Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/143

Rh But no prophetic fires to me belong, I play with syllables, and sport in song. A. At Westminster, where little poets strive To set a distich upon six and five, Where discipline helps opening buds of sense, And makes his pupils proud with silver-pence, I was a poet too—but modern taste Is so refined and delicate and chaste, That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. Thus, all success depending on an ear, And thinking I might purchase it too dear, If sentiment were sacrificed to sound, And truth cut short to make a period round, I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse, Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, And some wits flag through fear of losing it. Give me the line, that ploughs its stately course Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force. That like some cottage beauty strikes the heart, Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. When labour and when dullness, club in hand, Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand, Beating alternately, in measured time, The clock-work tintinabulum of rhyme, Exact and regular the sounds will be, But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. From him who rears a poem lank and long, To him who strains his all into a song, Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air, All birks and braes, though he was never there, Or having whelped a prologue with great pains, Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; A prologue interdashed with many a stroke, An art contrived to advertise a joke, So that the jest is clearly to be seen, Not in the words—but in the gap between, Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ, The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. To dally much with subjects mean and low Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. Neglected talents rust into decay, And every effort ends in push-pin play. The man that means success, should soar above A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove, Else summoning the muse to such a theme, The fruit of all her labour is whipt-cream. As if an eagle flew aloft, and then— Stooped from his highest pitch to pounce a wren. As if the poet purposing to wed, Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread.