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 THE WORKS 
 
 or 
 
 WILLIAM CO¥PEPi: 
 
 ^ / 
 
 HIS LIFE, LETTERS, AND POEMS 
 
 NOW FIRST COMPLETED BY THE INTRODUCTION OF 
 
 COWPER'S PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 EDITED BY THE 
 
 REV. T. S. GRIMSIIAWE, A.M., F.S.A., M.R.S.L, 
 
 VICAR OF BIDDENHAM, BEDFORDSHIRE ; 
 AND AUTHOR OF "THE LIFE OF THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND." 
 
 ELEftANTLY ILLUSTRATED 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 
 
 1857.
 
 PREFATORY REMARKS. 
 
 TiiE very extensive sale of the former editions of the "Works of Cowper, in 
 eight volumes, now comprising an issue of no less than seventy thousand volumes, 
 has led the publishers to contemplate the present edition in one volume 8vo. This 
 form is intended to meet the demands of a numerous class of readers, daily be- 
 coming more literary in taste, and more influential in their character on the great 
 mass of our population. At a period like the present, when the great framework 
 of society is agitated by convulsions pervading nearly the whole of continental 
 Europe, and when so many elements of evil are in active operation, it becomes a 
 duty of the highest importance to imbue the public miad with whatever is calcu- 
 lated to uphold national peace and order, and to maintain among us a due reverence 
 for laws, both human and divine. The faculty also and taste for reading now ex- 
 ists to so great an extent, that it assumes a question of no small moment how this 
 faculty is to be directed ; whether it shall be the giant's power to wound and to 
 destroy, or like the Archangel's presence to heal and to save ? Many readers re- 
 quire to be amused, but it is no less necessary that they should be instructed. To 
 seek amusement and nothing further, denotes a head without wit, and a heart and 
 a conscience without feeling. An author, if he be a Christian and a patriot, will 
 never forget to edify as well as to amuse. There are few writers who possess and 
 employ this happy art with more skill than Cowper. His aim is evidently to in- 
 terest his reader, but he never forgets the appeal to his heart and conscience. It 
 is strange if amidst the flowers of his poetic fancy, and the salUes of his epistolary 
 humor, the Rose of Sharon does not insinuate its form, and breathe forth its sweet 
 fragrance. No one knows better than Cowper how to interweave the sportiveness 
 of his wit witli the gravity of his moral, and yet always to be gay without levity, 
 and grave without dulness. He is also thoroughhj English, in the structure cf his 
 mind, in the honest expression of his feelings, in his hatred of oppression, his ardor 
 for true liberty, his love for his co\intry, and for whatever concerns the weal and 
 woe of man. Nor does he ever fail to exhibit National Religion as the only sure 
 foujidation for national happiness and virtue. The works of such a writer can never
 
 h PREFATORY REMARKS. • 
 
 — " — " ' ' -^ - — ■^ 
 
 perish. Cowper has earned for himself a name which will always rank. him among 
 the household poets of England ; while his prose has been admitted by the highest 
 authority to be as immortal as his verse.* 
 
 In presenting therefore to the class of readers above specified, as well as to the 
 public generally, this edition of the Works of Cowper, in a form accessible to all, 
 the Publishers trust that the undertaking will be deemed to be both seasonable 
 and useful. In this confidence they offer it with the fullest anticipations of its 
 ?iuccess. It remains only to state that it is a reprint of the former editions without 
 any mutilation or curtailment. 
 
 It is gratifying to add that the Portrait, drawn from life by Romney in 1792, 
 and now engraved by W. Greatbach in the first style of art, is esteemed by the 
 few persons living who have a vivid recollection of the person and appearance of 
 the Poet, as the most correct and happy likeness ever given to the pubhc. The 
 Illustrations, too, presented with this edition, are procured without regard to cost, 
 BO as to render the entire work, it is hoped, the most complete ever published. 
 
 December 3, 1848. 
 
 * Such is the recorded testimony of Charles James Fox, and the late Robert Hall. The 
 latter observes as follows : — " The letters of Mr. Cowper are the finest specimens of the episto- 
 lary style in our language. To an air of inimitable ease they unite a high degree of correct- 
 ness, such as could result only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. 
 There is scarcely a single word capable of being exchanged for a better, and of literary errors 
 there are none. I have perused them with great admiration and delight."
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 DOWAGER LADY THROCKMORTON. 
 
 Your Ladyship's peculiar intimacy with 
 the poet Cowper, and your former residence 
 at Weston, where every object is embellished 
 by his muse, and clothed with a species of 
 poetical verdure, give you a just title to 
 have your name associated with his endeared 
 memory. 
 
 But, independently of these considerations, 
 you are recorded both in his poetry and 
 prose, and have thus acquired a kind of 
 double immortality. These reasons are suf- 
 ficiently valid to authorize the present dedi- 
 
 cation. But there are additional motives, — 
 the recollection of the happy hours, formerly 
 spent at Weston, in your society and in that 
 of Sir George Throckmorton, enhanced by 
 the presence of our common lamented friend, 
 Dr. Johnson. A dispensation which spares 
 neither rank, accomplishments, nor virtues, 
 has unhappily terminated this enjoyment, but 
 it has not extinguished those sentiments of 
 esteem and regard, with which 
 I have the honor to be, 
 
 My dear Lady Throckmorton, 
 Your very sincere and obliged friend, 
 T. S. GRLAISHAWE 
 
 Bidde-nham, Fei. 28, 1835. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting to the public thi.< new and 
 complete edition of the Life, Correspondence, 
 and Poems of Cowper, it may be proper for 
 me to state the grounds on which it claims 
 to be the only complete edition that lias been, 
 or can be published. 
 
 After the decease of ihis justly admired 
 author, Hayley received from my lamented 
 brother-in-law, Dr. Johnson, (so endeared by 
 his exemphiry attention to his afflicted rela- 
 tive,) every facility for his intended biography. 
 Aided also by valuable contributions from 
 other quarters, he was thus furnished with 
 rich materials for the execution of his inter- 
 esting work. The reception with which his 
 Life of Cowper was honored, and the suc- 
 cessive editions through which it passed, 
 affoj-ded unequivocal testimony to the indus- 
 try and talents of the biographer and to the 
 epistolary merits of the Poet. Still there 
 were many, intimately acquainted with the 
 character and principles of Cowper, who con- 
 sidered that, on the whole, a very erroneous 
 impression was conveyed to the public. On 
 this subject no one was perhaps more com- 
 petent to form a just estimate than the late 
 Dr. Johnson. A long and familiar inter- 
 eoursc with his endeared relative had af- 
 forded him all the advantages of <a daily and 
 minute observation. His possession of docu- 
 ments, and intimate knowledge of facts, en- 
 abled him to discover the partial suppression 
 
 of some letters, and the total omission of 
 others, that, in his judgment, were essential 
 to the development of Cowper's real char- 
 acter. The cause of this procedure may be 
 explained so as fully to exonerate Hayley 
 from any charge injurious to his honor. His 
 mind, however literary and elegant, was not 
 precisely qualified to present a religious char- 
 acter to the view of the British public, 
 without committing some important errors. 
 Hence, in occasional parts of his work, his 
 retlections are misplaced, sometimes injurious, 
 and often injudicious; and in no portion of it 
 is this defect more visible than where he at- 
 tributes the malady of Cowper to the oper- 
 ation of religions causes. 
 
 It would be dillicult to express the painful 
 feeling produced by these facts on the minds 
 of Dr. Johnson and of his friends. Hayley in- 
 deed seems to be afraid of exhibiting Cowper 
 too mucli in a religious garb, lest he should 
 either lessen his estimation, alarm the reader, 
 or compromise himself. To these circum- 
 stances may be attributed the defects that we 
 iiave noticed, and which have rendered his 
 otherwise excellent production an imperfect 
 work. The consequence, as regards Cowper, 
 has been unfortunate. " People," observes 
 Dr. Johnson, " read the Letters with ' the 
 Task' in their recollection, (and vice rersd,) 
 and are perplexed. They look for the Cowper 
 of each in the other, and find him not; the
 
 correspondency is destroyed. The character 
 of Cowper is thus undetermined; mystery 
 hangs over it, and the opinions formed of 
 him are as various as the minds of the in- 
 quirers." It was to dissipate this illusion, 
 that my lamented friend collected the " Pri- 
 vate Correspondence," containing letters that 
 had been previously suppressed, with the 
 addition of others, then brought to light for 
 the first time. Still there remains one more 
 important object to be accomplished : viz., to 
 present to the British public the ivhole Cor- 
 respondence in its entire and unbroken form, 
 and in its chronological order. Then, and not 
 till then, will the real character of Cowper be 
 fully understood and comprehended; and the 
 consistency of his Cliristian character be 
 found to harmonize with the Christian spirit 
 of his pure and exalted productions. 
 
 Supplemental to such an undertaking is 
 the task of revising Hayley's life of the Poet, 
 purifying it from the errors that detract from 
 its acknowledged value and adapting it to 
 the demands and expectations of the religious 
 public. That tliis desideratum has been long 
 felt, to an extent far beyond what is com- 
 monly supposed, the Editor has had ample 
 means of knowing, from his own personal 
 observation, and from repeated assurances 
 of tlie same import from his lamented friend, 
 the Rev. Legh Richmond.* 
 
 The time for carrying this object into effect 
 is now arrived. The termination of the copy- 
 ■•ight of Hayley's Life of Cowper, and access 
 to the Private Correspondence collected by 
 Dr. Johnson, enable the Editor to combine 
 all these objects, and to present, for the first 
 time, a Complete Edition of the Works of 
 Cowper, which it is not in the power of any 
 individual besides himself to accomplish, be- 
 cause all others are debarred access to the 
 Private Correspondence. Upwards of two 
 hundred letters will be thus incorporated 
 with the former work of Hay ley, in their due 
 and chronological order. 
 
 The merits of " The Private Correspond- 
 ence" are thus attested in a letter addressed 
 to Dr. Johnson, by a no less distinguished 
 judge than the late Rev. Robert Hall. — "It is 
 quite unnecessary to say that I perused the 
 letters with great admiration and delight. I 
 have always considered the letters of Mr. 
 Cowper as the finest specimen of the epis- 
 tolary style in our language ; and these ap- 
 pear to me of a superior description to the 
 former, possessing as much beauty, with 
 more piety and pathos. To an air of inimi- 
 table ease and carelessness they unite a high 
 degree of correctness, sucli as could result 
 only from the clearest intellect, combimed 
 
 * Of the letters contained in tlie " Private Corre- 
 spondence" he emphatically remarked, " Cowper will 
 never be clearly and satisfactorily understood without 
 them." 
 
 with the most finished taste. I have scarcely * 
 found a single word which is capable of be- 
 ing exchanged for a better. Literary errors 
 I can discern none. The selection of words, 
 and the construction of periods, are inimita- 
 ble ; they present as striking a contrast as 
 can well be conceived to the turgid verbos- 
 ity which passes at present for fine writino- 
 and which bears a great resemblance to the 
 degeneracy which marks the style of Ammi- 
 anus Marcellinus, as compared to that of 
 Cicero or of Livy. In my humble opinion, 
 the study of Cowper's prose may on this ac- 
 count be as useful in forming the taste ot 
 young people as his poetry. That the Let 
 ters will afford great delight to all persons 
 of true taste, and that you will confer a most 
 acceptable present on the reading world by 
 publishing them, will not admit of a doubt." 
 All that now remains is for the Editor to 
 say one word respecting himself He has 
 been called upon to engage in this undertak- 
 ing both on public and private grounds. He 
 is not insensible to the honor of such a com- 
 mission, and yet feels that he is undertaking 
 a delicate and responsible office. May he 
 execute .it in humble dependence on the 
 Divine blessing, and in a spirit that accords 
 with the venerated name of Cowper ! Had 
 the life of his endeared friend. Dr. Johnson, 
 been prolonged, no man would have been 
 better qualified for such an office. His am- 
 ple sources of information, his name, and his 
 profound veneration for the memory of Cow- 
 per, (whom he tenderly watched while living, 
 and whose eyes he closed in death,) would 
 have awakened an interest to which no other 
 writer could presume to lay claim. It is un- 
 der the fiiilure of this expectation, which is ex- 
 tinguished by the grave, that the editor feels 
 himself called upon to endeavor to supply the 
 void ; and thus to fulfil what is due to the 
 character of Cowper, and to the known wishes 
 of his departed friend. Peace be to his ashes ! 
 They now rest near those of his beloved 
 Bard, while their happy spirits are reunited in 
 a world where no cloud obscures the mind, 
 and no sorrow depresses the heart : and 
 where the mysterious dispensations of Prov- 
 idence will be found to have been in accord- 
 ance with his unerring wisdom and mercy. 
 
 It is impossible for the Editor to specify 
 the various instances of revision in the nar- 
 rative of Hayley, because they are sometimes 
 minute or verbal, at other times more en- 
 larged. The object has been to retain the 
 basis of his work, as far as possible. The 
 introduction of new matter is principally 
 where the interests of religion, or a regard 
 to Cowper's character seemed to require it ; 
 and for such remarks the Editor is solely 
 responsible.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 Paffe 
 
 Tk! family, birth, and first residence of Cowper 23 
 
 His verses on the portrait of his mother 23 
 
 Kpitaph on l\is mother by her niece 24 
 
 The schools that Cowper attended 24 
 
 (lis suireriiii,'S diirint? childhood 24 
 
 lUs removal I'rom Westminster to an attorney's office 25 
 
 Verses on his early afflictions , 26 
 
 His settlement in the Inner Temple 26 
 
 /lis acciuaintance with eminent authors 26 
 
 His translations in Duncoinbe's Horace 26 
 
 His own account of his early life 26 
 
 SlLinzas on reading Sir Charles Grandison 26 
 
 His verses on flndin;; the heel of a shoe 27 
 
 His noininntion to the office of Reading Clerk in the 
 
 House of Loids 27 
 
 His nomination to be Clerk of the Journals In the 
 
 House of Lords 27 
 
 To Lady Heskelh. Journals of the House of Lords. 
 
 Reflection on the singular temper of his mind. 
 
 Aug. i), 176:! 27 
 
 His extreme dread of appearing in iniblic. 28 
 
 His illness and removal to St. Albans 28 
 
 Change in his ideas of religion 29 
 
 1 1 is recovery 2'J 
 
 His settlement at Huntingdon to bo near his brother 2y 
 The trajislation of \'oltaire's llenriade by the two 
 
 brothers 29 
 
 The origin of Cowpcr's acquaintance with the Unwins 2;) 
 
 H is adoption into the family 30 
 
 His early friendship with Lord Thurlow, and J. Hill, 
 
 Ksq 30 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Account of his situation at 
 
 Huntingdon. Jiuut 24, 1705 31 
 
 To Lady llesketh. On his illness and subsequent 
 
 recovery. July 1, 176.') 31 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Huntingdon and its amuse- 
 ments. JiUy ;i, 176.^ 32 
 
 To Lady Hesketh. Salutary effects of aflUction on 
 
 the human mind. July 4, 17li5 32 
 
 To the same. Account of Huntingdon; distance 
 
 from his I'rother, Ulc. July .'>, 176") 33 
 
 To till' same. Newton's Treatise on Proijliecy ; Re- 
 
 Hectious of Dr. Young on the Truth of Christianity. 
 
 July 12, 1765 34 
 
 To the same. On the Beauty and Sublimity of Scrip- 
 
 tm-al Language. Aug. ], 1765 34 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expected excursion. Aug. 14, 
 
 1705 35 
 
 To Lady Hesketh. Pearsall's Meditations ; definition 
 
 of faith. Aug. 17, 176.5 36 
 
 To the same. tJn a particular Providence ; experi- 
 ence of mercy, &c. .Sept. 4, 176.5 36 
 
 To the same, i'irsl introduction to the Unwin fam- 
 ily ; their characters. Sept. 14, 1765 37 
 
 To the same. On the thankfulness of the heart, its 
 
 ine<iualities, &c. Oct. 10, 1765 38 
 
 To the same. Miss L'nwin, her character and piety. 
 
 Oct. 18, 170.5 38 
 
 To Major Cowper. Situation at Huntingdon; his 
 
 jierfect salisiaction, &c. Oct. 18, 17(')5 39 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On those wl'io confine all mer- 
 its to their own acquaintance. Oct. 25, 1765 39 
 
 To the same. Agreement with the Kev. W. Unwin. 
 
 Nov. .5. 17()5 40 
 
 To the same. Declining to read lectures at Lincoln's 
 
 Inn. Nov. 8, 170.5 40 
 
 To Lady Hesketh. On solitude; on the desertion of 
 
 his I'rieiuls. March 0, 1706 41 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. Mrs. Unwin, and her son ; his 
 
 cousin Martin. March 11, 1760 41 
 
 To the Bame. Ijptters the fruit of fiiendship ; his 
 
 conversion. April 4, 1766 42 
 
 Pa«« 
 
 To the game. The probability of knowing eact other 
 
 in Heaven. A])ril 17, 1760 42 
 
 To the same. On the recollection of earthly affairs 
 
 by departed spirits. April 18, 1706 43 
 
 To the same. On the same subject; on his own state 
 
 of body and mind. Sept. 3, 1766 44 
 
 To the same. His manner of living; reasons for his 
 
 not taking orders. Oct. 20, 1766 45 
 
 To the same. Reflections on reading Marshall. Mar. 
 
 11, 1767 46 
 
 To the same. Introduction of Mr. LTnwin's son; his 
 
 gardening; on Marshall. March 14, 1767 46 
 
 To the same. On the motive of his introducing Mr. 
 
 Unwin's son to her. April 3, 1707 47 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. General election. June 10, 
 
 1767 47 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. Jfr. Unwin's death; doubts con-- 
 
 cerning Cowper's future abode. July 13, 1767. ... 47 
 To Josejjh Hill, Esq. Reflections arising from Mr. 
 
 Unwin's death. July 10, 1767 48 
 
 The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Mr. New- 
 ton 48 
 
 Cowper's remov.al with Mrs. Unwin to OIney 49 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Invitation to OIney. Oct. 20. 
 
 1707 49 
 
 His devotion and charity in his new residence 49 
 
 To Josc>pli Hill, lss<|. On the occurrences during his 
 
 vi-iit at St. Albans. June 16, 1708 49 
 
 To the same. On the difl'erence of dispositions; his 
 
 love of retirement. Jan. 21, 1709 49 
 
 To the same. On Mrs. Hill's late illness. Jan. 29, 1769 50 
 To the same. Declining an invitation. Fondness 
 
 for retirement. July 31, 1709 50 
 
 His poem in memory of John Thornton, Esq 56 
 
 His benelicence to a necessKous child 51 
 
 To .Mrs. Cowper. His new situation; reasons for 
 
 mixture of evil in the world. 1709 51 
 
 To the same. The consolations of religion on the 
 
 death of her husband. Aug. 31, 1709 51 
 
 Cowper's journey to Cambridge on his brother's ill- 
 ness 52 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. Dangerous illness of his brother. 
 
 March .5, 177(1 52 
 
 The death and char.acter of Cowper's brother 53 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Religious sentiments of his 
 
 brother. May 8, 1770 53 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. The same subject. June 7, 1770. 53 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expression of his gratitude for 
 
 instances of friendship. Sept. 2.5, 1770 54 
 
 To the same. Congratulations on his marriage. 
 
 Aug. 27, 1771 5% 
 
 To the same. Declining offers of service. June 27, 
 
 1772 ' 55 
 
 To the same. Acknowledging obligations. July -, 1772 55 
 To the same. Declining an invitation to London. 
 
 Nov. 5, 1772 55 
 
 The composition of the OIney Hymns by Mr. Newton 
 
 and Cowper 56 
 
 The interrujition of the OIney Hymns by the illness 
 
 of Cowper .56 
 
 His long and severe depression 57 
 
 His tame hares, one of his first amusements on his 
 
 recovery 57 
 
 The origin of his friendship with Mr. Bull 57 
 
 His translations from Madame de la Mothe Onion.. . 57 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On Mr. Ashley Cooper's recov- 
 
 erv from a nervous fever. Nov. 12,1776 57 
 
 To the same, (hi Cray's Works. April 20, 1777... . 58 
 To the same. On <.'ray's later epistles. West's Let- 
 ters. May2.5,1777 59 
 
 To the same. Selection of books. July 13, 1777 ... 58 
 To the same. Sujiposed diminution of Cowpcr'o in- 
 come. Jan. 1, 1778 38
 
 TUl 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 To the same. Death of Sir Thomas Hesketh, Bart. 
 April 11,1778 59 
 
 To the same. Raynars works. May 7, 1778 59 
 
 To the same. Congratulations on preferment. June 
 18, 1778 59 
 
 To ihe Rev. W. Unwin. Disapproving a proposed 
 application to Chancellor Thurlow. J-iue 18, 1778 59 
 
 To the same. Johnson's Lives of the Poets. May 
 26, 1779 CO 
 
 To the same. Remarks on the Isle of Thanet. July, 
 1779 60 
 
 To the same. Advice on sea-bathing. July 17, 1779 60 
 
 To the same. His hot-house ; tame pigeons ; visit 
 toGayhuist. Sept. 21, 1779 60 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Witli the fable of the Pine-ap- 
 ple and the Bee. Oct. 2, 1779 61 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Johnson's Biography ; his 
 treatment of Milton. Oct. 31, 1779 61 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. With a poem on the promo- 
 tion of Edward Thurlow. No v. 14, 1779 62 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Quick succession of human 
 events; modern patriotism. Dec. 2, 1779 — . .. 62 
 
 To the same. Burke's speech on reform ; Nightin- 
 gale and Glow-worm. Feb. 27, 1780 62 
 
 To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's removal from 
 Olney. March 4, 1780 63 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. CongratuLi^ions on his profes- 
 sional success. March 16, 1780 64 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the danger of innova- 
 tion. March 18, 1780 64 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On keeping the Sabbath. 
 March 28, 1780 64 
 
 To the same. Pluralities in the church. April 6, 1780 05 
 
 To the ReT . J. Newton. Distinction between a trav- 
 elled man, and a travelled gentleman. April 10, 
 1780 ; 60 
 
 To the same. Serious reflections on rural scenery. 
 May 3, 1780 66 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. The Chancellor's illness. May 
 6, 1780 66 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. His passion for landscape 
 drawing ; modern politics. May 8, 1780 67 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. On her brother's death. May 10, 
 1780 68 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. Pedantry of commentators ; 
 Dr. Bentley, &c. May 10, 1780 08 
 
 To Mrs. Newton. Mishap of the gingerbread baker 
 and his wife. The Doves. June 2, 1780 68 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Cowper's fondness of 
 praise — Can a parson be obliged to take an ap- 
 prentice ? — Latin translation of a passage in Para- 
 dise Lost; versification of a thought. June 8, 1780 69 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the riots in 1780; dan- 
 ger of associations. June 12, 1780 70 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Latin verses on ditto. June 
 18, 1780 70 
 
 To the same. Robertson's History ; Biographia Bri- 
 tannica. June 22,1780 71 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. Ingenuity of slander; lace- 
 makers' petition. Jime 23, 1780 72 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. To touch and retouch, the 
 secret of good writing; an epitaph. July 2, 1780. 72 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the riots in Loudon. July 
 3, 1780 72 
 
 To the same. Recommendation of lace-makers' pe- 
 tition. July8,1780 73 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Translation of the Latin 
 verses on the riots. July 11, 1780 74 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. With an enigma. July 12, 
 1780 74 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. On the insensible progress of age. 
 July 29, 1780 75 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Olney bridge. July 27, 1780 78 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. A riddle. July 30. 1780. . . 76 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Human nature not changed ; 
 a modern, only an ancient in a ditferent dress. 
 August 6, 1780 76 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On his recreations. Aug. 10, 
 1780 77 
 
 To the Rev. J. Newton. Escape of one of his hares. 
 Aug. 21, 1780 77 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. Lady Cowper's death. Age a 
 friend to the mind. Aug. 31, 1780 .' 78 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. IJiographia; verses, parson 
 and clerk. Sept. 3, 1780 78 
 
 Tothesarae. On education. Sept.7,1780 79 
 
 To the same. Public schools. Sept. 17, 1780 80 
 
 To the same. On the same subject. Oct. .'5, 1780. . . 80 
 
 To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's arrival at Rams- 
 gale. Oct. 5,1780 81 
 
 Page 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Verses on a goldfinch 
 starved to death in his cage. Nov. 9, 1780 82 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On a point of law. Dec. 10, 
 1780 82 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. On his commendations 
 of Cowper's poems. Dec. 21, 1780 82 
 
 To J. Hill, Esq. With the memorable law-case be- 
 tween nose and eyes. Dec. 25, 1780 83 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. ^J^th the same. Dec, 1780 83 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Progress of Error. Mr. 
 Newton's works. Jan. 21, 1781 84 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On visiting prisoners. 
 Feb. 6, 1781 85 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Hurricane in West Indies. 
 Feb. 8, 1781 85 
 
 To the same. On metrical law-cases ; old age. Feb. 
 15,1781 85 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. With Table Talk. On 
 classical literature. Feb. 18, 1781 86 
 
 To Mr. Hill. Acknowledging a present received. 
 Feb. 19, 1781 86 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Mr. Scott's curacies. 
 Feb. 25, 1781 87 
 
 To the same. Care of myrtles. Sham fight at Olney. 
 March .5, 1781 87 
 
 To the same. On the poems, " Expostulation," ^c. 
 March 18, 1781 88 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Consolations on the asper- 
 ity of a critic. April 2,1781 89 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Requesting a preface to 
 "Truth." Enigma on a cucumber. April 8, 1781 90 
 
 To the same. Solution of the enigma. Ajjril 23, 1781 90 
 
 Cowper's first appearance as an author 91 
 
 The subjects of his first poems suggested by Mrs. 
 Unwin 91 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Intended publication of his 
 first volume. May 1, 1781 91 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the composition and pub- 
 lication of his first volume. May 9, 1781 91 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Reasons for not showing 
 his preface to Mr. Unwin. May 10, 1781 92 
 
 To the same. Delay of his publication ; Vincent 
 Bourne, and his jioems. May 23, 1781 92 
 
 To the Rev. John Ngwton. On the heat ; on disem- 
 bodied spirits. May 22, 1781 93 
 
 To the Rev. W. LTnwin. Corrections of his proofs; 
 on his horsemanship. May 28, 1781 93 
 
 To the same. Mrs. Unwin's criticisms; a distinguish- 
 ing Providence. June 5, 1781 93 
 
 To the same. On the design of his poems; Mr. 
 Unwin's bashfuhiess. June 24, 1781 95 
 
 Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Lady Austen 9G 
 
 Poetical epistle addressed to that lady by him 90 
 
 Diffidence of the poet's genius 97 
 
 To the Kev, John Newton. His late visit to Olney. 
 Lady Austen's first visit. Correction in "Pnjgress 
 of Error." Intended Portrait of Cowper. July 7, 
 1781 97 
 
 To the same. Humorous letter in rhyme, on his 
 poetry. July 12, 1781 98 
 
 To the same. Progress of the poem, " Conversation." 
 July 22, 1781... 99 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Though revenge and a 
 spirit of litigation are contrary to the Gospel, still 
 it is the duty of a Christian to vindicate his right. 
 Anecdote of a French Abbe. A ffete champfetre. 
 July 29, 1781 99 
 
 To Mrs. Newton. Changes of fashion. Remarks on 
 his poem, " Conversation." Aug., 1781 100 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Conversion of the green- 
 house into a summer parlor. Progress of his 
 work. Aug. 16,1781 101 
 
 To the same. State of Cowper's mind. Lady Aus- 
 ten's intended settlement at Olney. Lines on co- 
 coa-nuts and fish. Aug. 21, 1781 102 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Congratulations on the birth 
 of a son. Remarks on his poem, " Retirement." 
 Lady Austen's proposed settlement at Olney. Her 
 character. Aug. 25, 1781 102 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Progi-ess of the print- 
 ing of his poem, "Retirement." Mr. Johnson's 
 corrections. Aug. 25, 1781 103 
 
 To the same. Heat of the weather. Remarks on 
 the opinion of a clerical acquaintance concerning 
 certain amusements and music. Sept. 9, 1781 104 
 
 To Mrs. Newton. A poetical epistle on a barrel of 
 oysters. Sept. 16, 1781 104 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Dr. Johnson's criticism 
 on Watts and Blackmore, Smoking. Sept. 18, 
 
 1731 loa
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 Page 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Thoughts on the sea. Char- 
 acter of Lady Austen. Sept. 2(1, 1781 105 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Ueligioiis poetry. Oct. 
 4,1781 106 
 
 To the same. Brighton Amusements. His project- 
 ed Autliorshi p. Oct. 0. 1781 107 
 
 To the Rev. John N'ewloii. Disputes between the 
 llev. Mr. Scott and the llev. Mr. R. Oct. 14, 1781 107 
 
 To Mrs. Cowper. His lirit volume. Death of a 
 friend. Oct. 19, 1781 ... .^ 108 
 
 Rea-sons why the Rev. Mr. Newton wrote the Preface 
 to Cowper's Poems 109 
 
 To tlie Rev. John Newton. Remarks on the pro- 
 positi j'retUce to tlie Poems. Mr. Scott and Mr. R. 
 Oct. 'iJ, 17.-il 109 
 
 To tlu! R(n-. \V. Unwin. Brighton dissipation. Ed- 
 ucation of young Unwin. iN'ov. 't, 17r^l 110 
 
 To the Rev. .lohu N'ewlon. Cowper's inditToronce to 
 Fame. Anecdote of the Rev. Mr. Bull. Nov. 7. 1781 110 
 
 To tile Rev. Wui. Unwin. Apparition of Paul White- 
 heail, at West Wycombe. Nov. 24, 1781 Ill 
 
 To .Jdsc'ph Mil), Ksi). In answer to his account of 
 his l.uKlliidy and her cottatte. Nov. '20, 1781 112 
 
 To tlie Rev. Wm. Unwin. Origin and causes of so- 
 cial feeling. Nov. 20, 1781 112 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. Unfavorable prospect 
 of the American war. Nov. 27, 1781 113 
 
 To the same. With lines on Miirv and John. Same 
 date ■ 114 
 
 To Joseph Hili, Ese,. Advantage of having a tenant 
 who is irregular in his ])ayments. Sale of cham- 
 bers. Stah! of alf.iirs in America. Dec.2, 1781. . . 114 
 
 To tlie Rev. John . Newton. With lines to Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds. Political and patriotic poetry. Dec. 4, 
 1781... 115 
 
 Circumstances under which Cowper commenced his 
 career as an aullior 116 
 
 Letter lo the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 17, 1781. Re- 
 marks on his i)i)eins on Friendship, Retirement, 
 Heroism, and /Etna ; Mueveh and liritaia 116 
 
 To the Rev. William ITnwiii, Dec. 19, 1781. Idea of 
 a theocracy ; the American war 117 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton ; shortest day, 1781. On 
 a national miscarriage; with lines on a 11 at ting- 
 mill 117 
 
 I'o the same, last day of 1781. Concerning the print- 
 ing of his I'oems; the American contest 118 
 
 To the R(^v. Willlaiu l/'nwiii, Jan. 5, 1782. Dr. John- 
 son's critique on Prior and Pope 119 
 
 To the Rev. Jolui Newton, Jan. 13, 1782. The Amer- 
 ican contest 120 
 
 To tho Rev. William TTnwin, J.an. 17, 1782. Conduct 
 of critics ; Dr. Juhiison's remarks on Prior's Poems ; 
 remarks on Dr. Johnson's Lives of tlu.' Poets; po- 
 etry suitalile for the reading of a boy 120 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 31, 1782. Political reflec- 
 tions 122 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 2, 1782. On his 
 Poems then i)rinting; Dr. Johnson's character as 
 a critic; severity of the winter 123 
 
 To the Rev. Win. Unwin, leb. 9, 1782. Bishop 
 liowlh's juvenile verses; acquaintance with Lady 
 Austen 124 
 
 Attciitiims of Lady Austen to Cowper 1-4 
 
 Letter from lilin to Lady Austen 124 
 
 She becomes his next door neighbor 125 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin. On Lady Austen's 
 opinion of lilin ; ailempis al robbery ; observations 
 on religious characters; genuine benevolence... 125 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 16, 1782. Charms of 
 authorship 126 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 24, 1782. On the 
 public iiion of his poems; his letter lo the Lord 
 Chancellor 126 
 
 To Lord Thurlow, Feb. 25, 1782, enclosed to Mr. 
 Unwin 127 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1782. On Mr. N.'s 
 Preface to his Poems. Remarks on a Fast Sermon 127 
 
 To the same, .March (i, 1782. Political remarks; 
 character nf Oliver ("nun well 128 
 
 Decision and boldness of Cromwell 128 
 
 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, March 7, 1782. Remon- 
 strance against Sunday routs 128 
 
 Remarks on Hit; reasmis for rejecting the Rev. Mr. 
 Newtiui's Preface to Cowpi'i's I'oems 129 
 
 To tlie Rev. John Newton, .March 14, 1782. On the 
 inleniled I'relace to his Poems; critical tact of 
 Johiisdii thiMjookseller 129 
 
 To J.iseph llill, Ksii., .March 14, 1782. On the publi- 
 caiiou of his Poems 130 
 
 Pago 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, March 18, 1782. On 
 
 his and Mrs Unwin's opinion of his Poems 136 
 
 Improvements in prison discipline 131 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 24, 1782. Case of 
 
 Mr. B. compared with Cowper's 131 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, April 1, 1782. On his 
 
 commendations of his Poems 131 
 
 To the same, April 27, 1782. Military music ; Mr. 
 Unwin's expected visit ; dignity of the Latin lan- 
 guage ; use of parentheses 132 
 
 To the same, May 27, 1782. Dr. Franklin's opinion 
 of his poems; remarkable instance of providential 
 deliverance from dangers; effects of the weather; 
 
 Rodney's victory in the West Indies 133 
 
 To the same, June 12, 1782. An.\iety of Authors 
 
 respecting the opinion of others on their works — 134 
 Reception of the first volume of Cowper's Poems. . . 134 
 
 Portrait of the true poet 134 
 
 Picture of a person of fretful temper 135 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 To the Rev. Wm. Bull, June 22, 1782. Poetical epis- 
 tle on Tobacco 135 
 
 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, July 16, 1782. Remarks 
 on political atl'airs ; Lady Austen and her project 136 
 
 To the same, August 3, 1782. On Dr. Johnson's ex- 
 pected opinion of his Poems; encounter with a 
 vi]ier; Lady Austen; Mr. Bull; Madame Guion's 
 Poems 137 
 
 The Colubriad, a poem 133 
 
 Lady Austen comes to reside at the parsonage at 
 Olney 138 
 
 Songs written for her by Cowper 138 
 
 His song on the loss of the Royal George 139 
 
 The same in Latin 139 
 
 Origin of his ballad of John Gilpin 140 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 6, 1782. Visit of Mr. 
 Small 140 
 
 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Nov. 4, 1782. On the bal- 
 lad of John (iilpin ; on Mr. Unwin's exertions in 
 behalf of the prisoners at Chelmsford ; subscrip- 
 tion for the widows of seamen lost in the Royal 
 George 140 
 
 To the Rev. William Bull, Nov. 5, 1782. On his ex- 
 pected visit 141 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 11, 1782. On the slate 
 of his health; encouragement of planting; Mr. 
 P , of Hastings ^ 141 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Lsq., Nov., 1782. Thanks for a pres- 
 ent olllsh ; on Mr. Small's report of Mr. Hill and his 
 improvements 142 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 18, 1782. Ac- 
 kiiowledLcmeats to a beneficent friend to the poor 
 of Olney ; on the appearance of John Gilpin in print 142 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin. No date. Character 
 of Dr. lieatlie and his poems; Cowper's transla- 
 tion of Madame <;uion's poems 143 
 
 To Mrs. Newton, Nov. 23, 1782. On his poems; se- 
 verity of the winter ; contrast between a spendthrift 
 and an < Uney cottager; method recommended for 
 settling disputes 143 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 7, 1782. Recollections of 
 the coffee-house ; Cowper's mode of spendii!g his 
 evenings; ])olitical contradictions 144 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 19,178.3. His oc- 
 cuiialions ; beneficence of Mr. Thornton to the poor 
 of Olney 145 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 26, 1783. On the an- 
 ticipations of peace; conduct of the belligerent 
 powers 145 
 
 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Feb. 2, 1783. Ironical con- 
 gratulations on the peace ; generosity of England 
 to France 146 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 8, 1783. Remarks 
 on the peace 146 
 
 To Joseph liill, Esq., Feb. 13, 1783. Remarks on 
 his poems 147 
 
 To the same. Feb. 20, 1783. With Dr. Franklin's 
 letter on his poems 147 
 
 To the same.' No date. On the coalition ministry 
 Lord < hancellor Thurlow 148 
 
 Neglect of Cowper by Lord Tliurlow 148 
 
 Lord Thiirlow's generosity In the case of Dr. John- 
 son, and ('rabhe, tho poet 148 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 24, 1783. On the 
 peace ! 143 
 
 To the Rev. William Hull, March 7, 1783. On the 
 peace; Scotch 11 ighlauders at Newport Pagncl... US
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Pago 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 7, 1783. Compar- 
 ison of his and Mr. Nuwton's letters ; march of 
 Highlanders belonging to a mutinous regiment. . . 149 
 
 To the same, April 5, 1783. Illness of Mrs. O. ; new 
 method of treating consumptive cases 150 
 
 To the same, April 21, 1783. His occupations and 
 
 studies ; writings of Mr. ; probability of his 
 
 conversion in his last moments 150 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, May 5, 1783. Vulgarity 
 in a minister particularly offensive 151 
 
 To the Rev. AVilliam Unwin, May 12, 1783. Re- 
 marks on a sermon preached by Paley at the con- 
 secration of Bishop L 151 
 
 Severity of Cowper's strictures on Paley 152 
 
 Important question of a church establishment 1.52 
 
 Increase of true piety in the Church of Kngland 152 
 
 Language of Beza respectmg the established church 152 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May '26, 1783. On the death 
 of his udcIg's wiI'g .••• .••• ■-•• •••■ ■••• •••• .•>. , 153 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, May 31, 1783. On Mrs. 
 C.'s death 1.53 
 
 To the Rev. William Bull, June 3, 1783. With stan- 
 zas on peace 153 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, June 8, 1783. Beau- 
 ties of the greenhouse ; character of the Rev. Mr. 
 Bull 153 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 13, 1783. On his 
 Review of Ecclesiastical History; the day of judg- 
 ment ; observations of natural phenomena 154 
 
 Extraordinary natural phenomena in the summer of 
 1783 1.55 
 
 De la Landers explanation of them 1.55 
 
 Earthquakes in Calabria and Sicily 155 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 17, 1783. Ministers 
 must not expect to scold men out of their sins. .. . 156 
 
 Tenderness an important qualification in a minister 156 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 19, 1783. On the 
 Dutch translation of his " Cardiph(mia" 156 
 
 To the same, July 27, 1783. A country life barren of 
 incident ; Cowper's attachment to his solitude ; 
 praise of Mr. Newton's style as an historian 1.56 
 
 Remarks on the influence of local associations 1.57 
 
 Dr. Johnson's allusion to that subject 157 
 
 To the Rev William Unwin, August 4, 1783. Pro- 
 posed inquiry concerning the sale of his Poems ; 
 remarks on English ballads ; anecdote of Cowper's 
 goldfinches 158 
 
 To the same, Sept. 7, 1783. Fault of .Madame Guion's 
 writings, too great familiarity in addressing the 
 Deity 159 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 8, 1783. On Mr. 
 Newton's and his own recovery from illness ; anec- 
 dote of a clerk in a public office; ill health of Mr. 
 Scott ; message to Mr. B.acon 159 
 
 To the same, Sept. 1.5, 1783. Cowper's mental suf- 
 ferings 160 
 
 To the same, Sept. 23, 1783. On Jlr. Newton's re- 
 covery from a fever ; dining with au absent man ; 
 his niche for meditation 160 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Sept. 29, 1783. Effect 
 of the weather on health ; comparative happiness 
 of the natural philosopher ; reflections on air-bal- 
 loons 161 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 6, 1783. Religious 
 animosities deplored ; more dangerous to the in- 
 terests of religion than the attacks of its adversa- 
 ries; Cowper's fondness for narratives of voyages 162 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Oct. 10, 1783. Cowper declines 
 the discussion of political subjects ; epitaph on sail- 
 ors of the Royal George 163 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 13, 1783. Neglect of 
 American loyalists; extraordinary donation sent to 
 Lisbon at the time of the great earthquake ; pros- 
 pects of the Americans 163 
 
 To the same, Oct. 20, 1783. Remarks on Bacon's 
 monument of Lord Chatham 164 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 20, 1783. Anticipations 
 of winter 164 
 
 Cowper's winter evenings _ 165 
 
 The subject of his poem, "The Sofa," suggested... 165 
 
 Circumstances illustrative of the origin and progress 
 of "The Task" 165 
 
 Extracts from letters to Mr. Bull on that subject 165 
 
 Particulars of the time in which " The Task" was 
 composed 165 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 3, 1783. Fire at 01- 
 ney described 166 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 10, 1783. On the 
 neglect of old accpiaintance; invitation to Olney; 
 exercise recommended ; fire at Olney 166 
 
