VERSES, supposed to be written by ALEXANDER SELKIRK, during his solitary Abode in the Island of JUAN FERNANDEZ. William Cowper Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T14895 K027775.000 Cowper, William, 1731-1800. Poems: by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq. London printed for J. Johnson 1782 pp. 305-308. [4],367,[1]p. ; 8⁰.

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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 charms That sages have seen in the face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms , Than reign in this horrible place . 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 assuage In the ways of religion and truth , Might learn from the wisdom of age , And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth . 4. Religion ! what treasure untold Resides 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 bell These 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 report Of a land I shall visit no more . My friends do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend , Though a friend I am never to see , 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 hand Soon 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 .