William Cowper

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So, if you read my very exciting and very long inaugural post, you may remember the sad couplet I composed at the death of my fuzzy lop, Galadriel Elanor Gamgee:

She died and was laid in the grave
She, who we in mem'ry do save.

Well, one of my favorite poets of all time, William Cowper, also had a rabbit.  And he, too, composed a poem in honor of said rabbit after it died.  I think this poem is so funny and adorable at the same time.  Remember when you read it that this was composed by an eighteenth century gentlemanly-type:

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,      Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,      Nor ear heard huntsman's Hallo', Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,      Who, nurs'd with tender care, And to domestic bounds confin'd,      Was still a wild Jack-hare. Though duly from my hand he took      His pittance ev'ry night, He did it with a jealous look,      And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread,      And milk, and oats, and straw, Thistles, or lettuces instead,      With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd,      On pippins' russet peel; And, when his juicy salads fail'd,      Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well. A Turkey carpet was his lawn,      Whereon he lov'd to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,      And swing his rump around. His frisking was at evening hours,      For then he lost his fear; But most before approaching show'rs,      Or when a storm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons      He thus saw steal away, Dozing out his idle noons,      And ev'ry night at play. I kept him for his humour's sake,      For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache,      And force me to a smile. But now, beneath this walnut-shade      He finds his long, last home, And waits in snug concealment laid,      'Till gentler Puss shall come. He, still more aged, feels the shocks      From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box,      Must soon partake his grave.

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Seriously, tell me that's not the cutest poem EVER!

Cowper was a Christian who suffered from "melancholy"---severe depression.   It ran in his family, apparently.  Anyway, at times he was convinced that he was reprobate, which led to some very sad poetry.  This poem is one of the most tragic works of literature that I have read, but an excellent poem nonetheless.  (BTW:  If the last stanza rings a bell, you may have watched the Ang Lee Sense and Sensibility):

THE CASTAWAY OBSCUREST night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,	5
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast
With warmer wishes sent.	10
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,	15
Or courage die away;
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel’s course,	20
But so the furious blast prevailed
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;	25
And such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate’er they gave, should visit more.	30
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die	35
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;	40
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried ‘Adieu!’
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,	45
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,	50
That tells his name, his worth, his age
Is wet with Anson’s tear:
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,	55
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another’s case.	60
No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,	65
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

That final couplet makes me want to cry. 

But I will not end on such a chillingly sad note.  Cowper was not always so depressed.  He did believe that God is on his throne, and he expressed as much in many wonderful hymns, including my favorite hymn of all time:  

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines	5
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread	10
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence	15
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.	20
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.