William Cowper Poems

A Spartan, his companion slain,
Alone from battle fled;
His mother, kindling with disdain
That she had borne him, struck him dead;
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Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains--
And seldom another it can--
To seek a retreat while he reigns
In the well-shelter’d dwellings of man,
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Thou hast no lightnings, O thou Just!
Or I their force should know;
And, if thou strike me into dust,
My soul approves the blow.
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At morn we placed on his funeral bier
Young Melanippus; and, at eventide,
Unable to sustain a loss so dear,
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I ransack'd for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
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Reader! behold a monument
That asks no sigh or tear,
Though it perpetuate the event
Of a great burial here.
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By whom was David taught
To aim the deadly blow,
When he Goliath fought,
And laid the Gittite low?
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When darkness long has veil'd my mind,
And smiling day once more appears,
Then, my Redeemer, then I find
The folly of my doubts and fears.
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To purify their wine some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
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At threescore winters' end I died
A cheerless being sole and sad;
The nuptial knot I never tied,
And wish my father never had.
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