 Page 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 17, 1733. Humor- 
 ous description of the punishment of a thief at 
 Olney; dream of an air-balloon 167 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 23, 1783. On his opinion 
 of voyages and travels ; Cowper's reading 168 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 24, 1783. Com- 
 plaint of the neglect of Lord Thurlow ; character 
 of Josephus's History 169 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 30, 1783. Sjjecula- 
 tions on the employment of the antediluvians; 
 the Theological Review 169 
 
 To the same, Dec. 15, 1783. Speculations on the in- 
 vention of balloons ; the East India Bill 170 
 
 To the same, Dec. 27, 1783. Ambition of public men ; 
 dismissal of ministers ; Cowper's sentiments con- 
 cerning Mr. Bacon ; anecdote of Mr. Scott 172 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. Account of 
 Mr. Throckmorton's invitation to see a balloon 
 filled ; attentions of the Throckmorton family to 
 Cowper and Mrs. Unwin 173 
 
 Circumstances which obliged C-wper lo relinquish 
 his friendship with Lady Austen 174 
 
 Hay ley's account of this event 174 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 3, 1784. Dearth of 
 subjects for writing upon at Olney ; reflectioiis on 
 the monopoly of the East India Co.apany 175 
 
 To Mis. Hill, Jan. 5, 1784. Requesting her to send 
 some books 176 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 8, 1784. On his political 
 letters; low state of the public funds 176 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 18, 1784. Cowper's 
 religious despondency; remark on Mr. Newton's 
 predecessor 176 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan., 1784. Proposed 
 alteration in a Latin poem of Mr. Unwin's ; re- 
 marks on the bequest of a cousin ; commenda- 
 tions on Mr. Unwin's conduct ; on newspaper 
 praise 177 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 25, 1784. Cowper's 
 sentiments on East India patronage and East India 
 dominion 178 
 
 State of our Indian possessions at that time 178 
 
 Moral revolution effected there 179 
 
 Latin lines bv Dr. Jortin, on the shortness of human 
 life ." 179 
 
 Cowper's translation of them 179 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1784. On Mr. New- 
 ton's " Review of Ecclesiastical History ;" proposed 
 title and motto ; Cowper declines contributing to a 
 Review 179 
 
 To the same, Feb. 10, 1784. Cowper's nervous state ; 
 comparison of himself with the ancient poets; his 
 hypothesis of a gradual declension in vigor from 
 Adam downwards 179 
 
 To the same, Feb., 1784. The thaw ; kindness of a 
 benefactor to the poor of Olney ; Cowper's politics, 
 and those of a reverend neighbor ; projected trans- 
 lation of Caraccioli on self-acquaintance 180 
 
 To the Rev. William Bull, Feb. 22, 1784. Unknown 
 benefactor to the poor of Olney ; political profes- 
 sion 180 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 29, 1784. On Mr. 
 Unwin's acquaintance with Lord Petre ; unknown 
 benefactor to the poor of Olney ; diffidence of a 
 modest man on extraordinary occasions 181 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 8, 1784. The The- 
 ological Miscellany ; abandonment of the intended 
 translation of Caraccioli 182 
 
 To the same, March 11, 1784. Remarks on Mr. New- 
 ton's " Apology ;" East India patronage and do- 
 minion 182 
 
 To the same, March 15, 1784. Cowper's habitual 
 despondence ; verse his favorite occupation, and 
 whv; Johnson's "Lives of the Poets" 183 
 
 To the same, March 19, 1784. Works of the Mar- 
 quis Caraccioli ; evening occupations 184 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, March 21, 1784. Cow- 
 per's sentiments on Johnson's "Lives of the Po- 
 ets ;" characters of the poets 184 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 29, 1784. Visit 
 of a candidate and his train to Cowper ; angry 
 preaching of Mr. S 185 
 
 To the same, April, 1784. Remarks on divine wrath ; 
 destruction in Calabria 186 
 
 Effects of the earthquakes, and total loss of human 
 lives 186 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, April 5, 1784. Charac- 
 ter of Beattie and Blair ; speculation on the origin 
 of speech I8> 
 
 To the same, April 15, 1784. Further remarks on
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 zi 
 
 Page 
 Blair's " Lectures :" censure of a particular obser- 
 vation in that t)iiok 187 
 
 Vo the same, April -25, 1784. Lines to the memory 
 of iihalvbutt 188 
 
 To the Rev. Jolm Newton, April 2G, 1784. Re- 
 marks on lii-attie and on Hlair'a "Lectures;" 
 econnniy of the county candidates, .ind its conse- 
 quences 188 
 
 To the Rev. William L'nwin, May 3, 1784. Reflec- 
 tions on I'ace-painlini; ; innocen* in French women, 
 but immoral in English 189 
 
 To the same. May b, 17H4. Cowper's reasons for not 
 writing a sequel to John (Jilpin, and not wishing 
 that ballad to appear with his Poems; progress 
 made in printing Ihein 100 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, May 10, 1784. Conver- 
 sion of Dr. Johnson ; unsuccessful attempt with a 
 balloon at 'nirockniortou's 101 
 
 Circumstances attending Dr. Johnson's conversion. . 191 
 
 To the Rev. John Nev.ton, May i.*e, 1784. On Dr. 
 Johnson's opinion of Cowper's " Poems ;" Mr. Bull 
 and his refractory pr-.pils 192 
 
 To the same, June ;'). 1784. On iho oiunion of Cow- 
 per's "Poems" attributed to Dr. Johnson 192 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 21, 1784. Commem- 
 oratic n of Ilandel ; unpleasant summer; character 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Unwin 102 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, July 3, 1784. Severity 
 of the weather ; its effects on vegetation 193 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, July .'), 1784. Reference 
 to a passage in Homer; could the wise men of an- 
 tiquity have believed in the fables of the heathen 
 mythology'? Cowper's neglect of politics; his hos- 
 tility to the lax on candles 193 
 
 To the Rev. William Cnwin, July 12, 1784. Remarks 
 on a line in Vincent Pournts's Latin jjoems ; draw- 
 ing of Mr. Unwiu's house ; 1 1 ume's " Essay on Sui- 
 cide" 194 
 
 To the same, July 13, 1784. Latin Dictionary ; an- 
 imadversions on the tax on candles ; musical ass. . 195 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, July 14, 1784. Commem- 
 oration of Handel 196 
 
 Mr. Newton's sermon on that subject li)6 
 
 To the Rev. Jolm Newton, July 19, 1784. The world 
 compared with Redlam 196 
 
 To the same, July 28, 1764. On Mr. Newton's in- 
 tended visit to the Rev. Jlr. Cilpin at Lymington; 
 his literarv adversaiies 197 
 
 To the Rev.'Wm. Unwin, Aug. 14, 1784. Reflections 
 on travelling; Cov.-per's visits to Weston; ditt'er- 
 enco of character in the inhabitants of the South 
 Sea islands ; cork supi)lements; franks 197 
 
 Original mode of franking, and reasons for the adop- 
 tion of the present method 198 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, August 16, 1784. Pleas- 
 ures of Olney ; ascent of a balloon ; excellence of 
 the Friend I V islanders in dancing 198 
 
 To the Rev. "William Unwin, Sept. II, 1784. Cow- 
 per's progress in his new vohnue of poems ; opin- 
 ions of a visitor on his first volume 199 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 11, 1784. Character of 
 Dr. Cotton 199 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 18, 1784. Alteration 
 of franks ; Cowper's greenhouse ; his enjoyment 
 of natural sounds 200 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 2, 1784. Punctua- 
 tion of poetry ; visit to Mr. Throckmorton 200 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 9, 1784. Cowper 
 maintains not only that his thoushts are uncon- 
 nected, but that frequenllyhe does not think at all; 
 remarks on the character and death of Captain 
 Cook 201 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 10, 1784. With 
 the manuscript of the now volume of his Poems, 
 and remarks on I hem 202 
 
 To the same, Oct. 20, 1784. InstruclTons respecting 
 a publisher, and corrections In his Poems 203 
 
 To the Rev. Jolm .Newton, Oct. 22, 1784. Remarks 
 
 en Knox's Essavs 204 
 
 To the same, Oct. 30. 1784. Heroism of the Sand- 
 wich islanders; ('owi)er informs Mr. Newton of 
 
 his intention to publish a new volume 204 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 1, 1784. Cow- 
 per's reasons for not earlier ac(|Uainting Mr. New- 
 ton with his intention of publishing again; he 
 
 .'esolves t<i include " John Ciljiin" 205 
 
 : o Josejih Hill, Esq., Nov., 1784. On the death of 
 Mr. Hill's mother; Cowper's recollections of his 
 own mother : departure of Lady Austen ; his new 
 ^C;ume of Poems 200 
 
 Page 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 27, 1784. Sketch 
 of the contents and purpose of his new volume. . . 206 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Olney, 1784. On the 
 tr.ansmission of his Poems; elfect of medicines on 
 the composition of poetry 207 
 
 To the same Nov. 29, 1784. Substance of his last 
 letter to Mr. Newton 207 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 4, 1784. Aerial voyages. 208 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 13, 1784. On the 
 versification and titles of his new Poems ; propri- 
 ety of using the word worm for serpent 208 
 
 Passages in Milton and Shakespeare in which worm 
 is so used 209 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 18, 1784. Balloon 
 travellers; inscription to his new poem; reasons 
 for complimenting Bishop Bagot 209 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Christmas-eve, 1784. 
 Cowper declines giving anew title to his new vol- 
 ume of Poems; remarks on a person lately de- 
 ceased 210 
 
 General remarks on the particulars of Cowper's per- 
 sonal history 210 
 
 Remarks on the completion of the second volume of 
 Cowper's Poems 211 
 
 Cibbon's record of his feelings on the conclusion of 
 his History 211 
 
 Moral drawn from the evanescence of life 211 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. .5, 1785. On the re- 
 nouncemenV of the Christian character; epitaph 
 on Dr. Johnson 21« 
 
 To the Rev. Wni. Unwin, Jan. 15, 1785. On delay 
 in letter-writing; sentiments of Rev. Mr. Newton; 
 Cowper's coiitril)uiioiis to the Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine ; Lunardi's narrati\e 212 
 
 Explanations respecting Cowper's poem, entitled 
 "The Poplar Field" 213 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 22, 1*85. Breaking up of 
 the frost; anticipations of proceedings in Parlia- 
 ment 213 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 7, 1785. Pro- 
 gress of Cowper's second volume of Poems; his 
 pieces in the (ientleman's Magazine; sentiments 
 of a neighboring nobleman and gentleman re- 
 specting Cowper 213 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 19, 1785. An inge- 
 nious bookbinder; poverty at Olney; severity of 
 the late winter 2J4 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Es(i.j Feb. 27, 1785. Inquiry con- 
 cerning his health, and account of his own 215 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 19, 1785. Uses 
 and description of an old card table; want of ex- 
 ercise dering the winter ; petition against conces- 
 sions to Ireland 215 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, March 20, 1785. Re- 
 marks on a nobleman's eye ; progress of his new 
 volume ; political reflections ; celebrity of " John 
 Gilpin" 216 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, April 9, 1785. On the 
 prediction of a destructive earthquake, by a Ger- 
 man ecclesiastic 216 
 
 To the same, Apiil 22, 1785. On the popiUarity of 
 "John (iilpin" 217 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, April 30, 1785. On the 
 celebrity of "John <;ilpin;" ))rogress of Cowper's 
 new volume ; Mr. Newton's sentiments in regard 
 to him; mention of some old acquaintances; dis- 
 covery of a bird's nest in agate-post 217 
 
 To the Rev. Jolm Newton, May, 17(-5. Sudden death 
 of Mr. .Ashburner; remarks on the state of Cow'- 
 per's mind ; relerence to his first acquaintance 
 with Newton 218 
 
 To the same, June 4. 1785. Character of the Rev. 
 Mr. Greatheed ; completion of Cowper's new vol- 
 ume ; Bacon's monument to Lord Chatham 220 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 25, 1785. Cowper's sum- 
 mer-house ;■ dilatoriness of his bookseller 221 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. June 25, 1785. Allusion 
 to the mental depression under which (^iwper la- 
 bored ; Nathan's last monienis; complaint of 
 Johnson's delay ; ell'ecls of drought ; tax on gloves 221 
 
 To the same, July 9, 1785. .Mention of letters in 
 praise of his Poems ; conduct of the Lord Chancel- 
 lor and G. Colman ; reference to the commemora- 
 tion of Handel ; cutting' down of the spinney 222 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, July 27, 1785. Violent 
 thunder-storm; courage of a dog; on the love of 
 airist -223 
 
 To the Rev. John .\ewtou. Aug. 6, 1785. Feeling's on 
 the subject of authorship ; reasons for introducing 
 John (;ilpin in his new volume ^S»
 
 zu 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Pago 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 17, 1785. Reasons 
 for not writing to Mr. Uacon ; Dr. Johnson's Di- 
 ary ; illness of Mr. Perry 225 
 
 Character of Dr. Johnson's Diary 2-2') 
 
 Extracts from it 227 
 
 Arguments for the necessity of conversion 227 
 
 Johnson's neglect of the Sahbalh -. .. 227 
 
 Testimony of Sir William Jones respecting the Holy 
 Scriptures 228 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 27, 17P5. Thanks 
 for presents; his second volume of Poems; re- 
 marks on Dr. Johnson's Journal ; claims of who 
 and thit 228 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 24, 1785. Recollec- 
 tions of Southampton ; recoveryof Mr. Perry ; pro- 
 posed Sunday School 229 
 
 Origin of Sunday Schools 230 
 
 Their utility 2:!0 
 
 Sentiments of the late Rev. Andrew Fuller on the 
 Bible Society and on Sunday Schools 230 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Oct. 11, 1785. Cowper excuses 
 himself for not visiting Wargrave; on his printed 
 epistle to Mr. Hill 231 
 
 Renewal of Cowper's intimacy with his cousin, Lady 
 HesUeth 231 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Oct. 12, 1785. Recollections re- 
 vived by her letter ; account of his own situation ; 
 allusion to his uncle's health ; necessity of mental 
 employment for himself 231 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. IG, 1785. On the 
 death of Miss t'unuiugham; expected removal of 
 the Rev. Mr. Scott from Olney ; Mr. Jones, stew- 
 ard of Lord Peterborough burned in effigy 232 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 22, 1785. Pro- 
 gress of his translation of Homer ; course of read- 
 ing recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 233 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 5, 1785. On his tar- 
 diness in writing; remarks on Mr. N.'s narrative 
 of his life ; strictures on Mr. Heron's critical opin- 
 ions of Virgil and the Bible ; lines addressed by 
 Cowper to Heron 234 
 
 Remarks on Heron's " Letters on Literature" 235 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 7, 178.5. On the interrup- 
 tions experienced by men of business fiom the 
 idle 235 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 9, 1735. Reference to liis 
 poems ; he signities his acceptance of her offer of 
 pecuniary aid ; his translation of Homer ; descrip- 
 tion of his person 230 
 
 To the same, without date. His feelings towards 
 her ; allusion to his translation of Homer 237 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 9, 1785. On Bishop 
 Bagot's charge 237 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 3, 1785. Causes 
 which led him to undertake the translation of Ho- 
 mer ; visit from Mr. Bagot ; renewal of his corre- 
 spondence with Lady Hesketh ; complains of indi- 
 gestion 238 
 
 To the same, Dec. 10, 1785. On the favorable re- 
 ports of his last volume of poems ; censure of 
 Pope's Homer 239 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 24, 1785. On his 
 translation of Homer 239 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 24, 1785. On his transla- 
 tion of Homer 240 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, 1 jc. 31, 1785. On his 
 negotiation with Johnson respecting the Transla- 
 tion of Homer ; want of bedding among the poor 
 of Olney 240 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 10, 1786. His consciousness 
 of defects in his poems ; on his Translation of 
 Homer 241 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 14, 178S. On Mr. 
 Unwin's introduction to Lady Hesketh ; specimen 
 of Cowper's translation of Homer, sent to General 
 Cowper ; James's powder ; what is a friend good 
 for ? unreasonable censure 242 
 
 To 'he Rev. John Newton, Jan. 14, 1786. On his 
 translation of Homer 242 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 15, 178(5. Explana- 
 tio[i of the delay in the publication of his propo- 
 sals ; aljision lo Bishop Bagot 242 
 
 To the same, Jan. 23, 1786. Dr. Maty's intended re- 
 view of ' The Task ;" Dr. Cyril Jackson's opinion 
 of Popes Homer 243 
 
 To Lady rieskelh, Jan. 31, 1786. Acknowledgment 
 of pres^^nts from Anonymous ; state of his health ; 
 prcjgress of his translation of Ilomer; correspond- 
 ence with General Cowper 243 
 
 Vo the same, Feb. 9, 1780. Anticip'vtions of a visit 
 
 Page 
 
 from her ; description of the vestibule of his resi- 
 dence 244 
 
 To the same, Feb. 11, 1780. He announces that he 
 has sent off to her a portion of his translation of 
 Homer; effectof criticisms on his health ; promise 
 of Thiu'low to Cowper 245 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 18, 178(5. On their 
 correspondence ; his translation of Homer ; pro- 
 posed mottoes 246 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 19, 1786. Preparations for 
 her expected visit ; character of Homer ; criticism 
 on Cowper's specimen 247 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 27, 1786. CcnJo- 
 lence on the death of his wife >18 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, March (i, 1780. On elisions in his 
 Ilomer; progress of the work 248 
 
 To the Rev. W. Unwin, March 13, 1786. Character 
 of the critic to whom he had submitted his Homer 249 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, April 1, 1786. Expected 
 visitors 249 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 5, 1780. Reasons for de- 
 clining to make any apology for his translation of 
 Ilomer 250 
 
 Motives whicli induced Cowper to undertake a new 
 version 250 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, April 17, 1780. Description of 
 the vicarage at Olney, where lodgings liad been 
 taken for her; Mrs. Unwin's sentiments towards 
 her; letter from Anonymous; his early acquaint- 
 ance with Lord Thurlow 250 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, April 24, 178(5. On her letters; 
 anticipations of her coming; General Cowper 251 
 
 To the same, May 8, 1780. On Dr. Maty's censure 
 of Cowper's translation of Homer ; Colman's opin- 
 ion of it ; Cowper's stanzas on Lord Thurlow ; in- 
 vitation to Olney; specimen of Maty's animadver- 
 sions ; recommendation of a house at Weston ; 
 blunder of Mr. Throckmorton's bailiff; recovery 
 of General Cowper 252 
 
 To the same. May J.5, 1786. Anticipations of her ar- 
 rival at Olney ; proposed arrangements for the oc- 
 casion ; ])i'esumed motive of Maty's censures ; 
 confession of ambition 254 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 20, 1786. His trans- 
 lation of Homer ; reasons for not adopting Horace's 
 maxim about publishing, to the letter — 255 
 
 Secret sorrov/s of Cowper 256 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, IMay 20, 1786. Cowper's 
 unhajjpy state of mind ; his connexions 256 
 
 Remai'ks on Cowper's depression of spirit 257 
 
 Delusion of supposing himself excluded from the 
 mercy of God 257 
 
 Religious consolation recommended in cases of dis- 
 ordered intellect 258 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 25. 1780. Delay of her com- 
 ing; visit to a house at Weston; the Throckmor- 
 tons; anecdote of a quotation from "The Task;" 
 nervous affections 258 
 
 To the same. May 29, 1786. Delay of her coming; 
 preparations for it ; allusion to his fits of dejec- 
 tion , 259 
 
 To the same, June 4 and 5, 1786. ' Cowper rallies 
 her on her fears of their expected meeting; dinner 
 at Mr. Throckmorton's ' 200 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 9, 1786. Relapse of the 
 Lord Chancellor; renewalof correspondence with 
 Colman ; the Nonsense Club; expectation of Lady 
 Hesketh's arrival 261 
 
 Arrival of Lady Hesketh at Ohicy 261 
 
 Influence of that event on Cowper 261 
 
 Extract from a letter from him to Mr. Bull 262 
 
 Description of a thunder-storm, from a letter to the 
 same 202 
 
 Cowper's House at Olney 2(52 
 
 His intimacy with Mr. Newton 202 
 
 His pious and benevolent liabits 2(52 
 
 He removes from Olney to the Lodge at Weston 203 
 
 His acquaintance with Samuel Rose, Esq., and tlie 
 late Rev. Dr. Johnson 203 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 19, 1786. His intended 
 removal from Olney 203 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 22, 1786. His em- 
 plovments ; interruption given to them by Lady 
 Hesketh's arrival ; Newton's Sermons 26:) 
 
 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, July 3, YiovK Lady Hes- 
 keth's arrival and character ; state of his old abode 
 and descrijition of the new one at Weston ; books 
 recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 264 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, July 4, 1786. Particulars 
 relative to the translation of Homer 165
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 xm 
 
 Page 
 To the Kov. John Newton, Air,'. 5, 1786. His intend- 
 ed removal from olney; its iiriliealtliy situation; 
 Ilia iinliappy state of mind ; comfort of Lady Hes- 
 keth's presence 265 
 
 Cowper's spirits not affected apparently by his men- 
 tal malady 2G6 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 24, 1786. Pro- 
 gress of his Translation ; the Throckmortons 266 
 
 To the same, without date. His lyric productions; 
 recollections of boyhood 267 
 
 Extract of a letter to the Rev. Mr. Unwin 267 
 
 Lines addressed to a young lady on her birth-day. . . 207 
 
 Proposed plan of Mr. Unwin for checking sabbath- 
 breaking anil drunkenness 267 
 
 To the Rev. \Vm. Unwin, no date. Oowper's opin- 
 ion of the inutility of .Mr. IJnwin's ellbrts 267 
 
 F.xhortalion to perseverance in a good cause 268 
 
 HoiM's of present improvement 268 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. State of the 
 national affairs 269 
 
 To the same, no date. Character of Churchill's po- 
 etry 269 
 
 To tlie same, no date. Cowper's discovery in the 
 Reicister of poems long composed and forgotten 
 bv him 270 
 
 To "the Rev. Walter Uasot, Aug. :U, 1786. Defence 
 of elisions; intended removal to Weston 270 
 
 To the Rev. .John Xewton, Sept. 30, 17c'6. Defence 
 of his and Mrs. Unwinds conduct 271 
 
 Ex|)l:itiatory remarks on the preceding letter 'iTi 
 
 Amiable spirit and temper of Newton 272 
 
 To .Joseph Hill, Ksq., Oct. 6, 1786. Loss of the MS. 
 of part of his translation 273 
 
 Cowper's removal to Weston 273 
 
 To the Ke\-. Walter Bagot, Nov. 17, 1786. On his re- 
 moval from Olney ; invitation t(j Weston 273 
 
 To the Rev. .John Newton, Nov. 17, 1786. Excuse 
 for delay in writing; his new residence; affection 
 for his old abode 273 
 
 To Lady Heskelh, Nov. 26, 1786. Comforts of his new 
 residence; the cliffs; hisraml)les 274 
 
 Unexpected death of the Rev. Mr. Unwin 275 
 
 To Lady Heskelh, Dec. 4, 1780. On the death of Mr. 
 Jiiwin 275 
 
 To the same, Dec. 9, 1786. On a singular circum- 
 stance relating to an intended pupil of .Mr. Unwin's 275 
 
 To Joseph mil, Es(i., Dec. 9, 1786. Death of Mr. 
 Unwin; Cowper's new situation at Weston 276 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 16, 178(5. Death of 
 Mr. Unwin ; forlorn state of his old dwelling 276 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 21, 1786. Cowper's oi)inioii 
 of praise ; Mr. Throckmorton's chaplain 277 
 
 To the Rev. Walter liagot, Jan. 3, 1787. Reasons 
 why a translator of Homer should not be calm; 
 praises of his works ; death of .Mr. Unwin 277 
 
 Cowper has a seviM'e attack of nervous fever 278 
 
 To Lady Heskelh. Jan. 8, 1787. State of his health ; 
 proposal of General Cowper resjiecting his Ho- 
 mer; li'ttctr from iMr.Smilli M. P. for iNoltingham ; 
 Cow()er"s song of "The Rose" reclaimed by him 278 
 
 To the Rev. John Xewtoii, Jan. 13, 1787. inscription 
 for .Mr. Unuih's tomi) ; government of Providence 
 in his political labors 279 
 
 To Lady Hesketh. Jan. 18. 1787. Suspension of his 
 translation by fever; his sentiments respecting 
 dreams ; visit of Mr. Rose 279 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Ks(i., July 24, 1787. On Burns' 
 poems " 280 
 
 Remarks on liurns and his i)oetry 280 
 
 Pa.ssages from his fwems 281 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esi;., .Vug. 27, 1787. Invitation to 
 Weston; state of C<iwper's health; remarks on 
 Barclay's '* Argenis," and on Ifurus 281 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, August 311, 1787. Improvement 
 in his health; kindness of the Throckmortons 282 
 
 To the .same, Sejit. 4, 1787. Delay of her coming; 
 Mrs. Tl.iockmorton's uncle ; books read by Cow- 
 per ." 282 
 
 To the same, Sept. 15, 1787. His meeting with her 
 friend, MissJ ; new gravel-walk 283 
 
 To the same, Sept. 29, 1787. Remarks on the rela- 
 tive situation of Russia and Turkey 283 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 2, 1787. Cowper 
 confesses that for thirteen years he doubted Mr. 
 N.'sideiillly ; aeknowh-dgiiu-Mts lor lliekind offiTS 
 of the Xew'tons; prei)aratious lor Lady Heskelh's 
 comini; 284 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Oct. 19, 1787. State of his 
 health; streuirth of local attachments 284 
 
 f<j the Rev John Newton, Oct. 20, 1787. His miser- 
 
 Page 
 able state during his recent indispos,ilion ; petition 
 to Lord Dartmouth in behalf of the Rev. Mr. Pos- 
 tlethwaite 285 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 10, 1787. On the delay of 
 her coming ; Cowper's kitten ; changes of weather 
 foretold by a leech 285 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Nov. 16, 1787. On his own 
 present occupation 286 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 27, 1787. Walks and scenes 
 about Weston ; application from a parish clerk for 
 a copy of verses ; papers in " The Lounger ;" anec- 
 dote of a beggar and vermicelli soup 286 
 
 To the same, Dec. 4, 1787. Character of the Throck- 
 mortons 287 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 6,1787. Visit to 
 Mr. B.'s sister at Chichely ; Bishop Bagot; a case 
 of ridiculous distress 287 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 10, 1787. Progress of his 
 Homer ; changes in life 288 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 13, 1787. Requisites in 
 a translator of Homer 288 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 1, 1788. Extraordinary coin- 
 cidence between a piece of his own and one of Mr. 
 Merry's ; " The Poet's New Year's Gift ;" compul- 
 sorv inoculation for small-pox 289 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 5, 1788. Translation 
 of the commencing lines of the Iliad by Lord Ba- 
 got ; revisal of Cowper's translation ; the clerk's 
 verses 290 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 19, 1788. His engagement 
 with Homer prevents the production of occasional 
 poems; remarks on a new print of Bunbury's 290 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 21, 1788. Reasons 
 for not writing to him ; expected arrival of the 
 Rev. Mr. Bean ; changes of neighboring ministers ; 
 narrow escape of Mrs. Unwin from being burned. . 291 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 30, 1788. His anxiety on ac- 
 count other silence 292 
 
 To the same, Feb. 1, 1788. Excuse for his melan- 
 choly ; his Homer; visit from Mr. Greatheed 292 
 
 Causes of Cowper's correspondence with Mrs. King 293 
 
 To Mrs. King, Feb. 12, 1788. Reference to his de- 
 ceased brother ; he ascribes the effect produced by 
 his poems to God 293 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 14, 1788. A sense of the 
 value of time the best security for its improve- 
 ment ; Mr. C ; brevity of human life illustrated 
 
 by Homer 294 
 
 Commencement of the efforts for the abolition of the 
 slave trade 294 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 16, 1783. On negro slavery; 
 Hannah More's poem on the Slave Trade ; extract 
 from it ; advocates of the abolition of slavery ; trial 
 of Warren Hastings 294 
 
 To the Siune, Feb. 22, 1788. Remarks on Burke's 
 speech impeaching Warren Hastings, and on the 
 duty of pul)lic accusers 296 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 1, 1788. Excuse 
 for a lapse of memory in regard to a letter of Mr. 
 Bean's 296 
 
 To the same, March 3, 1788. Arrival of Mr. Bean at 
 Olney; C()Wi)er's corresixindence with Mrs. King 296 
 
 To Mrs. King, March 3, 1788. Brief history of his 
 own life 297 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, March 3, 1788. Catastrophe of a 
 fox-chase ; Cowper in at tlic death 298 
 
 To the same, March 12, 1788. Remarks on Hannah 
 More's works, and on Wilberforce's book ; the 
 Throckmortons .... • 298 
 
 Cowper is solicited to write in behalf of the negroes 299 
 
 To General ('owpcr, 1787. Songs written by him on 
 the condition of negro slaves 299 
 
 "The Morning Dream," a ballad 299 
 
 Efforts for the abolition of the slave trade 300 
 
 Wilberforce, the liberator of Africa .300 
 
 Cowper's ballads on negro slavery 300 
 
 The negro's Complaint 300 
 
 The qiiestion why (Ireat Britain should be the first 
 to sacrifice interest to humanity answered by Cow- 
 per 300 
 
 Lines from Goldsmith's "Traveller," on the Eng- 
 lish character 301 
 
 Exposition of the cruelty and injustice of the slave 
 trade, by (Iranville Sharp 301 
 
 Proof of the slow progress of truth 301 
 
 Extracts from I'owper's poems on negro slavery 302 
 
 (?a.se of Somerset, a slave, mid Lord Mansfield's judg- 
 ment 303 
 
 Final abolition of slavery by Great Britain, and efforts 
 making for the religious instruction of the negroes 303
 
 XIT 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Probability that Africa may be enlightened by their 
 
 means 303 
 
 Cowper's lines on the blessings of spiritual liberty. . 303 
 Letter to Mrs. Hill, March 17, 1788. Thanks for a 
 present of a turkey and ham ; Mr. Hill's indisposi- 
 tion ; inquiry concerning Cowper's library 303 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 17, 1788. With a 
 Song, written at Mr. N.'s request, for Lady Bal- 
 gonie 304 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 29, 1788. Coldness 
 of the spring ; remarks on •' The Manners of the 
 Gi-eat ;" progress of his Homer 304 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 29, 1788. He express- 
 es his wonder that his company should be desira- 
 ble to Mr. R. ; Mrs. Unwiu's character ; acknowl- 
 edges the receipt of some books ; Clarke's notes 
 on Homer ; allusion to his own ballads on negro 
 slavery 305 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, March 31, 1T88. He makes men- 
 tion of his song, "The Morning Dream;" allusion 
 to Hannah More on the " Manners of the Great". . 305 
 
 Character of and extracts from Mrs. More's work. . . 306 
 
 To Mrs. King, April 11, 1788. Allusion to his melan- 
 choly, and necessity for constant employment ; im- 
 probability of their meeting 306 
 
 To the Rev. .lohn Newton, April 19, 1788. Remarks 
 on the conduct of government in regard to the 
 Slavery Abolition question 307 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 0, 1788. Smollett's Don 
 Q.uixotte ; he thanks her for the intended present 
 of a box for letters and papers ; renewal of his cor- 
 respondence with Mr. Rowley ; remarks on the ex- 
 pression, " As great as two inkle-weavers" 307 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 8, 1788. Lament for the 
 loss of his librai-y : progress of his Homer 308 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 12, 1788. Mrs. Montagu and 
 the Blue-Stocking Club ; his late feats in walking 308 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 24, 1788. Thanks for the 
 present of prints of the Lacemaker and Crazy 
 Kate ; family of Mr. Chester ; progress of Homer ; 
 antique bust of Paris 309 
 
 To the Rev. William Bull, May 25, 1788. He declines 
 tlie composition of hymns, which Mr. B. had urged 
 him to undertake 309 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1783. His lines on Mr. 
 Henry Cowper ; remarks on Mrs. Montagu's Essay 
 on the Genius of Shakespeare ; antique head of 
 Paris ; remarks on the two prints sent him by Mr. 
 Hill 310 
 
 To the same, June 3, 1788. Sudden change of the 
 weather ; remarks on the advertisement of a dan- 
 cing-master of Newport-Pagnell 310 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 5, 1788. His writ- 
 ing eng.igements ; effect of the sudden change of 
 the weather on his health ; character of Mr. Bean ; 
 visit from the Powleys ; he declines writing fur- 
 ther on the slave-trade ; invitation to Weston ; 
 verses on Mrs. Montagu 311 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 8, 1788. On the death of 
 his uncle, Ashley Cowper 312 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, June 10, 1788. On the death of 
 her father, Ashley Cowper 312 
 
 To the same, June 15, 1783. Recollections of her 
 father 312 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 17, 1788. Coldness 
 of the season ; reasf)ns for declining to write on 
 slavery ; contrast between the awful scenes of na- 
 ture and the horrors produced by human passions 313 
 
 To Mrs. King, Jmie 19, 1788. He excuses his silence 
 on account of inflammation of the eyes ; sudden 
 change of weather ; reasons why we are not so 
 hardy as our forefathers ; his opinion of Thomson, 
 the poet 313 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 23, 1788. Apology for 
 an unanswered letter; providence of God in re- 
 gard to the weather ; visitors at Weston ; brevity 
 of human life 314 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 24, 1788. Difficul- 
 ties experienced by Mr. Bean iu enforcing a stricter 
 observance of the Sabbath at Olney ; remarks on 
 the slave-trade 315 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, June 27, 1788. Anticipations of 
 her next visit; allusion to Lord Thurlow's prom- 
 ise to provide for him; anecdote of his dog Beau; 
 remarks on his ballads on slavery 316 
 
 The Dog and the Water Lily 317 
 
 To Josejjh Hill, Esq., July 6, 1788. He gives Mr. H. 
 notice that he has drawn on him; allusion to an 
 engagement of Mr. H.'s 317 
 
 To lady Hesketh, July 28, 1788. Her talent at de- , 
 
 Page 
 scription ; the lime-walk at Weston ; remarks on 
 the " Account of Five Hundred Living Authors". . 317 
 
 To the same, August 9, 1788. Visitors at Weston ; 
 motto composed by Cowper for the king's clock. . 318 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 18, 1788. Circum- 
 stances of their parting; he recommends Mr. R. 
 to take due care of himself in his pedestrian jour- 
 neys ; strictures on Lavater's Aphorisms 313 
 
 Remarks on physiognomy and on the merits of La- 
 vater as the founder of the Orphan House at Zu- 
 rich JVute 319 
 
 To Mrs. King, August 28, 1788. He playfully guesses 
 at Mrs. King's figure and features 319 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 2, 1788. Reference 
 to Mr. N.'s late visit ; his own melancholy state of 
 mind ; Mr. Bean's exertions for suppressing public 
 houses 319 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 11, 1788. Kemarkable 
 oak ; lines suggested by it ; exhortation against 
 bashfulness 320 
 
 To Mrs. King, Sept. 25, 1788. Thanks for presents; 
 invitation to Weston 321 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 2), 1788. A riddle ; su- 
 perior talents no security for propriety of conduct ; 
 progressof Homer ; Mrs. Throckmorton's bullfinch 321 
 
 To Mrs. King. Oct. 11, 1788. Account of his occu- 
 pations at different periods of his life 322 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 29, 1788. Declin- 
 ing state of Jenny Raban; Mr. Greatheed 223 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 30, 1788. Vincent 
 Bourne ; invitation to Weston 323 
 
 To Mrs. King, Dec. 6, 1788. Excuse for not being 
 punctual in writing; succession of generations; 
 Cumberland's "Observer" 323 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 9, 1788. Mr. Van 
 Lier's Latin MS.; Lady Hesketh and the Throck- 
 mortcms ; popularity of Mr. C. as a preacher 32-1 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 19, 1789. Local helps 
 to memory ; Sir John Hawkins' book 325 
 
 To the same, Jan. 24, 1789. Accidents generally oc- 
 cur when and where we least expect them ....... 325 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 29, 1789. Excuse for 
 irregularity in correspondence; progress of Ho- 
 mer; allusion to political affairs 325 
 
 To Mrs. King, Jan. 29, 1789. Thanks for presents ; 
 Mrs. Unwin's fall in the late frost ; distress of the 
 Royal Family on the state of the King, and anec- 
 dote of the Lord Chancellor 325 
 
 To the same, March 12, 1789. Excuse for long si- 
 lence, and for not having sent, according to prom- 
 ise, all the small pieces he had written ; his poem 
 on the King's recovery 320 
 
 To the same, April 22, 1789. He informs Mrs. K. that 
 he has a packet of poems ready for her ; his verses 
 on the Queen's visit to London on the night of the 
 illuminations for the King's recovery; disappoint- 
 ment on account of her not coming to Weston; 
 Twining's translation of Aristotle 327 
 
 To the same, April 30, 1789. Thanks for presents; 
 his brother's poems 328 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 20, 1789. Reference to 
 his lines on the Queen's visit; character of Haw- 
 kins Brown 323 
 
 To Mrs. King, May 30, 1789. He acknowledges the 
 receipt of a packet of papers ; reference to his poem 
 on the Queen's visit 329 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 5, 1789. He commis- 
 sions Mr. R. to buy him a cuckoo-clock ; Boswell's 
 Tour to the Hebrides; Hawkins' and Boswell's 
 Life of Johnson 329 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 16, 1789. On his 
 marriage ; allusion to his poem on the Queen's 
 visit 329 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 20, 1789. He expresses 
 regret at not receiving a visit from Mr. R.; ac- 
 knowledges the arrival of the cuckoo-clock ; re- 
 mark on Hawkins' and Boswell's Life of Johnson. 330 
 
 To Mrs. Throckmorton, July 18, 17S9. Poetic turn 
 of Mr. George Throckmorton; news concerning 
 the Hall 330 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., July 23, 1789. Importance 
 of improving the early years of life ; anticipj, ions 
 of Mr. R.'s visit 330 
 
 To Mrs. King. August 1, 1789. Grumbling of his 
 correspondents on his silence; his Time engrossed 
 by Homer ; he professes himself an admirer of 
 pictures, but no connoisseur 331 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 8, 1789. Mrs. Piozzi's 
 Travels ; remark ou the author of the " Dunciad" 331 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., August 12, 1789, Unfavorable
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Tt 
 
 Page 
 weatlier and spoiled hay; multiplicity of his en- • 
 gaffements; Sunday school hymn 332 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Auf^ust 16, 1789. Excuse 
 for long silence ; progress of Homer 332 
 
 Remarks on Cowpcr's observation that authors are 
 responsible for their writings 333 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 24, 1789. Coldness of 
 the season 333 
 
 To the same, Oct. 4, 1789. Description of the re- 
 ceipt of a hamper, in the manner of Homer 333 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot (without date). Excuse 
 for long silence; why winter is like a backbiter; 
 Villoisoii's Homer; death of Lord Cowper 334 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot (without date). Remarks 
 on Villoison's Prolegomena to Homer .334 
 
 Note on the reveries of learned men 335 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 1, 1789. Apology 
 for not writing; Mrs. Unwin's state of health; 
 reference to political events 335 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. lb, 1789. Political reflec- 
 tions 335 
 
 Character of the French Revolution 336 
 
 Burke on tlie features which distinguish the French 
 Revolution from that of England in 1088 336 
 
 Political and moral causes of the French Revolution 336 
 
 Origin of the Revolution in America 337 
 
 The Establiehed Church endangered by resistance to 
 the spirit of the ago 337 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 3, 1790. Excuses for si- 
 lenciv. iiKiuiry concerning Mr. R.'s health; labori- 
 ous task of re visal 338 
 
 To Mrs. King, Jan 4, 1790. His anxiety on account 
 of her long silence ; his occupations ; Mrs. Unwin"s 
 jtate .338 
 
 To the same, Jan. 18, 1790. He contradicts a report 
 that ho intends to quit Weston ; reference to his 
 Homer 339 
 
 Comin(Micement of Cowper's acquaintance with his 
 cousin the Rev. John Johnsim 339 
 
 To Lady llesketh, Jan. 22, 1790. Particulars concern- 
 ing a piiem o( his cousin Johnson's ; anticipations 
 of the Cambridge critics respecting his Homer.... 339 
 
 To Samuel Kose, Esq., Feb. 2, 1790. He impugns 
 the opinion of Beutley that the last Odyssey is 
 spurious 340 
 
 To the Rev. John .Newton, I'eb. 5, 1790. Account of 
 his painful apprehensions in the month of January 340 
 
 To Lady llesketh, Feb. 9, 1790. Service rendered 
 by her to his cousin .Johnson ; Cowper's lines on a 
 transcript of an Ode of Horace by Mrs. Throck- 
 morton 341 
 
 To the same, Feb. 26, 1790. He promises to send her 
 a specimen of his Homer for the perusal of a lady ; 
 his delight at being presented by a relative with 
 his mother's picture 342 
 
 To Mrs. liodham, Feb. 27, 1790. He expresses his 
 delight at receiving his mother's picture from her ; 
 lines written by him on the occasion ; recollec- 
 tions of his mother ; invitation to Weston ; ro- 
 membranci's of oilier maternal relatives 342 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 28, 1790. He refers to 
 the present of his muther's picture ; he nu/ntions 
 his invitation of the family of the Donnes to Wes- 
 ton ; inquiries CDiiceining Mr. J.'s poem 343 
 
 To Lady llesketh, March 8, 1790. On Mrs. 's 
 
 opii-.ion of his Homer; his sentiments on the 'I'est 
 Act; passage from his poems on that subject; ill 
 health of Mrs. Unwin 344 
 
