On A Goldfinch, Starved To Death In His Cage.

Time was when I was free as air,
The thistles downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perchd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.


But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date;
For, caught and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath
Soon passd the wiry grate.


Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close
And cure of every ill!
More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.

William Cowper

William Cowper was an English poet and hymnodist known for his contributions to English literature and the Evangelical revival of the 18th century. He suffered from periods of severe depression and mental illness, which influenced much of his work. Despite his struggles, Cowper produced notable works including 'Olney Hymns' in collaboration with John Newton and 'The Task,' which gained considerable popularity. His poetry is often characterized by its introspective, religious, and sometimes melancholic themes.

William Cowper

To Mrs. King, On Her Kind Present To The Author, A Patchwork Counterpane Of Her Own Making.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

To The Immortal Memory Of The Halibut, On Which I Dined This Day, Monday, April 26, 1784.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

Cowpers Reply.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

The Waiting Soul.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Faithful Bird.

The greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs displaced from that retreat
Enjoyd the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,
Lived happy prisoners there.


They sang as blithe as finches sing,
That flutter loose on golden wing,
And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, tis true,
But that delight they never knew,
And therefore never missd.


But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppressd;
And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain
A pass between his wires.


The open windows seemd to invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;
But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was cle...

William Cowper

The Cock-Fighters Garland.[1]

Musehide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.


That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.


This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below,
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such, and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.


In social talk and ready jest,
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those
W...

William Cowper

On The Death Of Mrs. (Afterwards Lady) Throckmortons Bullfinch.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,
O share Maria's grief!
Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
Assassin'd by a thief.


Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung;
And, though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flageolet or flute.


The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole,
His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.


Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On p...

William Cowper

To The Reverend Mr. Newton. An Invitation Into The Country.

The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early Spring.


The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor feard by them,
Secure of their repose.


But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.


Old Winter, halting oer the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely Spring peeps oer his head,
And whispers your return.


Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bowers,
And weave fresh garlands every day,
To crown the smiling hours.


And if a tear that speaks regret
Of happier times, appe...

William Cowper

Lines On The Death Of Sir William Russel.

Doomd, as I am, in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost;
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,
The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!
Still, still I mourn, with each returning day,
Him^[1] snatchd by fate in early youth away;
And herthro tedious years of doubt and pain,
Fixd in her choice, and faithfulbut in vain!
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere,
Whose eye neer yet refused the wretch a tear;
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows;
Nor thinks a lovers are but fancied woes;
See meere yet my destined course half done,
Cast forth a wandrer on a world unknown!
See me neglected on the worlds rude coast,
Each dea...

William Cowper

The Poet, The Oyster, And Sensitive Plant.

An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:
Ah, hapless wretch! condemnd to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordaind to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But tossd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough:
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied
(When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants calld sensitive grow there?
No ...

William Cowper