,
 'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth.
Surly and slovenly and bold and coarse,
 Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force,
 Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,
 Always at speed and never drawing bit,
 He struck the lyre in such a careless mood,
 And so disdained the rules he understood,
 The laurel seemed to wait on his command,
 He snatched it rudely from the muses hand.
Nature exerting an unwearied power,
 Forms, opens and gives scent to every flower,
 Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
 The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads,
 She fills profuse ten thousand little throats
 With music, modulating all their notes,
 And charms the woodland scenes and wilds unknown,
 With artless airs and concerts of her own;
 But seldom (as if fearful of expense)
 Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence.
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,
Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought,
Fancy that from the bow that spans the sky,
Brings colours dipt in Heaven that never die,
A soul exalted above earth, a mind
Skilled in the characters that form mankind,
And as the sun in rising beauty dressed,
Looks to the westward from the dappled east,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close,
An eye like his to catch the distant goal,
Or ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,