 To Samuel Rose, F.sq., March 11, 1790. On the state 
 of his health ; he condemns the practice of dissem- 
 bling indispositions 345 
 
 To Mrs. King, March 12, 1790. On her favorable 
 opinion of his poems; his mother's picture and his 
 
 poem on the receipt of it 345 
 
 To Mrs. Throckmorton, March 21, 1790. He regrets 
 her absence from Weston ; Mrs. Carter's opinion 
 
 of his Homer ; his new wig 345 
 
 To Lady llesketh, March 22, 1790. His opinion of 
 
 the style best adapted to a translation of Homer. . 346 
 To John Johnson, Esq., March 23, 1790. Character 
 of tne Odyssey; Cowper professes his affection for 
 
 Mr J 347 
 
 lo the same, April 17, 1790. Remark on nn innocent 
 deception practised by Mr. J. ; Cowper boasts of 
 Ids skill in physiognomy, and recommends the 
 
 study of ( ; reek .' 347 
 
 To Lady llesketh, April 19, 1790. H.s revisal of 
 Hmner ; anecdote of a prisoner in the Bastile, and 
 
 lines on the subject 348 
 
 To the same, April 30, 1790. Messaffe to Bishop 
 
 Page 
 Madan ; remarks on General Cowper's approbation 
 of his picture verses 348 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 2, 1790. On the approach- 
 ing termination of his employment with Homer.. . 343 
 
 To Sirs. Throckmort(m, May 10, 1790. Humorous 
 account of a boy sent with letters to her in Berk- 
 shire; Cowper's adventure with a dog S-IS 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 28, 1790. He declines the 
 offer of her services to procure him the place of 
 poet laureat 3-10 
 
 To the same, June 3, 1790. He is applied to by a 
 Welshman to get him made poet laureat 319 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., June 7, 1790. Advice to 
 Mr. J. on his future plans and studies; with re- 
 marks on Cowper's strictures on the University of 
 Cambridge 349 
 
 Remarks on Cowper's exhortation respecting the di- 
 vinity of the glorious Reformation 35t 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 8, 1790. Congratulations 
 on his intended marriage ; proposed riddle 350 
 
 To Mrs. King, June 14, 1790. His literary occupa- 
 tioBs; state of Professor Martyn's health ; ill health 
 of Mrs. Unwin 351 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, June 17, 1790. Grievance of 
 going a-visiting; his envy of a poor old woman; 
 inscriptions for two oak plantations 35i 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 22, 1790. Snakes 
 and ants of Africa ; Bishop Bagot and his mutinous 
 clergy 352 
 
 To Mrs. Bodham, June 29, 1790. Anticipations of a 
 visit from her 352 
 
 To Lady llesketh, July 7, 1790. State of Mrs. Unwin ; 
 remarks on the abolition of ranks by the French.. 353 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., July 8, 1790. Recommen- 
 dation of music as an amusement ; expected visit 
 from Mr. J. and his sister 354 
 
 To Mrs. King, July 16, 1790. On their recent visit to 
 Weston ; reference to his own singularities ; re- 
 grets for the distance between them 354 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., July 31, 1790. Warning 
 against carelessness and shyness; proposed em- 
 ployments and amusements 354 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 11, 1790. On the 
 state of Mrs. Newton's health ; he refers to his own 
 state, and declines the offer of trying the etfecl of 
 animal magnetism 355 
 
 To Mrs. Bodham, Sept. 9, 1790. He informs her of 
 the termination of his labors with Homer, and the 
 conveyance of his translation to London by Mr. 
 Johnson 356 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 13, 1790. On his mar- 
 riage ; Cowper's preface to his Homer ; solution of 
 the riddle in a former letter to Mr. K 356 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 17, 1790. On the list of 
 subscribers to his Homer 357 
 
 To Mrs. King, Oct. 5, 1790. On her illness ; allusion 
 to a counterpane which she had presented to him ; 
 reference to the list of subscribers to his Homer, 
 and the time of ])ublication 357 
 
 To the Hev. John Newton, Oct. 1.5, 1790. On the 
 death of Mrs. Scott ; translation of Van Lier's let- 
 ters ; concern for Mrs. Newton's sufferings 357 
 
 To the same, Oct. 20, 1790. His instructions to 
 Johnson, the bookseller, to affix lo the first volume 
 of his poems the preface written for it by Mr. N. ; 
 fall of the leaves a token of the shortness of human 
 life 358 
 
 On Christian submission to the divine will in regard 
 to life and death 359 
 
 To Mrs. Bodham, Nov. 21, 1790. Character of her 
 nephew, Mr. Johnson ; Mrs. Hewitt 359 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 20, 1790. On the study 
 of jurisprudence; visit from the Dowager Lady 
 Spencer 359 
 
 To Mrs. King, Nov. 29, 1790. On the praises of 
 friends ; his obligiitions to Professor Martyn ; prog- 
 ress in printing bis Homer 360 
 
 To Samuel Kose, Esq., Nov. 30, 1790. On his pro- 
 fessional exertions in behalf of a friend ; revisal of 
 proofs of his Homer 360 
 
 To the Hev. Walter Hagot, Dec. 1, 1790. He retorts 
 the charge of long silence, and boasts of his inten- 
 tion to write; progress in printing his Homer; his 
 reasons for not soliciting the laureatship 300 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 5, 1790. Dying state 
 of Mrs. Newton 361 
 
 Remarks on the doubts and fears of Christians 361 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Dec. 18, 1790. Cambridge 
 subscription for Homer ; progress in printing the 
 work 361
 
 icn 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 To Mrs. Kinc;, Dec. 31, 170n. Thanks for Ihe present 
 of a counterpane ; his own indisposition; his poet- 
 ical operations 362 
 
 Cowper's verses on the visit of Miss Stapleton to 
 
 Weston -. 362 
 
 To the Kev. Walter Bugot, Jan. 4, 1791. On his 
 own state of health ; on the quantity of syllables 
 
 in verse 363 
 
 To the Eev. John Newton, Jan. 20, 1791. On the 
 
 death of Mrs. N. 363 
 
 ToJohn Johnson, Esq.,Jan.21, 1791. IleurgesMr.J. 
 to come to Weston ; caution respecting certain sin- 
 gularities 363 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5. 1701. Thanks for sub- 
 scriptions from Scotland, and for the present of 
 
 Pojie's HomLr 364 
 
 To Lady Heslictli, Feb. 13, 1791. Influence of a 
 
 poet's reputation on an innkeei)or 364 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 26, 1791. He play- 
 fully gives Mr. B. leave to find fault with his 
 
 verses; his sentiments respecting blank verse 364 
 
 To John Johnson, Es(|., Feb. 27, 1791. Progress in 
 
 printing Homer; neglect of his work by Oxford.. 365 
 To Mrs. King, March 2, 1791. Apology for forget- 
 ting a promise, owing to his being engrossed by 
 Homer; siiccessof his subscription at Cambridge; 
 
 the Northampton dirge 365 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 6, 1791. Progress in 
 
 printing his Homer 366 
 
 Commencement of Cowper's acquaintance with the 
 
 Eev. James Hurdis 366 
 
 To the Rev. James Hurdis, March 6, 1791. He com- 
 pliments Mr. H. on his poetical productions ; thanks 
 him for offei's of service ; excuses himself from vis- 
 iting him, and invites him to Weston 366 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 10, 1791. Simile drawn 
 from French and English prints of subjects in 
 
 Homer 367 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bngot, March 18, 1791. On Dr. 
 Johnson's taste for poetry ; aptness of Mr. B.'s quo- 
 tations; Mr. Chester's indisposition 367 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., March 19, 1791. On the 
 poems of Elizabeth Bentley, an untaught female of 
 
 Norwich 367 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 24, 1791. On his ap- 
 plication to Dr. Dunbar relative to subscriptions 
 
 to Cowper's Homer 368 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, March 25, 1791. Slight of Horace 
 Walpole ; anight alarm and its eCTects; remarks 
 
 on a book sent bv Lady H 36S 
 
 To the Rev. John "Newton, March 29, 1791. Recol- 
 lections of past times ; difference between dreams 
 and realities ; reasons why the occasional pieces 
 which he writes do not reach Mr. N. ; expected 
 visit of his maternal relations ; his mortuary verses 369 
 To Mrs. Throckmorton, April 1, 1"9I. On the fail- 
 \ue of an attempt in favor of his subscription at 
 
 Oxford; remarks on a pamphlet by Mr. T 396 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., April 6, 1791. Thanks for 
 
 Cambridge subscriptions 370 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., April 29, 1791. Subscriptions 
 
 to his Homer 370 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 2, 1791. Progress in 
 printing Ihimer; visit from Mr. B.'s nephew ; Mil- 
 ton's Latin poems 370 
 
 Dr. Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems- .. . 371 
 To the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, May 11, 1791. On a 
 
 poem of Mr. B.'s 371 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 18, 1791. Complaint of her 
 not writing ; letter from Dr. Cogswell, of New 
 
 York, respecting his poems 371 
 
 To .lohn Johns<m, Esq., May 23, 1791. On his trans- 
 lation of the Battle of the Frogs and the Mice — 371 
 The Judgment of the Poets, a poem, by Cowper, on 
 
 the relative charms of May and June 372 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1791. Tardiness of the 
 
 printer of his Homer 372 
 
 To John Johnson, Esti., June 1, 1791. He congratu- 
 liites Mr. J. on the period of his la^hors as a tran- 
 scriber 372 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 Observations on Cowper's version of Homer 373 
 
 Reasons of his failure in that work to satisfy public 
 
 expectation 373 
 
 Comparative specimens of Pope's and Cowper's ver- 
 sions 374 
 
 Page 
 
 To the Rev.Mr. Hurdis, June 13,1791. Completion 
 of his Homer; their mutu.al fondness for animals; 
 a woman's character best learned in domestic life 374 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 15,1791. Man an un- 
 grateful animal ; visit from Norfolk relations 37.5 
 
 To Dr. James Cogswell, June 1.5. 1791. Acknowledg- 
 ment of a present of hooks ; his translation of Ho- 
 mer : books sent by him to Dr. C 376 
 
 To the Rev John Ner/ton, June 24, 1791. Exhorta- 
 tion to more frequent correspondence ; afTectionate 
 remembrance of Mr. N.; on the recent loss of his 
 wife ; value of Homer 376 
 
 To Mrs. Bodham, July 7, 1791. Apology for having 
 omitted to send a letter which he had written ; he 
 declines visiting Norfolk; state of health of her 
 relatives then at Weston 377 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, July 22, 1791. His en- 
 gagement in making corrections for a new edition 
 of Homer; decline of the Rev. Mr. Venn; refer- 
 ence to the riots at Birmingham 378 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Aug. 2, 1791. Visit of 
 Lady Bagot; riots at Birmingham 379 
 
 To Mrs. King, Aug. 4, 1791. State of her health ; his 
 own and Mrs. Unwin's ; invitation to Weston ; 
 publication of his Homer 379 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Aug. 9, 1791. His study 
 being liable to all sorts of intrusions, he cannot 
 keep his operations secret ; reason for his dissatis- 
 faction with Pope's Homer ; recommendation of 
 Hebrew studies 380 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq.. Aug. 9, 1791. Causes for his 
 being then an idle man 380 
 
 Cowper undertakes the office of editor of Milton's 
 
 works 
 
 380 
 
 Regret expressed that he did not devote to original 
 
 composition the time given to translation 381 
 
 Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with H.aylcy 381 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 14, 1791. lie informs 
 
 him of his new engagement as editor of Milton. . . 381 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Sept. 21, 1791. Pleasure 
 afforded by Lord Bagot's testimony in favor of his 
 Homer; inquu-y concerning persons alluded to in 
 
 an elesv of Milton's 381 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. King, Sept. 23, 1791. On Mrs. K.'s 
 
 indisposition 382 
 
 To Mrs. King. Oct. 21, 1791. Congratulation on her 
 recovery; he contends that women possess much 
 more fortitude than men ; he acquaints her with 
 
 his new engagement on Milton 382 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bngot, Oct. 25, 1791. Visit of 
 Mr. Chester ; poem of Lord Bagot's ; condemnation 
 
 of a remark of Wharton's respecting Milton 383 
 
 To John John.son, Esq., Oct. 31, 1791. His delight to 
 hear of the improved health of Mr. J. and his sis- 
 ter ; his own state of health ; his new engagement 383 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 14, 1791. On compound 
 epithets; progress in his translation of Milton's 
 
 Latin poems 384 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 16, 1791. Apology 
 for not sending a poem which Mr. N. had asked 
 for; Mr. N.'s visit to Mrs. Hannah More; her sis- 
 ter's application for Cowper's autograp,h ; Cowper 
 regrets that he had never seen a mountain ; his 
 
 engagement on Milton 384 
 
 To the Rev. Widter Bagot, Dec. 5, 1791. Expectation 
 of a new editi(jn of his Homer; he defends a pas- 
 sage in it ; his engagement upon Milton 385 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Dec. 10, 1791. His engage- 
 ment upon Milton 385 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 21, 1791. Sudden seiz- 
 ure of Mrs. Unwin 386 
 
 Cowper's atlliction on occasion of Mrs. Unwin's at- 
 tack 386 
 
 To Mrs. King, Jan. 26, 1792. He describes (he cir- 
 cumstances of Mrs. Unwin's alarming seizure; he 
 asserts that women surpass men in true fortitude ; 
 
 his engagements * 386 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot. Feb. 14, 1792. On the in- 
 disposition of Mr. B. and his children ; he professes 
 his intention to avail himself of all remarks in a 
 new edition of his Homer ; course which he pur- 
 poses to pursue in regard to Milton ; his corre- 
 spondence with f he Chancellor 387 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., Feb. 19. 1792. Acknowledg- 
 ment of the receipt of books sent by him ; he sig- 
 nifies his acceptance of the offer of notices relative 
 
 to Milton 38? 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 20, 1792. Lines 
 written by him for Mrs. Martha More's Collection 
 of Autographs ; his reply to the demand of more
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 xvu 
 
 Pa^e 
 orif;inriI composition ; remarks on the settlement 
 at liolaiiv Bay, and African colonization 388 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hunlis, Feb. 21, 17'.)2. Reasons for 
 deferrini; the examination of Homer; progress 
 made in Milton's poems 389 
 
 To the Kov. Mr. Ihirdis, March e, 170->. He expresses 
 his oblisalions for Mr. H.'s remarks on Homer ; he 
 permits the tragedy of Sir Thomas More to be in- 
 scribed to him 389 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton. March 4. 1790. Departure 
 of the Throckmortons from Weston ; his dislike of 
 ch ansre 389 
 
 To Mrs, KinsT, March 8, 1792. On her late indisposi- 
 tion ; testinionies concerninc; his Momer 390 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., March 10, 1792. On Mr. P's 
 professional piirsiiit.s; he disclaims a place among 
 the literati ; and asks for a copy of Thomson's mon- 
 umental inscription 390 
 
 To .lohn Johnson, Ksq., March II, 1792. fie men- 
 tions havintr heard a niiihliniiale sing on new year's 
 dav ; ileparture of Lady llesketh ; expected visit 
 of'Mr. Rose 391 
 
 Verses addressed to "Tlio Nightingale which the au- 
 thor heard r)n new vear's dav, 1792" 391 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, March 18, 1702. He as- 
 sures Mr. i\. tbat, though reduced to the com- 
 pany of Jlrs. Unwin alone, they are both com- 
 fortable 391 
 
 To uie R<-v. Mr. Ilnrdis. March 23, 1792. Remarks 
 on Mr. H.'s tragedy of Sir Thomas .More 392 
 
 To Lady Ileskelh, iSlarch 2.5. 1792. Cause of the 
 delay of a preceding letter to her; detention of 
 Mr. Flavlev's letter to Cowper, at Johnson the 
 bookseUer's 392 
 
 To 'I'honias Parle, Ksq., March 30, 1792. Remarks 
 on a poem of Mr. P.'s 393 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Marcli 30, 1792. Spends his morn- 
 ings in letter-writing 393 
 
 To the same, April 5, 1792. Vexatious delays of 
 printers; supposed secret enemv 393 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., April ti, 1792. Expected 
 visit of Mr. il. ; Cowper introduces Mrs. TJnwin, 
 and advises him to bring books with him, if he 
 should want any 394 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, April 8, 1792. Apology for 
 delay in writing; reference to Mr. H.'s sisters; and 
 to an unanswered letter 394 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 1.5, 1792. Thanks for a 
 remittance ; satirical stanzas on a blunder in his 
 Homer ; progress in Milton 395 
 
 To Lady Throckmorton, April 16, 1792. Lady 
 thieves; report of his being a friend to the slave 
 trade ; means taken by hitn to refute it 395 
 
 Sonnet addressed to William Wilberforce, Esq., and 
 published by Cowper in contradiciton of the report 
 above mentioned 396 
 
 Remarks on a report respecting Cowpcr's sentiments 
 relati ve to the slave trade 396 
 
 Reflections on Popidaritv 390 
 
 Letter to the Rey. J. j'ekyll Rye, April 16, 1792. 
 Cowper asserts the falsehood of a report that he 
 was friendly to the slave trade 396 
 
 To the Printer:- of the Noithami)ton Mercury ; on the 
 same suliject, with a Sonnet addressc^d to Jlr. Wil- 
 berforce 397 
 
 Remarks on the relative merits of rhyme and blank 
 vers(\ with reference to a translation of Homer. . 397 
 
 Cowper's sentiments on the subject, and on transla- 
 tion in general 398 
 
 To the Lord Thurlow,on the inconvenience of rhyme 
 in translation 398 
 
 Lord Tlunlow to William Cowper, Esq. On the 
 value of rhyme in certain kinds of . poems ; on 
 metrical translations; clo.se translation of a pas- 
 sage in Homer 399 
 
 To the Lord 'J'hurlow. Vindication of Cowper's 
 choice of blank verse for his iransl.atitm of Homor ; 
 his version of the passage civen by Lord T 400 
 
 Lord Tliurlow to William Cowper", Esq. On his 
 translation of Homer ^ 401 
 
 To the Lord Thurlow. On the same subject 401 
 
 Passages l'r<im Cowper's translation 4111 
 
 Facts respecting it 402 
 
 To Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, Fel). 11, 1790. Cow- 
 per acknowledges his obli'.'atious lo .Mr. Fuseli, for 
 his remarks on his translation of Homer 402 
 
 To the same. Sept. 7, 1790. On the same subject. . . 402 
 ludi'.rnant remonstrance of Cowper's, addressed to 
 Johnson on the alteration of a line in one of his 
 poems 402 
 
 Page 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., April 27, 1792. Remarks on 
 some poems of Mr. P.'s, and on his own literary 
 engagements 403 
 
 Marriage of Mr. Courtenay to Miss Slapleton 403 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 20, 1792. On the marriage 
 of Mr. Courtenay ; Dr. Madan's promotion to a 
 Bishopric; comjilimentary Sonnet produced by 
 Cowper, addressed to Mr. Wilberforce; Lines to 
 Warren Hastings, Esq 404 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., May 20, 1792. On the post- 
 ponement of his Ordination, &c 404 
 
 Hay ley's visit to Cowper, and his account of it 405 
 
 Sonnet addressed by Cowper to Mrs. Unwin 405 
 
 Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack 405 
 
 Kind attentions of llayley 405 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 24, 1792. Seizure and state 
 of Mrs. Unwin 405 
 
 To the same. May 26, 1792. State of Mrs. Unwin. . . 41)6 
 
 Lines addressed to Dr. Austen 406 
 
 To Mrs. Bodham, June 4, 17il2. On the postpone- 
 ment of Mr. Johnson's Ordination. .. » 406 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., June 4, 1792. State of Mrs. 
 Unwin 407 
 
 To the same, June 5, 1792. On the same subject. . . 407 
 
 To the same, June 7, 1792. On the same subject. . . 407 
 
 To the same, June 10, 1792. On the same subject ; 
 Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 408 
 
 Origin of Darwin's poem of the " Botanic Garden". . 408 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, June 11, 1792. On his growing 
 correspondence ; improvement of Mrs. Unwin's 
 health ; events of the past two months ; arri\ al of 
 Mr. Johnson 409 
 
 To William Hayley,Esq., June 19, 1792. State of Mrs. 
 Unwin ; ice-islands and cold summers ; proposed 
 visit to Hayley at Eartham 4(j,< 
 
 Remarks on a supposed change in the climate, with 
 passages from (_'owper's translation of a Poem of 
 Milton's on that subject 409 
 
 To William Hayley, Es(|., June 27, 1792. Intended 
 joui'ney to Eartham ; Catharina, on her marriage to 
 George Courtenay, I'^.sq 410 
 
 To the same, July 4. 1792. Suspension of his literary 
 labors ; his solicitude for Mrs. Unwin ; his visit to 
 Weston Hall 410 
 
 To the same, July 15, 1792. On the proposed journey 
 to Eartham ; translations from Milton ; porti-ait of 
 Cowper by Abbot 411 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., July 20, 1792. On the obsta- 
 cles to his literary engagements ; reference to Cow- 
 per's drawings, and to the Olnev Hymns 411 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., July 22, J792. Prepariitions 
 for the journey to Eartham 412 
 
 To the Rev. William Hull, July 2.5, 1792. On his sit- 
 ting to Abbot for his portrait ; his intended joiu'ney 
 to Eartham 412 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., July 29, 1792. His terror 
 at the proposed journey ; resemblance of Abbot's 
 portrait 413 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, July 30, 1792. State of 
 Mrs. TTiiwin; intended journey to Eartham; recol- 
 lection.- awakened by Mr. N.'s visit to Weston- .. . 413 
 
 To the Rev. 'Mr. Grealheed, Aug. 6, 1792. Account 
 of his j(uu-nev to Eartham, and situation there 414 
 
 To Mrs. Courteiuiy, Aug. 12, 1792. Particulars of the 
 journey to Eartham, and description of the place. . 414 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 14, 1792. Invitation to 
 Eartham 415 
 
 To the same, A\ig. 18, 1792. Cowper wishes him to 
 join the party at Eartham 415 
 
 To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 2.5, 1792. Epitaph on Fop ; 
 arrangements for the return to Weston ; state of 
 himself and Mrs. Unwin 415 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Aug. 26, 1792. On the death 
 of his sister : invitatiiui to Eartham 415 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, A\v^. 26. 1792. Company at Ear- 
 tham ; his own slate and Mrs. Unwni's ; portrait 
 of Cowper bv Ronmev (16 
 
 To Mrs. Charlotte Smith, Sept., 1792. Sympathy of 
 himself and Hayley in her misfortunes ; remark on 
 an expressicui in her letter; state of Mrs. Un^vin.. J17 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Sept. 9, 1792. Retisons for prefer- 
 ring Weston to Eartham ; state of Mrs. Unwin ; ar- 
 rangements for their return ; character of Mr. 
 Hurdis 417 
 
 (^owper's occupations at Eartham 418 
 
 Account of Adreini's Adamo, which suggested to 
 Milton the design of his Paradise Lost 418 
 
 To Mrs. Co\irtenay, Sept. UJ, 1792. Reference to the 
 French licvolution ; state of Mrs Unwin; remem- 
 brances to friends at Weston 41S 
 
 2
 
 xvm 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Departure from Eartham 419 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Sept. 18, 1792. Cowper's 
 feelings on his departvire 419 
 
 To the same, Sept. 21, 1702. Particulars of his jour- 
 ney and arrival at Weston 419 
 
 To the same, Oct. 2, 1792. Unsuccessful attempt at 
 writing 420 
 
 To the same, Oct. 13, 1792. Cowper's impatience for 
 the arrival of Ilayley's portrait; his intention of 
 paying a poetical tribute to Uoniney 420 
 
 To Mrs. King, Oct. 14, 1792. Keference to the visit 
 to Eartham 421 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 18, 1792. His em- 
 ployments at Eartham, and indisjiosition at Wes- 
 ton, urged as an excuse for not writing ; reference 
 to his visit to Hayley 421 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 19, 1792. On his ex- 
 pected visit ; Cowper's unfitness for writing 422 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 22, 1792. Reflections on 
 J.'s sitting for his picture ^ 422 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Oct. 28, 1792. Cowper com- 
 plains of his unfitness for literary labor, and the 
 grievance that Milton is to him ; soimet addressed 
 to Romney ». 422 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 5, 1792. Cowper's opin- 
 ion of his Homer 422 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 9, 1792. Hindrances to 
 his literary labors ; Mrs. Unwin's situation and his 
 own depression of spirits : he consents to the pre- 
 fixing his portrait to a new edition of his poems. . 423 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 11, 1792. Apology 
 for not writing to liim ; his gloomy state of mind. . 423 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 20, 1792. Thanks him 
 for his verses ; his eng.agement to supply the new 
 clerk of Northampton with an annual copy of 
 verses ; reference to his indisposition 424 
 
 To William Hayley. Esq., Nov. 25, 1792. Acknowl- 
 edgment of his friendship ; his acceptance of the 
 oflice of Dirge-writer to the new clerk of North- 
 ampton 424 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 9, 1792. ReasoiiS 
 for not being in haste with Milton ; injurious effect 
 of the season on his spirits 424 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 10, 1792. Political reflec- 
 tions with reference to the question of Parliament- 
 ary Reform, reformation of the Church, and the 
 rights of Catholics and Dissenters 425 
 
 Fu'st agitation of the question of Parliamentary Re- 
 form 425 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., Dec. 17, 1792. Obstacles to 
 his writing while at Mr. Hayley's, and since his re- 
 turn home ; on Johnson's intention of prefixing his 
 portrait to his poems 425 
 
 Anecdote of Mrs. Boscawen 420 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 26, 1792. The year '92 
 a most melancholv one to him 426 
 
 To Thomas Park, E"sq., Jan. 3, 1793. Introduction 
 of Mr. Rose to him ; Cowper refers to a remedy 
 recommended by Mr. P. for inflammation of the 
 eyes ; his share in the Olney Hvmns 426 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Jan. 20, 1793. Cowper's 
 solicitude respecting his welfare ; arrival of Hay- 
 ley's picture 427 
 
 To the same, Jan. 29, 1793. On the death of Dr. 
 Austen 427 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., Jan. 31, 1793. Thanks for 
 pheasants, and promises of welcome to a bustard. 428 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5, 1793. Revisal of Ho- 
 mer 428 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 10, 1793. Necessity for his 
 taking laudanum ; he rallies her on her political 
 opinions 428 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 17, 1793. Remarks on 
 a criticism on his Homer in the Analvtical Review 428 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Feb. 22, 1^93. He con- 
 gratulates Mr. H. on the prospect of his being 
 elected Poetry Professor at Oxford ; observations 
 in natural history 429 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Feb. 24, 1793. Complains 
 of inflamed eyes as a hindrance to writing ; revi- 
 sal of Homer ; dream about Milton 429 
 
 Milton's Vision of the Bishop of Winchester 430 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 4, 1793. His ail- 
 ments and employments ; reference to the French 
 
 Revolution 430 
 
 '-letter from Thomas Hayley (son of William Hayley, 
 Esq.,) to William Cowper, Esq., containing criti- 
 cisms on his Homer 430 
 
 To Mr. Thomas Hayley, March 14, 1793. In answer 
 to the preceding 431 
 
 Page 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., March 19, 1793. Complaina 
 of being harassed by a raullipliclty of business ; 
 his progress in Homer ; reference to Mazarin's 
 epita])h 431 
 
 Last moments of Cardinal Mazarin 431 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 27, 1793. On the con- 
 clusion of an engagement with Johnson for a new 
 edition of his Homer 4^2 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 29, 1793. Reference 
 to his pecuniary circumstances ; preparations for a 
 new edition of his Homer ; remarks on an intended 
 canal 432 
 
 To John Johnson, Esq., April 11, 1793. On sending 
 his pedigree to the Herald's College ; liberality of 
 Johnson the bookseller ; on Mr. J.'s determination 
 to enter the church 43^ 
 
 Illustrious ancestry of Cowper 433 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., April 23, 1793. His en- 
 gagement in writing notes to Homer 433 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, April 2.5, 1793. He urges 
 business as an excuse for the unfrequency of his 
 letters ; his own and Mrs. Unwin's state ; his ex- 
 change of books with Dr. Cogshall of New York ; 
 reference to the epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Unwin. . 433 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 4, 1793. On the 
 death of Bishop Bagot 434 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 5, 1793. Apology for si- 
 lence ; his engagement in writing notes to his Ho- 
 mer; intended revisal of the Odyssey 434 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, May 7, 1793. His correspondence 
 prevented by his Homer ; Whigs and Tories 435 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., May 17, 1793. Chapman's 
 translation of Homer : Cowper's horror of London 
 and dislike of leaving home ; epitaph on the Rev. 
 Mr. Unwin ; his poems on Negro Slavery 435 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., May 21, 1793. Employ- 
 ment of his time ; insensible advance of old age ; 
 " Man as he is" attributed erroneously to the pen 
 of Hayley ; notes on Homer 436 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, June 1, 1793. Desiring her to fix a 
 day for coming to Weston ; lines on Mr. Johnson's 
 arrival at Cambridsre 436 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, June 6, 1793. Uses of afllic- 
 tlon ; suspension of his lilerary labors ; proposed 
 revisal of his Homer 437 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton, June 12, 1793. State of 
 Mrs. Unwin's and his own health ; reference to a 
 new work of Mr. N.'s 437 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., June 29, 1793. Sonnet ad- 
 dressed to Mr. H. ; Cowper declines engaging in a 
 work proposed by Mr. H. ; "The Four Ages" 437 
 
 To the same, July 7, 1793. He promises to join ]\Ir. 
 H. in the production of "The Four Ages," ref- 
 erence to his oddities ; embellishments of his 
 premises 438 
 
 Anticpie bust of Homer, presented to Cowper by Mr. 
 Johnson 438 
 
 Cowper's poetical tribute for the gift 439 
 
 To Thomas Park, Esq., July 1.5, 1793. Chapman's 
 translation of the Iliad ; Hobbe's translation ; Lady 
 Hesketh; his literary engagements 439 
 
 To Mrs. Charlotte Smith, Jnly 2.5, 1793. On her poem 
 of " The Emigrants," which was dedicated to Cow- 
 per. 439 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed, July 27, 1793. He thanks 
 Mr. G. for the ofler of part of his house ; reasons for 
 declining it; promised visits 340 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., July 27, 1793. Anticipa- 
 tions of a visit from Mr. H. ; head of Homer and 
 proposed motto for it ; question concerning the 
 cause of Homer's blindness ; garden shed 440 
 
 To the Rev. John Johnson, Aug. 2, 1793. On his or- 
 dination ; Floxman's designs to the Odyssey 441 
 
 To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 11, 1793. Miss Fanshaw ; 
 present from Lady Spencer of Flaxraan's designs. . 441 
 
 Explanation respecting Miss Fanshaw ; verses by 
 her ; Cowper's reply"; his lines addressed to Count 
 Gravina 44£ 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 15, 1793. Epigram 
 on building ; inscription for an hermitage ; Flax- 
 man's designs ; plan of an Odyssey illustrated by 
 them ; inscription for the bust of Homer 442 
 
 To ftlrs. Courtenay, Aug. 20, 1793. Story of Bob 
 Archer and the fiddler ; Flaxman's designs to 
 Homer 443 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 22, 1793. Allusion to 
 scenery on the south coast of England ; his literary 
 occupations 443 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 27, 1793. Question 
 respecting Homer's blindness ; Flaxman's illustra-
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Page 
 tions of Homer ; recollections of Lord Mansfield ; 
 erection of Homer's bust 443 
 
 To Lady Mesketh, An?. 'J9, 1793. On her intended 
 visit toWeston; Miss Fanshaw 444 
 
 To the Kev. Mr. Johnson, Sept. 4, 1703. His agree- 
 able surprise on the appearance of a sun-dial, a 
 present from Mr. J. ; revisal of his Horner 444 
 
 To William Hayley, ICsq., Sept. 8, 1793. Flaxman's 
 designs to Homer; anticipations of Mr. H.'s visit. 445 
 
 To Mrs. Courtenay, Sejit. 1.5, 1793. His improve- 
 ments at Weston ; the sun-dial ; Pitcairne 445 
 
 To tlie Rev. Mr. .Johnson, Sept. 29, 1793. Visits de- 
 vourers of time; expected visiters at Weston 446 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Oct. 5, 1793. Demands 
 upon his time ; expected visiters ; reference to H.'s 
 Life of Milton 446 
 
 To the same, Oct. 18, 1793. Anticipations of his visit 
 to Weston 446 
 
 To the Kev. .lohn Newton, Oct. 22, 1793. Apology 
 for not writing ; reference to a late journey of Jlr. 
 N.'s ; thanks ior his last publication 447 
 
 To the Rev. .J. Jekyll Uye, Nov. 3, 1793. Thanks 
 for his support of Mr. Hurdis; reference to the ap- 
 plication of the clerk of Northampton 447 
 
 Hayley 's second visit to Wiiston 447 
 
 Invitation to Cowper and his guests, from Lord 
 Spencer to Althorpe,t() meet Gibbon the historian, 
 declined by him 447 
 
 To Mrs. Courtenay, Nov. 4, 1793. He complains of 
 being distracted witli business; Hayley's visit ; ep- 
 idemic fever ; Mrs. Unwin 447 
 
 State of Cowper and Jlrs. Unwin as described by 
 Hayley 448 
 
 To .Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 5, 1793. Lady Hesketh's 
 visit to Wargrave ; his house at Weston, and pros- 
 pects from it 448 
 
 To the Rev. Walter Pagot, Nov. 10, 1793. Thanks 
 him for his support of Mr. Hurdis; reference to 
 the French Revolution 448 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Nov. 24, 1793. Congratula- 
 tions on his election to the profes.sorship of poetry 
 at Oxford; Hayley's visit ; liis Life of .Milton; re- 
 visal of his Homer ; invitation to Weston 449 
 
 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 29, 1793. Expected visit 
 from him and .Mr. (the late Sir Thomas) Lawrence ; 
 subject from Homer proposed by the latter for his 
 pencil; a companion to it suggested by Cowper; 
 intenli<in of Lawrence to take Cowper's portrait 
 for engraving 449 
 
 To the same, Dec. 8, 1793. Thanks him for books; 
 history of Jonathan Wild ; character of "Man as 
 he is" 4,50 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 8, 1793. Inquiries 
 concerning his Life of Milton ; his own literary oc- 
 cupations 450 
 
 Suspensi(jn of Cowper's literary labors, and decline 
 of his menial ])owers 450 
 
 Results of Cowper's literary labors on the works of 
 Milton 4.51 
 
 Specimens of the translation of the Latin poem ad- 
 dressed by .M ilton to his father 4.52 
 
 Hayley's remarks on that poem 452 
 
 Passages from Cowper's notes on Milton 453 
 
 Fuseli's Milton Callery 4.54 
 
 Origin of Hayley's ac(iuaintance with Cowper 454 
 
 Hayley's first letter, with a soimet addresssed to 
 Cowper 454 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 10, 1793. On a sprain re- 
 ceived by Mr. H.; n^visal of Homer; inquiry con- 
 cerning Lord Howe's (leet 455 
 
 The idea of the jirojeeted jioem of " The Four Ages," 
 suijgested by Mr. Hnchanan 455 
 
 To tlie Rev. Mr. IJuchanan, May 11, 1793. Compli- 
 menting Mr. U. on the sketch which he furnished 
 for the poem 455 
 
 Increasin^' inlirmities of Mrs. Unwin, and their effect 
 on • owpcr 455 
 
 His affecting situation at this period 45G 
 
 Dissatisfaction of Lord Thnrlow with a passage in 
 Cowper's Homer, and his and Hayley's attempts to 
 improve iqion it 456 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq.. Dec. 17, 1793. With a new 
 version of the passage above menli<uie(l ; criti- 
 cisms on their performances; his own notions of 
 the principles of translation C56 
 
 To the same, J;m. 5, 1794. New translation of the 
 before-mentioned passage ; remarks on translation, 
 and particulary of Homer 4.57 
 
 To the same, from the Rev. William Greatheed, 
 April 8, 1794. He acq\iaints Mr. H. with the alarm- 
 
 Page 
 ing situation of Cowper, and urges his coming to 
 
 Weston 458 
 
 Hayley repairs to Weston 458 
 
 Lady Hesketh obtains the advice of Dr. Willis 458 
 
 Grant of a pension of 300/. per annum, by his Majesty, 
 
 to Cowper 459 
 
 Plan for the removal of Cowper and Mrs. Unwin to 
 
 Norfolk 459 
 
 Cowper's sensations on leaving Weston 459 
 
 Lines "To Mary," the last original production com- 
 posed by hini at Weston 459 
 
 Journey from Weston to North Tuddenham, in Nor- 
 folk 460 
 
 Stay at Tuddenham 460 
 
 Removal to Mundsley, a village on the coast 460 
 
 Letter from Cowper to the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, de- 
 scribing his present situation, and soliciting news 
 
 of Weston 460 
 
 Cowper becomes settled at Dunham Lodge, near 
 
 Swaffham 461 
 
 He is induced by the appearartfe of Wakefield's edi- 
 tion of Pope's Homer, to engage in the revisal of 
 
 his own version 461 
 
 Death of Mrs. Unwin 461 
 
 \ier Funeral and Inscription 461 
 
 Cowper's malady renders him insensible to her loss 461 
 Successful effort of Mr. Johnson to engage him to re- 
 tiu'n to the revisal of Homer, which he had discon- 
 tinued 463 
 
 Hayley's testimony to the affectionate offices rendered 
 
 to Cowper by Mr. Johnson 462 
 
 Trial of the effect of frequent change of place 463 
 
 Visit from Dowager Lady Spencer 463 
 
 Attempts of Mr. Johnson to amuse him 463 
 
 Letter from Cowper to Lady Hesketh, referring to 
 
 his melancholy situation 463 
 
 He finishes the revisal of his Homer 463 
 
 " The Cast-away," his last original production 4(54 
 
 His removal to Dereham 404 
 
 His translations of Latin and Greek epigrams, and of 
 
 some of (iay's Fables into Latin 464 
 
 New version of a passage in his Homer, being the last 
 
 effort of his pen 464 
 
 Appearance of dropsy 465 
 
 His last illness 465 
 
 His death 465 
 
 II is bmial, and inscription by Hayley 465 
 
 Remarks cm the mental delusion under which he la- 
 bored to the last 466 
 
 Memoir of the early life of Cowper, written by himself 467 
 
 Remarks on the preceding Memoir 478 
 
 Death of Cowper's friend. Sir William Ruasel 479 
 
 Cowper's attachment to his cousin. Miss Theodora 
 
 Jane Cowper 479 
 
 Nervous attacks, and their presumed causes 480 
 
 Distinguishing features in his malady 481 
 
 His depression did not prevent the free exercise of 
 
 his mental powers 481 
 
 It was not perceptible to others 431 
 
 It was not inc(jnsistent with a rich vein of humor. . . 481 
 
 His own picture of his mental sufferings 482 
 
 His relictions views not the occasion of his wretched- 
 ness, but a support under it 482 
 
 Sketch of the character, and account of the last ill- 
 ness of the late Rev. John Cowper, by his brother 483 
 
 Narrative of .Mr. Van Lier 492 
 
 Notices of Cowper's friends 492 
 
 The Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 492 
 
 Josejih Hill, Ks(i... 493 
 
 Samuel Rose, Esq 493 
 
 Lady Austen 494 
 
 Rev. Walter liagot 494 
 
 Sir Getirge Throckmorton 494 
 
 Rev. Dr. Johnson 495 
 
 Rev. W. Pull 495 
 
 Particulars concerning the person and character of 
 
 Cowper 495 
 
 Cowper's personal character illustrated l)y extracts 
 
 fnun his Works 496 
 
 Poetical pt)rfrails drawn by him 497 
 
 His poem on the Yardley Oak 499 
 
 Description of the Tree 499 
 
 Original poem on the subject, by the late Samuel 
 
 Whitbread, Esq 499 
 
 Cow|)er's moderation amidst literary fame 499 
 
 Anecdote of Dr. Parr .500 
 
 Cowf)er's sensibility lo unjust censure 5(J0 
 
 Letter to John Thornton, Esq., on a severe criticism 
 of his first volume of poems in the "Analytical 
 Review" 500
 
 S2 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 His excellence as an epistolary writer -^"O 
 
 Character of his Latin jmems 501 
 
 The Wish, an Eniclisli version by ^Ir. Ostler Ml 
 
 Sublime piety and morality of Cowpcr's works 501 
 
 Beneticial intiuence of his writings on the Church of 
 
 Ensiland -^"^ 
 
 ConcUidins remarks • • 504 
 
 Essav on tiie senius and poetrv of Cowper, by the 
 
 Rev. J. \V. Caiiningham, A. M 507 
 
 THE POEMS. 
 
 Preface to the Poeras 517 
 
 Table Talk 51!) 
 
