Poems: by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq.
About this Item
Title
Poems: by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq.
Author
Cowper, William, 1731-1800.
Publication
London :: printed for J. Johnson,
1782.
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Link to this Item
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/004792651.0001.000
Cite this Item
"Poems: by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq." In the digital collection Eighteenth Century Collections Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/004792651.0001.000. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 12, 2025.
Pages
VERSES, supposed to be written by ALEXANDER
SELKIRK, during his solitary Abode in the Island
of JUAN FERNANDEZ.
1.
I AM monarch of all I survey,My right there is none to dispute,From the center all round to the sea,I am lord of the fowl and the brute.Oh solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in the face?Better dwell in the midst of alarms,Than reign in this horrible place.
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2.
I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech,I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plain,My form with indifference see,They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.
3.
Society, friendship, and love,Divinely bestow'd upon man,Oh had I the wings of a dove,How soon wou'd I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuageIn the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth.
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4.
Religion! what treasure untoldResides in that heav'nly word!More precious than silver and gold,Or all that this earth can afford.But the sound of the church going bellThese vallies and rocks never heard,Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell,Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.
5.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shore,Some cordial endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more.My friends do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see,
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6.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compar'd with the speed of its flight,The tempest itself lags behind,And the swift winged arrows of light.When I think of my own native land,In a moment I seem to be there;But alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.
7.
But the sea fowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair,Ev'n here is a season of rest,And I to my cabbin repair.There is mercy in ev'ry place,And mercy, encouraging thought!Gives even affliction a grace,And reconciles man to his lot.
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