Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

15 I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
20 A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then life's journey just begun?
25 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss:
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss

Ah, that maternal smile! It answers Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
30 And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 35 The parting word shall pass my lips no more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.

40 By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;

45 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, 50 Delighted with my bauble coach and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
55 That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 60 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all,

65 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

70 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 75 When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile.)

80 Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart the dear delight

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. -
what here we call our life is such

But no

85 So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 90 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play 95 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since hast anchored by thy side. 100 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

Always from port withheld, always distressedMe howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force 105 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, Oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; 110 But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents passed into the skies! And now, farewell Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
115 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
120 Time has but half succeeded in his theft-

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

(1–20) What line is a note from "L'Allegro"? (21-45) Cowper does not claim too much by the felicitous phrase (40–41). (46-73) Cowper in his portrayal of an eighteenth century mother shows that mothers never change. Note the word in (71) which belongs to the classical school. (74-87) Does Cowper use his flowers as Milton in "Lycidas"? (88–121) Note the Miltonic roll of rhythm and sentence structure in (100-105). Cf. P. L. Book II. 1043-44:

66

And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds

Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle torn."

Classify the phrases in the poem. Tennyson's lines are applicable to Cowper:

"How pure at heart and sound in head,

With what divine affections bold

Should be the man whose thought would hold

An hour's communion with the dead."

And once when I asked him for the "Lines on my Mother's Portrait," his voice faltered as he said, if I wished it; but he knew he should break down. - Palgrave in conversation with Tennyson, Memoirs II. 501.

In what lines would Tennyson have broken down?
Read Mrs. Browning's "Cowper's Grave."

WILLIAM BLAKE

1757-1827

He possessed in a rare degree the secret by which the loveliness of a scene can be arrested and registered in a line of verse, and he often displays a faultless choice of language, and the finest sense of poetic melody.— Comyns Carr.

Optional Poems

The Garden Of Love.

To The Muses.

To The Evening Star.

Night.

On Another's Sorrow.

The Lamb.

Piping Down The Valleys Wild—

Ah, Sunflower !

THE TIGER

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

5 In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
10 Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?