 The Progress of Error 5-25 
 
 Truth •«' 
 
 Expostulation ■'j* 
 
 Hope 540 
 
 Charity 541) 
 
 Conversation 551 
 
 Ketiremeiit 553 
 
 The Task, in Six Books :— 
 
 Book I. The Sofa 5fi4 
 
 II. The Time-Piece •'>"0 
 
 III. The Garden 576 
 
 IV. The Winter Evening .'isa 
 
 V. The Winter Morning Walk 588 
 
 VI. The Winter Walk at Noon 594 
 
 Epistle to Joseph Hill. Esq 602 
 
 Tirocinijmi : or, a Review of Schools 6U3 
 
 The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time at Stock, in 
 
 Essex CIO 
 
 Sonnet addressed to Henry Cowper, Esq CIO 
 
 Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 010 
 
 On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hangings 611 
 
 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 
 during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juau 
 
 Fernandez 611 
 
 On observing some Names of little note in the Bio- 
 
 graphia Britannica 611 
 
 Report of an adjudged Case 612 
 
 On the Promotion of Edward Thurlow Esq., to the 
 
 Lord High Chancellorship of England 610 
 
 Ode to Peace C12 
 
 Human Frailty fil2 
 
 The Modern Patriot 613 
 
 On the Burning of Lond Mansfield's Library, fcc — 613 
 
 On the same 613 
 
 The liove of the World Reproved 613 
 
 On the death of Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton's 
 
 Bullfinch 613 
 
 The Rose 614 
 
 The Doves 614 
 
 A Fable 61.5 
 
 Ode to Apollo 61.5 
 
 A Comparison 615 
 
 Another, addressed to a Young Lady 615 
 
 The Poet's New Year's gift 615 
 
 Pairing-time anticipated 616 
 
 The Dog and the Water Lily 616 
 
 The Winter Nosegay 617 
 
 The Poet, the Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant 617 
 
 The Shrubbery 617 
 
 Mutual Forbearance necessary to the Married State. 618 
 
 The Negro's Complaint 618 
 
 Pity for Poor Africans 618 
 
 The Morning Dream 619 
 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 610 
 
 The Niiihtingale and Glow-worm 621 
 
 An Epistle to an alllicted Protestant Lady in France 622 
 
 To the Rev. W. Ciiwthorne Unwin 622 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Newton 622 
 
 Catharina 623 
 
 The Moralizer corrected 623 
 
 The Faithful Bird 624 
 
 The Needless Alarm 624 
 
 Boadicea 625 
 
 Heroism 625 
 
 On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk 626 
 
 Friendship 627 
 
 On a mischievous Bull which the Owner of him sold 
 
 at the Author's instance 629 
 
 ^nnus memorabilis, 1780. Written in commemo- 
 ration of his Majesty's happy recovery 629 
 
 Hymn for tliK use of the Sunday School at Olney . . . . 629 
 
 Pi 
 
 Stanzas subjoined to a Bill of Mortality for the year 
 1787 
 
 The same for 1788 
 
 The same for 1789 
 
 The same for ]7il0 
 
 The same for 17!)2 
 
 The same for 1703 
 
 On a Goldfinch starved to Death in his Cage 
 
 The Pineapple and the Bee 
 
 Verses written at Bath, on finding the heel of a Shoe 
 
 An Ode, on reading Richardson's History of Sir 
 Charles Grandison 
 
 An Epistle to Robert T-loyd, Esq 
 
 A tale founded on a Fact, which happened in Jan., 
 1779 
 
 To the Rev. Mr. Newton, on his return from Rams- 
 gate 
 
 Love Abused 
 
 A poetical Epistle to Lady Austen .- 
 
 The Cohibriad 
 
 Song. On Peace 
 
 gong— "When all within is Peace" 
 
 Verses selected from an occasional Poem entitled 
 "Valediction" 
 
 Epitaph ou Dr. Johnson 
 
 To Miss C , on her Birthday 
 
 Gratitude 
 
 Lines composed for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, 
 Es. 
 
 63»". 
 630 
 630 
 631 
 631 
 632 
 632 
 632 
 632 
 
 633 
 633 
 
 631 
 
 63^1 
 634 
 635 
 635 
 636 
 636 
 
 636 
 636 
 637 
 637 
 
 637 
 
 On the Queen's Visit to London 637 
 
 The Cockflghter's Garland C38 
 
 To Warren'Hastings, Esq 639 
 
 To Mrs. Throckmorton 639 
 
 To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut on which I 
 
 dined ■ 639 
 
 Inscription for a Stone erected at the sowing of a 
 
 Grove of Oaks 639 
 
 Anotlier 639 
 
 To Mrs. King 639 
 
 In Memory of the late John Thornton, Esq 640 
 
 The Four Aces 640 
 
 The Retired Cat 641 
 
 The Judsmentofthe Poets 641 
 
 YardleyOak 642 
 
 To the Nightingale which the author heard sing on 
 
 New Year's Day 643 
 
 Lines written in an album of Miss Patty More's 643 
 
 Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq 643 
 
 Epigram on refining Sugar 644 
 
 To Dr. Austen, of Cecil Street, London 644 
 
 Catharina; on her Marriage to George Courtenay, 
 
 Esq 644 
 
 Epitaph on Fop, a dog belonging to Lady Thrr.ck- 
 
 morton 644 
 
 Sonnet to George Romney, Esq 644 
 
 Mary and John 644 
 
 Epitaph of Mr. Chester, of Chichely 644 
 
 To my Cousin, Anne Bodham 645 
 
 Inscription for a Hermitage in the Author's Garden. 645 
 
 To Mrs. Unwin 645 
 
 To Jolm Johnson, on his presenting me \vith an an- 
 tique Bust of Homer 645 
 
 To a young Friend 645 
 
 To a Spaniel called Beau, killing a young bird 645 
 
 Beau's Reply 645 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq 646 
 
 Answer to Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by 
 
 Miss Catharine Fanshawe 646 
 
 On Flaxman's Penelope 646 
 
 To the Spanish Admiral, Count Gravina 646 
 
 Inscription for the tomb of Mr. Hamilton 646 
 
 Epitaph on a Hare 646 
 
 Epitaphium Allerum 647 
 
 Account of tlie Author's Treatment of his Hares 647 
 
 ATale 648 
 
 To Mary 649 
 
 The Castaway 649 
 
 To Sir Joshua Reynolds 650 
 
 The Distressed Travellers ; or. Labor in Vain 6.50 
 
 On the Author of " Letters on Literature" 651 
 
 Stanzas on Liberties taken with the Remains of 
 
 Milton 651 
 
 To the Rev. William Bull 651 
 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Higgins 6.52 
 
 Sonnet to a Young Lady on her Birth-day 652 
 
 On a Mistake in his Translation of Homer 052 
 
 On the Benefit received by his Majesty from Sea- 
 bathing 052 
 
 Addressed to Miss on reading the Prayer for In- 
 difference 652
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XX- 
 
 _ , Pase 
 
 From a Icttor „o the Rev. Mr. Newton eo:< 
 
 The Flatting Mill, OoS 
 
 Epitaph on a free but ta?Tie Redbreast 654 
 
 Sonnet iiddressed to W. Uayley, Esq 654 
 
 An Ei)ilaph 654 
 
 On receiviiisj flayley's Picture 654 
 
 On a Plant of Virf.'iii"s iiower G54 
 
 On receiving Heyne's Virgil G54 
 
 Stanzas by a Lady 6r,4 
 
 Cowper's Reply 035 
 
 Lines addressed to Miss T. J. Cowper 655 
 
 To the same 655 
 
 On a sleeping Infant 655 
 
 J->ne« G55 
 
 Inscription for a J[oss-hoiise in the Shrubbeiy at 
 
 Weston 655 
 
 Lines oil the Death of Sir William Russel 655 
 
 On the high price of Fish 656 
 
 To ^frs. Newton 656 
 
 Verses printed by himself on a flood at OIney 650 
 
 Extract from a Sunday-school Hymn 050 
 
 On the receipt of ,i Hiimper (in the manner of Homer) (i56 
 
 On the neglect of Homer 050 
 
 Sketch of the Life of the Rev. John Newton 657 
 
 OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 Preliminary Remarks on the Olney Hymns 6C6 
 
 Hymn I. Wnlking with God 070 
 
 II. Jehovah-Jireh. The Lord will provide. .. 070 
 III. Jehovah-Rophi. I ain the Lord that heal- 
 
 eth thee 070 
 
 Jehovah-Nissi. The Lord my Banner 071 
 
 Jehovah-Shalom. The Lord "send peace . . 671 
 
 Wisdom 671 
 
 Vanity of the World .'!'. 671 
 
 (» Lord, I will praise thee 672 
 
 The contrite Heart G7-2 
 
 x. 'J'he future Peace and Clory of the Church 672 
 
 XI. Jehovah our Righteousness 67-2 
 
 XII. Kphraim repenting 07:) 
 
 XIII. The Covenant 673 
 
 XIV. Jehovah-Shammah 673 
 
 Praise for the Fountain opened 073 
 
 The Sower 073 
 
 The House of Prayer 074 
 
 Lo vest thou me ? 074 
 
 Content ment 07 1 
 
 XX. Old Testament Gospel 074 
 
 XXI. Sardis 074 
 
 Praying for a Blessing on the Young 074 
 
 Pleading for and with Youth 075 
 
 I'rayer for Children. 075 
 
 Jehovah-Jesus 670 
 
 On opening a I'laee for social Prayer 070 
 
 Welcome to the Table 07(i 
 
 Jesus hastening to suffer 670 
 
 XXIX. Exhortation to Prayer 070 
 
 XXX. The Lii;ht and Glory of the Word 677 
 
 XXXI. On the Death of a Minister 077 
 
 XXXII. The shining Light 077 
 
 xxxiii. Seeking llie Beloved .' 077 
 
 The Wailing Soul 077 
 
 Welcome Cross 078 
 
 AHliclioiis sanctified by the Word G7S 
 
 ''''■'"l'':"i"n 678 
 
 l.ouknig upwards in a Storm 078 
 
 The Valley (if llij Shadow of Death 678 
 
 xr.. Peace afier a Slorm 07i| 
 
 XM. Mourning and l^onging 07!) 
 
 XLii. Sell'-Ac(|uaintance ■ ' (j-fij 
 
 XLiii. Prayer for Patience ', 67') 
 
 XLiv. Submission '_' 6fsh 
 
 XLv. The happy Change ..,', o-jfj 
 
 XI. VI. lietiremeiit ' " 68) 
 
 XLvii. The hidden Life (i-o 
 
 XLviii. Joy and Peace in Believing 681 
 
 XLix. True Pleasures [[ 681 
 
 L. The Christian .'.'..' 6,-)i 
 
 LI. Lively Hope and Gracious Fear ' 6^'l 
 
 Lli. For the Poor 6-M 
 
 Liii. My Soul thirsleth for God '.".". 68> 
 
 Liv. Love coiistraineth to Obedience 6S2 
 
 LV. The Heart healed and changed by Mercy.. 6*2 
 
 Lvi. Hatred of Sin ; O^h 
 
 Lvii. The new Convert 682 
 
 Lvni. True and false Comforts 683 
 
 Lix. A living and a dead Faith 683 
 
 LX. AI)US(' of ihc Gospel 683 
 
 Lxi. The narrow \Vay 683 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 KXVII. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 XXXVl. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 t.\xviii. 
 
 XX.XIX. 
 
 LXII. 
 LXIII. 
 LXIV. 
 
 r. J P»s:e 
 
 Dependence 684 
 
 Not of Works .' 684 
 
 Praise for Faith ', og.! 
 
 Lxv. Grace and Providence 684 
 
 L.xvi. I will praise the Lord at all times 685 
 
 Lxvii. Longing to be with Christ 685 
 
 Lxviii. Light shining out of darkness 685 
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME 
 MOTIIE GUION. 
 
 DE LA 
 
 Brief Account of Madame Guion, and of the Mystic 
 
 Writers 
 
 685 
 
 The Nativity 691 
 
 God neither known nor loved by the World-...'.".!.' 692 
 
 The Swallow 093 
 
 The Triumph of Heavenly Love desired .' 693 
 
 A figurative Description of the Procedure of Divine 
 
 Love 693 
 
 A Child of God longing to see him beloved 694 
 
 Aspirations of the Soul after God 6i)4 
 
 Gratitude and Love to God 694 
 
 Happy Solitude— Unhappy Men 694 
 
 Living Water-. 695 
 
 Truth and Divine Love rejected by the World... ... 695 
 
 Divine Justice amiable 095 
 
 The Soul that Loves God finds him everywhere 695 
 
 The Testimony of Divine Adoption 09C 
 
 Divine Love endures no rival 696 
 
 Self-Diffidence ' ggg 
 
 The Acquiescence of Pure Love .'.'. 697 
 
 Repose in God 697 
 
 Glory to God alone ,,[[ o')7 
 
 Self-Love and Truth incompatible 697 
 
 The Love of God, the End of Life 097 
 
 Love faithful in the Absence of the Beloved 098 
 
 Love pure and fervent ggg 
 
 The entire Surrender .'.'....' 098 
 
 The perfect Sacrifice .'......'. 698 
 
 God hides his People '....'.'.'.'. 698 
 
 Tl-.e Secrets of Divine Love are to be kept..'.'. ..'.'.' ! 699 
 The Vicissitudes experienced in the Christian Life. . 700 
 Watching unto God in the Night Season 
 On the game 
 
 701 
 01 
 
 n ,, lyll 
 
 On the same -qo 
 
 The Joy of the Cross 702 
 
 Joy in Miirtyrdom ".. . ' 700 
 
 Simple Trust ...'..'. 703 
 
 The necessity of Self-Abasement 703 
 
 Love increased by Sundering 7^3 
 
 Scenes favorable to Meditation ...'. 704 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF THE LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF 
 MILTON. 
 
 Elegy L To Charles Deodati 703 
 
 II. On the Death of the University Beadle at 
 
 Cambridge yog 
 
 IH. On the Death of the Bishop of Wincii'e'ster'. 706 
 
 I\. To his Tutor, Thomas Young... 706 
 
 V. On the Approach of Spring .' 707 
 
 VI. To Charles Deodati ' 703 
 
 VH " " 709 
 
 Epigrams. On the Inventor of Guns 710 
 
 To Leonora singing at Rome 710 
 
 To the same 7 |o 
 
 The Cottager and his Landlord. A Fable 710 
 
 Til Ciiristina, Queen of Sweden, with Cromwell's 
 
 Picture 
 
 On tiie death of the Vice-Chancel'lor,"a" Physician!'.'. 
 
 On I lie Death of the Bishop of Ely 
 
 Nt.ture unimpaired by Time ! !! 
 
 On ihe Platonic Idea" as it was understood by Aris- 
 totle '' 7io 
 
 To his Father !!!.'." 712 
 
 To Salsillus, a Roman poet, much indisposed . ..!".. 714 
 
 lo Giovanni Itatlisla Manso, Marquis of Villa 714 
 
 Oil the Death of Damon 7J5 
 
 An Ode, addre.=sed to Mr. John Rouse, Librarian of 
 the University of Oxford 717 
 
 Sonnet—" Fair Lady, whose harmonious name" 718 
 
 Sonnet—" As on a hill-top rude, when closing day" 718 
 
 Canzone— "They mock mv toil" 718 
 
 Sonnet- To Charles Deoda'ti 719 
 
 710 
 7U 
 7U 
 711 
 
 Sonnet—" Lady ! it cannot be but that thine eyes". ! 719 
 Sonnet— " Enamor'd, artless, young, on foreign 
 ground" '. 7J9 
 
 Simile in Paradise Lost 719 
 
 Translation of Dryden's Epigram on Milton 7M
 
 «J1 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Glowworm • 
 The Jackilaw . . • 
 
 The Cricket 
 
 The Parrot 
 
 The Tl 
 
 Reciprocal Kindness the Primary Law of Nature. .. 
 
 A Manual more ancient than the Art of Printing. •• • 
 
 An Eni!,'ma— '• A neetiie, small as small can be ... . 
 
 Sparrows self-domesticated in Trinity Coll., Cam- 
 bridge 
 
 Familiarity dangerous 
 
 Invitation to the Redbreast 
 
 Strada's Nightingale ••.••• "'"V "l 
 
 Ode on the Death of a Lady who lived one hundred 
 years ; 
 
 The Cause won 
 
 The Silkworm 
 
 The Innocent Thief 
 
 Penner's Old Woman 
 
 Tlie Tears of a Painter 
 
 The Maze 
 
 No Sorrow Peculiar to the Sufferer ■ 
 
 The Snail 
 
 The Cantab 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 
 
 From the Greek of Juliamis J25 
 
 On the same by Palladas i^5 
 
 An Epitaph Ixi 
 
 Another '~^ 
 
 Another 
 
 Another 
 
 By Callimachus 
 
 On Miltiades 
 
 On an Infant 
 
 By Ileraclides 
 
 On tlie Reed 
 
 To Health 
 
 On Invalids ^y;' 
 
 On the Astrologers Xor 
 
 On an Old Woman '^6 
 
 719 
 720 
 720 
 720 
 720 
 721 
 721 
 721 
 
 722 
 722 
 
 722 
 722 
 
 722 
 723 
 723 
 723 
 723 
 724 
 724 
 724 
 724 
 724 
 
 725 
 725 
 725 
 725 
 725 
 725 
 725 
 725 
 
 On Flatterers . 
 
 26 
 
 On a true Friend j^ 
 
 On the Swallow ^fi 
 
 On late acquired Wealth '^^ 
 
 On a Bath, by Plato '^o 
 
 On a Fowler, by Isidorus J~6 
 
 On Niobe 
 
 On a good Man 
 
 On a Miser • 
 
 Another 
 
 Another 
 
 On Female Inconstancy 
 
 On the Grasshopper 
 
 On Hermocratia 
 
 From Menander "27 
 
 On Pallas bathing, from a Hymn of Callimachus 727 
 
 To Demosthenes '''27 
 
 0n a similar Character '^'37 
 
 26 
 726 
 726 
 726 
 
 726 
 727 
 727 
 727 
 
 Page 
 
 On an ugly Fellow 1^ 
 
 On a battered Beauty '27 
 
 On a Thief 'j~^ 
 
 On Pedigree "29 
 
 On Envy ^29 
 
 By Moschus J2o 
 
 By Philemon "28 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY. 
 
 Lepus multis Amicus. 
 
 Avartis et Plutus 
 
 Papilio et Limax 
 
 728 
 720 
 729 
 
 EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN 
 
 On one ignorant and arrogant 
 
 Prudent Simplicity 
 
 Sunset and Sunrise 
 
 To a Friend in Distress 
 
 Retaliation 
 
 "When little more than Boy in Age". 
 
 729 
 729 
 729 
 729 
 729 
 729 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND 
 HOMER. 
 
 The Salad, by Virgil •• 
 
 Translation fiom Virgil, iEneid, Book VIII. Line 18 
 
 Ovid. Trist. Book V. Eleg. XII 
 
 Hor. Book L Ode IX 
 
 Hor. Book 1. Ode XXXVIII 
 
 Hor. Book I. Ode XXXVIII 
 
 Hor. Book II. Ode X 
 
 A Reflection on the foregoing Ode 
 
 Hor. Book II. XVI 
 
 The Fifth Satire of the First Book of Horace 
 
 The Ninth Satire of the First Book of Horace 
 
 Translation of an Epigram from Homer 
 
 COWPER's LATIN POEMS. 
 
 Monies Glaciales, in Oceano Germanico natantes . . . 
 On the Ice Islands seen floating in the German Ocean 
 
 Monumental Inscription to William Northcot 
 
 Translation 
 
 In Seditionem Horrendam 
 
 Translation 
 
 Motto on a Clock, with Translation by Hayley 
 
 A Simile Latinised 
 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 
 
 In Siibmersionem Navigii, cui Georgius Regale 
 
 Nomen inditum 
 
 In Brevitatem VitiB Spatii Ilorainibus concessi 
 
 On the Shortness of Human Life 
 
 The Lily and the Rose 
 
 Idem Latine redditum 
 
 The Poplar Field 
 
 Idem Latine redditum 
 
 Votum 
 
 Translation of Prior's Chloe and Euphelia 
 
 Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 
 
 The same in Latin 
 
 7W 
 731 
 734 
 TJ5 
 735 
 735 
 735 
 735 
 735 
 7.36 
 737 
 738 
 
 739 
 739 
 740 
 740 
 740 
 740 
 740 
 740 
 740 
 
 741 
 741 
 741 
 741 
 
 742 
 742 
 742 
 742 
 742 
 742 
 743 
 
 Papers, by Cowper, inserted in "The Connoisseur'. 744
 
 THE LIFE OF CO¥PER 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 The family of Cowper appears to ha,ve 
 held, for several centuries, a respectable rank 
 among the merchants and gentry of England. 
 We learn from the life of the first Earl Cow- 
 per, in the Biographia Britannica, that his an- 
 cestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the 
 reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is 
 found repeatedly among the sheritfs of Lon- 
 don ; and William Cowper, who resided as a 
 country gentleman in Kent, was created a 
 baronet by King Charles the First, in 1641.* 
 But the family rose to higher distinction in 
 the beginning of the last century, by the 
 remarkable circumstance of producing two 
 brothers, who both obtained a seat in the 
 House of Peers by their eminence in the pro- 
 fession of the law. William, the elder, be- 
 came Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spen- 
 cer Cowper, the younger, was appointed 
 Chief Justice of Chester in 1717, and after- 
 wards a Judge in the Court of Common 
 Pleas, being permitted by the particular f:i- 
 vor of the king, to hold those two oflices to 
 the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, 
 on the 10th of December, 1728, and has the 
 higher claim to our notice as the immediate 
 ancestor of the poet. By his first wife, Ju- 
 dith Pennington (whose exemplary character 
 is still revered by her descendants). Judge 
 Cowper left several children ; among them a 
 daughter, Judith, who at the age of eighteen 
 discovered a strii\ing talent for poetry, in the 
 praise of her contemporary poets Pope and 
 Hughes. Tliis lady, the wife of Colonel Ma^ 
 dan, transmitted her own poetical and devout 
 spirit to her daughter Frances Maria, who was 
 married to her cousin, IMajor Cowper; the 
 amiable character of j\Laria will unfold itself 
 in the course of this work, as the friend and 
 correspondent of her more eminent relation, 
 the second grandchild of tiie Judge, destined 
 to honor the name of Cowper, by displaying, 
 
 * Tliis i^entlcman was a writer of En'-rli?li verso, and, 
 with rare luuiiiru-i-iieo, Ijcstowed Ijotli an cpitapli and a 
 monument on tliat illustrious divine, tile veneraljle 
 Hootier. fn tlie edition of Walton's Lives, by Zouch, 
 tlie curious readur may find tlie epitaph written by Sir 
 William Cowper. 
 
 with peculiar purity and fervor, the double 
 enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The 
 father of the subject of the following pages 
 was John Cowper, the Judge's second son, 
 who took his degrees in divinity, was chap- 
 lain to King George the Second, and resided 
 at his Rectory of Great Berkhamstead, in 
 Hertfordshire, the scene of the poet's in- 
 fancy, which he has thus commemorated in a 
 singularly beautiful and pathetic composition 
 on the portrait of his mother. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor : 
 And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
 'Tis now become a history little known, 
 That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 
 Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair- 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has efTac'd 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [laid ; 
 That thou might'st know me safe and wannly 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 The biscuit or cont'ectionary plum; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd 
 All this, and, more endearing still than all. 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; 
 Ne'er roughcn'd by those cataracts and breaks 
 That humor intcrpos'd too often makes : 
 All this, still lL'<rible in memory's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honors to thee as my numbers may. 
 
 The parent, whose merits are so feelingly 
 recorded by the filial tenderness of the poet, 
 was Ann, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of 
 Ludham Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whose 
 family is said to have been originally from 
 Wales, was married in the bloom of youth 
 to Dr. Cowper: after giving birth to several 
 children, who died in their infancy, and leav- 
 ing two sons, William, the immediate subject 
 of this memorial, born at Berkhamstead on 
 the 26th of November, 1731, and John (whoso
 
 '■it 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 accomplishments and pious death will be de- 
 scribed in the course of this compilation), she 
 died in childbed, at the early age of thirty- 
 four, in 1737. Those who delight in con- 
 templating the best affections of our nature 
 will ever admire the tender sensibility with 
 which the poet has acknowledged his obli- 
 gations to this amiable mother, in a poem 
 composed more than fifty years after her de- 
 cease. Readers of this description may find 
 a pleasure in observing how the praise so 
 liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at 
 so late a period, is confirmed (if praise so 
 unquestionable may be said to receive con- 
 firmation) by another poetical record of her 
 merit, which the lumd of affinity and affection 
 bestowed upon her tomb — a record written 
 at a time v/hen the poet, v^ho was destined 
 to prove, in his advanced life, her most pow- 
 erful eulogist, had hardly begun to show the 
 dawn of tlmt genius which, after many years 
 of silent affliction, rose like a star emerging 
 from tempestuous darkness. 
 
 The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected 
 by her husband in the chancel of St. Peter's 
 churcli at Berkhamstead, contains the follow- 
 ing verses, composed by a young lady, her 
 niece, the late Lady Walsingiiam. 
 
 Here lies in early years bereft of life, 
 The best of mothers, and the kindest wife : 
 Who neither knew nor practis'J any art 
 Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart. 
 Her love to him, still prevalent in death. 
 Pray'd Heav'n to bless him with her latest breath. 
 
 Still was she studious never to offend, 
 And glad of an occasion to commend : 
 With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd, 
 Nor e'er was cheerful when another griev'd ; 
 Despising state, with her own lot content, 
 Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well spent; 
 Resign'd, when Heaven demanded back her 
 
 breath, 
 Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death. 
 
 Whoe'er thou art that dost this tomb draw near, 
 O stay awhile and shed a friendly tear; 
 These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. 
 
 The truth and tenderness of this epitaph 
 will more than compensate with every can- 
 did reader the imperfection ascribed to it by 
 its young and modest author. To have lost 
 a parent of a character so virtuous and en- 
 dearing, at an early period of his childhood, 
 was the prime misfortune of Cowper, and 
 what contributed perhaps in the highest de- 
 gree to the dark coloring of his subsequent 
 life. The influence of a good moiher on the 
 first years of her children, whether nature 
 has given them peculiar strength or peculiar 
 delicacy of fr.;me, is equally iriestimabie. It 
 is the prerogative and the felicity of such a 
 mother to temper the arrogance of the ^rong, 
 and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. 
 The infancy of Cowper was delicate in no 
 common degi-ee, and his constitution discov- 
 
 ered at a very early season that morbid ten* 
 dency to diffidence, to melancholy and de- 
 spair, which darkened as he advanced in 
 years into periodical fits of the most deplor- 
 able depression. 
 
 The period having arrived for commencing 
 his education, he was sent to a reputable 
 school at Market^street, in Bedfordsliire, un- 
 der the care of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable 
 that he was removed from it in consequence 
 of an ocular complaint. From a circumstance 
 which he relates of himself at that period, in 
 a letter written in 1792, he seems to have 
 been in danger of resembling Milton in the 
 misfortune of blindness, as he Resembled 
 him, more happily, in the feiTency of a de- 
 vout and poetical spirit. 
 
 " I have been all my life," says Cowper, 
 " subject to inflammations of the eyes, and in 
 my boyish days had specks on both, that 
 threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed 
 for the consequences, sent me to a female 
 oculist of great renown at that time, in whose 
 house I abode two years, but to no good 
 purpose. From her I went to Westminster 
 school, wliere, at the age of fourteen, the 
 small-pox seized me, and proved the better 
 oculist of the two, for it delivered me from 
 them all: not however from great liableness 
 to inflammation, to which I am in a degree 
 Aill subject, though much less than formerly, 
 since I have been constant in the use of a 
 hot foot-bath every night, the last thing be- 
 fore going to rest." 
 
 It appears a strange process in education, 
 to send a tender child, from a long residence 
 in the house of a female oculist, immediately 
 into all the hardships attendant on a public 
 school. But the mother of Cowper was 
 dead, and fiithers, however excellent, are, in 
 general, utterly incompetent to the manage- 
 ment of their young and tender offspring. 
 The little Cowper was sent to his first school 
 in the year of his mother's death, and how ill- 
 suited the scene was to his peculiar character 
 is evident from the description of his sensa^ 
 tions in that season of life, which is often, 
 very erroneously, extolled as the happiest 
 period of human existence. He has been 
 frequently heard to lament the persecution 
 he suffered in his childish years, from the 
 cruelty of his school-fellows, in the two 
 scenes of his education. His own forcible 
 expressions represented him at Westminster 
 as not daring to raise his eye above the shoe- 
 buckle of the elder boys, who were too apt 
 to tyrannize over his gentle spirit. The 
 acuteiiess of his feelings in his childhood, 
 rendered those important years (which might 
 have produced, under tender cultivation, a 
 series of lively enjoyments) mournful peri- 
 ods of increasing timidity and depression. 
 In the most cheerful hours of his advanced 
 life, he could never advert to this season
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 25 
 
 ft'lthout shuddering at the recollection of its 
 wretcliedaess. Yet to ihis perhaps the world 
 is indebted for the pathetic and moral elo- 
 quence of those forcible admonitions to pa^ 
 rents, which give interest and beauty to his 
 admirable poem on public schools. Poets 
 may be said to realize, in some measure, the 
 poetical idea of the nightingale's singing with 
 a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite 
 songs have often originated in tiic aculeness 
 of their personal sull'erings. Of tiiis obvious 
 truth, the poem just mentioned is a very 
 memorable example; and, if any readers 
 have thought the poet too severe in his stric- 
 tures on that system of education, to which 
 we owe some of the most accomplished char- 
 acters that ever gave celebrity to a civilized 
 nation, such readers will be candidly recon- 
 ciled to that moral severity of reproof, in re- 
 collecting that it flowed from severe personal 
 experience, united to the purest spirit of phi- 
 lauihropy and patriotism. 
 
 The relative merits of public and private 
 education is a question that has long agitated 
 he world. Each has its partizans, its advan- 
 tages, and defects ; and, like all general prin- 
 ciples, its application must greatly depend on 
 the circumstances of rank, future destination, 
 and tiie peculiarities of character and temper. 
 For the full development of the powers and 
 faculties of the mind — for the acquisition of 
 the various qualifications that fit men to sus- 
 tain with brilliancy and distinction the duties 
 of active life, w'hether in the cabinet, the sen- 
 ate, or the forum — for scenes of busy enter- 
 prize, where knowledge of the world and the 
 growtii of manly spirit seem indispensable; 
 in all such cases, we are disposed to believe, 
 that the palm must be assigned to public edu- 
 cation. 
 
 But, on the other hand, if we reflect that 
 brilliancy is oftentimes a flame which con- 
 sumes its object, that knowledge of the world 
 is, for the most part, but a knowledge of the 
 evil that is in the world : and that early habits 
 of extravagance and vice, which are ruinous 
 in their results, are not unfrequcntly con- 
 tracted at public schools; if to these facts 
 we add that man is a candidate for immortal- 
 ity, and that " life" (as Sir William Temple 
 oltserves) '• is but the parenthesis of eter- 
 nitv." it then becomes a question <rf solemn 
 import, whether integrity and principle do not 
 find a soil more congenial for their growth in 
 the shade and retirement of private education ? 
 The one is an advancement tor time, the other 
 for eternity. The former alVords facilities for 
 making men great, but often at the expense 
 of happiness and conscience. The latter di- 
 minishes the temptations to vice, and, while 
 it affords a field for useful and honorable ex- 
 ertion, augments the means of being wise and 
 holy. 
 We leave the reader to decide the great 
 
 problem for himself. That he may be ena- 
 bled to form a right estimate, we would urge 
 him to sutibr time and eternity to pass in 
 solemn and deliberate review before him. 
 
 That the public school was a scene by no 
 means adapted to the sensitive mind of Cow- 
 per is evident. Nor can we avoid cherishing 
 the apprehension that his spirit, naturally 
 morbid, experienced a ftital inroad from that 
 period. He nevertheless acquired the repu- 
 tation, of scholarship, with the advantage of 
 being known and esteemed by some of the 
 aspiring characters of his own age, who sub- 
 sequently became distinguished in the great 
 arena of public life. 
 
 With these acquisitions, he left Westmin- 
 ster at the age of eighteen, in 1749; and, as 
 if destiny had determined that all his early 
 situations in life should be peculiarly irksome 
 to his delicate feelings, and tend rather to 
 promote than to counteract his constitutional 
 tendency to melancholy, he was removed from 
 a public school to the oftice of an attorney. 
 He resided three years in the house of a Mr. 
 Chapman, to whom he was engaged by arti- 
 cles for that time. Here he was placed for 
 the study of a profession which nature seemed 
 resolved that he never should practise. 
 
 The law is a kind of soldiership, and, like 
 the profession of arms, it may be said to re- 
 quire for the constitution of its heroes, 
 
 " A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." 
 
 The soul of Cowper had indeed its lire, but 
 fire so refined and ethereal, that it could not 
 be expected to shine in the gross atmosphere 
 of worldly contention. Perhaps there never 
 existed a mortal, who, possessing, with a 
 good person, intellectual powers naturally 
 strong and highly cultivated, was so utterly 
 unfit to encounter the bustle and perplexities 
 of public life. But the extreme modesty and 
 shyness of his nature, which disqualified him 
 for scenes of 1)usiness and ambition, endeared 
 him inexpressibly to those who had oppor- 
 tunities to enjoy his society, and discernment 
 to appreciate the ripening excellencies of his 
 character. 
 
 Reserved as he was, to an extraordinary 
 and painful degree, his heart and mind were 
 yet admirably fashioned by nature for all the 
 refined intercourse and confidential enjoyment 
 both of friendship and love ; but, though ap- 
 parently formed to possess and to communi- 
 cate an extraordinary portion of moral felic- 
 ity, the incidents of his life were such, that, 
 conspiring with the peculiarities of his nature, 
 they rendered him, at different times, the vic- 
 tim" of sorrow. The variety and depth of his 
 sutt'erings in early life, from extreme tender- 
 ness of feeling, are very forcibly displayed in 
 the following verses, which formed part of a 
 letter to one of his female relatives, at the 
 time they were composed. The letter has
 
 26 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 perished, and the verses owe their preserva- 
 tion to the affectionate memory of the lady 
 to whom they were addressed. 
 
 Doom'd as I am, in solitude to waste 
 The present moments, and regret the past; 
 Dejriv'd of every joy I valued most, 
 3Iy friend torn irom me, and my mistress lost ; 
 Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 
 The dull etTect of humor or of spleen ! 
 Still, still. I mourn, with each returnmg day. 
 Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away; 
 And herf — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, 
 FixVl in her choice, and faithful — but in vain ! 
 O prone to pity, generous, and sincere. 
 Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear; 
 Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
 Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 
 See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
 Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
 See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
 Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
 Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, 
 And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
 Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free. 
 All that delights the happy — palls with me ! 
 
 Having concluded the term of his engage- 
 ment with the solicitor, he settled himself in 
 chambers in the Inner Temple, as a regular 
 student of law ; but although he resided there 
 till the age of thirty-three, he rambled (ac- 
 cording to his own colloquial account of his 
 early years) from the thorny road of his aus- 
 tere patroness, Jurisprudence, into the prim- 
 rose paths of literature and poetry. During 
 this period, he contributed two of the Satires 
 in Duncombe's Horace, which are worthy of 
 his pen, and indications of his rising genius. 
 He also cultivated the friendship of some lit- 
 erary characters, who had been his scliool- 
 fellows at Westminster, particularly Colman, 
 Bonnell Thornton, and Lloyd. Of these early 
 associates of Cowper, it may be interesting to 
 learn a brief history. Few men could have 
 entered upon life with brighter prospects than 
 Colman. His father was Envoy at the Court 
 of Florence, and his mother was sister to the 
 Countess of Bath. Possessed of talents that 
 qualified him for exertion, with a classical 
 taste perceptible in his translation of Hor- 
 ace's Art of Poetry, and of the works of 
 Terence, he relinquished the bar, to which 
 he had been called, and became principally 
 known for his devotedness to theatrical pur- 
 suits. His private life was not consistent 
 with the rules of morality ; and he closed his 
 days, after a protracted malady, by dying in 
 a Lunatic Asylum in Paddington, in the year 
 1794. 
 
 To Bonnell Thornton, jointly with Colman, 
 we owe the Connoisseur, to which Cowper 
 contributed a few numbers. Thornton also 
 united witli Colman and Warner in a transla- 
 
 * Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the young 
 poeU 
 
 t Miss Theodora Cowper. 
 
 tion of Plautus. But his talents, instead of be- 
 ing profitably employed, were chiefly marked 
 by a predilection for humor, in the exercise 
 of which he was not very discreet ; for the 
 venerated muse of Gray did not escape his 
 ridicule, and the celebrated Ode to St. Cecilia 
 was made the occasion of a public burlesque 
 performance, the relation of which would not 
 accord with the design of this undertaking. 
 He who aims at nothing better than to amuse 
 and divert, and to excite a laugh at the ex- 
 pense of both taste and judgment, proposes 
 to himself no very exalted object. Thornton 
 died in the year 1770, aged forty-seven. 
 
 Lloyd was formerly usher at Westminster 
 School, but feeling the irksomeness of the 
 situation, resigned it, and commenced author. 
 His Poems have been repeatedly republished. 
 His life presented a scene of thoughtless ex- 
 travagance and dissipation. Overwhelmed 
 with debt, and pursued by his creditors, he 
 was at length confined in the Fleet Prison, 
 where he expired, the victim of his excesses, 
 at the early age of thirty-one years. 
 
 We record these fiicts, — 1st, That we may 
 adore that mercy which, by a timely interpo- 
 sition, rescued the future author of the Task 
 from "such impending ruin : — 2ndly, To show 
 that scenes of gaiety and dissipation, however 
 enlivened by flashes of wit, and distinguished 
 by literary superiority, are perilous to charac- 
 ter, health, and fortune ; and that the talents, 
 which, if beneficially employed, might have 
 led to happiness and honor, when perverted 
 to unworthy ends, often lead prematurely to 
 the grave, or render the past painful in the 
 retrospect, and the future the subject of fear- 
 ful anticipation and alarm. 
 
 Happily, Cowper escaped from this vortex 
 of misery and ruin. His juvenile poems dis- 
 cover a contemplative spirit, and a mind early 
 impressed with sentiments of piety. Li proof 
 of this assertion, wc select a few stanzas from 
 an ode written, when he was very young, ou 
 reading Sir Cliarles Grandison. 
 
 To rescue from the tyrant's sword 
 
 The oppress'd ; — unseen, and unimplor'd, 
 
 To cheer the face of woe ; 
 From lawless insult to defend 
 An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 
 
 And a forgiven foe : 
 • 
 
 These, these, distinguish from the crowd, 
 And these alone, the great and good, 
 
 The guardians of mankind. 
 Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
 Oh ! with what matchless speed, they leave 
 
 The multitude behind ! 
 
 Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
 Virtues Hke these derive their birth 1 
 
 Derived from Heaven alone, 
 Full on that favor'd breast they shine, 
 Where faith and resignation join 
 
 To call the blessing down.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 27 
 
 Such is that heart : — but while the Muse 
 Tliy theme, O Richardson, pursues, 
 
 Her feebler spirits faint : 
 She cannot reach, and would not wrong, 
 That subject for an angel's song, 
 
 The hero, and the saint. 
 
 His early turn to moralize on the slightest 
 occasion will appear from the following verses, 
 which he v\ rote at the age of eighteen : and 
 in which those who love to trace the rise and 
 progress of genius will, I think, be pleased to 
 remark the very promising seeds of those pe- 
 culiar powers, which unfolded themselves in 
 the richest maturity at a remoter period, and 
 rendered that beautiful and sublime poem, 
 The Task, the most instructive and interest- 
 ing of modern compositions. Young as the 
 poet was when he produced the following 
 lines, we may observe that he had probably 
 been four years in the habit of writing Eng- 
 lish verse, as he has said in one of his letters, 
 that he began his poetical career at the age 
 of fourteen, by translating an elegy of Tibul- 
 lus. I have reason to believe tiiat he wrote 
 many poems in his early life ; and the singu- 
 lar merit of this juvenile composition is suffi- 
 cient to make the friends of genius regret 
 that an excess of diffidence prevented him 
 from preserving the poetry of his youth. 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF 
 A SHOE, 1748. 
 
 Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks! 
 Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny 
 She would have thank'd thee rather liadst thou 
 
 cast 
 A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
 Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes 
 And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
 Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
 Hopes she from this — presumptuous, the', perhaps, 
 The cobbler, leather-carving artist, might. 
 Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon 
 Whatever, not as erst the fabled cock. 
 Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
 Spurn'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Where- 
 fore ah! 
 Why not on me that favor (worthier sure) 
 Conferr'dst thou, goddess 1 Thou art blind, thou 
 
 say'st ; 
 Enough — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 
 
 Nor docs my Muse no benefit exhale 
 From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here, 
 Hints, worthy sage philosophy, arc found ; 
 Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! 
 This pondrous heel of perforated hide 
 Compact, witli pegs imlcnted, many a row, 
 Haply, — for such its massy form bespeaks. — 
 The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
 Upbore : on this supported, otl he stretch'd, 
 Witii uncouth strides along the furrow'd glebe, 
 Klatt'nins the stubborn clod, 'till cruel time 
 (What will not cruel timel) or a wry step, 
 Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
 He who could erst with even, equal pace, 
 
 Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry 
 And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, 
 Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
 Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
 With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. 
 Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
 Of humble villager. The statesman thus, 
 Up the steep road where proud ambition leads. 
 Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
 His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
 While policy prevails, and friends prove true : 
 But that support soon failing, by him left 
 On whom he most depended, basely left, 
 Betray'd, deserted : from his airy height 
 Headlong he falls, and, through the rest of life. 
 Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 
 
 Of a youth, who, in a scene like Bath, could 
 produce such a meditation, it might fairly be 
 expected that he would 
 
 " In riper life, exempt from pubhc haunt. 
 
