Kimber, Conrad & Company, 1804 - 110 páginas

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Below is an extract from 'The Winner of Sorrow' by Brian Lynch (New Island Books) which refers to Cowper and Bull translating Motte Guyon. The other character is Lady Anna Austen, who loved Cowper and was rejected by him at the behest of Mary Unwin, the TW (Turkish Wrestler) disparagingly referred to at the end of the extract.
Yield to the Lord, with simple heart,
All that thou hast, and all thou art;
Renounce all strength but strength divine,
And peace shall be for ever thine –
Behold the path which I have trod,
My path, till I go home to God.
‘Well, Taureau, is that well done or ill?’ Cowper asked when he had finished reading, but not for the first time Mr Bull was too near to tears to speak immediately, so he nodded vigorously and, with equal vigour, began to knock the dottle out of his pipe on the heel of his boot.
‘And you, madam, you are, I see, amused?’
‘Yes,’ Lady Austen said, ‘I am, a little.’
‘And why, pray?’
‘Oh, it’s the circumstance,’ she said, putting her hand momentarily on Cowper’s thigh and indicating with the slightest movement of her head Mr Bull’s great shoulders heaving with emotion. ‘I mean,’ she went on, ‘that while the translation is more than adequate – indeed the English is, I think, better than the French – wouldn’t you agree, Mr Bull?’
‘No,’ Mr Bull said. ‘They are a match, a perfect match.’
‘Well, that is another day’s work, I will fight with you on that, sir.’
‘Oh come along, miss,’ Cowper said, ‘what I want is the point of your amusement.’
‘Where was I? Oh yes, the circumstance that amuses me at any rate, though not of course Mr Bull, is the notion that Sir Cowper here and Madame Jeanne Marie Bouvier de la Motte Guyon there should be confused one with the other, as far, I mean, as Christian doctrine is concerned.’
‘I think I have guarded against that in my translation. She is indeed sometimes guilty to a degree of –’
‘Guilty?’ Mr Bull cried. ‘What do you mean guilty? She is as innocent as the day is long. What is she guilty of, Mr Cowper, I insist upon being told.’
‘Oh, Taureau,’ Cowper said, ‘I beg of you, don’t charge at me here. The place is far too small.’
‘But what is the fault that you find in her?’
‘Well, she does incline occasionally to treat the Deity familiarly –’
‘As if she knew him personally,’ Anna said.
‘– and without paying due attention to His majesty –’
‘Which could never be said of Notre Seigneur.’
Cowper laughed but frowned inwardly. Mr Bull frowned outwardly and thought, I really do not care for this lady. Which disapproval was for him very unusual.
‘Well,’ Cowper said, ‘it is a wonderful fault for such a woman to fall into.’
‘Oh!’ Lady Austen said. ‘Oh really, a woman!’
‘She’s French, isn’t she?’ Cowper said quite sharply. ‘That’s an adequate explanation for most failings that I know of.’ And then, because Mr Bull was beginning to rake the floorboards with his hoof, he added, ‘But I venerate her piety most tenderly, you know, almost as much as I value our friendship.’
‘Well,’ Mr Bull said, half-mollified, ‘I admit some peculiarity in her theological sentiments, but to infer that you share them, why that would be almost as absurd as to suppose the inimitable translator of Homer to have been a pagan.’
‘Inimitable!’ Cowper cried. ‘You can’t mean Pope, can you? The man was a machine, a disgusting machine!’
And they would have been off again but for Lady Austen putting her hand on Cowper’s arm and whispering into his ear, ‘The TW is upon us.’ And there was indeed the sound of footsteps and then the door was torn open.

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Página 88 - But He, who knew what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, ' Go spend them in the vale of tears.
Página 43 - tis equal, whether love ordain My life or death, appoint me pain or ease ; My soul perceives no real ill in pain ; In ease or health no real good she sees. One good she covets, and that good alone, To choose thy will, from selfish bias free ; And to prefer a cottage to a throne, And grief to comfort, if it pleases thee. That we should bear the cross is thy command, Die to the world, and live to self no more ; Suffer, unmoved, beneath the rudest hand, As pleased when shipwreck'd as when safe on shore.
Página 74 - Sorrow and Love go side by side ; Nor height nor depth can e'er divide Their heaven-appointed bands ; Those dear associates still are one, Nor till the race of life is run Disjoin their wedded hands.
Página 36 - To souls impress'd with sacred Love ! Where'er they dwell, they dwell in Thee ; In heaven, in earth, or on the sea. To me remains nor place nor time ; My country is in every clime ; I can be calm and free from care On any shore, since God is there.
Página 95 - The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit, Is such a friend that one had need Be very much his friend indeed To pardon or to bear it.
Página 100 - MOST delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his span, His folly, and his woe ! ' ' Worlds should not bribe me back to tread Again life's dreary waste, To see again my day o'erspread With all the gloomy past. ' My home henceforth is in the skies : Earth, seas, and sun, adien ! All heaven unfolded to my eyes, I have no sight for you.
Página 106 - HE lives, who lives to God alone, And all are dead beside ; For other source than God is none Whence life can be supplied.
Página 36 - To me remains nor place nor time ; - My country is in every clime ; , . I can be calm, and free from care, On any shore, since God is there.
Página 51 - Enjoy'd with ease, if thou refrain From earthly love, else sought in vain ; She dwells with all who truth prefer, But seeks not them who seek not her. Yield to the Lord, with simple heart, All that thou hast, and all thou art ; Renounce all strength but strength divine ; And peace shall be for ever thine : Behold the path which I have trod, My path, till I go home to God.
Página 32 - THE fountain in its source No drought of summer fears ; The farther it pursues its course, The nobler it appears. But shallow cisterns yield A scanty short supply ; The morning sees them amply filled, At evening they are dry.

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