The Shrubbery. Written In A Time Of Affliction.

Oh, happy shadesto me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!


This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders, quivering to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.


But fixd unalterable Care
Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the same sadness everywhere,
And slights the season and the scene.


For all that pleased in wood or lawn,
While Peace possessd these silent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its powers.


The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley musing, slow;
They seek like me the secret shade,
But not like me to nourish woe!


Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.

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

Jehovah-Jireh. The Lord Will Provide. - Genesis xxii.14.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

Catharina: The Second Part: On Her Marriage To George Courtenay, Esq.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

Jehovah-Rophi. I Am The Lord That Healeth Thee. - Exodus xv.26.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

The Contrite Heart. - Isaiah lvii.15.

William Cowper, Simple Poetry

English

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Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!
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A wretched fugitive^[A], oppress'd by woes,
The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.

Ne'er does the trump of war disturb this grove;
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Life's checquer'd scene is softly pictur'd here;
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Close by, the willow drops a dewy tear,
And gaudy flow'rs the modest lily hide.

Alas! poor Hermit! happy had it been
For thee, if in these shades thy days had past,
If, well contented with the happy scene,
Thou ne'er again had fac'd life's stormy blast!

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Nutting

It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet oer my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
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More ragged than need was! Oer pathless rocks,
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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,
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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:
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Inscription For A Moss-House In The Shrubbery At Weston.

Here, free from riots hated noise,
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An Epistle To An Afflicted Protestant Lady In France.

Madam,A strangers purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
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Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or een to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for follys use designd,
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The path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
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Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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Cheerd as they go by many a sprightly strain,
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The Poplar Field.

The poplars are felld, farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.


Twelve years had elapsed since I last took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.


The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charmd me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.


My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
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