 Find tongues in trees, books in the running 
 
 brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 
 
 Though extreme diffidence, and a tendency 
 to despond, seemed early to preclude Cowper 
 from the expectation of climbing to tlie splen- 
 did summit of the profession he had chosen ; 
 yet, by the interest of his family, he had pros- 
 pects of emolument in a line of life tliat ap- 
 peared better suited to the modesty of his 
 nature and to his moderate ambition. 
 
 In his thirty-first year he was nominated to 
 tlie offices of Reading Clerk and Clerk of the 
 private Committees in the House of Lords — 
 a situation the more desirable, as such an es- 
 tablislnnent might enable him to marry early 
 in life ; a measure to which he was doubly 
 disposed by judgment and inclination. But 
 the peculiarities of his wonderful mind ren- 
 dered him unable to support the ordinary du- 
 ties of his new oflice ; for the idea of reading 
 in public proved a source of torture to his 
 tender and apprehensive spirit. An expedient 
 was devised to promote his interest without 
 woundinjx his feelings. Resigning his situa- 
 tion of Reading Clerk, he was appointed 
 Clerk of the Journals in the same House of 
 Parliament. Of his occupation, in conse- 
 quence of this new appointment, he speaks 
 in the following letter to a lady, who will 
 become known and endeared to the reader in 
 proportion to the interest he takes in the 
 writings of Cowper. 
 
 TO LADT IIESKETH. 
 
 The Temple, Ausast 9, I7G3. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — Having promised to 
 write to you, I make haste to be as good as 
 my word. I have a pleasure in writing to you 
 at any time, but especially at the present, 
 when my. days are spent in reading the Jour- 
 nals, and my nights in dreaming of them ; an 
 employment not very agreeable to a head 
 that has long been habituated to the luvurv
 
 28 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of choosing its subject, and lias been as little 
 employed upon business as if it had grown 
 upon the shoulders of a much wealthier gen- 
 tleman. But tlie nurascull pays for it now, 
 and will not presently forget the discipline it 
 has undergone lately. If 1 succeed in this 
 doubtful piece of promotion, I shall have at 
 least this sa;i.-»faction to reflect upon, that the 
 volumes I write will be treasured up with the 
 utmost care for ages, and will last as long as 
 the English constitution — a duration which 
 ought to satisfy the vanity of any author who 
 has a spark of love for his country. Oh, my 
 good Cousin ! if I was to open my heart to 
 you, I could show you strange sights; no- 
 thing I flatter myself that would shock you, 
 but a great deal that would make you won- 
 der. I am of a very singular temper, and 
 very unlike all the men that I have ever con- 
 versed with. Certainly I am not an absolute 
 fool : but I have more weaknesses than the 
 greatest of all the fools I can recollect at pres- 
 ent. In short, if I was as fit for the next 
 world as I am unfit for this, and God forbid 
 I should speak it in vanity, I would not change 
 conditions with any saint in Christendom. 
 
 My destination is settled at last, and I have 
 obtained a furlough. Margate is the word, 
 and what do you think will ensue, Cousin ? I 
 know what you expect, but ever since I was 
 born I have been good at disappointing the 
 most natural expectations. Many years ago. 
 Cousin, there was a possibility that I might 
 prove a very ditferent thing from what I am 
 at present. My character is now fixed, and 
 riveted fast upon me, and, between friends, is 
 not a very splendid one, or likely to be guilty 
 of much fascination. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Cousin ! so much as I love 
 you, I wonder how it has happened I was 
 never in love with you. Thank Heaven that 
 1 never was, for at this time I have had a 
 pleasure in writing to you, which in that case 
 I should have forfeited. Let me hear from 
 you, or I shall reap but half the reward that 
 is due to my noble indifference. 
 
 Yours ever, and evermore, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 It was hoped from the change of his sta- 
 tion that his personal appearance in parlia- 
 ment might not be required, but a parlia- 
 mentary dispute made it necessary for him 
 to appear at the bar of the House of Lords, 
 to entitle himself publicly to the office. 
 
 Speaking of this important incident in a 
 sketch, which he once formed himself, of 
 passages in his early lif',, he expressed what 
 he endured at the time in these remarkable 
 ivords : " They whose spirits are formed like 
 mine, to whom a public exhibition of them- 
 selves is mortal poison, may have some idea 
 of the horrors of my situation — others can 
 have none." 
 
 His terrors on this occasion arose to such 
 an astonishing height, that they utterly over- 
 whelmed his reason ; for, although he had 
 endeavored to prepare himself for his public 
 duty, by attending closely at the office for 
 several months, to examine the parliamentary 
 journals, his application was rendered useless 
 by that excess of diffidence, which made him 
 conceive that, whatever knowledge he might 
 previously acquire, it would all forsake him 
 at the bar of the House. This distressing 
 apprehension increased to such a degree, as 
 the time for his appearance approached, that, 
 when the day so anxiously dreaded arrived, 
 he was unable to make the experiment. The 
 very friends who called on him for the pur- 
 pose of attending him to the House of Lords, 
 acquiesced in the cruel necessity of his re- 
 linquishing the prospect of a station so se- 
 verely formidable to a frame of such singular 
 sensibility. 
 
 The conflict between the wishes of honor- 
 able ambition and the terrors of diffidence so 
 entirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, 
 that, after two learned and benevolent divines 
 (Mr. John Cowper, his brother, and the cele- 
 brated Mr. Martin Madan, his first cousin) 
 had vainly endeavored to establish a lasting 
 tranquillity in his mind by friendly and relig- 
 ious conversation, it was found necessary to 
 remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided 
 a considerable time, under the care of that 
 eminent pliysician. Dr. Cotton, a scholar and 
 a poet, who added to many accomplishments 
 a peculiar sweetness of manners, in very ad- 
 vanced life, when I had the pleasure of a 
 personal acquaintance with him. 
 
 The misfortune of mental derangement is 
 a topic of such awful delicacy, that I consider 
 it to be the duty of a biographer rather to 
 sink, in tender silence, than to proclaim, with 
 circumstantial and offensive temerity, the 
 minute particulars of a calamity to which all 
 human beings are exposed, and perhaps in 
 proportion as they have received from nature 
 those delightful but dangerous gifts, a heart 
 of exquisite tenderness and a mind of crea. 
 five energy. 
 
 This is a sight for pity to pursue, 
 
 Till she resembles, faintly, what she views ; 
 
 Till sympathy contracts a liindred pain, 
 
 Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain. 
 
 This of all maladies, that man infest, 
 
 Claims most compassion, and receives the least. 
 
 But with a soul that ever felt the sting 
 Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 
 
 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 
 Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes. 
 Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
 Each yielding harmony, disposed aright; 
 The screws revers'd (a task, which, if He please, 
 God, in a moment, executes with ease),
 
 Ten thousand, thousand strhijrs at once go loose ; 
 Lost, till He tune them, all their power and use. 
 
 No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; 
 JNocure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 
 And thou sad suflerer, under nameless ill, 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill, 
 Improve the kind occasion, understand 
 A Father's frown, and kiss the chast'ning hand ! 
 
 It is in this solemn and instructive light, 
 that Cowper liimself teaches us to consider 
 the calamity of which I am now speaking ; 
 and of whicli, like his illustrious brother of 
 Parnassus, the younger Tasso, he was occa- 
 sionally a most aifeeting example. Provi- 
 dence appears to have given a striking lesson 
 to mankind, to guard both virtue and genius 
 against pride of heart and pride of intellect, 
 by thus suspending the affections and the 
 talents of two most tender and sublime poets, 
 who resembled each other, not more in the 
 attribute of poetic genius than in the similar- 
 ity of the dispensation that quenched its light 
 and ardor. 
 
 From December, 1763, to the following- 
 July, the sensitive mind of Cowper appears 
 to liave labored under the severest suffering 
 of morbid depression; but the medical skill 
 of Dr. Cotton, and the cheerful, benignant 
 manners of that accomplished physician, grad- 
 ually succeeded, with tiie blessing of Heaven, 
 in removing the indescribable load of relig- 
 ious despondency, which had clouded the f:v 
 culties of this interesting man. His ideas of 
 religion were changed from the gloojn of ter- 
 r(u' and despair to the brightness of inward 
 joy and peace. 
 
 This juster and happier view of evangeli- 
 cal truth is said to have arisen in his mind, 
 wiiile he was reading the third chapter of 
 Saint Paul's Epistle to the Romans. The 
 words that rivetted his attention were the 
 following: " Whom God lialh set. forth to he 
 a jtropitiatiim through faith in his blood, to de- 
 c.l/ire his righteousness for the remission of 
 s'-'.ns that arc past, Ihrough the forbearance of 
 God:' Rom. iii. 25. 
 
 It was to tliis passage, which contains so 
 lucid an exposition of the Gospel method of 
 salvation, that, under the divine blessing, the 
 poet owed the recovery of a previously disor- 
 dered iniellect and the removal of a load from 
 a dee])ly oppressed conscience — he saw, by a 
 new and powerful perception, how sin could 
 be pardoned, and the sinner be saved — that 
 tlie way ap])ointed of (Jod was thronn-h the 
 great propitiation and sacrilice upon tiie cross 
 — that faith lays hold of the promise, and 
 thus becomes the instrument of conveying 
 pardon and peace to the soul. 
 
 It is remarkable how (idd, in every age, 
 from the tirst promulgition of the Gospel lo 
 the present time, and under all the v;irious 
 modifications of society, barbarian, Scythian, 
 
 bond or free, has put his seal to this funda- 
 mental doctrine of the Gospel. 
 
 Whether we contemplate man amid the 
 polished scenes of civilized and enlightened 
 Europe, or the rude ferocity of savage tribes 
 — whether it be the refined Hindoo, or the 
 unlettered Hottentot, whose mind becomes 
 accessible to the power and influences of re- 
 ligion, the cause and the effect are the same. 
 It is the doctrine of the cross that works the 
 mighty change. The worldly wise may re- 
 ject this doctrine, — the spiritually wise com- 
 prehend and receive it. But, whether it be 
 rejected, with all its tremendous responsibili- 
 ties, or received with its inestimable blessings, 
 the truth itself still remains unchanged and 
 unchangeable, attested by the records of every 
 church and the experience of eveiy believing 
 heart — " the cross is to them that perish fool- 
 ishness, but unto us which are saved it is the, 
 jmwer of God" 1 Cor. i. 18. 
 
 It is impossible not to admire the power, 
 and adore the mercy, that thus wrought a 
 double deliverance in the mind of Cowper by 
 a process so remarkable. Devout contempla^ 
 tion became more and more dear to his re- 
 viving spirit. Resolving to relinquish all 
 thoughts of a laborious profession, and all 
 intercourse with the busy world, he acqui- 
 esced in a plan of settling at Huntingdon, by 
 the advice of his brother, who, as a minister 
 of the Gospel, and a fellow of Bene't Col- 
 lege, Cambridge, resided in that University; 
 a situation so near to the place chosen for 
 Cowper's retireinent, that it afforded to these 
 atlectionate brothers opportunities of easy 
 and frequent intercourse. I regret that all 
 the letters which passed between them have 
 perished, and the more so, as they sometimes 
 corresponded in verse. John Cowper w^as 
 also a poet. He had engaged to execute a 
 translation of Voltaire's Henriade, and in the 
 course of the work reijuested, and obtained, 
 the assistance of William, who translated, as 
 lie iuformed me himself, two entire cantos of 
 the poem. This fraternal production is said 
 to have appeared in a magazine of the year 
 1 759. I have di.scovered a rival, and proba- 
 bly an inferior translation, so published, but 
 the joint work of the poetical brothers has 
 hitherto eluded all my rese;u'ches. 
 
 In June, 1765, the reviving invalid removed 
 to a private lodging in the town of Hunting- 
 don, but Providence soon introduced him i;ito 
 a family, which afforded him one of the most 
 singul.ir and valuable friends that ever writched 
 an atflicted mortal in seasons c!i overwhelm- 
 ing adversity ; that friend, to whom the poet 
 exclaims in the commencement of the Task, 
 
 And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
 Whose arm, this twentieth winter, I perceive 
 Fast locked in mine, with pleasure, such as love 
 Confirmed by lon<r experience of thy worth, 
 And well tried virtues, could alone inspire ;
 
 30 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Witness a joy, that thou hast doubled long ! 
 Thou knowcst my praise of Nature most sincere ; 
 And that my raptures are not conjured up 
 To serve occasions of poetic pomp. 
 But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
 
 These verses would be alone sufficient to 
 make every poeiicai reader take a lively in- 
 terest in the lady they describe ; but these 
 are far from being the only tribute which the 
 gratitude of Cowper has paid to the endear- 
 ing virtues of his female companion. More 
 poetical memorials of her merit will be found 
 in these volumes, and in verse so exquisite, 
 that it may be questioned if the most pas- 
 sionate lover ever gave rise to poetry more 
 tender or more sublime. 
 
 Yet, in this place, it appears proper to ap- 
 prize tlie reader, that it was not love, in the 
 common acceptation of the word, which in- 
 spired these admirable eulogies. The attach- 
 ment of Cowper to i\Irs. Unwin, the Mary of 
 the poet, was an attachment perhaps unpar- 
 alleled. Their domestic union, though not 
 sanctioned by the common forms of life, was 
 supported with perfect innocence, and en- 
 deared to them both by their having strug- 
 gled together through a series of sorrow. A 
 spectator of sensibility, who had contemplated 
 the uncommon tenderness of their attention 
 to the wants and infirmities of each other in 
 the decline of life, might have said of their 
 singular attachment, 
 
 L'Amour n'a rien de si tendre, 
 Ni I'Amitie de si doux. 
 
 As a connection so extraordinary forms a 
 striking feature in the history of the poet, the 
 reader will probably be anxious to investigate 
 its origin and progress. — It arose from the 
 following little incident. 
 
 The countenance and deportment of Cow- 
 er, though they indicated his native shyness, 
 ad yet very singular powers of attraction. 
 On his first appearance in one of the churches 
 of Huntingdon, he engaged the notice and 
 respect of an amiable young man, William 
 Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cam- 
 bridge, who, having observed, after divine 
 service, that the interesting stranger was tak- 
 ing a solitary turn under a row of trees, was 
 irresistibly led to share his walk, and to so- 
 licit his acquaintance. 
 
 They were soon pleased with each other, 
 and the intelligent youth, charmed with the 
 acquisition of such a friend, was eager to 
 communicate the treasure to his parents, who 
 had long resided in Huntingdon. 
 
 Mr. Unwin, the father, had for some years 
 been master of a free school in the town; 
 but, as he advanced in life he quitted the la- 
 borious situation, and, settling in a large con- 
 venient house in the High-street, contented 
 himself with a few domestic pupils, whom he 
 instructed in classical literature. 
 
 This worthy divine, who was now far ad- 
 vanced in years, had been lecturer to the two 
 churches at Huntingdon, before he obtained 
 from his college at Cambridge the living of 
 Grimston. While he lived in expectation of 
 this preferment, he had attached himself to a 
 young lady of lively talents, and remarkably 
 fond of reading. This lady, who, in the pro- 
 cess of time, and by a series of singula 
 events, became the friend and guardian o 
 Cowper, was the daughter of Mr. Cawthornv 
 a draper in Ely. She was married to M; 
 Unwin, on his succeeding to the prefermer. 
 that he expected from his college, and settle-, 
 with him on his living of Grimston; but, no 
 liking the situation and society of that seques- 
 tered scene, she prevailed on her husband to 
 establish himself in Huntingdon, where he 
 was known and respected. 
 
 They had resided there many years, and, 
 with their two only children, a son and a 
 daughter, they formed a cheerful and social 
 family, when the younger Unwin, described 
 by Cowper as 
 
 "A friend, 
 Whose worth deserves the warmest lay 
 That ever friendship penn'd," 
 
 presented to his parents the solitary stranger, 
 on whose retirement he had benevolently in- 
 truded, and whose welfare he became more 
 and more anxious to promote. An event 
 highly pleasing and comfortable to Cowper 
 soon followed this introduction ; he was af- 
 fectionately solicited by all the Unwins to re- 
 linquish his lonely lodging, and to become a 
 part of their family. 
 
 We are now arrived at that period in the 
 personal history of Cowper. when w'e are for- 
 tunately enabled to employ his own descrip- 
 tive powers in recording the events and char- 
 acters that particularly interested him, and in 
 displaying the state of his mind at a remark- 
 able season of his chequered life. The fol- 
 lowing are amonor the earliest letters of this 
 affectionate writer, which the kindness of his 
 friends and relatives has supplied towards the 
 execution and embellishment of this work. 
 
 Among his juvenile intimates and corre- 
 spondents, he particularly regarded two gen- 
 tlemen, who devoted themselves to different 
 branches of the law, the first Lord Thurlow, 
 and Joseph Hill, Esq., whose name appears 
 in Cowper's Poems, prefixed to a few verses 
 of exquisite beauty, a brief epistle, that seems 
 to have more of tlie genuine ease, spirit, and 
 moral gaiety of Horace, than any original 
 epistle in the English language. From these 
 two confidential associates of the poet, in his 
 unclouded years, we might have e.xpected 
 materials for the display of his early genius ; 
 but, in the torrent of busy and splendid life, 
 which bore the first of them to a mighty dis- 
 tance from his less ambitious fellow-student
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 31 
 
 of the Temple, the private letters and verses 
 that arose from their youthful intimacy have 
 perished. 
 
 The letters to Mr. Hill are copious, and 
 extend tlu-ough a long period of time, and 
 although many of tliem were of a nature not 
 suited to publication, yet many others will 
 illustrate and embellish this volume. The 
 steadiness and integrity of Mr. Hill's regard 
 for a, person so much sequestered from his 
 sight gives him a particular title to be distin- 
 guished among those whom Cowper has 
 honored, by addressing to them his highly 
 interesting and afliectionate letters. Many 
 of lliese, which we shall occasionally intro- 
 duce in the parts of the narrative to which 
 tiiey belong, may tend to confirm a truth, not 
 unple:ising to the majority of readers, that 
 the temperate zone of moderate fortune, 
 equally removed from high and low life, is 
 most favorable to the permanence of friend- 
 ship. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Huntingdon, June 24, 17G5. 
 
 Dear .Toe, — The only recompense I can 
 make you for your kind attention to my af- 
 fairs, during my illness, is to tell you that, 
 by the mercy of God, I am restored to per- 
 fect iiealth, both of mind and body. This, I 
 believe, will give you pleasure, and I would 
 gladly do anything front which you could re- 
 ceive it. 
 
 I left St. Alban s, on tlie 17th, and arrived 
 that day at Cambridge, spent some time there 
 with my brother, and came iiither on the 
 22nd. I have a lodging that ptits me con- 
 tinually in mind of our summer excursions; 
 we have had many worse, and except the size 
 of it (which however is sufficient for a single 
 man) but few better. I am not quite alone, 
 having brought a servant with me from 8t. 
 Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity 
 and affection for his master. And, whereas 
 the Turkish Spy says, he kept no servant 
 because he would not have an enemy in his 
 house, I hired mine because I would Iiave a 
 friend. Men do not usually bestow these 
 encomiums on their lackeys, nor do they 
 usually deserve them, but I have had experi- 
 ence of mine, both in sickness and in health, 
 and never saw his fellow. 
 
 The river Ouse, I forget how they spell it, 
 is the most agreeable circumstance in this 
 part of the world; at this town it is, I be- 
 lieve, as wide as the Thames at Windsor; 
 nor does the silver Thames better deserve 
 that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its 
 banks, these being attributes which, in strict 
 truth, belong to neither. Fluellen would 
 say, they are as like as my fingers to my 
 fingers, and there is salmon in both. It is a 
 noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make 
 
 that use of it three times a week, having in- 
 troduced myself to it for the first time tiiia 
 morning. 
 
 I beg you will remember me to all my 
 friends, which is a task will cost you no 
 great pains to execute — particularly remem- 
 ber me to those of your own house, and be- 
 lieve me 
 
 Your very affectionate 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADT HESKETH. 
 
 [riiiiting:d(m, -July 1, 1765. 
 
 My dear Lady Hesketli, — Since the visit 
 you were so kind to pay me in the Temple 
 (the only time I ever saw you without pleas- 
 ure), what iiave I not sulfered ? And, since 
 it has pleased God to restore me to the use 
 of my reason, what have I not enjoyed ? You 
 know, by experience, how pleasant it is to feel 
 the first approaches of health after a fever; 
 but, oh ! the fever of the brain ! To feel the 
 quenching of that fire is indeed a blessing 
 which I think it impossible to receive with^ 
 out the most consummate gratitude. Terri- 
 ble as this chastisement is, I acknowledge in 
 it the hand of an infinite justice ; nor is it at 
 all more diificult for me to perceive in it the 
 hand of an infinite mercy likewise : when I 
 consider the effect it has had upon me, I am 
 exceedingly thankful for it, and, without hy- 
 pocrisy, esteem it the greatest blessing, next 
 to life itself, I ever received from the divine 
 bounty. I pray God that I may ever retain 
 this sense of it, and then I am sure I shall 
 continue to be, as I am at present, really 
 happy. 
 
 1 write thus to you, that you nuiy not think 
 me a forlorn and wretched creature ; which 
 you might be apt to do, considering my very 
 distant removal from every friend I have in 
 the world — a circumstance which, before this 
 event befell me, would undoubtedly have 
 made me so ; but my affliction has taught 
 me a road to happiness, which, without it, I 
 should never have found ; and I know, and 
 have experience of it every day, that the 
 mercy of God, to him who believes himself 
 the object of it, is more than sufficient to 
 compensate for the loss of every other bless- 
 ing. 
 
 You may now inform all those whom you 
 think really interested in my welfare, that 
 they have no need to be apprehensive on the 
 score of my happiness at present. And you 
 yourself will believe that my happiness is no 
 dream, because I have told you the founda- 
 tion on which it is built. What I have writ- 
 ten would appe;ir like enthusiasm to many, 
 for we are apt to give that name to e\'ery 
 warm affection of the mind in others which 
 we have not experienced in ourselves ; but to 
 you, who have so much to be thankful for
 
 32 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and a temper inclined to gratitude, it will not 
 appear so. 
 
 I beg yon will give my love to Sir Tliomus, 
 and believe that I am obliged to you both for 
 inquiring after me at St. Al ban's. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.' 
 
 w. c. 
 
 Hmitingdon, July 3, 1765. 
 
 Dear Joe, — ^Whatever you may think of ttfe 
 matter, it is no such easy thing to keep house 
 for two people. A man cannot alw;iys live 
 like the lions in the Tower; and a joint of 
 meat, in so small a f;imily, is an endless in- 
 cumbrance. In short, I never knew how to 
 pity jDoor housekeepers before ; but now I 
 cease to wonder at that politic cast which 
 their occupation, usually gives to their coun- 
 tenance, for it is really a matter full of per- 
 plexity. 
 
 I have received but one visit since here I 
 came. I don't mean that I have refused any, 
 but that only one has been offered. This 
 was from my woollen-draper; a very heal- 
 thy, wealthy, sensible, sponsible man, and 
 extremely civil. He has a cold bath, and 
 has promised me a key of it, which I shall 
 probably make use of in the winter. He has 
 undertaken, too, to get me the St. James's 
 Chronicle three times a-week, and to show 
 me Hinchinbrook House, and to do every 
 service for me in his power ; so that I did 
 not exceed the truth, you see, when I spoke 
 of his civility. Here is a card-assembly, and 
 a dancing-assembly, and a horse-race, and a 
 club, and a bowling-green ; so that I am well 
 off, you perceive, in point of diversions ; espe- 
 cially as I shall go to "em, just as much as I 
 should if I lived a thousand miles off. But 
 no matter for that; the spectator at a play is 
 more entertained than the actor ; and in real 
 life it is much the same. You will say, per- 
 haps, that if I never frequent these places, I 
 shall not come within the description of a 
 spectator; and you will say right. I have 
 made a blunder, which shall be corrected in 
 the next edition. 
 
 You are old dog at a bad tenant; witness 
 all my uncle's and yoiu- mother's geese and 
 gridirons. There is something so extremely 
 impertinent in entering upon a man's premi- 
 ses, and using them without paying for 'em, 
 thrit I could easily resent it if I would. But 
 I rather choose to entertain myself with 
 thinking how you will scour the man about, 
 and worry him to death, if once you begin 
 with him. Poor wretch ! I leave him entirely 
 to your mercy. 
 
 My dear Joe, you desire me to write long 
 letters. I have neither matter enougli nor 
 perseverance enough for the purpose. How- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 ever, if you can but contrive to be tired of 
 reading as soon as I am tired of writing, we 
 shall hnd that short ones answer just as well ; 
 and, in my opinion, this is a very practicable 
 measu'-e. 
 
 My friend Colman has had good fortune ; 
 I wisii him better fortune still ; which is, that 
 he may make a right use of it. The trage- 
 dies of Lloyd and Bensley are both very deep. 
 If they are not of use to the surviving part of 
 the society, it is their own ftiult. 
 
 I was debtor to Eensley seven pounds, or 
 
 nine, I forget which. If you can find out his 
 
 brother, you will do me a great favor if you 
 
 will pay him f* me ; but do it at your leisure. 
 
 Yours and theirs,* 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETfl. 
 
 Huntingdon, July 4, 1765. 
 
 Being just emerged from the Ouse, I sit 
 down to thardc you, my dear cousin, for your 
 friendly and comfortable letter. What could 
 you think of my unaccountable behavior to 
 you in that visit I mentioned in my last? I 
 remember I neither spoke to you nor looked 
 at you. The solution of the mystery indeed 
 followed soon after, but at the same time it 
 must have been inexplicable. The uproar 
 within was even then begun, and my silence 
 was only the sulkiness of a thunder-storm 
 before it opens. I am glad, however, that 
 the only instance in which I knew not how 
 to value your company was when I was not 
 in my senses. It was the first of the kind, 
 and i trust in God it will be the last. 
 
 How naturally does affliction make us 
 Christians ! and how impossible it is, when 
 all human help is vain, and the whole earth 
 too poor and trifling to furnish us with one 
 moment's peace — how impossible is it then 
 to avoid looking at the Gospel ! It gives me 
 some concern, though at the same time it in- 
 creases my gratitude, to reflect, that a convert 
 made in Bedlam is more likely to be a stum- 
 bling-block to others than to advance their 
 faith. But, if it has that effect upon any, it 
 is owing to their reasoning amiss, and draw- 
 ing their conclusions from false premises. 
 He who can ascribe an amendment of life 
 and manners and a reformation of the heart 
 itself to madness, is guilty of an absurdity 
 that in any other case would fasten the im- 
 putation of madness upon himself; for, by so 
 doing, he ascribes a reasonable effect to an 
 um-easonable cause, and a positive effect to a 
 negative. But, when Christianity only is to 
 be sacrificed, he that stabs deepest is always 
 
 * The author is suppoaed to moan ?ilrs. Hill and her 
 two daughters. The word theirs cannot so well refer to 
 lb(; last antecedent, the persons who stand 'in that rela- 
 tion with it being both dead at the time he wrote, as is 
 evident from the context.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 33 
 
 tlie wisest imrn. You, my dear cousin, your- 
 self, will be apt to think 1 carry the matter 
 too far, and that, in the present warmth of 
 my heart, I make too ample a concession in 
 saying, that I am only now a convert. You 
 think I always believed, and I thought so too, 
 but you were deceived, and so was 1. I called 
 myself indeed a Christian, but He who knows 
 my heart, knows that 1 never did a right thing, 
 nor abstained from a wrong one, because 1 
 was so. But, if I did either, it was under 
 the influence of some other motive. And it 
 is such seeming Cin-istians, such pretending 
 believers, that do most mischief to the cause, 
 and furnish the strongest arguments to sup- 
 port the iniidelity of its enemies : unless pro- 
 fession and conduct go together, the man's 
 life is a lie, and the validity of what he pro- 
 fesses itself is called in question. The differ- 
 ence between a Christian and an unbeliever 
 would be so striking, if the treacherous allies 
 of the churcii would go over at once to the 
 other side, that I am satisfied religion would 
 be no loser by the bargain. 
 
 I reckon it one instance of the providence 
 that has attended me throughout this whole 
 event, that, instead of being delivered into the 
 hands of one of the London physicians — who 
 were so much nearer, that I wonder I was 
 not — I was carried to Dr. Cotton. I was not 
 only treated by him with the greatest tender- 
 ness while I was ill, and attended with the 
 utmost diligence, but when my reason was 
 restored to me, and I had so much need of a 
 religious friend to converse with, to whom I 
 could open my mind upon the subject with- 
 out reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter 
 person for the purpose. I\Iy eagerness and 
 anxiety to settle my opinions upon that long- 
 neglected point made it necessary, th.at while 
 my mind was yet weak, and my spirits uncer- 
 tain, I should have some assistance. The 
 doctor was as ready to administer relief to 
 me in this article likewise, and as well quali- 
 fied to do it as in that which was more im- 
 mediately his province. How many physi- 
 cians would have thought this an irregular 
 appetite and a symptom of remaining mad- 
 ness ! But if it were so, my friend was as 
 mad as myself, and it is w^ell for me that he 
 was so. 
 
 My dear cousin, you know not half the 
 deliverances I have received; my brother is 
 the only one in the family who does. My 
 recovery is indeed a signal one, but a greater, 
 if possible, went before it. My future life 
 must express my thankfulness, for by words 
 I cannot do it. 
 
 1 lu-iy God to bless you, and my friend 
 Sir Tliunuis. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntiugdon, July 5, 1765. 
 
 My dear Lady Hesketh, — My pen runs so 
 fast you will begin to wish you had not put 
 it in motion, but you must consider we have 
 not met, even by letter, almost these two 
 years, which will account, in some measure, 
 for my pestering you in this manner ; besides 
 my last was no answer to yours, and there- 
 fore I consider myself as still in your debt. 
 To say truth, I have this long time promised 
 myself a correspondence with you as one of 
 my principal pleasures. 
 
 I should have written to you from St. Al 
 ban's long since, but was willing to perform 
 quarantine first, both for my own sake, and 
 because I thought my letters would be more 
 satisf:ictory to you from any other quarter. 
 You will perceive I allowed myself a very 
 sufficient time for the purpose, for I date my 
 recovery from the 25th of last July, having 
 been ill seven months, and well twelve months. 
 It was on that day my brother came to see me; 
 I was tar from well when he came in ; yet, 
 though he only stayed one day with me, his 
 company served to put to flight a thousand 
 deliriums and delusions which I still labored 
 under, and the next morning found myself a 
 new creature. But to the present purpose. 
 
 As far as I am acquainted with this place, 
 I like it extremely. Mr. Hodgson, the min- 
 ister of the parish, made me a visit the day 
 before yesterday. He is very sensible, a 
 good preacher, and conscientious in the dis- 
 charge ol' his duty. He is very well known 
 to Dr. Newton, Bishop of Bristol, the author 
 of the Treatise on the Prophecies, one of our 
 best bishops, and who has written the most 
 demonstrative proof of the truth of Christian- 
 ity, in my mind, that ever was published. 
 
 There is a village, called Hertford, about a 
 mile and a half from hence. Tiie church 
 there is very prettily situated upon a rising 
 ground, so close to the river that it washes 
 the wall of the churchyard. I found an epi- 
 taph there the other morning, the two first 
 lines of which being better than anytiiing 
 else I saw there, I made shift to remember. 
 It is by a widow, on her husband. 
 
 " Thou wast too good to live on earth with me, 
 And I not good enough to die with thee." 
 
 The distance of this place from Cambridge 
 is the worst circumstance belonging to it. 
 My brother and I are fifteen miles asunder, 
 which, considering that I came hither for the 
 sake of being near him, is rather too much. 
 I wish that young man was better known in 
 the family. He has as many good qualities 
 as his nearest kindred could wish to find in 
 him. • 
 
 As i\Ir. Quin very roundly exj resscd him- 
 self upon some such occasion, " here i^ very 
 plentiful accommodation, and great happiness
 
 Si 
 
 UUWrER'S WORKS, 
 
 of provision." So that if I starve, it must be 
 througli forgetfulness ratlior than scarcity. 
 Fare thee well, my good and dear cousin. 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 July 12, 1765. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — You are very good to 
 me, and if you will only continue to write at 
 suc^i intervals as you find convenient, I shall 
 receive all that pleasure which I proposed to 
 myself from our correspondence. I desire no 
 more than that you would never drop me for 
 any lengtli of time together, for I shall then 
 think you only write because something hap- 
 pened to put you in mind of me, or for some 
 other reason equally mortifying. I am not, 
 however, so unreasonable as to expect you 
 should perform this act of friendship so fre- 
 quently as myself, for you live in a world 
 swarming with engagements, and my hours 
 are almost all my own. You must every day 
 be employed in doing what is expected from 
 you by a thousand others, and I have nothing 
 to do but what is most agreeable to myself. 
 
 Our mentioning Newton's Treatise on the 
 Prophecies brings to my mind an anecdote 
 of Dr. Young, who you know died lately at 
 Welwyn. Dr. Cotton, who was intimate 
 vi^ith him, paid him a visit about a fortnight 
 before he was seized witli his last illness. 
 The old man was then in perfect health ; the 
 antiquity of his person, the gravity of his ut- 
 terance, and the earnestness with which he 
 discoursed about religion, gave him, in the 
 doctor's eye, the appearance of a prophet. 
 They had been delivering their sentiments 
 upon this book of Newton, when Young 
 closed the conference thus: — "My friend, 
 there are two considerations upon which my 
 faith in Christ is built as upon a rock : the 
 fall of man, the redemption of man, and the 
 resurrection of man, the three cardinal arti- 
 cles of our religion, are such as human inge- 
 nuity could never have invented, therefore 
 they must be divine ; the other argument is 
 this. If the prophecies have been fulfilled 
 (of which there is abundant demonstration), 
 the Scripture must be the word of God, and 
 if the Scripture is the word of God, Chris- 
 tianity must be true." 
 
 This treatise on the prophecies serves a 
 double purpose ; it not only proves the truth 
 of religion, in a manner that never has been, 
 nor ever can be controverted ; but it proves 
 likewise, that the Roman C-itholic is the apos- 
 tate, and the anti-Christian church, so fre- 
 quently foretold both in the Old and New 
 Testaments. Indeed so fatally connected is 
 the refutation of Popery wit]\ the truth of 
 Christianity, when the latter is evinced by 
 the completion of the prophecies, that, in 
 proportion as light is thrown upon the one, 
 
 the deformities and errors of the other are 
 more plainly exhibited. But I leave you to 
 the book itself; there are parts of it which 
 may possibly afford you less entertainment 
 than the rest, because you have never been 
 a school-boy, but in the main it is so interest- 
 ing, and you are so fond of that which is so, 
 that I am sure you will like it. 
 
 My dear cousin, how happy am I in having 
 a friend, to whom I can open my heart upon 
 these subjects ! I have many intimates in the 
 world, and have had many more than I shall 
 have hereafter, to whom a long letter upon 
 these most important articles would appear 
 tiresome at least, if not impertinent. But 1 
 am not afraid of meeting with that reception 
 from you, who have never yet made it your 
 interest that there should be no truth in the 
 word of God. May this everlasting truth be 
 your comfort while you live, and attend you 
 with peace and joy in your last moments ! I 
 love you too well not to make this a part of 
 my prayers ; and when I remember my friends 
 on these occasions, there is no likelihood that 
 you can be forgotten. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 P. S. — Cambridge. I add this postscript 
 at my brother's rooms. He desires to be af- 
 fectionately remembered to you, and if you 
 are in town about a fortnight hence, when he 
 proposes to be there himself, will take a 
 breaktixst with you. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, August 1st, 1765. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — If I was to measure your 
 obligation to write by my own desire to hear 
 from you, I should call you an idle corre- 
 spondent if a post went by without bringing 
 a letter, but I am not so unreasonable ; on 
 the contrary, I think myself very happy in 
 hearing from you upon your own terms, as 
 you find most convenient. Your short his- 
 tory of my family is a very acceptable part 
 of your letter ; if they really interest them- 
 selves in my welfare,* it is a mark of their 
 great chanty for one who has been a disap- 
 pointment and a vexation to them ever since 
 he has been of consequence enough to be 
 either. My friend the major's behavior to 
 me, after all he suffered by my abandoning 
 his interest and my own, in so miserable a 
 manner, is a noble instance of generosity and 
 true greatness of mind : and, indeed, I know 
 no man in whom those qualities are more 
 conspicuous; one need only furnish him with 
 
 * Cowper's pecuniary resources had been seriously 
 impaired bv his loss of the Clerkship of tlie Journals iu 
 the House of Lords, and by his subsequeiit resignation 
 of tlie olfice of Commissioner of Bankrupts. At the 
 kind instigation of Major Cowper, his friends had been 
 induced to unite in rendering his income more adequate 
 to his necessary annual expenditure.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 35 
 
 an opportunity to display them, and they are 
 always ready to show themselves in his words 
 and actions, and even in his countenance, at 
 a moment's warning. I have t^rreat reason to 
 be thankful — I have lost none of my acquaint- 
 ance, but those whom I determined not to 
 keep. I am sorry this class is so numerous. 
 What would I not give that every friend I 
 have in the world were not almost but alto- 
 gether Christians! My dear cousin, I am 
 half afraid to talk in this style, lest I should 
 s^'^^.'tt Vj indulge a censorious humor, instead 
 of hoping, as I ought, the best for all men. 
 But what can be said against ocular proof, 
 and what is hope when it is built upon pre- 
 sumption ? To use the most holy name in 
 the universe for no purpose, or a bad one, 
 contrary to his own express commandment; 
 to pass the day, and the succeeding days, 
 weeks, and months, and years, without one 
 act of private devotion, one confession of our 
 sins, or one thanksgiving for the numberless 
 blessings we enjoy ; to hear the word of God 
 in public, with a distracted attention, or with 
 none at all; to absent ourselves voluntarily 
 from the blessed Communion, and to live in 
 the total neglect of it, though our Saviour 
 has charged it upon us with an express in- 
 junction — are the common and ordinary liber- 
 ties wiiich the generality of professors allow 
 themselves ; and what is this but to live with- 
 out God in the world ? Many causes may be 
 assigned for this anti-Christian spirit, so prev- 
 alent among Christians, but one of the prin- 
 cipal I take to be their utter forgetful ness 
 that they have the word of God in their pos- 
 session. 
 
 ]\Iy friend, Sir William Russel, was dis- 
 tantly related to a very accomplisiied man, 
 who, tiiough he never believed the Gospel, 
 admired the Scriptures as the sublimest com- 
 positions in the world, and read them often. 
 1 iuivc been intimate myself with a man of 
 fine taste, ^vho has confessed to me that, 
 thougii he could not subscribe to the truth 
 of Christianity itself, yet he never could read 
 St. Luke's account of our Saviour's appear- 
 ance to tile two disciples going to Emmaus 
 without being wonderfully affected by it, and 
 he thouglit that, if the stamp of divinity was 
 anywiiere to be found in Scripture, it was 
 strongly marked and visibly impressed upon 
 that passage. If these men, whose hearts 
 were chilled with the darkness of infidelitv, 
 could lind sucli charms in the mere stvle of 
 the Scripture, what must they fmd' there 
 whose eye penetrates deeper than tiie letter, 
 and who firmly believe themselves interested 
 in all the valuable privileges of tlie Gospel ? 
 ^ He that believeth on me is passed from 
 death unto life," though it be as plain a sen- 
 tence as words can form, has more beauties 
 M it for such a person than all the labors 
 ar.tiquity can boast of. If my poor man 
 
 of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had 
 searched a little further, lie might have found 
 other parts of the sacred history as strongly 
 marked with the characters of divinity, as 
 that he mentioned. Tlie parable of the prod- 
 igal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever 
 was invented; our Saviour's speech to his 
 disciples, with which he closes his eaxthly 
 ministration, full of the sublimest dignity, 
 and tenderest aifection ; surpass everything 
 that I ever read, and, like the Spirit by whicli 
 they were dictated, fiy directly to the heart. 
 If the Scripture did not disdain all atfectation 
 of ornament, one sJiould call these, and such 
 as these, the ornamental parts of it, but the 
 matter of it is that upon which it principally 
 stakes its credit witli us, and the style, how- 
 ever excellent and peculiar to itself, is the 
 only one of those many external evidences 
 by which it recommends itself to our belief. 
 I shall be very much obliged to you for the 
 book you mention; you could not have sent 
 me anything that would have been more wel- 
 come, unless you had sent me your own med- 
 itations instead of them. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEril IITLL, ESQ.* 
 
 August 14th, 17(i5. 
 
 Dear Joe, — Both Lady Hesketh and my 
 brother had apprized me of your intention to 
 give me a call ; and herein I find they were 
 both mistaken. But they both informed me, 
 likewise, that you were already set out for 
 Warwickshire ; in consequence of which lat- 
 ter intelligence, I have lived in continual ex- 
 pectation of seeing you, any time this fort- 
 night. Now, how these two ingenious per- 
 sonages (for such they are both) should mis- 
 take an expedition to French Flanders for a 
 journey to Warwickshire, is more than I, 
 with ail my ingenuity, can imagine. I am 
 glad, however, that I have still a chance of 
 seeing you, and shall treasure it up amongst 
 my agreeable expectations. In the meimtime, 
 you are welcome to the British shore, as the 
 song has it, and I thank you for your epitome 
 of your tnwels. You don't tell me how you 
 escaped the vigilance of the custoiu-house 
 officers, though I dare say you were knuckle- 
 deep in contrabands, and had your boots 
 stuffed with all and all manner of unlawful 
 wares and merchandizes. 
 
