[COWPER, THE RELIGIOUS RECLUSE]

  I was a stricken deer that left the herd
  Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed
  My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
  To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
  There was I found by One who had Himself
  Been hurt by th’ archers.  In His side He bore,
  And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
  With gentle force soliciting the darts,
  He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. 
  Since then, with few associates, in remote
  And silent woods I wander, far from those
  My former partners of the peopled scene,
  With few associates, and not wishing more. 
  Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
  With other views of men and manners now
  Than once, and others of a life to come. 
  I see that all are wanderers, gone astray
  Each in his own delusions; they are lost
  In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed
  And never won; dream after dream ensues,
  And still they dream that they shall still succeed,
  And still are disappointed:  rings the world
  With the vain stir.  I sum up half mankind. 
  And add two-thirds of the remaining half,
  And find the total of their hopes and fears
  Dreams, empty dreams.

  [THE ARRIVAL OF THE POST]

  Hark! ’tis the twanging horn!  O’er yonder bridge,
  That with its wearisome but needful length
  Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
  Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
  He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
  With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,
  News from all nations lumbering at his back,
  True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,

  Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
  Is to conduct it to the destined inn,
  And, having dropped th’ expected bag, pass on. 
  He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
  Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief
  Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,
  To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 
  Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
  Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
  With tears that trickled down the writers cheeks
  Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
  Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains
  Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
  His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
  But oh th’ important budget, ushered in
  With such heart-shaking music, who can say
  What are its tidings?  Have our troops awaked,
  Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
  Snore to the murmurs of th’ Atlantic wave? 
  Is India free, and does she wear her plumed
  And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,
  Or do we grind her still?  The grand debate,
  The popular harangue, the tart reply,
  The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
  And the loud laugh—­I long to know them all;
  I burn to set th’ imprisoned wranglers free,
  And give them voice and utterance once again.