William Collins

William Collins Poems

William Collins Biography

William Collins was born at Chichester and was educated at Winchester College and at Magdalen College, Oxford. His Persian Eclogues (1742) were published anonymously when he was seventeen. Coming up to London from Oxford he tried to establish himself as an author. He published Odes on Several Descriptive and Allegorical Subjects (1746) with his friend Joseph Warton whilst in London. The volume did not do well, and when his father died in 1744, Collins was left in debt and without a job. He got to know Dr Johnson who arranged an advance for him to write a translation of Aristotle's Poetics. However, when an uncle died leaving him £2000, Collins abandoned the project and paid his debts. After this he travelled for a while, but fits of depression became more serious and debilitating. He broke down completely on a journey in France in 1750, and died insane at the age of 38 in his sister's house in Chichester. The poet Thomas Gray commented favourably on Collins's work, and as the century progressed, he gained in reputation. Some of his finest odes as said to be 'Ode to Evening' and 'Dirge in Cymbeline'. His last know poem is Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands , written in 1749. His sister destroyed his manuscripts after his death. The Complete Works are edited by Richard Wendorf and Charles Ryskamp for the Oxford English Texts Series (1978).)

The Best Poem Of William Collins

In The Downhill Of Life

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
By the sound of a murmuring rill;
And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
With my friends may I share what today may afford,
And let them spread the table tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring
Which I've worn for threescore years and ten,
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;
But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare today,
May become everlasting tomorrow.

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