 You know, Joe, I am very deep in debt to 
 my little physician at St. Albans, and that the 
 handsomest thing I can do will be to pay him 
 le pliUdl qiCil sera possibia (that is vile French, 
 I believe, but you can, now, correct it). My 
 brother informs me that you have such a 
 quantity of cash in your hands on my ac- 
 count, that I may venture to send him forty 
 pounds immediately. This, therefore, I shall 
 
 * Private correspondeuce.
 
 36 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 lie oUigod if you will inaiuifre for me; and 
 wlieii you receive tlie luuidred pounds, w.'iich 
 my brolher likewise brags you are shortly to 
 receive, 1 shall be glad if yon will discharge 
 the remainder of that debt, without waiting 
 for any funher advice from your humble 
 servant. 
 
 I am become a professed horseman, and do 
 hereby assume to myself the style and title 
 of the Knight of the Bloody Spur. It has 
 cost me much to bring this point to bear; 
 but I think I have at last accomplished it. 
 My love to all your family. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, August 17, 1765. 
 
 You told me, my dear cousin, that I need 
 not fear writing too often, and you perceive 
 I take you at your word. At present, how- 
 ever, I shall do little more than thank you 
 for your JMeditations, which I admire exceed- 
 ingly ; the author of them manifestly loved 
 the truth with an undisscmbled atVection, had 
 made great progress in the knowledge of it, 
 and e.xperienced all the happiness that natu- 
 rally results from that noblest of all attain- 
 ments. There is one circumstance which he 
 gives us frequent occasion to observe in him, 
 A'hich I believe will e\er be found in the 
 philosophy of every true Christian. I mean 
 the eminent ranlv which he assigns to f;iith 
 among the virtues, as the source and parent 
 of them all. There is nothing more infalli- 
 bly true than this ; and doubtless it is with 
 a view to the purifying and sanctifying na- 
 ture of a true faith, that our Saviour says 
 "He that believeth in me hath everlasting 
 life," with many other expressions to the 
 same purpose. Considered in this light, no 
 wonder it has the power of salvation ascribed 
 to it. Considered in any other, we must 
 suppose it to operate like an oriental talis- 
 man, if it obtains for us the least advantage; 
 which is an affront to Him, who insists upon 
 our having it, and will on no other terms ad- 
 mit us to his fav^r. I mention this distin- 
 guishing article in ids lietlectious, the rather 
 because it serves for a solid foundation to 
 the distinction I made in my last, between 
 the specious professor and the true believer, 
 between him whose faith is his Sunday suit 
 and him who never puts it off at all — a dis- 
 tinction I am a little fearful sometimes of 
 making, because it is a heavy stroke upon 
 the practice of more than half the C!u'istia.ns 
 in the world. 
 
 My dear cousin, I told you I read the book 
 with great pleasure, which may be accounted 
 for from its ovvn merit, but })erhaps it pleased 
 me the more because you had travelled the 
 same road before me." You know there is 
 no such pleasure as this, which would want 
 
 great explanation to some folks, being per 
 haps a mystery to those whose hearts are a 
 mere muscle, and serve only for the purpose? 
 of an even circulation. 
 
 W. c. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Sept. 4th, 170.5. 
 Though I have some very agreeable ac- 
 quaintance at Huntingdon, my dear cousin, 
 none are so agreeable as the arrival of your 
 letters. I thank you for that which I have 
 just received from Droxford, and particularly 
 for that part of it, where you give me an un- 
 limited liberty upon the subject I have al- 
 ready so often written upon. Whatever in- 
 terests us deeply, as naturally flows into the 
 pen as it does from the lips, when every re- 
 straint is taken away, and we meet with a 
 friend indulgent enough to attend to us. 
 How many, in all that variety of characters 
 with whom I am acquainted, could I find, 
 after the strictest search, to whom I could 
 write as I do to you ? I hope the number 
 will increase : I am sure it cannot easily be 
 
 diminished. Poor ! I have heard the 
 
 wliole of his history, and can only lament 
 what I am sure I can make no apology for. 
 Two of my friends have been cut off, during 
 my illness, in the midst of such a life as it is 
 frightful to reflect upon, and here am I, in 
 better health and spirits than I can almost 
 remember to have enjoyed before, after hav- 
 ing spent months in the apprehension of in- 
 stant death. How mysterious are the ways 
 of Providence ! Why did I receive grace 
 and mercy? Why was I preserved, afflicted 
 for my good, received, as I trust, into favor, 
 and blessed with the greatest happiness I can 
 ever know, or hope for, in this life, while 
 these were overtaken by the great arrest, un- 
 awakened, unrepenting, and every way un- 
 prepared for it? His infinite|> wisdom, to 
 whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve 
 these questions, and none besides him. If a 
 freethinker, as many a man miscalls himself, 
 could be brought to give a serious answer 
 to them, he would certainly say, "Without 
 doubt, Sir, you were in great danger; you 
 had a narrow escape ; a most fortunate one, 
 indeed." How excessively foolish, as well 
 as shocking ! As if life depended upon luck, 
 and all that we are or can be, all that we have 
 or hope for, could possibly be referred to ac- 
 cident. Yet to this freedom of thought it is 
 owing that He, who, as our Saviour tells us, 
 is thoroughly apprized of the death of the 
 meanest of his creatures, is supposed to leave 
 those, whom he has made in his own image, 
 to the mercy of chance : and to this therefore 
 it is likewise owing, that the correction which 
 our Heavenly Father bestows upon us, that 
 we may be fitted to receive his blessing, is so
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 37 
 
 often disappointed of its benevolent intention, 
 and that men despise the chastenini^ of the 
 Ahnighty. Fevers and all diseases are acci- 
 dents, and long life, recovery at least from 
 sickness, is the gift of tlie physician. j\o 
 man can be a greater friend to the use of 
 means upon these occasions than myself, for 
 it were presumption and enthusiasm to neg- 
 •ect tiiem. Cod has endued them with salu- 
 tary properties on purpose that we might 
 avail ourselves of them, otherwise that part 
 of his creation were in vain. But to impute 
 our recovery to tlie medicine, and to carry 
 our views no further, is to rob God of iiis 
 honor, and is saying in effect that he has 
 parted with the keys of life and death, and, 
 by giving to a drug tiie power to heal us, has 
 placed our lives out of his own reacli. He 
 tliat tiiinks thus, may as well fall upon his 
 knees at once, and return thanks to the me- 
 dicine that cured him, for it was certainly 
 more instrumental in his recovery than either 
 tlie apotliecary or the doctor. My dear cous- 
 in, a tirm persuasion of the superintendence 
 of Providence over all our concerns is abso- 
 lutely necessary to our happiness. Without 
 it, we cannot be said to believe in the Scrip- 
 ture, or practise anything like resignation to 
 his v/ill. If I am convinced that no affliction 
 can befall me v/itnout the permission of God, 
 I am convinced likewise that he sees and 
 knows that I am afflicted ; believing this, I 
 must, in the same degree, believe that if I 
 pray to him for deliverance he hears me ; I 
 must needs know likewise, witJi equal assur- 
 ance, that if lie hears he will also deliver me, 
 if that will upon the whole be most condu- 
 cive to my iiappiness ; and, if he does not de- 
 liver me, 1 may be well assured that he has 
 none but the most benevolent intention in 
 declining it. He made us, not because we 
 could add to his happiness, wliich was always 
 perfect, but that we might be iiajjpy ourselves; 
 and will lie not, in all his dispensations to- 
 wards us, even in the minutest, consult that 
 end tbr wiiicli he made us ? To suppose the 
 contrary, is (wiiicli we are not always aware 
 of) aflronting every one of his attributes; 
 and, at tlie same time, the certain conse- 
 ipience of disbelieving his care for us is that 
 \ve renounce utterly our dependence upon 
 liim. In this view ii will appear plainly that 
 the line of duty is not stretched too ti-dit, 
 when we are told that we ought to act^ept 
 cverytiiing at his hands as a blessing, and to 
 be thankful e\en while we smart under the 
 rod of iron, with which he sometimes rules 
 us. Without this persuasion, every bless- 
 ing, however we may think ourselves happy 
 in it, lose^its greatest recommendation, and 
 every affliction is intolerable. Death itself 
 must be welcome to him who has this faith, 
 and he who has it not must aim at it, if he is 
 not a madman. Vou cannot think how glad 
 
 I am to hear you are going to commence 
 hidy, and mistress of Freemantle.* I know 
 It well, and could go to it from Southampton 
 blindfold. You are kind to invito me to it, 
 and I shall be so kind to myself as to accept 
 tiie invitation, though I should not, for a 
 slight consideration, be prevailed upon to 
 quit my beloved retirement at Huntingdon. 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY KESKETH. 
 
 Hunliugdon, Sept. 14, 1765. 
 My dear Cousin, — The longer I live here, 
 the better I like the place, and the people who 
 belong to it. I imi upon very good terms 
 with no less than five families, besides two 
 or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. 
 The last acquaintance I made here is with 
 the race of the Unwins, consisting of father 
 and mother, son and daughter, the^nost com- 
 fortable, social folks you ever knew. The 
 son is about twenty-one years of age, one of 
 the most unreserved and amiable youno- men 
 I ever conversed with. He is not yetan-ived 
 at that time of life when suspicion recom- 
 mends itself to us in the form of wisdom, 
 and sets everything but our own dear selves 
 at an immeasurable distance from our esteem 
 and confidence. Consequently, he is known 
 almost as soon as seen, and, having nothino- 
 in his heart that makes it necessary for him 
 to keep it barred and bolted, opens it to the 
 perusal even of a stranger. The father is a 
 clergyman, and the son is designed for orders. 
 The design however is quite his own, proceed- 
 ing merely from his being, and having always 
 been, sincere in his belief and love of the Gos- 
 pel. Another acquaintance I have lately made 
 is with a ]\Ir. Nicholson, a north-country di- 
 vine, very poor, but very good, and very 
 happy. He reads prayers' here twice a-day, 
 all the year round, and travels on foot to 
 serve two churches every Sunday through 
 the year, liis journey out and home ag;un 
 being sixteen miles. I supped witli him last 
 night. He gave me bread and cheese, and a 
 black jug of ale of his own brewing, and 
 doubtless brewed by his own hands. An- 
 
 otlier of my acquaintance is I\Ir. , a thin, 
 
 tall, old man, and as good as he is thin. He 
 drinks nothing but water, and eats no flesh, 
 partly (I believe) from a religious scrni)le 
 (for he is very religious), and partly in the 
 spirit of a valetudinarian. He is to be met 
 with every morning of his life, at about six 
 o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, 
 about a mile from the town, which is reck- 
 oned extremely like the Bristol spring. Being 
 both early risers, and the only early walkers 
 in the place, we soon became acquainted. 
 His great piety can be equalled by nothing 
 
 * FreemanUo, a villa near Southamptojo.
 
 38 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 but his great regularity; for he is the most 
 perfect timepiece in the world. I have re- 
 ceived a visit likewise from ]\Ir. . He is 
 
 very much a gentleman, well-read, and sensi- 
 ble. I am persuaded, in short, that if I had 
 had tlie choice of ail England where to fix 
 my abode, I could not have chosen better for 
 myself, and most likely I sliould not have 
 chosen so well. 
 
 You say, you hope it is not necessary for 
 salvation to undergo the same afflictions that 
 T have undergone. No ! my dear cousin, God 
 deals with his children as a merciful father; 
 he does not, as he himself tells us, afflict wil- 
 lingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are 
 many, who, having been placed by his good 
 providence out of the reach of any great evil 
 and the influence of bad example, have, from 
 their very infancy, been partakers of the grace 
 of his Holy Spirit, in such a manner as never 
 to have allowed themselves in any grievous 
 offence against him. May you love him more 
 and more, day by day, as every day, A\"hile 
 vou think upon him, you will find him more 
 tvorthy of your love ; and may you be finally 
 accepted by him for hi^ sake whose interces- 
 sion for all his faithful servants cannot but 
 prevail ! Yours ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. 
 My dear Cousin, — I should grumble at 
 your long silence, if I did not know that one 
 may love one's friends very well, though one 
 is not always in a humor to write to them. 
 Besides, I have the satisfaction of being per- 
 fectly sure that you have at least twenty times 
 recollected the debt you owe me, and as often 
 resolved to pay it: and perhaps, while you 
 remain indebted to me, you think of me twice 
 as often as you would do if the account was 
 clear. These are llie reflections with which I 
 comfort myself under the affliction of not 
 hearing from you ; my temper does not in- 
 cline me to jealousy, and, if it did, I should 
 set all right by having recourse to what I 
 have already received from you. 
 
 I thank God for your friendship, and for 
 every friend I have ; for all the pleasing cir- 
 cumstances here ; for my health of body, and 
 perfect serenity of mind. To recollect the 
 past, and compare it with the present, is all I 
 have need of to fill me with gratitude ; and 
 to be grateful is to be happy. Not that I 
 think myself sufficiently thankful, or that I 
 ever shall be so in this life. The warmest 
 heart perhaps only feels by fits, and is often 
 as insensible as the coldest. This at least is 
 frequently the case with mine, and oftener 
 than it should be. But tiie mercy that can 
 forgive iniquity will never be severe to mark 
 lur frailties; to that mercy, my dear cousin, 
 
 I commend you, with earnest wishes for youi 
 welfare, and remain your ever affectionate 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY UESKETH. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 
 
 I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being 
 safely arrived in port from the storms ot 
 Southampton. For my own part, who am 
 but as a Thames wherry, in a world full of 
 tempest and commotion, I know so well the 
 value of the creek I have put into, and the 
 snugness it affords me, that I have a sensible 
 spmpathy witli you in the pleasure you find 
 in being once more blown to Droxford. I 
 know enough of IVIiss Morley to send her my 
 compliments, to which, if I had never seen 
 her, her alfection for you ^^•ould sutHciently 
 entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, 
 it is only because I am naturally apt to neg- 
 lect what I ought to do ; and if I was as 
 genteel as I am negligent, I should be the 
 most delightful creature in the universe. I. 
 am glad you think so favorably of my Huni^ 
 ingdon acquaintance ; they are indeed a nice 
 set of folks, and suit me exactly. I should 
 have been more particular in my account of 
 Miss Unwin, if I had had materials for a mi- 
 nute description. She is about eighteen years 
 x.f age, rather handsome and genteel. In her 
 mother's company she says little, not because 
 her mother requires it of her, but because she 
 seems glad of that excuse for not talking, be- 
 ing somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There 
 is the most remarkable cordiality between all 
 the parts of the family, and the mother and 
 daughter seem to doat upon each other. The 
 first time I went to the house, I was intro- 
 duced to the daughter alone ; and sat with 
 her near half an hour before her brother came 
 in, who had appointed me to call upon him. 
 Talking is necessary in a tete-a-tete, to distin- 
 guish the persons of the drama from the 
 chairs they sit on: accordingly, she talked a 
 great deal, and extremely well ; and, like the 
 rest of the family, behaved with as much ease 
 and address as if we bad been old acquaint- 
 ance. She resenAles her mother in her great 
 piety, who is one of the most remarkable in- 
 stances of it I have ever seen. They are alto- 
 gether the cheerfuUest and most engaging 
 family-piece it is possible to conceive. Since 
 I wrote the above, I met Mrs. Unwin in the 
 street, and went home with her. She and I 
 walked together near two hours in the gar- 
 den, and had a conversation wliich did me 
 more good than I should have received from 
 an audience of the first prince in Europe. 
 That woman is a blessing to me, alld I never 
 see her without being the better for her com- 
 pany. I am treated in the family as if I was 
 a near relation, and have been repeatedly in- 
 vited to call upon them at all times. You
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 3i 
 
 know \\hat a shy fellow I am ; I cannot pre- 
 vail with myself to make so much use of this 
 privilege as I am sure they intend I should, 
 but perhaps this awkwardness will wear off 
 hereafter. It was my earnest request before 
 I left St. Alban's, that wiierever it might 
 please Providence to dispose of me, I might 
 meet with such an acquaintance as I find in 
 Mrs. Unwin. How happy it is to believe, 
 with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions 
 are Jieard, even while we are making them I 
 — and how deligiitful to meet with a proof 
 of it in the effectual and actual grant of 
 them ! Surely it is a gracious finishing given 
 to those means which the Almighty has been 
 pleased to make use of for my conversion. 
 After having been deservedly rendered unfit 
 for any society, to be .igain qualified for it, 
 and admitted at once into the fellowship of 
 tliose whom God regards as the excellent of 
 the earth, and whom, in the emphatical lan- 
 guage of Scripture, he preserves as the apple 
 of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with 
 it tiie stamp and visible superscription of di- 
 vine bounty — a grace unlimited as unde- 
 served; and, like its glorious Author, free in 
 its course, and blessed in its ojieration ! 
 
 My dear cousin! health and happiness, 
 and, al)ove all, the favor of our great and 
 gracious Lord attend you ! while we seek it 
 in spirit and in truth we are infinitely more 
 secure of it than of the next breath we ex- 
 pect to draw. Heaven and earth have their 
 destined periods ; ten thousand worlds will 
 vanish at the consummation of all things ; 
 but the word of God standeth fast, and they 
 who trust in him shall never be confounded. 
 
 My love to all wiio inquire after me. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W, C. 
 
 TO MAJOR COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 17C5. 
 My dear Major, — I have neither lost the 
 use of my fingers nor my memory, tliough 
 my unaccountable silence might incline you 
 to suspect tliat I had lost both. The history 
 of those things which have, from time to 
 time, prevented my scril)1)lii|^ would not only 
 be insipid, but extremely voluminous, for 
 which reasons they will not make their ap- 
 pearance at present, nor probably at any 
 time hereafter. If my neglecting to write to 
 you were a proof tli*t I had never thought of 
 you, and tliat had been really the case, five 
 shillings apiece would have been much too 
 little to give for the sight of such a monster! 
 but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive 
 in myself the least tendency to such a trans- 
 formation. You may recollect that I had 
 but very uncomfortable expectations of the 
 ncconiniodations I should meet with at Hun- 
 tingdon. How much better is it to take our 
 
 lot where it shall please Providence tc cast it 
 without anxiety ! had I chosen for myself, it 
 is impossible I could have fixed upon a place 
 so agreeable to me in all respects. I so 
 much dreaded the thought of having a new 
 acquaintance to make, with no other recorn: 
 mendation than that of being a perfect 
 strangei", that I heartily wished no creatur:- 
 here might take the least notice of me. In- 
 stead of which, in about two months after 
 my arrival, I became known to all the visita- 
 ble people here, and do verily think it the 
 most agreeable neighborhood I ever saw. 
 
 Here are three families who have received 
 me with the utmost civility, and two in par- 
 ticular have treated me with as much cor- 
 diality as if their pedigree and mine had 
 grown upon the same sheep-skin. Besides 
 these, there are three or four single men, 
 who suit my temper to a hair. The town is 
 one of the neatest in England ; the country 
 is fine for several miles about it; and the 
 roads, which are all turnpike, and strike out 
 four or five different ways, are perfectly 
 good all the year round. I mention this 
 latter circumstance chiefly because my dis- 
 tance from Cambridge has made a horseman 
 of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. 
 My brother and I meet every week, by an 
 alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam 
 Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get 
 a lift in a neighbor's chaise, but generally 
 ride. As to my own personal condition, I 
 am much happier than the day is long, and 
 sunshine and candle-light alike see me per- 
 fectly contented. I get books in abundance, 
 as much company as I choose, a deal of co7n- 
 fortable leisure, and enjoy better health, I 
 think, than for many years past. What is 
 there wanting to make me happy ? No- 
 thing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought, 
 and I trust that He, who has bestowed so 
 many blessings upon me, will give me grati- 
 tude to crown them all. I beg you will give 
 my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to 
 everybody at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is 
 with you, as I suspect by a passage in Lady 
 Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to 
 her very affectionately. And believe me, ray 
 dear friend, ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEni HILL, ESQ. 
 
 October Q5, 1765. 
 Dear Joe, — I am afraid the month of Oc- 
 tober has proved rather unfavorable to the 
 belle asseaibU'e at Southampton, high winds 
 and continual rains being bitter enemies to 
 that agreeable lounge which you and I ar*" 
 equally fond of. I have very cordially be 
 taken myself to my books and my fireside , 
 and seldom leave them unless for exercise. 
 I have added another family to the numbel
 
 40 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of those I was acquainted with when you 
 were here. Their name isUnwin — the most 
 Agreeable people imaginable ; quite sociable, 
 and as free from the ceremonious civility of 
 country gentle-folks as any I ever met with. 
 They treat me more like a near relation than 
 h stranger, and their house is always open 
 to me. The old gentleman carries me to 
 Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of 
 learning and good sense, and as simple as 
 Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncom- 
 mon understanding, has read much, to excel- 
 lent pui'pose, and is more polite than a duch- 
 ess. The son, who belongs to Cambridge, 
 is a most amiable young man, and the daugli- 
 ter quite of a piece with tJie rest of the fam- 
 ily. They see but little company, which 
 suits me exactly ; go when I will, I find a 
 house full of peace and cordiality in all its 
 parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but 
 such discourse instead of it as we are all 
 better for. You remember Rousseau's de- 
 scription of an Englisii morning ;* such are 
 the mornings I spend witli tliese good peo- 
 ple, and the evenings differ from tliem in no- 
 thing, except that they are still more snug 
 and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder 
 that I liked Huntingdon so well before I 
 knew them, and am apt to think I should 
 find every place disagreeable that had not an 
 Unwin belonging to it. 
 
 This incident convinces me of the truth of 
 an observation I have often made, that when 
 we circumscribe our estimate of all that is 
 clever within the limits of our own acquaint- 
 ance (which I at least have been always apt 
 to do) we are guilty of a very uncharitable 
 censure upon tlie rest of the world, and of a 
 narrowness of thinking disgraceful to our- 
 selves. Wapping and Redritt' may contain 
 some of the most amiable persons living, and 
 such as one would go to Wapping and Red- 
 riff to make acquaintance witli. You re- 
 member Gray's stanza. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
 The deep unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
 Full many a rose is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its fragrance on the desert air. 
 
 Yours, dear Joe, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 Nov. 5, 170.5. 
 
 Dear Joe, — I Avrote to you about ten days 
 ago, 
 
 Soliciting a quick return of gold, 
 
 To purchase certain horse that likes me well. 
 
 Either my letter or your answer to it, I fear, 
 nas miscarried. The former, I hope ; be- 
 cause a miscarriage of the latter might be 
 attended with bad consequences. 
 
 * See his Emilius. j Private correspondence. 
 
 I find it impossible to proceed any longer 
 in my j)resent course without danger of 
 bankruptcy. I have therefvue entered into 
 an agreement with the Rev. Mr. Unwin to 
 lodge and board with him. The family Jire 
 the most agreeable in the world. They live 
 in a special good liouse, and in a very gen- 
 teel way. They are all exact;y what T 
 would wish them to be, and I know I shall 
 be as happy with them as I can be on this 
 side of the sun. I did not dream of this 
 matter till about five days ago : but now the 
 whole is settled. I shall transfer myself 
 thither as soon as I have satisfied all de- 
 mands upon me here. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Nov. 8, 1765. 
 
 Dear 'Sephus, — Notwithstanding it is so 
 agreeable a thing to read law lectures to the 
 students of Lyons' Inn,t especially to the 
 reader himself, I must beg leave to waive it. 
 Danby Pickering must be the happy man ; 
 and I heartily^ wish him joy of his deputy, 
 ship. As to 'the treat, I thinl If it goes be- 
 fore the lecture, it will be apt to blunt the 
 apprehension of the student.', i;nd, if it 
 comes after, it may erase from \h«.ir m°,mo- 
 ries impressions so newly made T '^ould 
 wish therefore, that, for their bent'ii u.na be- 
 hoof, this circumstance were omitted. >ut, 
 if it be absolutely necessary, I hope. Mr 
 Salt, or whoever takes the conduct oi U Wi" 
 see that it be managed with the frugality ana 
 temperance becoming so learned a body. I 
 sliall be obliged to you if you will present 
 my respects to Mr. Treasurer Salt, and ex- 
 press my concern at the same time that he 
 had the trouble of sending me two letters 
 upon this occasion. The first of them never 
 came to hand. 
 
 I shall be obliged to you if you Avill tell 
 me whether my exchequer is full or empty, 
 and whether the revenue of last year is yet 
 come in, that I may proportion my payments 
 to the exigencies of my afiitirs. 
 
 My dear 'Seplfis, give my love to your 
 fiuniiy, and believe me much obliged to you 
 for your invitation. At present I am in such 
 an unsettled condition, that I can thhik of 
 nothing but laying the foundation of my fu- 
 ture abode at Unwin's. *My being admitted 
 there is the efl'ect of the great good nature 
 and friendly turn of that family, who, I have 
 great reason to believe, are as desirous to do 
 me service as they could be after a much 
 longer acquaintance. Let your next, if it 
 comes a week hence, be directed to me there, 
 
 Tlie greatest part of the law-books are 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The office of readevsliip to this society had been of 
 I'eredto Cowper, but v/us declined by him.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 41 
 
 those which Lord Cowper gave me. Those, 
 and tlie very few wliich I bought myself, are 
 all at the major's service. 
 
 Stroke Puss's back the wrong way, and it 
 will put her in mind of her master. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Htuitingdon, March G, 1700. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — I have for some time 
 past imputed your silence to the cause which 
 you yourself assign for it, viz., to my change 
 of situation ; and was even sagacious enough 
 to account for the frequency of your letters 
 to me while I lived alone, from your attention 
 to me in a state of such solitude as seemed 
 to make it an act of particular cliarity to write 
 to me. I bless God for it, I was happy even 
 then; solitude has nothing gloomy in it if 
 the soul points upwards. St. Paul tells his 
 Hebrew converts, " Ye are come (already 
 come) to Mount Sion — to an innumerable 
 company of angels, to the general assembly 
 of tiic lirst-born, which are written in heaven, 
 and to Jesus, the mediator of the new cove- 
 nant." When this is the case, as surely it 
 was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had 
 never spoken it, there is an end of the melan- 
 ciioiy and dulness of life at once. You will 
 not suspect me, my dear cousin, of a design 
 to understand this passage literally. But 
 this iiowever it certainly means, that a lively 
 fiith is able to anticipate, in some measure, 
 the joys of that heavenly society which the 
 soul siiail actually possess hereafter. 
 
 Since I have changed my situation, I have 
 found still (jreater cause of thankstrivinii- to 
 the Father of all Mercies. The family with 
 whom I live are Ciu'istians, and it has pleased 
 the Almighty to bring me to the knowledge 
 of them, tliat I may want no means of im- 
 provement in that temper and conduct whicii 
 he is pleased to require in all his servants. 
 
 I\Iy dear cousin, one half of the Christian 
 world would call this madness, fanaticism, 
 and folly: but are not these things warranted 
 by tile word of God, not only in the passages 
 I have cited, but in many olliers ? If we have 
 no communion witii God here, surely we can 
 expect none hereafter. A faitii that does not 
 place our conversation in heaven ; that does 
 not warm the heart and purify it too; that 
 does not, in siiort, govern our liiouglit, word, 
 and deed, is no faitii, nor will it obtain for us 
 any spiritual blessing here or hereafter. Let 
 us see tiierefAi-e, my dear cousin, that we do 
 not deceive ourselves in a matter of sucli in- 
 finite moment. Tiie world will be ever tell- 
 ing us that we are good enough, and the 
 world will vilify us behind our backs. But 
 it is not the world wiiich tries the heart, that 
 Ls the prerogative of God alone. My dear 
 
 cousin, I have often prayed for you behind 
 your back, and n(/W I pray for you to your 
 face. There arc many who would not for- 
 give me this wrong, but I have known you 
 so long and so well that I am not afraid of 
 telling you how sincerely I wish for yout 
 growth in every Christian graee, in every- 
 thing that may jiromote and secure youi 
 everlasting welfare. 
 
 I am obliged to Mrs. Cowper for the book, 
 which, you [.'erceive, arrived safe. I am will- 
 ing to consider it as an intimation on her 
 part, that she would wish me to write to 
 her, and shall do it accordingly. My circum- 
 stances are rather particular, such as call upon 
 my friends, those, I mean, who are truly such, 
 to take some little notice of me, and will natu- 
 rally m:ike tiiose who are not such in sincer- 
 ity, rather sliy of doing it. To this I impute 
 the silence of many with regard to me, who, 
 before the affliction that befel me, were ready 
 enough to converse with me. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER.* 
 
 Huntingdon, March 11, 1706. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — I am much obliged to 
 you for Pearsall's Meditations, especially as 
 it furnislies me with an occasion of writing 
 to you, which is all I have waited for. My 
 friends must excuse me if I write to none 
 but those wlio lay it fairly in my way to do 
 so. The inference I am apt to draw from 
 their silence is, that they wish me to be si- 
 lent too. 
 
 I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be 
 thankful to the gracious Providence that con- 
 ducted me to this place. The lady, in whose 
 house I live, is so excellent a person, and re- 
 gards me with a friendship so truly Christian, 
 that I could almost fancy my own mother re- 
 stored to life again, to compensate to me for 
 all the friends I have lest, and all my con- 
 nections broken. She has a son at Cam- 
 bridge, in all respects worthy of such a 
 inotlier, the most amiable young man I ever 
 knew. His natural and accjuired endowments 
 are very considerable, and as to his virtues, I 
 need only say that he is a Christian. It ought 
 to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me 
 that I am admitted into the society of such 
 persons, and I pray God to make me and 
 keep me worthy of them. 
 
 Your brotlier JMartin has been very kind to 
 me, having written to me twice in a style 
 which, tliougli it was once irksome to me, to 
 say tlie least, I now know how to value. I 
 pray God to forgive me the many light things 
 I have both said and thought of him and his 
 labors. Hereafter I shall consider him as a 
 
 * The wife of Major Cowper, anil sister of tbo UeT. 
 Martin Madan, minister of Lock Chapel.
 
 42 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 burning and a shining light, and as one of 
 those who, imving turned many to righteous- 
 ness, shall shine hereafter as the stars forever 
 and ever. 
 
 So much for the state of my heart : as to 
 my spirits, I am cheerful and happy, and, 
 having peace with God, iiave peace with my- 
 self For the continuance of this blessing I 
 trust to Him who gives it, and they who trust 
 in Him shall never be confounded. 
 Yours atfectionately, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWFER. 
 
 Huntingdon, April 4, 17C6. 
 My dear Cousin, — J. agree witli you that 
 letters' are not essential to friendsliip, but 
 they seem to be a natural fruit of it, when 
 they are the only intercourse that can be had. 
 And a friendsliip producing no sensible effects 
 is so like indifference, tliat the appearance 
 may easily deceive even an acute dlscerner. 
 I retract however all that I said in my last 
 upon this subject, Iiaving reason to suspect 
 that it proceeded from a principle which 1 
 would discourage in myself upon all occa- 
 sions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon 
 a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much 
 cause for humility, and so much need of it 
 too, and every little sneaking resentment is 
 such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never 
 give quarter to anything that appears in the 
 shape of suUenness or self-consequence here- 
 after. Alas! if my best Friend, who laid 
 down his life for me, were to remember all 
 the instances in which I have neglected him, 
 and to plead them against me in judgment, 
 where should I hide my guilty head in the 
 day of recompense? I will pray therefore 
 for blessings upon my friends, though they 
 cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though 
 they continue such. The deceitfulness of 
 the natural heart is inconceivable; I know 
 well that I passed upon my friends for a per- 
 son at least religiously inclined, if not actu- 
 ally religious, and, what is more wonderful, 
 I thought myself a Christian, wlien I had no 
 fiiith in Christ, when I saw no beauty in him 
 that I should desire liim ; in short, when I 
 had neither faith, nor love, nor any Christian 
 grace whatever, but a th usand seeds of re- 
 bellion instead, evermore springing up in en- 
 mity against him. But blessed be God, even 
 the God who is become my salvation, the hail 
 of affliction and rebuke for sin has swept 
 away the refuge of lies. It pleased the Al- 
 mighty, in great mercy, to set all my mis- 
 deeds before me. At lengtli, the storm being 
 past, a quiet and peaceful serenity of soul 
 succeeded, such as ever attends the gift of 
 living faith in tlie all-sullicient atonement, and 
 the sweet sense of mercy and pardon pur- 
 chased by the blood of Christ. Thus did he 
 
 break me and bind me up, thus did he wound 
 me and his hands made me whole. My dear 
 Cousin, I make no apology for entertaining 
 you with the history of my conversion, be- 
 cause I know you to be a Christian in the 
 sterling import of the appellation. This is 
 however but a very summary account of the 
 matter, neither would a letter contain tho 
 astonishing particulars of it. If we evei 
 meet again in this world, I will relate them 
 to you by word of mouth ; if not, they will 
 serve for the subject of a conference in the 
 next, where I doubt not I shall remember and 
 record them with a gratitude better suited to 
 the subject. 
 
 Yours, my dear Cousin, affectionately, 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO MRS. COAVPER. 
 
 Ilimtingdon, April 17, 1766. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — As in matters unattain- 
 able by reason and unrevealed in the Scrip- 
 ture, it is impossible to argue at all ; so, in 
 matters concerning which reason can only 
 give a probable guess, and the Scripture has 
 made no explicit discovery, it is, though not 
 impossible to argue at all, yet impossible to 
 argue to any certain conclusion. This seems 
 to me to be the very case with the point in 
 
 question reason is able to form many 
 
 plausible conjectures concerning the possi- 
 bility of our knowing each other in a future 
 state, and the Scripture has, here and there, 
 favored us with an expression that looks at 
 least like a slight intimation of it; but be- 
 cause a conjecture can never amount to a 
 proof, and a slight intimation cannot be con- 
 strued into a positive assertion, therefore, I 
 think, we can never come to any absolute 
 conclusion upon the subject. We may, in- 
 deed, reason about the plausibility of our 
 conjectures, and we may discuss, with great 
 industry and shrewdness of argument, those 
 passages in the Scripture wliicli seem to fa- 
 vor the opinion ; but still, no certain means 
 having been afforded us, no certain end can 
 be attained ; and, after all that can be said, it 
 will still be doubtful whether we shall know 
 each other or not. 
 
 As to arguments founded upon human 
 reason only, it would be easy to muster up 
 a much greater number on the affirmative 
 side of tlie question than it would be worth 
 my while to write or yours to read. Let us 
 see, therefore, what the Scripture says, or 
 seems to say, towards the proof of it; and 
 of tins kind of argument also I shall insert 
 but a few of those, which seem to me to be 
 the fairest and clearest for the purpose. 
 For, after all, a disputant on either side of 
 this question, is in danger of that censure of 
 our blessed Lord's, " Ye do err, not knowing 
 the Scripture, nor the power of God."
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 4-s 
 
 As to parables, I know it has Leon said in 
 the dispute couceniing tlie intermediate state 
 that they are not argumentative ; but, this 
 liaving been controverted by very wise and 
 good men, and the parable of Dives and La^ 
 zarus having been used by such to prove an 
 intermediate state, I see not wliy it may not 
 be as fairly used for the proof of any other 
 matter wliich it seems fairly to imply. In 
 this parable we see that Dives is rejiresented 
 as knowing Lazarus, and Abraliam as know- 
 ing them both, and the discourse between 
 them is entirely concerning their respective 
 characters and circumstances upon earth. 
 Here, therefore, our iSaviour seems to coun- 
 tenance the notion of a mutual knowledge 
 and recollection ; and, if a soul that has per- 
 ished shall know the soul that is saved, surely 
 the heirs of salvation shall know and recol- 
 lect eacli other. 
 
 In the iirst epistle to the Thessalonians, 
 the second chapter, and nineteenth verse, 
 Saint Paul says, " What is our hope, or joy, 
 or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in 
 the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his 
 coming? For ye are our glory and our joy." 
 
 As to the hope which the apostle had formed 
 i-oncerning them, he himself refers the accom- 
 plishment of it to the coming of Christ, mean- 
 ing that then he should receive the recom- 
 pence of his labors in their behalf; his joy 
 and glory he refers likewise to the same pe- 
 riod, both which would result from the sight 
 of such numbers redeemed by the blessing 
 of God upon his ministration, when he should 
 present them before the great Judge, and say, 
 in the words of a greater than himself, " Lo ! 
 I and the children whom thou hast given 
 me." Tills seems to imply that the apostle 
 should know tlie converts, and the converts 
 the apostle, at least at the day of judgment, 
 and, if then, why not afterwards 1 
 
 See also the fourtli chapter of that epistle, 
 verses 13, 14, 16, which I have not room to 
 transcribe. Here the apostle comforts them 
 under their affliction for their deceased bretli- 
 ren, exhorting them " not to sorrow as with- 
 out hope ;" and what is the hope, by which 
 lie teaches them to support their .spirits? 
 Even this, "That them which.sleep in Jesus 
 shall God bring with him." In other words, 
 and by a fair paraphrase surely, telling them 
 tliey are only taken from them for a season, 
 and that they should receive them at their 
 resurrection. 
 
 If you can take off the force of these te.xts, 
 my dear cousin, you will go a great way to- 
 u-ards shaking my opinion : if not, I tliink 
 they must go a great way towards shaking 
 yours. 
 
 Tiie reason why I did not send you my 
 opinion of Pe.arsall was, because I had not 
 tiien read him ; I have read him since, and 
 like him much, especially the latter part of 
 
 him ; but you have whetted my curiosity to 
 see the last letter by tearing it out; unless 
 you can give me a good reason why I should 
 not see it, I shall inquire for the book the 
 first time I go to Cambridge. Perhaps I 
 may be partial to Hervey for the sake of hia 
 other writings, but I cannot give Pearsall the 
 preference to him, for I think him one of the 
 most scriptural writers in the world. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, April 18, 1706. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — Having gone as far as I 
 thought needful to justify the opinion of our 
 meeting and knowing each otlier hereafter, 1 
 find upon reflection that I have done but half 
 my business, and that one of the questions 
 you proposed remains entirely unconsidered, 
 viz.," Whether the things of our present state 
 will not be of too low and mean a nature to 
 engage our thoughts or make a part of our 
 communications in heaven." 
 
 The common and ordinary occurrences of 
 life, no doubt, and even the ties of kindred 
 and of all temporal interests, will be entirely 
 discarded from amongst that happy society, 
 and, possibly, even the remembrance of them 
 done away. But it does not therefore follow 
 that our spiritual concerns, even in this life, 
 will be forgotten, neither do I think, that they 
 can ever ajjpear trifling to us, in any the most 
 distant period of eternity. God, as you say, 
 in reference to the Scripture, will be all in 
 all. But does not that expression mean that, 
 being admitted to so near an approach to our 
 heavenly Father and Redeemer, our whole 
 nature, "the soul, and all its faculties, will be 
 employed in praising and adoring him? 
 Doubtless, however, this will be the case, 
 and if so, will it not furnish out a glorious 
 theme of thanksgiving to recollect " the rock 
 whence we were hewn, and the hole of the 
 pit whence we were digged?" — to recollect 
 the time, when our faith, which, under the 
 tuition and nurture of the Holy Spirit, has 
 produced such a plentiful harvest of inunor- 
 tal bliss, was as a grain of mustard seed, 
 small in itself, promising but little fruit, and 
 producing less? — to recollect the various at- 
 tempts that were made upon it, by the woi'ld, 
 the flesh, and the devil, and its various tri- 
 umphs over all, by the assistance of God, 
 through our Lord Jesus Christ! At present, 
 whatever our convictions may be of the sin- 
 fulness and corruption of our nature, we can 
 make but a very imperfect estimate either of 
 our weakness or our guilt. Then, no doubt, 
 we shall understand the full value of the won- 
 derful salvation wrouglit out for us : and it 
 seems reasonable to suppose that, in order to 
 form a just idea of our redemption, we shall
 
 41 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 oe able to form a just one of the danger we 
 have escaped; when we Ivnow how weak and 
 frail we are, surely we siiall he more able to 
 render due praise and honor to his strength 
 who fought for us; when we know com- 
 pletely the hatefulness of sin in the sight of 
 God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we 
 shall know how to value the blood by which 
 we were cleansed as we ought. The twenty- 
 four elders, in the fifth of the Revelations, 
 give glory to God for their redemption out 
 of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and 
 nation. This surely implies a retrospect to 
 their respective conditions upon earth, and 
 that each remembered out of what particular 
 kindred and nation he had been redeemed, 
 and, if so, then surely the minutest circum- 
 stance of their redemption did not escape 
 their memory. They who triumph over the 
 Beast, in the fifteenth chapter, sing tlie song 
 of Closes, the servant of God ; and what was 
 that song ? A sublime record of Israel's de- 
 liverance and the destruction of her enemies 
 in the Red Sea, typical, no doubt, of the song 
 which the redeemed in Sion shall sing to 
 celebrate their own salvation and the defeat 
 of their spiritual enemies. This again im- 
 plies a recollection of tiie dangers they had be- 
 fore encountered, and the supplies of strength 
 and ardor they had, in every emergency, re- 
 ceived from the great Deliverer out of all. 
 These quotations do not, indeed, prove that 
 their warfare upon earth includes a part of 
 their converse with each other; but they prove 
 that it is a theme not unworthy to be heard, 
 even before the throne of God, and therefore 
 it cannot be unfit for reciprocal communica- 
 tion. 
 
