The Works of William Cowper. William Cowper

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СКАЧАТЬ destined by Providence to be the honoured instrument of evangelizing the nations of the East. Already the sacred Scriptures have been translated, in whole or in part, into nearly forty of the Oriental languages or dialects. Schools have been established, and are rapidly multiplying in the three presidencies. The apparently insurmountable barrier of caste is giving way, and the great fabric of Indian superstition is crumbling into dust, while on its ruins will arise the everlasting empire of righteousness and truth.

      The following lines, written by Dr. Jortin, to which we subjoin Cowper's translation, were inclosed in the last letter.

      IN BREVITATEM VITÆ SPATII, HOMINIBUS CONCESSI.

      Hei mihi! Lege ratâ sol occidit atque resurgit,

       Lunaque mutatæ reparat dispendia formæ,

       Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei,

       Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni,

       Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago,

       Quos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit,

       Cum zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereni

       Temperies anni, fœcundo è cespite surgunt.

       Nos domini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati,

       Cum breve ver vitæ robustaque transiit ætas,

       Deficimus; nec nos ordo revolubilis auras

       Reddit in ætherias, tumuli neque claustra resolvit.

      ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

      Suns that set, and moons that wane,

       Rise, and are restored again.

       Stars, that orient day subdues,

       Night at her return renews.

       Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth

       Of the genial womb of earth,

       Suffer but a transient death

       From the winter's cruel breath.

       Zephyr speaks; serener skies

       Warm the glebe, and they arise.

       We, alas! earth's haughty kings,

       We, that promise mighty things,

       Losing soon life's happy prime,

       Droop, and fade, in little time.

       Spring returns, but not our bloom,

       Still 'tis winter in the tomb.

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.

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      Olney, Feb. 1784.

      My dear Friend—I am glad that you have finished a work, of which I well remember the beginning, and which I was sorry you thought it expedient to discontinue.[225] Your reason for not proceeding was, however, such as I was obliged to acquiesce in, being suggested by a jealousy you felt, "lest your spirit should be betrayed into acrimony, in writing upon such a subject." I doubt not you have sufficiently guarded that point; and, indeed, at the time I could not discover that you had failed in it. I have busied myself this morning in contriving a Greek title, and in seeking a motto. The motto you mention is certainly apposite. But I think it an objection that it has been so much in use; almost every writer that has claimed a liberty to think for himself, upon whatever subject, having chosen it. I therefore send you one which I never saw in that shape yet, and which appears to me equally apt and proper. The Greek word δεσμός, which signifies literally a shackle, may figuratively serve to express those chains which bigotry and prejudice cast upon the mind. It seems, therefore, to speak like a lawyer, no misnomer of your book to call it—

      Μισοδεσμος.

      The following pleases me most of all the mottos I have thought of. But with respect both to that and the title you will use your pleasure.

      Querelis

       Haud justis assurgis, et irrita jurgia jactas.

      Æn. x. 94.

      From the little I have seen, and the much I have heard, of the manager of the Review you mention, I cannot feel even the smallest push of a desire to serve him in the capacity of a poet. Indeed I dislike him so much, that, had I a drawer full of pieces fit for his purpose, I hardly think I should contribute to his collection. It is possible too that I may live to be once more a publisher myself; in which case, I should be glad to find myself in possession of any such original pieces as might decently make their appearance in a volume of my own. At present, however, I have nothing that would be of use to him, nor have I many opportunities of composing, Sunday being the only day in the week which we spend alone.

      I am at this moment pinched for time, but was desirous of proving to you with what alacrity my Greek and Latin memory are always ready to obey you, and therefore, by the first post, have to the best of my ability complied with your request.

      Believe me, my dear friend,

       Affectionately yours,

       W. C.

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.

       Table of Contents

      Olney, Feb. 10, 1784.

      My dear Friend—The morning is my writing time, and in the morning I have no spirits. So much the worse for my correspondents. Sleep, that refreshes my body, seems to cripple me in every other respect. As the evening approaches, I grow more alert, and when I am retiring to bed am more fit for mental occupation than at any other time. So it fares with us whom they call nervous. By a strange inversion of the animal economy, we are ready to sleep when we have most need to be awake, and go to bed just when we might sit up to some purpose. The watch is irregularly wound up, it goes in the night when it is not wanted, and in the day stands still. In many respects we have the advantage of our forefathers, the Picts. We sleep in a whole skin, are not obliged to submit to the painful operation of puncturing ourselves from head to foot, in order that we may be decently dressed, and fit to appear abroad. But, on the other hand, we have reason enough to envy them their tone of nerves, and that flow of spirits which effectually secured them from all uncomfortable impressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from every shade of melancholy from every other cause. They understood, I suppose, the use of vulnerary herbs, having frequent occasion for some skill in surgery, but physicians I presume they had none, having no need of any. Is it possible that a creature like myself can be descended from such progenitors, in whom there appears not a single trace of family resemblance? What an alteration have a few ages made! They, without clothing, would defy the severest season, and I, with all the accommodations that art has since invented, am hardly secure even in the mildest. If the wind blows upon me when my pores are open, I catch cold. A cough is the СКАЧАТЬ