 But you doubt whether there is any com- 
 munication between the blessed at all, nei- 
 ther do I recollect any Scripture that proves 
 it, or that bears any relation to the subject. 
 But reason seems to require it so peremj)- 
 torily, that a society without social inter- 
 course seems to be a solecism and a contra- 
 diction in terms ; and the inhabitants of those 
 regions are called, you know, in Scripture, 
 an innumerable company, and an assembly, 
 which seems to convey the idea of society as 
 clearly as tlie word itself. Human testi- 
 mony weighs but little in matters of this 
 sort, but let it have all the weight it can. I 
 know no greater names in di\nnity than 
 Watts and Doddridge : they were both of 
 this opinion, and I send you the words of 
 the latter. 
 
 "Our companions in glory may probably 
 as.«ist us by their wise and good observations, 
 when we come to make the providence of God 
 here upon earth, under the guidance and di- 
 rection of our Lord Jesus Christ, the subject 
 of our n.ulual converse." 
 
 Thus, ray dear cousin, I have spread out 
 my reasons before you for an opinion, which, 
 
 whether admitted or denied, affects not the 
 state or interest of our soul. May our Crea. 
 tor. Redeemer, and Sanctifier, conduct us 
 into his own Jerusalem, where there shall be 
 no night, neither any darkness at all, where 
 we shall be free, even from innocent error 
 and perfect in the light of the knowledge of 
 God in the face of Jesus Christ. 
 
 Yours faithfully, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, Sept. 3, 17G6. 
 My dear Cousin, — It is reckoned, you know 
 a great achievement to silence an opponent in 
 disputation, and your silence was of so long 
 a continuance, that I might well begin to 
 please myself with the apprehension of hav- 
 ing accomplished so arduous a matter. To 
 be serious, however, I am not sorry that what 
 I have said concerning our knowledge of 
 each other in a future state has a little' in- 
 clined you to the affirmative. For though 
 the redeemed of the Lord shall be sure of 
 being as happy in that state as infinite power 
 employed by infinite goodness can make 
 them, and therefore ..it may seem immaterial 
 whether we shall, or shall not, recollect each 
 other hereafter ; yet our present happiness at 
 least is a little interested in the question. A 
 parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, 
 t'erl a little heart-ache at the thought of an 
 eternal separation from the objects of her 
 regard: and not to know them when she 
 meets them in another life, or never to meet 
 them at all, amounts, though not altogether, 
 yet nearly to the same thing. Remember 
 them, I think she needs must. To hear that 
 they are happy, will indeed be no small addi- 
 tion to her own felicity ; but to see them so 
 will surely be a greater. Thus, at least, it 
 appears to our present human apprehension ; 
 consequently, therefore, to think that, when 
 we leave them, we lose them forever; that 
 we must remain eternally ignorant whether 
 tliey that were flesh of our flesh, and bone of 
 our bone, partake with us of celestial glory, 
 or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, 
 must shed a dismal gloom over all our pres- 
 ent connections. For my own part, this 
 life is such a momentary thing, and all its in- 
 terests have so shrunk in my estimation, since, 
 by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I be- 
 came attentive to the things of another ; that, 
 like a worm in the bud of all my friendships 
 and affections, this very thougiit would eat 
 out the heart of them all had I a thousand; 
 and were their date to terminate with this 
 life, I think I should have no inclination to 
 cultivate and improve such a fugitive busi- 
 ness. Yet friendsliip is necessary to our 
 happiness here, and, built upon Christian 
 principles, upon which only it can stand, is a
 
 thing even of religious sanction — for what is 
 that love which the Holy Spirit, speaking by 
 St. John, so much inculcates, but friendship 1 
 — the only lovs which deserves the name — a 
 love wiiich can toil, and watch, and deny it- 
 self, and go to death for its brother. Worldly 
 friendships are a poor weed compared with 
 this, and even this union of spirit in the bond 
 of peace would suffer, in my mind at least, 
 could I tliink it were only coeval witli our 
 earthly mansions. It may possibly argue 
 great weakness in me, in this instance, to 
 stand so much in r^ed of future hopes to 
 support me in the discharge of present duty. 
 But so it is : I am far, I know, very far, from 
 being perfect in Christian love or any other 
 Divine attainment, and am therefore unwill- 
 ing to forego whatever may help me in my 
 progress. 
 
 You are so kind as to inquire after my 
 health, for which reason I must tell you, 
 what otherwise would not be worth mention- 
 ing, tluit I have lately been just enough in- 
 disposed to convince me that not only hu- 
 man life in general, but mine in particular, 
 iiangs by a slender thread. 1 am stout 
 enough in appearance, yet a little illness de- 
 molishes me. I have had a severe shake, 
 and the building is not so firm as it was. 
 But I bless God for it, with all my heart. 
 If the inner man be but strengthened, day 
 by day, as I hope, under the renewing influ- 
 ences of the Holy Ghost, it will be, no mat- 
 ter how soon the outward is dissolved. He 
 who has, in a manner, raised me from the 
 dead, in a literal sense, has given me the 
 grace, I trust, to be ready at the shortest 
 notice to surrender up to liira that life which 
 I have twice received from inm. Wiiether I 
 live or die, I desire it may be to his glory, 
 and it nmst be to my happiness. I tiiank 
 God that I have those amongst my kindred 
 to whom I can write, without reserve, 'my 
 sentiments upon this subject, as I do to you. 
 A letter upon any other subject is more in- 
 sipid to me than ever my task was when a 
 scliool-boy, and I say not this in vain glory, 
 God forbid ! but to show you what the Al- 
 mighty, whose name I am unworthy to men- 
 tion, has done for me, the chief of sinners. 
 Once he was a terror to me, and his service, 
 
 wliat a weariness it was ! Now I can say, 
 
 1 love him and his holy name, and am never 
 so liappy as when I speak of his mercies to 
 me Yours, dear Cousin, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. 20, 17G6. 
 ]\ry dear Cousin, — I am very sorry for 
 poor Cliarles's illness, and hope you will 
 soon have cause to thank God for his com- 
 plete recovery. We have an epidemical 
 
 fever in this country likewise, which le ives 
 beliind it a continual sighing, almost to suffo- 
 cation : not that I have seen any instance of 
 it, for, blessed be God! our faiuily have 
 hitherto escaped it, but such was the account 
 I heard of it this morning. 
 
 I am obliged to you for the interest you 
 take in my welfare, and for your inquiring so 
 particularly after the manner in wiiich my 
 time passes here. As to amusements, 1 
 maan what the world calls such, we have 
 none : the place indeed swarms with them ; 
 and cards and dancing are the professed 
 business of almost all the gentle inhabitants 
 of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in 
 them, or to be accessories to this way of 
 murdering our time, and by so doing have 
 acquired the name of Metliodists. Having 
 told you how we do not spend our time, I 
 vvill next say how we do. We breakfjist 
 commonly between eight and nine ; till 
 eleven, we read eitlier the Scripture, or the 
 sermons of some faithful preacher of those 
 holy mysteries ; at eleven, we attend divine 
 service, wiiich is performed here twice every 
 day; and from twelve to three we separate, 
 and amuse ourselves as we please. During 
 that interval I either read in my own apart- 
 ment, or walk, or ride, or work in the gar- 
 den. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, 
 but if the weather permits adjourn to the 
 garden, where, with Mrs. Unwin and her 
 son, I have generally the pleasure of relig- 
 ious conversation till tea time. If it rains, or 
 is too windy for walking, we either converse 
 within doors, or sing some hymns of Mar- 
 tin's collection, and, by the help of Mrs. Un- 
 winds harpsichord, make up a tolerable con- 
 cert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best 
 and most musical performers. After tea we 
 sally forth to walli in good earnest. Mrs. 
 Unwin is a good walker, and we have gener- 
 ally ti-avelk'd about four miles before we see 
 home ag an. When the days are short, we 
 make this excursion in the former part of 
 the day, between church-tiine and dinner. 
 At night we read and converse, as before, 
 till supper, and commonly finish the evening 
 either with hymns or a sermon ; and, last of 
 all, the family are called to prayers. I need 
 not tell you that such a life as this is con- 
 sistent with the utmost cheerfulness : ac- 
 cordingly, we are all happy, and dwell to- 
 gether in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin 
 has almost a maternal afleclion for me, and J 
 have something very like a filial one fo- ler, 
 and her son and I are brothers. Blessed be 
 the God of our salvation for such compan- 
 ions, and for such a life, above all for a heart 
 to like it! 
 
 I have had many anxious thoughts about 
 taking orders, and' I believe every new ton- 
 vert is apt to think himself called upon for 
 that purpose ; but it has pleased God, by
 
 46 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 means which there is no need to particular- 
 ize, to give me full satisfaction as to the 
 propriety of declining it; indeed, they who 
 have the least idea of what I have suffered 
 from the dread of public exhibitions will 
 readily excuse my never attempting them 
 hereafter. In the meantime, if it please the 
 Almighty, I may be an instrument of turning 
 many to the truth, in a pri\'ate way, and hope 
 that my endeavors in this way have not been 
 entirely unsuccessful. Had I the zeal of 
 Moses, I should want an Aaron to be my 
 H' okesman. 
 
 Yours ever, my dear Cousin, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COW^PER. 
 
 Huntingdon, March 11, 1767. 
 
 My dear Cousin,— To find those whom I 
 love, clearly and strongly persuaded of evan- 
 gelical truth, gives me a pleasure superior to 
 any this world can afford me. Judge, then, 
 whether your letter, in which the body and 
 substance of a saving faith is so evidently set 
 forth, could meet with a lukewarm recep- 
 tion at my hands, or be entertiuned with in- 
 difference ! Would you know the true rea- 
 son of my long silence ? Conscious that my 
 religious principles are generally excepted 
 agamst, and that the conduct they produce, 
 wherever they are heartily maintained, is still 
 more the object of disapprobation than those 
 principles themselves, and remembering that 
 I had made both the one and the other known 
 to you, without having any clear assurance 
 that our faith in Jesus was of the same 
 stamp and character, I could not help think- 
 ing it possible tliat you might disapprove both 
 mv sentiments and practice ; that you might 
 think the one unsupported by Scripture, and 
 the other whimsical, and unnecessarily strict 
 and rigorous, and consequently would be 
 rather pleased with the suspension of a cor- 
 respondence, which a different way of think- 
 ing upon so momentous a subject as that we 
 wrote upon was likely to render tedious and 
 irksome to you. 
 
 I have told you the truth from my heart ; 
 forgive me these injurious suspicions, and 
 ne °er imagine that I shall hear from you 
 upon this delightful theme without a real 
 joy, or without prayer to God to prosper you 
 in the way of his truth, his sanctifying and 
 ■ saving truth. The book you mention lies 
 now '^ipon my table. Marshall* is an 
 old acquaintance of mine ; I have both read 
 him and heard him read, with pleasure and 
 edification. The doctrines he maintains are, 
 
 * "Marshall on Sanctification." This book is distin- 
 suished by pn found and enlarged views of tlie subject 
 on v.-hich it treats. It was strongly recommended by the 
 pious Hervey. whose testimony to its merits is prefixed to 
 Vie wort. 
 
 under the influence of the Spirit of Christ, the 
 very life of my souf and the soul of all my 
 happiness ; that Jesus is a 'present Saviour 
 from the guilt of sin, by his most precious 
 blood, and from the power of it by his Spirit; 
 that, coi rupt and wretched in ourselves, in 
 Him, and in Him only., we are complete ; that 
 being united to Jesus by a lively faith, we 
 have a solid and eternal interest in his obe- 
 dience and sufferings to justify us before the 
 face of our heavenly Father, and that all this 
 inestimable treasure, the earnest of which is 
 in grace, and its con^mmation in glory, is 
 given, freely given, to us of God ; in short, 
 that he hath opened the kingdom of heaven 
 to all believers : these are the truths which, 
 by the grace of God, shall ever be dearer to 
 me than life itself; shall ever be placed next 
 my heart, as the throne whereon the Saviour 
 himself shall sit, to sway all its motions, and 
 reduce that world of iniquity and rebellion to 
 a state of filial and affectionate obedience to 
 the will of the most Holy. 
 
 These, my dear cousin, are the truths to 
 which by nature v.-e are enemies : they de- 
 base the sinner, and exalt the Saviour, to a 
 degree which the pride of our hearts (till 
 almighty grace subdues them) is determined 
 never to allow. May the Almighty reveal 
 his Son in our hearts, continually, more and 
 more, and teach us to increase in love to- 
 wards him continually, for having given us 
 the unspeakable riches of Christ. 
 
 Yours faithfully, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWTEE. 
 
 March 14, 1767. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — I just add a line, by way 
 of postscript to my last, to apprize you of 
 the arrival of a very dear friend of mine at 
 th"fe Park, on Friday next, the son of Mr. 
 Unwin, whom I have desired to call on you 
 in his way from London to Huntingdon. If 
 you knew him as well as I do, you would lo^^e 
 him as much. But I leave the young man to 
 speak for himself, which he is very able to do. 
 He is ready possessed of an answer to every 
 question you can possibly ask concerning me, 
 and knows my whole story from first to last. 
 I give you this previous notice, because I 
 know you are not fond of strange faces, and 
 becaus'e 1 thought it would, in some degree, 
 save him the pain of announcing himself 
 
 I am become a great florist and shrub-doc- 
 tor. If the major can make up a small pack- 
 et of seeds, that will make a figure in a gar- 
 den, where we have little else besides jessa- 
 mine and honeysuckle ; such a packet I mean 
 as may be put into one's fob, I will promise 
 to take great care of them, as I ought to 
 value natives of the Park. They must not 
 be such, however, as require great skill in the
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 47 
 
 mtinagement, for at present I have no skill to 
 spare. 
 
 I think Marshall one of the best writers, 
 and the most spiritual expositor of Scripture 
 I ever read. I admire tlie strengtli of his ar- 
 gument, and the clearness of iiis reasonings, 
 upon those parts of our most holy religion 
 which are generally least understood (even 
 by real Cln-istians), as masterpieces of the 
 k'ind. His section upon the union of the soul 
 with Christ is an instance of what I mean, in 
 wiijch he has spoken of a most mysterious 
 trulh, with admirable perspicuity and with 
 great good sense, making it all the while 
 subservient to his main purport, of proving 
 lioliness to be the fruit and etfect of faith. 
 
 I subjoin thus much upon that author, be- 
 cause, though you desired my opinion of liim, 
 I remembe°that in my last I rather left you 
 to lind it out by inference than expressed it, 
 as I ought to have done. I never met with a 
 . man who understood the plan of salvation 
 better, or was more happy iu explaining it. 
 
 vv. c. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdou, April 3, 17G7. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — You sent my friend Un- 
 win home to us charmed with your kind re- 
 cepiion of him, and with everything he saw 
 at the Park. Sliall I once more give you a 
 peep into my vile and deceitful heart ] What 
 motive do you think lay at the bottom of my 
 conduct, when I desired him to call upon 
 you ? I did not suspect, at first, that pride 
 and vain-glory had any share in it, but quick- 
 ly after I had recommended the visit to him, 
 I discovered in tliat fruitful soil the very root 
 of the matter. You know 1 am a stranger 
 here ; all such are suspected characters, un- 
 less they bring their credentials with them. 
 To tliis moment, I believe, it is matter of 
 speculation in tiie place whence I came and 
 to whom I belong. 
 
 Though my friend, you may suppose, be- 
 fore I was admitted an inmate here, was sat- 
 isfied that I was not a mere vagabond, and 
 has, since that time, received more convinc- 
 ing proofs of my sponsibilittj, yet I could not 
 resist tiie opportunity of furnisliing liini with 
 ocular demonstration of it, by introducing 
 liira to one of my most splendid connections ; 
 that when lie hears me called, " Thai fellow 
 Cowpcr,'' wliicli has happened heretofore, he 
 may be able, upon unquestionable evidence, 
 to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve me 
 from the weigiit of tliat opprobrious appella- 
 tion. O Pride! Pride! it deceives with the 
 subtlety of a serpent, and seems to walk 
 erect, though it crawls upon tlie earth. How 
 will i' twist and twine itself about, to get 
 from under the cross, wliicii it is the glory 
 of our Christian calling to be able to bear ] 
 
 with patience and go5d will ! They who can 
 guess at the heart of a stranger, and you espe- 
 cially, who are of a compassionate temper 
 will be more ready, perhaps, to excuse me, 
 in this instance, than I can be to excuse my- 
 self. But, in good truth, it was abominable 
 pride of heart, indignation, and vanity, and 
 deserves no better name. How should such 
 a creature be admitted into those pure and 
 sinless mansions, where nothing shall enter 
 that defileth, did not the blood of Christ, ap- 
 plied by the hand of faith, take away the 
 guilt of sin, and leave no spot or stain be- 
 hind it? Oh what continual need have I of 
 an Almighty, AU-sufiicieiit Saviour? I am 
 glad you are acquainted so pariicularly with 
 all the circumstances of my story, for I know 
 that your secrecy and discretion may be trust- 
 ed with anything. A thread of mercy ran 
 througli all'tlie intricate maze of those afflic- 
 tive providences, so mysterious to myself at 
 the time, and which must ever remain so to 
 all who will not see what was the great de- 
 sign of them ; at the judgment-seat of Christ 
 the whole shall be laid open. How is the 
 rod of iron changed into a sceptre of love ! 
 
 I tiiank you for the seeds; I iiave commit- 
 ted some of each sort to the ground, whence 
 they will spring up like so many mementoes 
 to remind me of my friends at the Park. 
 
 \V. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Juno 10, 1767. 
 Dear Joe, — This part of the world is not 
 productive of much news, unless the coldness 
 of the weather be so, which is excessive for 
 the season. We expect, or rather experience 
 a warm contest between the candidates for 
 the county ; the preliminary movements of 
 bribery, threatening, and drunkenness, being 
 already taken. The Sandwich interest seems 
 to shake, though both parties are very san- 
 guine. Lord Carysfort is supposed to be in 
 great jeopardy, though as yet, I imagine, a 
 clear judgment cannot be formed; for a man 
 may have all the noise on his side and yet 
 lose his election. You know me to be an 
 uninterested person, and I am sure I am a 
 very ignorant one in things of this kind. T 
 only wish it was over, for it occasions the 
 most detestable scene of profligacy and riot 
 that can be imagined. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Huntingdon, July 13, 1767. 
 My dear Cousin, — The newspaper has told 
 you the truth. Poor Mr. Unwin, behig flung 
 from his horse as he was going to his church 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 48 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 on Sunday morning, received a dreadful frac- 
 ture on the back part of the skull, under 
 which he languished till Thursday evening, 
 and then died. This awful dispensation has 
 left an impression upon our spirits which will 
 not be presently worn off. He died in a poor 
 cottage, to which he w'as carried immediately 
 after his fall, about a mile from home, and his 
 body could not be brought to his house till 
 the spirit was gone to him who gave it. May 
 it be a lesson to us to watch, since we know 
 not the day, nor the hour, when our Lord 
 Cometh ! 
 
 The effect of it upon my circumstances will 
 only be a change of the place of my abode. 
 For I shall still, by God's leave, continue 
 with Mrs. Unwin, whose behavior to me has 
 always been that of a mother to a son. We 
 know not where we shall settle, but we trust 
 that the Lord, whom we seek, will go before 
 us and prepare a rest for us. We hftve em- 
 ployed our friend Haweis,* Dr. Conyers,t of 
 Helmsley, in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton, of 
 Olney, to look out a place for us, but at pres- 
 ent are entirely ignorant under which of the 
 three w^e shall settle, or whether under either. 
 I have written to my aunt Madan, to desire 
 Martin to assist us with his inquiries. It is 
 probable we shall stay here till Michaelmas. 
 ^ W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 July IC, 17G7. 
 
 Dear Joe, — Your wishes that the news- 
 paper may have misinformed you are vain. 
 Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner 
 there mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sun- 
 day morning he was in perfect health, and as 
 
 * Dr. Haweis was a leading character in the religious 
 world al this time, and subsequently the superintendent 
 of Lady Huntingdon's chapels, and of the Seminary for 
 Students foiuided by that lady. His principal works are 
 a "Commentary on the Bible," and "•History of the 
 Church." 
 
 t Dr. Conyers. The circumstances attending the death 
 of this truly pious and eminent servant of God are too 
 affecting not to be deemed worthy of being recorded. 
 He had ascended the pul|jit of St. Paul's, lieptford, of 
 which he was rector, and had just delivered his text, 
 " Ye shall see my face no more," when he was seized 
 with a sudden fainting, and fell back in liis pulpit : he re- 
 covered, however, sufficiently to ))roceod with his ser- 
 mon, and to give the concluding blessing, when he again 
 fainted away, was carried home, and expired without a 
 groan, in the sixty-second year of his age, 1780. The 
 atfecting manner of his death is thus happily adverted to 
 in the following beautiful lines : — 
 
 Sent by their Lord on purposes of grace, 
 
 Thus angels do his will, and see his face ; 
 
 With outspread wings they stand, prepar'd to soar. 
 
 Declare their message, and are seen no more. 
 
 Underneath is a Latin inscriptipn, of which the follow- 
 Jjig is the translation. 
 
 I have sinned. 
 
 I repented. I believed. 
 
 I have loved. I rest. 
 
 I shall rise again. 
 
 And, by the grace of Christ, 
 
 However unworthy, 
 
 I shall reign. 
 
 likely to live twenty years as either of ua, 
 and before ten was stretched speechless and 
 senseless upon a flock bed, in a poor cottage; 
 where (it being impossible to remove him) 
 he died on Thur^:day evening. I heard his 
 dying groans, the effect of great agony, for 
 he was a strong man, and much convulsed in 
 his last moments. The few short intervals 
 of sense that were indulged him he spent in 
 earnest prayer, and in expressions of a firm 
 trust and confidence in the only Saviour. To 
 that stronghold we must all resort at last, if 
 we would have hope in our death; when 
 every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to 
 the only shelter to which we can repair to 
 any purpose ; and happy is it for us, when, 
 the false ground we have chosen for our- 
 selves being broken under us, we .find our- 
 selves obliged to have recourse to the rock 
 which can never be shaken ; when this is our 
 lot, we receive great and undeserved mercy. 
 Our society will not break up, but we shall 
 settle in some other place, where, is at present 
 uncertain. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 These tender and confidential letters de- 
 scribe, in the clearest light, the singularly 
 peaceful and devout life of this amiable writ- 
 er, during his residence at Huntingdon, and 
 the melancholy accident which occasioned 
 his removal to a distant county. Time and 
 providential circumstances now introduced 
 to the notice of Cowper, the zealous and 
 venerable friend who became his intimate 
 associate for many years, after having ad- 
 vised and assisted him in the important con- 
 cern of fixing his future residence. The 
 Rev. John Newton, then curate of Olney, in 
 Buckinghamshire, had been requested by the 
 late Dr. Conyers (who, in taking his degree 
 in divinity at Cambridge, had formed a friend- 
 ship with young Mr. Unwin, and learned from 
 him the religious character of his mother) to 
 seize an opportunity, as he was passing 
 through Huntingdon, of making a visit to 
 that exemplary lady. This visit (so impor- 
 tant in its consequences to the future history 
 of Cowper) happened to take place within a 
 few days after the calamitous death of Mr. 
 Unwin. As a change of scene appeared de- 
 sirable both to Mrs. Unwin and to the in- 
 teresting recluse whom she had generously 
 requested to continue under her care, Mr. 
 Newton offered to assist them in removing 
 to the pleasant and picturesque county in 
 which he resided. They were willing to en- 
 ter into the flock of a pious and devoted 
 pastor, whose ideas were so much in har- 
 mony with their own. He engaged for them 
 a house at Olney, where they arrived on the 
 14th of October, 1767. He thus alludes to
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 49 
 
 his new residence in the following extract of 
 a letter to Mr. Hill. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, October 29, 17C7. 
 1 hiive no map to consult at present, but, 
 by wluit renienibnuice I luive of the situation 
 of this place in the last I saw, it lies at the 
 norlhernniost point of the county. We are 
 just five miles beyond Newport Pagnell. I 
 am willing to suspect that you make this in- 
 quiry with a view to an interview, when time 
 shall serve. We may possibly be settled in 
 our ovn house in about a month, where so 
 goad a friend of mine will be extremely wel- 
 come to Mrs. Unwin. We shall have a bed 
 and a warm fire-side at your service, if you 
 can come before next summer ; and if not, a 
 parlor tliat looks the north wind full in the 
 face, wliere you may be as cool as in the 
 groves of Valambrosa. 
 
 Yours, my dear 'Sephus, 
 
 Affectionately ever, W. C. 
 
 here are as scarce as cucumbers at Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 I visited St. Alban's about a fortnight since 
 in person, and I visit it every day in thought. 
 The recollection of what passed tiiere, and 
 the consequences that followed it, fill my 
 mind continually, and make the circumstances 
 of a poor, transient, half-spent life, so insipid 
 and unafl^ecting, that I have no heart to think 
 or write much about them. Wiiether tiie 
 nation is worshipping Mr. Wilkes, or any 
 other idol, is of little moment to one who 
 liopes and believes that he shall shortly stand 
 in tiie presence of the great and blessed God. 
 I thank him that he has given me such a deep, 
 impressed, persuasion of this awful truth as 
 a thousand worlds would not purchase from 
 me. It gives me a relish to every blessing, 
 and makes every trouble light. 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 In entering on the correspondence of the 
 ensuing year, we find the following impres- 
 sive letter addressed to Mr. Hill. 
 
 It would have been difficult to select a sit- 
 uation apparently more suited to the existing 
 circumstances and character of Cowper than 
 the scene to which he was now transferred. 
 In Mr. Newton were happily united the quali- 
 fications of piety, fervent, rational, and cheer- 
 ful — the kind and atfectionate feelings that 
 inspire iViendship and regard — a solid judg- 
 ment, and a refined taste — the power to edify 
 and please, and the grace that knows how to 
 impro\e it to the highest ends. He lived in the 
 mid'it .if a flock who loved and esteemed him, 
 and wiio saw in his ministrations the creden- 
 tials of heaven, and in his life the exemplifi- 
 •iation of the doctrines that he taught. 
 
 The time of Cowper, in his new situation, 
 seems to have been chiefly devoted to relig- 
 ious contemplation, to social prayer, and to 
 active charity. To this first of Christian vir- 
 tues, his heart was eminently inclined, and 
 Providence very graciously enabled him to 
 exercise and enjoy it to an extent far supe- 
 rior to what his own scanty fortune allowed 
 means. The death of his father, 1756, failed 
 to pi ice him in a state of independence, and 
 the singular cast of his own mind was such, 
 that n^iture seemed to have rendered it im- 
 possible for him either to covet or to acquire 
 riches. His happy exemption from worldly 
 passions is forcibly displayed in the following 
 letter. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, June 16, 1768. 
 
 Dear Joe, — I thank you for so full an an- 
 swer to so empty an epistle. If Olney fur- 
 nished anything "for your amusement, you 
 should have it in return, but occurrences 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 21, 1769. 
 Dear Joe, — I rejoice with you in your re- 
 covery, and that you have escaped from the 
 hands of one from whose hands you will not 
 always escape. Death is either the most for- 
 midable, or the most comfortable thing we 
 have in prospect, on this side of eternity. 
 To be brought neAr to him, and to discern 
 neither of these features in his face, would 
 argue a degree of insensibility, of which I 
 will not suspect my friend, whom I know to 
 be a thinking man. You have been brought 
 down to the side of the grave, and you have 
 been raised again by Him who has the keys 
 of the invisible world ; who opens and none 
 can shut, who shuts and none can open. I 
 do not forget to return thanks to Him on 
 your behalf, and to pray that your life, which 
 he has spared, may be devoted to his service. 
 " Behold! I stand at the door and knock," is 
 the word of Him, on whom both our mortal 
 and immortal life depend, and, blessed be his 
 name, it is the word of one who wounds only 
 that he may heal, and who waits to be gra- 
 cious. The language of every such dispensa^ 
 tion is, " Prepare to meet thy God." It speaks 
 with the voice of mercy and goodness, for, 
 without such notices, whatever preparation 
 we might make for other events, we should 
 make none for this. IMy dear friend, I desire 
 and pray that, when this last enemy siiall 
 come to execute an unlimiled commission 
 upon us, we may be found ready, being 
 established and rooted in a well-grounded 
 faith in His name, who conquered and tri- 
 umphed over him upon his cross. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 4
 
 50 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO JOSliFH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 20, 1769. 
 
 My dear Joe, — I have a moment to spare, 
 to tell you that your letter is just come to 
 hand, and to thank you for it. I do assure 
 you, the gentleness and candor of your man- 
 ner engages my affection to you very much. 
 You answer with mildness to an admonition, 
 which would have provoked many to anger. 
 I have not time to add more, except just to 
 hint that, if I am ever enabled to look for- 
 ward to death with comfort, which, I thank 
 God, is sometimes the case with me, I do not 
 take my view of it from the top of my own 
 works and deservings, though God is witness 
 that the labor of my life is to keep a con- 
 science void of offence towards Him. He is 
 always formidable to me, but when I see him 
 disarmed of his sting, by having sheathed it 
 in the body of Christ Jesus. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH Hn.L, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, July 31, 1769. 
 
 Dear Joe, — Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, 
 and Sir Cowper, for that is his title at Olney, 
 prefers his home to any other spot of earth 
 in the world. Horace, observing this differ- 
 ence of temper in different persons, cried out 
 a good many years ago, in the true spirit of 
 poetry, " How much one man differs from an- 
 other I" This does not seem a very sublime 
 exclamation in English, but I remember we 
 were taught to admire it in the original. 
 
 My dear friend, I am obliged to you for 
 your invitation : but being long accustomed 
 to retirement, which I was always fond of, I 
 am now more than ever unwilling to revisit 
 those noisy and crowded scenes, which I 
 ne\'er loved, and which I now abhor. I re- 
 member you with all the friendship I ever 
 professed, which is as much as ever I enter- 
 tained for any man. But the strange and un- 
 common incidents of my life have given an 
 entire new turn to my whole character and 
 conduct, and rendered me incapable of re- 
 ceiving pleasure from the same employments 
 and amusements of which I could readily 
 partake in former days. 
 
 I love you and yours, I thank you for your 
 continued remembrance of me, and shall not 
 cease to be their and your 
 
 Affectionate friend and servant, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Cowper's present retirement was distin- 
 guished by many private acts of beneficence, 
 &nd his exemplary virtue was such that the 
 opulent sometimes delighted to make him 
 thair almoner. In his sequestered life at 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 Olney, he ministered abundantly to the wanti 
 of the poor, from a fund with which he was 
 supplied by that model of extensive and 
 unostentatious philanthropy, the late John 
 Thornton, Esq., whose name he has immor- 
 talized in his Poem on Charity, still honoring 
 his memory by an additional tribute to his 
 virtues in the following descriptive eulogy 
 written immediately on hii- .'"jpcease, in the 
 year 1790. 
 
 Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
 Praising the Author of all good in man ; 
 And next commemorating worthies lost, 
 The dead in whom that good abounded most. 
 
 Thee therefore of commercial fame, but more 
 Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore — 
 Thee, Thornton, worthy in some page to akine 
 As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
 I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
 The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; 
 Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
 It were to weep that goodness has its meed, 
 That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
 And glory for the virtuous when they die. 
 
 What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard 
 Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, 
 Sweet as the privilege of healing woe 
 Suffer'd by virtue combating below ! [means 
 
 That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee 
 To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
 Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
 As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
 Thou hadst an industry in doing good. 
 Restless as his who toils and sweats for fool 
 Av'rice in thee was the desire of wealth 
 By rust unperisliable, or by stealth. 
 And, if the genuine worth of gold depend 
 On application to its noblest end. 
 Thine had a value in the scales of heaven. 
 Surpassing all that mine or mint have given 
 And though God made thee of a nature prone 
 To distribution, boundless, of thy own ; 
 And still, by motives of religious force, 
 Impell'd thee more to that heroic course; 
 Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
 Nice in its choice, and of a temp'rate heat; 
 And, though in act unwearied, secret still, 
 As, in some solitude, the summer rill 
 Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green. 
 And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un- 
 seen. 
 
 Such was thy charity ; no sudden start, 
 After long sleep of passion in the heart. 
 But stedt'ast principle, and in its kind 
 Of close alliance with th' eternal mind ; 
 Traced easily to its true source above. 
 To Him. whose works bespeak his nature, love. 
 Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
 This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; 
 That the mcredulous themselves may see 
 Its use and power exemplified in thee. 
 
 This simple and sublime eulogy was a jusl 
 tribute of respect to the memory of this dis- 
 tinguished philanthropist; and, among tlie 
 happiest actions of this truly liberal man, we 
 may reckon his furnishing to a character so
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 51 
 
 reserved and so retired as Cowper the means 
 of enjoying the gratification of active and 
 costly beneficence ; a gratification in which 
 the sequestered poet had delighted to in- 
 dulge, before his acquaintance with Mr. 
 Newton afforded liim an opportunity of be- 
 ing concerned in distributing the private, 
 yet extensive, bounty of an opulent and ex- 
 emplary merchant. 
 
 Cowper, before he quitted St. Alban's, as- 
 sumed the charge of a necessitous child, to 
 extricate him from the perils of being edu- 
 cated by very profiigate parents ; he sent 
 him to a school at Huntingdon, transferred 
 him, on liis removal, to Olney, and finally 
 settled him as an apprentice at Oundle, in 
 Northamptonshire. 
 
 The warm, benevolent, and cheerful piety 
 of Mr. Newton, induced iiis friend Cowper to 
 participate so abundantly in his parocliial 
 plans and engagements, that the poet's time 
 and thougiits were more and more engrossed 
 by devotional objects. He became a valua- 
 ble auxiliary to a faithful parish priest, su- 
 perintended the religious exei-cises of tlie 
 poor, and engaged in an important undertak- 
 iag, to wiiich we shall shortly have occasion 
 to advert. 
 
 But in the midst of these pious duties he 
 forgot not his distant friends, and particular- 
 ly his amiable relation and corresi)Oudent, of 
 the Park-liouse, near Hertford. Tiie follow- 
 ing letter to that lady has no date, but it was 
 probably written soon after his establish- 
 ment at Olney. The remarkable memento 
 in the postscript was undoubtedly introduced 
 to counteract an idle rumor, arising from the 
 circumstance of his having settled himself 
 under the roof of a female friend, whose age 
 and whose virtues he considered to be sutB- 
 cient securities to ensure lier reputation as 
 well as his own. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — I have not been beliind- 
 hand in reproaching myself with neglect, but 
 desire to take shame to myself for my un- 
 profitableness in this, as we'll as in all other 
 r.'.'^pects. I take the next immediate oppor- 
 i-;inity, however, of thanking you for yours, 
 and of assuring yon tiiat, instead of "being 
 sitrprised at your silence, I rather wondt^- 
 that you or any of my friends have any room 
 left for so careless and negligent a corre- 
 spondent in your memories. I am obliged to 
 ou for the intelligence you send me of my 
 indred, and rejoice to hear of their uwlfare. 
 He wim settles the bounds of our habitations 
 lias at lengtii cast our lot at a great distance 
 from each otlier, but I do not therefore for- 
 get llleir former kindness to me, or cease to 
 be interested in their well being. You live 
 >n the centre of a world I know you do not 
 
 I 
 
 delight in. Happy are you, my dear ti-iend, 
 in being able to discern tlie insutficiency of 
 all it can atford to fill and satisfy the desires 
 of an immortal soul. That God who created 
 us for the enjoyment of himself, has deter- 
 mined in mercy that it shall fail us here, in 
 order that the blessed result of our inquiries 
 after happiness in the creature may be a 
 warm pursuit and a close attachment to our 
 true interests, in fellowship and communion 
 with Him, tin-ough the name and mediation 
 of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness 
 and grace that I liave any reason to hope I 
 am a partaker witli you in the desire after 
 better things than are to be found in a world 
 polluted with sin, and therefore devoted to 
 destruction. May He enable us both to 
 consider our present life in its only true 
 light, as an opportunity put into our hands 
 to glorify him amongst men by a conduct 
 suited to his word and will. I am miserably 
 defective in this holy and blessed art, but I 
 hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful 
 infirmities a sincere desire to live just so 
 long as I may be enabled, in some poor 
 pleasure, to answer the end of my existence 
 in this respect, and then to obey the sum- 
 mons and attend him in a world where they 
 who are his servants here shall pay him an 
 unsinful obedience forever. Your dear mo- 
 ther is too good to me, and puts a more 
 charitable construction upon my silence than 
 the tact will warrant. I am not better em- 
 ployed than I should be in corresponding 
 with her. I have tliat within which hinders 
 me wretchedly in everything that I ought to 
 do, and is prone to trifle, and let time and 
 every good thing run to waste. I hope 
 however to write to her soon. 
 
 My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cow- 
 per, and all that inquire after me. May God 
 be witii you, to bless you and to do you 
 good by all his dispensations; do not forget 
 me when you are speaking to our best 
 Friend before his mercy seat. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 N. ii. ] am not married. 
 
 In the j^ear 17G9, the lady to whom the 
 preceding letters are addressed was involved 
 in domestic aflliclion ; and .the following, 
 which the poet wrote to her on the occasion, 
 is so full of genuine piety and true pathos, 
 that it would be an injury to his memory to 
 suppress it. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 31, 1769. 
 
 'My dear Cousin, — A letter from your 
 brotiier Frederick brougiit me yesterday the 
 most afflicting intelligence that has reached 
 me these many years. I pray to God to 
 comfort you, and to enable you to sustaui
 
 52 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 this heavy stroke with that resignation to his 
 will which none but Himself can give, and 
 which he gives to none but his own children. 
 How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear 
 friend, beyond the common lot of the greater 
 part of mankind ; that you know what it is 
 to draw near to God in prayer, and are ac- 
 quainted with a throne of grace ! You have 
 resources in the infinite love of a dear Re- 
 deemer which are withheld from millions : 
 and the promises of God, Avhich are yea and 
 amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer al! 
 your necessities, and to sweeten the bitterest 
 cup which your heavenly Father will ever 
 put into your hand. May He now give you 
 liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, 
 till you are filled with consolation and peace 
 in the midst of trouble. He has said, 
 " When thou passest through the waters I 
 will be with thee, and through the rivers, 
 they shall not overflow thee."* You have 
 need of such a word as this, and he knows 
 your need of it, and the time of necessity is 
 the time when he will be sure to appear in 
 behalf of those who trust in him. I bear 
 you and yours upon my heart before him 
 night and day, for I never expect to hear of 
 distress which shall call upon me with a 
 louder voice to pray for the suflierer. I 
 know the Lord hears me for myself, vile and 
 sinful as 1 am, and believe, and am sure, that 
 he will hear me for you also. He is the 
 friend of the widow, and the father of the 
 fotherless, even God in his holy habitation ; 
 in all our afflictions he is afflicted, and chas- 
 tens us in mercy. Surely he will sanctify 
 this dispensation to you, do you great and 
 everlasting good by it, make the world ap- 
 pear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it 
 truly is, and open to your view the glories of 
 a better country, where there shall be no 
 more death, neither sorrow, nor pain ; but 
 God shall wipe away all tears from your 
 eyes forever. Oh that comfortable v/ord ! 
 " I have chosen thee in the furnace of afflic- 
 tion ;"f so that our very sorrows are evi- 
 dences of our calling, and he cha:,i,fcns us be- 
 cause we are his children. 
 
 My dear cousin, I commit you to the word 
 of his grace, and to the comforts of his Holy 
 Spirit. Your life is needful for your fiimily : 
 may God, in niercy to them, prolong it, and 
 may he preserve you from the dangerous 
 effects which a stroke like this might have 
 upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve 
 whh you, I pray for you ; could I do more I 
 would, but God must comfort you. 
 
 Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In the following year the tender feelings 
 of Cowper were called forth by family afflic- 
 tion that pressed more immediately on him- 
 * Isaiah xliii. 2. f Isaiah xlviii. 10. 
 
 self; he was hurried to Ciiinbridge b;- the 
 dangerous illness of his brother, then k'^id- 
 ing as a fellow at Bene't College. An 
 affection truly fraternal had ever subsisted 
 between the brothers, and the reader will 
 recollect what the poet has said, in one of 
 his letters, concerning 'their social intercourse 
 while he resided at Hmitingdon. 
 
 In the first two ye;;ra of his residence at 
 Olncy, he had been repei,;tedly visited by Mr. 
 John Cowper, and how cordially he retumcd 
 that kindness and attention the followi"T 
 letter will testify, which w;ts probably wriU 
 ten in the chamber of the invalid. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 JIarch 5, 1770. 
 My brother continues much as be was. 
 His case is a very dangerous one — an im- 
 posthume of the liver, attended by an asthma 
 and dropsy. The physician has little hope 
 of his recovery, I believe I might say none 
 at all, only, being a friend, he does not for- 
 mally give him over by ceasing to visit him, 
 lest it should sink his spirits. For my own 
 part, I have no expectation of his recovery, 
 except by a signal interposition of Provi- 
 dence in answer to prayer. His ca&e is 
 clearly beyond the reach of medicine ; but 
 I have seen many a sickness healed, where 
 the danger has been equally threatening, by 
 the only Physician of value. I doubt not 
 he will have an interest in your prayers, as 
 he has in the prayers of many. May the 
 Lord incline his ear and give an answer of 
 peace. I know it is good to be afflicted. I 
 trust that you have found it so, and that 
 under the teaching of God's ovv^n Spirit we 
 shall both be purified. It is the desire of 
 my soul to seek a better country, where God 
 shall wipe away all tears from the eyes of 
 his people ; and where, looking back upon 
 the ways by which he has led us, we shall 
 be filled with everlasting wonder, love, and 
 praise. 
 
 I must add no more. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 The sickness and death of his learned, 
 pious, and affectionate brother, made a very 
 strong impression on the tender heart and 
 mind of Cowper — an impression so strong, 
 that it induced him to write a narrative 
 of the remarkable circumstances which oc- 
 curred at the time. He sent a copy of this 
 naiTative to Mr. Newton. The paper is cu- 
 rious in every point of view, and so likely to 
 awaken sentiments of piety in minds where 
 it may be most desirable to have them awak- 
 ened, that Mr. Newton subsequently commu. 
 nicated it to the public.* 
 
 Here it is necessary to introduce a brief 
 
 * For this interesting document, see p. 483.
 
 LIFE OF COWPEll. 
 
 53 
 
 account of the interesting person whom the 
 poet regarded so tenderly. John Covvper 
 was Lorn in 1737. Being- desig-ned for the 
 chureii, h^ was privately educated by a cler- 
 gym.in, and became eminent for the extent 
 and vairieJy of his erudition in tiie university 
 of (Limbridge. The remarkable change in 
 his views and principles is copiously displayed 
 by his bro;her, in recording the pious close 
 his life. Eene't College, of which he was a 
 fellow, was his usual residence, and it be- 
 came the scene of his deatii, on the 20th of 
 Marc'n, 1770. Fraterniil atl'ection has exe- 
 cu.ed a perfectly just and graceful descrip- 
 tion of his character, both in prose and verse. 
 We transcribe both as higlily honorable to 
 these exemplary brethren, wlio may indeed 
 be said to have dwelt togetlier in unity. 
 
 " He was a man" (says the poet in speaking 
 of his deceased brother) " of a most candid 
 and ingenuous spirit: his temper remarkably 
 sweet, and in his beliavior to me he had al- 
 ways m;!nifcsted an uncommon atFection. 
 His outward conduct, so far as it fell under 
 my notice, or I could learn it by the report 
 of otiiers, was perfectly decent and unl)laina- 
 ble. Tliere was nothing vicious in any part 
 of his practice, but, being of a studious, 
 thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight 
 in the acquisition of learning, and made such 
 proficiency in it, that he had but few rivals 
 in that of a classical kind. He was critically 
 skilled in tJie Latin, Greek, and Hebrew lan- 
 guages ; w;is beginning to make himself mas- 
 ter of the Syrinc. ard perfecily understood 
 the French and Italian, the latter cf which 
 he could speak fluently. Lea.-ned Lcwever 
 as he was, he was easy and chec.-rai in his 
 conversation, and entirely free from the stiff- 
 ness whicli is generally contracted by men 
 devoted to such pursuits." 
 
 " I had a brother once : 
 Peace to the memory of a man of worth ! 
 A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
 Of manners sweet, as virtue always wears, 
 When (ray good Immor dresses l\er in smiles ! 
 He jrrac'd a college, in whicli order yet 
 Was sacred, and was honored, lov'd, and wept 
 By m )rc than one, themselves conspicuous there !" 
 
 Another interesting tribute to his memory 
 will be found in tiie followinsf letter. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Oliioy, May 8, 1770. 
 
 Dear Joe, — Your letter did not reacii me 
 till the last post, when I had not time to an- 
 swer it. I left Cambridge immediately after 
 my brother's deatii. 
 
 I ;un (d)liged to you for the particular ac- 
 count you have sent nie * * * * 
 He, to whom I have surrendered myself and 
 all my concerns has otherwise appointed, and 
 'et his will be done. He <dves me mucii 
 
 which he withholds from others, and if he 
 was pleased to withhold all that makes an 
 outward difference between me and the poor 
 mendicant in the street, it would still become 
 me to say, his will be done. 
 
 It pleased God to cut short my brother's 
 connexions and expectations here, yet not 
 without giving hira lively and glorious views 
 of a better happiness than any he could pro- 
 pose to himself in such a world as this. 
 Notwithstanding his great learning, (for he 
 was one of the chief men in the university 
 in that respect,) he was candid and sincere in 
 his inquiries after truth. Though he could 
 not come into my sentiments when I first ac- 
 quainted him with them, nor, in the many 
 conversations whicli I afterward had with iuin 
 upon the subject, could he be brought to ac- 
 quiesce in them as scriptural and true, yet I 
 liad no sooner left St. Alban's than he began 
 to study, with the deepest attention, those 
 points in wliich we differed, and to furnish 
 himself with the best writers upon them. 
 His mind was kept open to conviction for 
 live years, during all which time he labored 
 in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, 
 as leisure and opportunity were afforded. 
 Amongst his dying words were these : " Bro- 
 tiier, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to be- 
 lieve as you did. I found myself not able 
 to believe, yet always thought I .should be 
 one day brought to do so." From the study 
 of books he was brought, upon his death- 
 lc(\. to the study of himself, and there learned 
 to renounce his righteousness and his own 
 most amiable character, and to submit himself 
 to tiic righteousness which is of God by faith. 
 With these views he was desirous of deatii. 
 Satisfied of his interest in the blessing pur- 
 chased by the blood of Christ, he prayed for 
 death with earnestness, felt the approach of 
 it with joy, and died in peace. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 W. C. 
 
 It is this simple yet firm reliance on the 
 merits of the Saviour, and on his atoning 
 blood and righteousness, that can alone im- 
 part true peace to the soul. Such was the 
 faith of patriarchs, prophets and apostles; 
 and such will be the faith of all who are 
 taught of God. Works do not go before, 
 but follow after; they are not the cause, but 
 the effect ; tiie fruits of faith, and indispen- 
 sable to glorify God, to attest the power and 
 reality of divine grace, and to determine the 
 measure of our eve-lasting reward. 
 
 Cowper's feelings on this impressive occa- 
 sion are still further disclosed in the follow- 
 ing letter. 
 
 TO MBS. COWPER. 
 
 Oliicy, .lime 7, 1770. 
 
 ily dear Cousin,— -I am obliged to you for
 
 54 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 sometimes thinking of an unseen friend, and be- 
 stowing a letter upon me. It gives me pleas- 
 ure to hear from you, especially to tind that 
 our gracious Lord enables you to weather 
 out the storms you meet with, and to cast 
 anchor within the veil. 
 
 You judge rightly of the manner in which 
 I have been aifected by the Lord's late dis- 
 pensation towards my brother. I found in 
 it cause of sorrow that I had lost so near a 
 relation, and one so deserveely dear to me, 
 and that he left me just when our sentiments 
 upon the most interesting subject became the 
 same, but much more cause of joy, that it 
 pleased God to give me clear and evident 
 proof that he had changed his heart, and 
 adopted him into the number of his children. 
 For this, I hold myself peculiarly bound to 
 thank him, because he might have done all 
 that he was pleased to do for him, and yet 
 have afforded him neither strength nor op- 
 portunity to declare it. 1 doubt not that he 
 enlightens the understandings, and works a 
 gracious change in the hearts of many, in 
 their last moments, whose surrounding friends 
 are not made acquainted with it. 
 
 He told me that, from the time he was first 
 ordained, he began to be dissatisfied with his 
 religious opinions, and to suspect that there 
 were greater thino-s concealed in the Bible 
 than were generally believed or allowed to 
 be there. From the time when I first visited 
 him after my release from St. Alban's, he be- 
 gan to read upon the subject. It was at that 
 time I informed him of the views of divine 
 truth which I had received in that school of 
 affliction. He laid what I said to heart, and 
 began to furnish himself with the best writ- 
 ers upon the controverted points, whose 
 works he read with ureat diligence and at- 
 tention, comparing them all the while with 
 the Scripture. None ever truly and ingenu- 
 ously sought the truth, but they found it. 
 A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, 
 who never says to any. Seek ye my face in 
 vain. Accordingly, about ten days before 
 his death, it pleased the Lord to dispel all his 
 doubts, to reveal in his heart the knowledge 
 of the Saviour, and to give him firm and un- 
 shaken peace, in the belief of his ability and 
 willingness to save. As to the affair of the 
 fortune-teller, he never mentioned it to me, 
 nor was there any such paper found as you 
 mention. I looked over all his papers before 
 I left the place, and had there been such a 
 one, must have discovered it. I have heard 
 the report from other quarters, but no other 
 particulars than that the woman foretold him 
 when he should die. I suppose there may 
 be some truth in the matter, but, whatever 
 he might think of it before his knowledge 
 of the truth, and however extraordinary her 
 predictions might really be, I am satisfied 
 that he had then received far other views of 
 
 the wisdom and majesty of God, than to 
 suppose that he would intrust his secret 
 counsels to a vagrant, who did not mean, 1 
 suppose, to be understood to have received 
 her intelligence from the fountain of light, 
 but thought herself sufficiently honored by 
 any who would give her credit for a secret 
 intercourse of this kind wit«h the prince of 
 darkness. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for 
 your kind inquiry after her. She is well, 1 
 thank God, as usual, and sends her respects 
 to you. Her son is in the ministry, and has 
 the living of Stock in Essex. We were last 
 week alarmed with an account of his being 
 dangerously ill ; Mrs. Unwin went to see him, 
 and in a few days left him out of danger. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The letters of the poet to this ami'able rel- 
 ative aflFord a pleasing insight into the re- 
 cesses of his pious and sympathizing mind; 
 and, if they have awakened the interest which 
 they are so calculated to excite, the reader 
 will feel concerned to find a chasm of ten 
 years in this valuable correspondence ; the 
 more so as it was chiefly occasioned by a 
 cause which it will soon be our painful office to 
 detail in the course of the ensuing passages. 
 In the autumn of the year in which he sus- 
 tained the loss of his excellent brother, h3 
 wrote the following letter to Mr. Hill. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Oluey, Sept. 25, 17T0. 
 
 Dear Joe, — I have not done conversing 
 
 * It is impossible to i-ead tliis and the four following 
 letters of Cowper to 31r. Hill, as well .as a precedint; one 
 in page 49, and not to remark their altered tone and di- 
 minished cordiality of feeling. The furgetfulness of for- 
 i mer ties and jiursuits is often, we know, made a subject 
 of repruaeh against reli;:i.)US characters. How then is 
 Cowper to be viiulicated r Does religion pervert the 
 feeUngs i We lielieve, on tlie contrary, that it purihes 
 and e.va.ts tli/ni; but it changes their current, and fixes 
 them on higher and nobler objects. Cowper's mind, it 
 must bj remembered, had experienced a great moral 
 revolution, which had imparted a new and powerful im- 
 |)ression lo iiis views ami principles. In this state of 
 tlungs, .Mr. Hill (lamen'.ing p.'ssibly the change) solicits 
 his reiurn tu Lu. don, and to his former habits and asso- 
 ciations, but ill'" r^l sh fjr th--se enj lyments was gone ; 
 they had lost their p .wer to charm and captivate. " I am 
 now more than ever," says t.'owper, "unwilling to revisit 
 those noisy and cr<;wdt,d scenes, which I never loved, and 
 which I now alihi.r ; the incidejits of my life have given 
 an entire new l\n-a to my whole character and conduct, 
 and rendered me incapalile of receiving pleasure Irom 
 the s:une empli'yni'jnts and amusements of which 1 could 
 readily partake in fjnner days." (See page 50.) Hill re- 
 iterates the invitation, and Cowper his refusal. Thus one 
 party was advancing in spirituality, while the other re- 
 mained stationary. The bond was therefore necessarily 
 weakened, because idetitity of feeling must ever cousti- 
 tute the basis of all human friendships and intercourse ; 
 and the mind that has received a heavenly impulse can- 
 not return with its firmer ardor to the pursuit of earthly 
 objects. It cannnt ascend and descend at the same mo- 
 ment. Such, however, was the real worth and honestj 
 of Mr. Hill, that their friendship still survived, and ii 
 memorial of it is recorded in lines familiar to every readei 
 of Cowper. 
 
 " An honest man, close button'd to the chin, 
 liroad-clotli with^mt, and a warm heart within."
 
 LIFE OF CUVVPER. 
 
 5S 
 
 with terrestrial objects, though I should be 
 happy were I able to hold more continual 
 converse with a friend above the skies. He 
 lias my heart, but he allows a corner in it for 
 all wiio sliow me kindness, and therefore on 
 for you. The storm of sixty-three made a 
 wreck of the friendships I had contracted 
 in the course of many years, yours excepted, 
 which has survived tfie tempest. 
 
 I thank you for your repeated invitation. 
 Singular thanks are due to you for so sin- 
 gular an instance of regard. I could not 
 leave Olney, unless in a case of absolute ne- 
 cessity, without much inconvenience to my- 
 self and others. W. C. 
 
 The next year was distinguished by the 
 marriage of his friend Mr. Hill, to a lady of 
 most estijnable cliaracter, on wiiich occasion 
 Cowper thus addressed liim. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, August 27, 177] . 
 
 Dear Joe, — I take a friend's share in all 
 your concerns, so far as they come to my 
 knowledge, and consequently did not receive 
 tlie news of your marriage with indifference. 
 1 wish you and yuur biide all the happiness 
 that belongs to the state ; and the still greater 
 felicity of that state which marriage is only 
 a type of. All those connexions shall be dis- 
 solved ; but there is an indissoluble bond be- 
 tween Christ and his church, the subject of 
 derision to an unthinking world, but the glory 
 and liappiness of all his people. 
 
 I join with your mother and sisters in their 
 joy upon the present occasion, and beg my 
 aflectionate respects to them and to Mrs. Hill 
 unknown. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 We do not discover any further traces of 
 his correspondence in the succeeding year 
 tlian liie three following letters. The tirst 
 proves his great sense of honor and delicate 
 feeling in transactions of a pecuniary nature. 
 
 TO JOSEPH lULL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, June 27, 1772. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I only write to return 
 you thanks for your kind offer — Ag7iosco re- 
 teris vestigia Jlaimncc. But I will endeavor to 
 go on without troubh.ig you. Excuse an 
 expression tiiat dislujnors your friendship ; 
 I should rather say, it would be a trouble to 
 myself, and I know you will be generous 
 enough to give me credit for the assertion. 
 I had rather want many things, anything, in- 
 deed, that this world could afford me, than 
 abuse the affection of a friend. I suppose 
 you are sometimes tro\ibled upon my account. 
 But you need not. 1 have no doubt it will 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 be seen, when my d<ays are closed, that 
 served a master who would not sufl^er me ta 
 want anything that was good for me. He 
 said to Jacob I will surely do thee good : and 
 this he said, not for his sake only, but for 
 ours also, if we trust in him. This thought 
 relieves me from the greatest part of the dis- 
 tress I should else suffer in my present cir- 
 cumstances, and ..-nables me to sit down 
 peacefully upon the wreck of my fortune 
 Yours ever, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, July 2, 1772. 
 
 My dear friend, — My obligations to you 
 sit easy upon me, because I am sure you con- 
 fer them in the spirit of a friend. Tis pleas- 
 ant to some minds to confer obligations, and 
 it is not unpleasant to others to be properly 
 sensible of them. I hope I have this pleas- 
 ure — and can, with a true sense of your 
 kindness, subscribe myself, 
 
 Yours, W. C 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.'' 
 
 Olney, Nov. .% 1772. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, truly sensible 
 of your invitation, though I do not accept it. 
 My peace of mind is of so delicate a consti- 
 tution, that the air of London wffl not agree 
 with it. You have my prayers, the only re- 
 turn I can make you for your many acts of 
 still continued friendship. 
 
 If you should smile, or even laugh, at my 
 conclusion, and I were near enough to see it, 
 I should not be angry, though I should be 
 grieved. It is not long since I should have 
 laughed at such a recompense myself But, 
 glory be to the nanie of Jesus, those days 
 are past, and, I trust, never to return ! 
 
 I am yours and j\Irs. Hill's, 
 
 With much sincerity, W. C. 
 
 The kind and affectionate intercourse which 
 subsisted on the part of Cowper and his bo- 
 loved pastor has aleady been adverted to in 
 the preceding history. It was the commerce 
 of two kindred minds, united by a particijpa- 
 tion in the same blessed hope, and seeking 
 to improve their union by seizing every op- 
 portunity of usefulness. Friendship, to be 
 durable, must be pure, virtuous, and holy. 
 All other associations are liable to the ca- 
 price of passion, and to tlie changing tide of 
 human events. It is not enough that there 
 be a natural coincidence of character and 
 temperament, a similarity of earthly pursuit 
 and object ; there must be materials of a 
 higher fabric, streams flowing from a purer 
 source. There must be the impress of divine 
 
 * Private corre jpondence.
 
 56 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 grace stamping the same common image and 
 superscription on both hearts. A friendsliip 
 founded on such a basis, strengtiiened by 
 time and opportunity, and nourislied by the 
 frequent interchange of good offices, is per- 
 haps the nearest approximation to happiness 
 attainable in this chequered life. 
 
 Such a friendship is beautifully portrayed 
 by Cowper, in the following pass ige in his 
 Poem on Conversation ; and it is highly prob- 
 able that he alludes to his own feelings on 
 this occasion, and to the connexion subsisting 
 between himself and Newton. 
 
 True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd 
 Of hearts in union mutually discios'd ; 
 And, farewell else all hope of pure delight ! 
 Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- 
 right : 
 Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, 
 Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame : 
 
 But pouls, that carry on a blest exchange 
 
 Of joys they meet with in their heavenly ranire, 
 
 And, with a fearless confidence make known 
 
 The sorrows sympathy esteems its own ; 
 
 Daily derive increasing light and force 
 
 From such communion in their pleasant course ; 
 
 Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, 
 
 Meet their opposers with united strength. 
 
 And, one in heart, in interest, and design, 
 
 Gird up each other to the race divine. 
 
 It is to the friendship and intercourse 
 formed between these two excellent men, 
 that we are indebted for the origin of the 
 Olney Hymns. These hymns are too cele- 
 brated in the annals of sacred poetry not to 
 demand special notice in a life of Cowper, 
 who contributed to that collection some of 
 the most beautiful and devotional effusions 
 that ever enriched this species of composi- 
 tion. They were the joint production of the 
 divine and the poet, and intended, (as the 
 former expressly says in his preface) "as a 
 monument to perpetuate the remembrance 
 of an intimate and endeared friendship " 
 They were subsequently introduced into the 
 parish church of Olney, with the view of 
 raising the tone and character of church 
 psalmody. The old version of Sternhold 
 and Hopkins, previously used, and still re- 
 tained in many of our churches, was con- 
 sidered to be too antiquated in its language, 
 and not sufficiently imbued with the char- 
 acteristic features of the Gospel dispensa- 
 tion, to be adapted to the advancing spirit 
 of religion. It was to supply this defect 
 that the above work was thus introduced, 
 and the acceptance with which it was received 
 fully justified the expectation. Viewed in 
 this light, it is a kind of epoch in the history 
 of the Established Churcii. Other commu- 
 nities of Christians had long employed the 
 instrumentality of hymns to embody the feel- 
 ings of devotion; but our own church had 
 not felt this necessity, or adopted the custom ; 
 
 prejudice had even interposed, in some in- 
 stances, to resist their introduction, till the 
 right was fully established by the de-ision of 
 law.* The prejudices of past tiir.es aro, 
 however, at length, rapidly giving way to 
 the wishes and demands of modern fiety; 
 and we can now appeal to the versions of a 
 Stewart, a Noel, a Pratt, a Bickerstetii, and 
 many others as a most suitable ve'iieln for 
 this devotional exercise. The Olney Hynms 
 are entitled to the praise of being the precur- 
 sors of this improved mode of psalmody, 
 jointly with the collection of the Rev. M. Ma- 
 dan, at the Lock, and that of Mr. Berridge, 
 at Everton. 
 
 But, independently of this circumstance, 
 they present far higher claims. They portray 
 the varied emotions "of the human hciut in 
 its conflicts with sin, and aspirations after 
 holiness. We there contemplate the depres- 
 sion of sorrow and the triumph of hope ; the 
 terrors inspired by the law and the confidence 
 awakened by the Gospel ; and, what may be 
 considered as the genuine transcript of the 
 poet's own mind,, especially in the celebrated 
 hymn, (" God moves in a mysterious way," 
 &c.,) we see depicted, in impressive language, 
 the struggles of a faith trying to penetrate 
 into the dark and mysterious dispensations 
 of God, and at length reposing on his un- 
 changeable faithfulness and love. These 
 sentiments and feelings so descriptive of the 
 exercises of the soul, find a response in 
 every awakened heart; and the church of 
 Christ will never cease to claim its property 
 in effusions like these till the Christian war- 
 fare is ended, and the perceptions of erring 
 reason and sense are exchanged for the bright 
 visions of eternity. 
 
 The undertaking commenced about the 
 year 1771, though the collection was not 
 finally completed and published till 1779. 
 The total number contributed by Cowpei 
 was sixty-eight hymns. They are distin- 
 guished by the initial letter of his name. It 
 was originally stipulated that each should 
 bear their proportion in this joint labor, till 
 the whole work was accomplished. With 
 this understanding, the pious design was 
 gradually proceeding in its auspicious course 
 when, by one of those solemn and mysteri- 
 ous dispensation.s from which neither rank 
 nor genius, nor moral excellence can claim 
 exemption, it pleased Him whose " way is in 
 the deep," and whose "footsteps are not 
 known," and of whom it is emphatically said 
 " that clouds and darkness ar-- round about 
 him," though "righteousness and judgment 
 are the habitation of his throne," to suspend 
 the powers of this interesting sufferer, and 
 once more to shroud them in darkness. 
 
 * The Rev. T. Cotterill, formerly of Sheffield, and in 
 much esteem for his piety and usetiihiess, was the flrsi 
 who estabUshed this right by a judicial proceediiic.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 57 
 
 In contemplating this event, in the pecu- 
 .iarity of its time, ciiaracter, and consequen- 
 ces, well may we exclaim, " Lord, what is 
 man!" and, while the consciousness of the 
 infinite wisdom and mercy of God precludes 
 us from saying, '• Wluit doest Thou 1" we 
 feel that it must be reserved for e'cernity to 
 develop the mysterious design of these dis- 
 pensaiioiis. 
 
 It was in the year 1773 that this afflicting 
 malady returned. Cowper sank into such 
 severe paroxysms of religious despondency, 
 that he required an attendant of the most 
 gentle, vigilant, and inflexible spirit. Such 
 an attendant he found in that faithful guar- 
 dian, whom he !iad professed to love as a 
 motlier, and who watched over him during 
 this long fit of a most depressing malady, ex- 
 tended through several years, wilii that per- 
 fect mixture of tenderness and fortitude 
 which constitutes the characteristic feature 
 of female services. I wish to pass rapidly 
 over this calamitous period, and shall only 
 observe that nothing could surpass the suf- 
 ferings of the patient or excel the care of the 
 nurse. Ilor unremitting attentions received 
 tiie most delighiful of rewards in seeing the 
 pure and powerful mind, to whose restoration 
 she had so greatly contributed, not only grad- 
 ually restored to the common enjoyments of 
 life, but successively endowed with new and 
 marvellous funds of diversified talents, and a 
 vigorous application of them. 
 
 The spirit of Cowper emerged by slow de- 
 grees from its deep dejection; and, before 
 his mind was sufficiently recovered to em- 
 ploy itself on literary composition, it souglit 
 and found much relief and amusement in do- 
 mesticating a little group of hares. On his 
 expressing a wisli to divert himself by rear- 
 ing a single leveret, the good-nature of his 
 neighbors supplied him with three. The va- 
 riety of tiieir dispositions became a source 
 of great eniertainment to his compassionate 
 and contemplative spirit. One of the trio he 
 has celebrated in the Task, and a very ani- 
 mated and minute account of this singular 
 family, luunaiii/ed, and described most athni- 
 ral>ly 1>\' liimself in prose, appeared first in 
 the Gentleman's Magazine, and was subse- 
 quently inserted in the second volume of his 
 poems. These interesting animals had not 
 only the honor of being cJierished and cele- 
 brated by a poet, but the pencil has also con- 
 Iributcd to their renown. 
 
 His three tame iiares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. 
 Newton, were, for a considerable time, the 
 only companiovis of Cowper; but, as Mr. 
 Newton was removed to a distance from his 
 aftticted friend by preferment in London,* 
 (to v.iiich he was presented by that liberal 
 ejicourager of active piety, Mr. Thornton.) 
 
 * He Wius presented to the living of St. Mary Woolnoth, 
 in tlie city. — Kd. 
 
 before he left Olney, in 1780, he humanely 
 triumphed over the strong reluctance of 
 Cowper to see a stranger, and kindly intro- 
 duced him to the regard and good offices of 
 the Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport-Pagnell. This 
 excellent man, so distinguished by his piety 
 and wit, and honored by the friendship of 
 John Thornton, from that time considered it 
 to be his duty to visit the invalid once a fort- 
 night, and acquired, by degrees, his cordial 
 and confidential esteem. 
 
 The affectionate temper of Cowper inclined 
 him particularly to exert his talents at the 
 request of his friends, even in seasons when 
 such exertion could hardly have been made 
 without a painful degree of self-command. 
 
 At the suggestion of Mr. Newton, we have 
 seen him wriiing a series of hymns: at the 
 request of Mr. Bull, he translated several 
 spiritual songs, from the poetry of Madame 
 de la Mot he Guyon, the tender and mystical 
 French writer, whose talents and misfortunes 
 drew upon her a long series of persecution from 
 many acriinoiuous bigots, and secured to her 
 the friendship of the mild and pious Fenelon ! 
 
 We shall perceive, as we advance, that the 
 more distinguished works of Cowper were 
 also written at the express desire of persons 
 whom he particularly regarded ; and it may 
 be remarked, to the honor of friendship, that 
 he considered its influence as the happiest in- 
 spiration; or, to use his own expressive words, 
 
 The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 
 Should be the poet's heart : 
 
 Affectioia lights a brighter flame 
 Than ever blazed by art. 
 
 The poetry of Cowper is itself an admira- 
 ble illustration of this maxim; and perhaps 
 the maxim may point to the principal source 
 of that uncommon force and felicity with 
 which this most feeling poet commands the 
 affection of his reader. 
 
 In delineating the life of an author, it seems 
 the duty of biogniphy to indicate the degree 
 of infiuence which the warmth of his heart 
 produced on the fertility of his mind. But 
 those mingled flames of friendship and poe- 
 try, which were to burst forth v.ith the most 
 powerful efi'ect in the compositions of Cow- 
 per, were not yet kindled. His depressing 
 malady had suspended the exercise of his 
 genius for several years, and precluded hini 
 from renewing iiis correspondence with the 
 I'elation whom he so cordially regarded in 
 Hertfordshire, except by brief letters on pe- 
 cuniary concerns. 
 
 We insert the following as discovering 
 symptoms of approaching convalescence. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 12, 1T76. 
 
 Dear Friend, — One to whom fish is so wel- 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 58 
 
 COWPER'S WORKvS. 
 
 come as it is to me, can have no great occa- 
 sion to distinguish the sorts. In general, 
 therefore, whatever fish are likely to think 
 a jaunt into the country agreeable will be 
 sure to find me ready to receive them. 
 
 Having suffered so much by nervous fevers 
 myself, I know how to congratulate Ashley 
 upon his recovery. Other distempers only 
 batter the walls ; but they creep silently into 
 the citadel and put the garrison to the sword. 
 
 You perceive I have not made a squeamish 
 use of your obliging oiTer. The remem- 
 brance of past years, and of the sentiments 
 formerly exchanged in our evening walks, 
 convinces me still that an unreserved accept- 
 ance of what is graciously offered is the 
 handsomest way of dealing with one of your 
 character. 
 
 Believe me yours, W. C. 
 
 As to the frequency, which you leave to 
 my choice too, you have no need to exceed 
 the number of your former remittances. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, April— 1 fancy the 20th, 1777. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Thanks for a turbot, a 
 lobster, and Captain Brydone ;f a gentleman, 
 who relates his travels so agreeably, that he 
 deserves always to travel with an agreeable 
 companion. I have been reading Gray's 
 Works, and think him the only poet since 
 Shakspeare entitled to the character of sub- 
 lime. Perhaps you will remember that I 
 once had a different opinion of him. I was 
 prejudiced. He did not belong to our Thurs- 
 day society, and was an Eton man, which 
 lowered him prodigiously in our esteem. I 
 once thought Swift's Letters the best that 
 could be written; but I like Gray's better. 
 His humor, or his wit, or whatever it is to 
 be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, 
 and yet, I think, equally poignant with the 
 Dean's 
 
 I am yours affectionately, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, May 25, 1777. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We differ not much in 
 our opinion of Gray. When I wrote last, I 
 was in the middle of the book. His later 
 Epistles, I think, are worth little, as such, but 
 might be turned to excellent account by a 
 young student of taste and judgment. As to 
 West's Letters, I think I could easily bring 
 your opinion of them to square with mine. 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t " Brydone," author of Travels ia Sicily and Malta. 
 They are written with much interest, out he indulges in 
 remarks on the subject of Mount Etna which rather mili- 
 late against the Mosaic account of the creation. 
 
 They are elegant and sensible, but have no- 
 thing in them that is characteristic, or that 
 discriminates them from the letters of any 
 other young man of taste and learning. As 
 to the book you mention, I am in doubt 
 whether to read it or not. I should like tlie 
 philosophical part of it, but the political, 
 which, I suppose, is a detail of intrigues car- 
 ried on by the Company and their servants,* 
 a history of rising and falling nabobs, I should 
 have no appetite to at all. I will not, there- 
 fore, give you the trouble of sending it at 
 present. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 • Olney, July 13, 1777. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You need not give your- 
 self any further trouble to procure me the 
 South Sea Voyages. Lord Dartmouth, who 
 was here about a month since, and was so 
 kind as to pay me two visits, has furnished 
 me with both Cook's and Forster's. 'Tis 
 well for the poor natives of those distant 
 countries that our national expenses cannot 
 be supplied by cargoes of yams and bananas. 
 Curiosity, therefore, being once satisfied, they 
 may possibly be permitted for the future to 
 enjoy their riches of that kind in peace. 
 
 If, when you are most at leisure, you can 
 find out Baker upon the Microscope, or Vin- 
 cent Bourne's Latin Poems, the last edition, 
 and send them, I shall be obliged to you, — ■ 
 either, or both, if they can be easily found. 
 I am yours affectionately, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 Olney, Jan. 1, 1778. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Your last packet was 
 doubly 'welcome, and Mrs. Hill's kindness 
 gives me pecidiar pleasure, not as coming 
 from a stranger to me, for I do not account 
 her so, though I never saw her, but as com- 
 ing from one so nearly connected with your- 
 self. I shall take care to acknowledge the 
 receipt of her obliging letter, when I return 
 the books. Assure yourself, in the mean 
 time, that I read as if the librarian was at 
 my elbow, continually jogging it, and growl- 
 ing out, Make haste. But, as I read aloud, 
 I shall not have finished before the end of 
 the week, and will return them by the dili- 
 gence next Monday. 
 
 * Cowper here alludes to the celebrated work of the 
 Abb6 Raynal, entitled "Philosophical and Political His- 
 tory of tlie Establishments and Commerce of Europeans 
 in the two Indies." This book created a \ery poweiful 
 sensation, being written with great freedom of sentiment 
 and boldness of remark, conveyed in an eloquent though 
 rather declamatory style. Such was the ahu-m excited in 
 France by this publication, that a decree passed t!io Par- 
 liament of Paris, by which the work Wiia ordered to be 
 burnt. 
 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 59 
 
 I sluill be glad if you will let me know whe- 
 ther 1 ;im to understand by the sorrow you 
 express that any part of my former sujiplies 
 is actually cut off, or whether they are only 
 more tardy in coming in than usual. It is 
 useful, even to the rieh, to know, as nearly 
 as maybe, the exact arnount of their income ; 
 but how much more so to u man of my small 
 dimensions ! If the former should be the 
 case, I shall have less reason to be surprised 
 than I have to wonder at the continuance of 
 them so long. Favors are favors indeed, 
 when laid out upon so barren a soil, where 
 the expense of sowing is never accompanied 
 by the smallest hope of return. What pain 
 there is in gratitude, I have often felt; but 
 the pleasure of requiting an obligation has 
 always been out of my reach. 
 
 Atfectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, April 11, 1778. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Poor Sir Thomas !f I 
 knew that I had a place in his affections, and, 
 from his own information many years ago, a 
 place in his will ; but little thought that after 
 a lapse of so many years I should still retain 
 it. His remembrance of me after so long a 
 season of separation, has done me much 
 honor, and leaves me the more reason to re- 
 gret his decease. 
 
 I am reading the Abbe with great satisfac- 
 tion,J and think him the most intelligent 
 writer upon so extensive a subject I ever met 
 with ; in every respect superior to the Abbe 
 in Scotland. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEFII HILL, ESQ.''= 
 
 Olney, May 7, 1778. 
 
 Sly dear Friend, — I have been in continual 
 fear lest every post should bring a summons 
 for the Abbe Raynal, and am glad that I liave 
 finisiied him before iny fears were realized. 
 I have kept him long, but not through neg- 
 lect or idleness. I read the five volumes to 
 Mrs. Unwin ; and my voice will seldom serve 
 me with more than an hour's reading at a 
 time. I am indebted to him for much infor- 
 mation upon subjects which, however inter- 
 esting, are so remote from those with which 
 countryfolks in general are conversant, that, 
 had not his works reached me at Olney, I 
 should have been forever ignorant of them. 
 
 I admire him as a philosopher, as a writer, 
 as a man of extraordinary intelligence, and 
 no less extraordinary abilities to digest it. 
 
 * Prlvnto correppoiulouce. 
 
 t Sir Thomas llcsketh, Caronct, of Rufford Hall, in 
 f.nnca-Jliiri'. 
 t Ilaynal. 
 
 He is a true patriot. But then the world is 
 his country. The frauds and tricks of the 
 cabinet and the counter seem to be equally 
 objects of his aversion. And, if he had not 
 found that religion too had undergone a mix- 
 ture of artifice, in its turn, perhaps he would 
 have been a Christian. 
 
 Yours atfectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, June 18, 1778. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I truly rejoice that the 
 Chancellor has made you such a present, that 
 he has given such an additional lustre to it 
 by his manner of conferring it, and that all 
 this happened before you went to Wargrave, 
 because it made your retirement there the 
 more agreeable This is just according to 
 the character of the man. He will give grudg- 
 ingly in answer to solicitaton, but delights 
 in surprising those he esteems with his boun- 
 ty. May you live to receive still further 
 proofs that I am not mistaken in my opinion 
 of him ! 
 
 Yours aflfectionately, W. C 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, June 18, 1778. 
 
 Dear Unwin, — I feel myself much obliged 
 to you for your intimation, and have given 
 the subject of it all my best attention, both 
 before I received your letter and since. The 
 result is, that I am persuaded it will be bet- 
 ter not to write. I know the man and his 
 disposition well ; he is very liberal in his way 
 of thinking, generous, and discerning. He 
 is well aware of the tricks that are played 
 upon such occasions, and, after fifteen years' 
 interruption of all intercourse between us, 
 would translate my letter into this language 
 — pray remember the poor.f This would 
 disgust him, because he would think our for- 
 mer intimacy disgraced by such an oblique 
 application. He has not forgotten me, and, 
 if he had, there are those about him who 
 cannot come into his presence without re- 
 minding him of me, and he is also perfectly 
 aet|uainted with my circumstances. It would 
 perhaps give him pleasure to surprise me 
 with a benefit, and if he means me such a 
 favor, I should disai)point him by asking it. 
 
 I repeat my thanks for your suggestion; 
 you see a part of my reasons for tluis con- 
 ducting myself; if we were together I could 
 give you more. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t Mr. Unwin bad snsKestedto Powper the propriety of 
 an application to Lord Tliurlow for some marlv of favor; 
 which the laUer never conferred, and which Cowper was 
 resolved never to solicit.
 
 60 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, May 26, 1779. 
 I am obliged to you for the Poets, and, 
 though I little thought that I was translating 
 so much money out of your pocket into tiie 
 bookseller's, when I turned Prior's poem into 
 Latin, yet I must needs say that, if you think 
 it worth while to purchase the English Clas- 
 sics at all, you cannot possess yourself of 
 them upon better terms. 1 liave looked into 
 some of the volumes, but, not having yet 
 finished the Register, have merely looked 
 into them. A few things I have met with, 
 which, if they had been burned the moment 
 they were written, it would have been better 
 for the author, and at least as well for his 
 readers. There is not much of this, but a 
 little is too much. I tiiink it a pity the editor 
 admitted any ; the English muse would have 
 lost no credit by the omission of such trash. 
 Some of them, again, seem to me to have 
 but a very disputable right to a place among 
 the Classics, and I am quite at a loss, when 
 I see them in such company, to conjecture 
 what is Dr. Johnson's idea or definition of 
 classical merit. But, if he inserts the Poems 
 of some who can hardly be said to deserve 
 such an honor, tlie purchaser may comfort 
 himself with the hope that he will exclude 
 none that do. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 OIney, July, — 79. 
 
 My dear Friend, — When I was at Margate, 
 it was an excursion of pleasure to go to see 
 Ramsgate. The pier, I remember, was ac- 
 counted a most excellent piece of stone- 
 work, and such I found it. By this time, I 
 suppose, it is finished, and surely it is no 
 small advantage that you have an opportu- 
 nity of observing how nicely those great 
 stones are put together, as often as you 
 please, without either trouble or expense. 
 
 There was not at that time, much to be 
 seen in the Isle of Thanet, besides the beauty 
 of the country and the fine prospects of the 
 sea, which are nowhere surpassed, except in 
 the Isle of Wight, or upon some parts of the 
 coast of Hampshire. One sight, however, I 
 remember, engaged my curiosity, and I went 
 to see it — a fine piece of ruins, built by the 
 late Lord Holland at a great expense, which, 
 the day after I saw it, tumbled down for no- 
 thing. Perhaps, therefore, it is still a ruin ; 
 and, if it is, I would advise you by all means 
 to visit it, as it must have been much im- 
 proved by this fortunate incident. It is hardly 
 possible to put stones together with that air 
 of wild and magnificent disorder which they 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 are sure to acquire by falling of their o%7tl 
 accord. 
 
 I remember (the last thiTio 1 radian to re- 
 member upon this oc'jasioii) ihat Sam Cox, 
 tiie counsel, walking by ihe sea-side, as if 
 absorbed in deep contemplation, was ques- 
 tioned about what he was musing on. He 
 rephed, " I was wondering that such an al- 
 most infinite and unwieldiy element should 
 produce a s-pral." 
 
 Our love attends your whole party. 
 
 Yours aflectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 OIney, July 17, 1779. 
 My dear Friend, — we envy you your sea- 
 breezes. In the o-arden we feel nothine: but 
 the reflection of tiie heat from the walls, and 
 in the parlor, from the opposite houses. I 
 fancy Virgil was so situated when he wrotR 
 those two beautiful lines : 
 
 .... Oh quis me gelidis in vallibus Haerai 
 Sistat, et ingenti ramovum protegat umbra, ! 
 
 The worst of it is that, though the sun- 
 beams strike as forcibly upon my harp-strings 
 as they did upon his, they elicit no such 
 sounds, but rather produce such groans as 
 they are said to have drawn from those of 
 the statue of Memnon. 
 
 As you have ventured to make the experi- 
 ment, your own experience will be your best 
 guide in the article of bathing. An infe- 
 rence will hardly follow, though one should 
 pull at it with all one's might, from Smol- 
 lett's case to yours. He was corpulent, 
 muscular, and strong ; whereas, if you were 
 either stolen or strayed, such a description 
 of you in an advertisement would hardly 
 direct an inquirer with suflicient accuracy 
 and exactness. But, if bathing does not 
 make your head aclie, or prevent you sleep- 
 ing at night, I should imagine it could not 
 hurt you. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, Sept. 21, 1779. 
 Amicn mio, be pleased to buy me a gla- 
 zier's diamond pencil. I have glazed tiie 
 two frames, designed to receive my pine 
 plants. But I cannot mend the kitchen win- 
 dows, till, by the help of that implejient, I 
 can reduce the glass to its proper dimen- 
 sions. If I were a plumber, I should be a 
 complete glazier, and possibly the happy 
 time may come, when I shall be seen trudg- 
 ing away to the neighboring towns with a 
 shelf of glass hanging at my back. If gov- 
 ernment should impose another tax vpon 
 
 * Private correspondouce.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 61 
 
 that commodity, I hardly know a business 
 in which a gentleman miglit more success- 
 fully employ himself. A Cliinese, of ten 
 times my fortune, would avail himself of 
 such an opportunity without scruple; and 
 why should not I, who want money as much 
 as any mandarin in China 1 Rousseau would 
 have been charmed to have seen me so occu- 
 pied, and would have exclaimed with rapture 
 " that he had found the Emilius who, he sup- 
 posed, had subsisted only in his own idea." 
 [ would recommend it to you to follow my 
 example. You will presently qualify your- 
 self for the task, and may not only amuse 
 yourself at home, but may even exercise 
 your skill in mending the church windows ; 
 which, as it would save money to the parish, 
 would conduce, together with your other 
 ministerial accomplishments, to make you 
 extremely popular in the place. 
 
 I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When 
 I first enter the garden in the morning, I 
 tind them perched upon the wall, waiting for 
 \heir breakfast, for 1 feed them always upon 
 the gravel walk. If your wish should be 
 accomplished, and you should find yourself 
 furnished with tlie wings of a dove, I shall 
 undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only 
 be so good, if that should be the case, to an- 
 nounce yourself by some means or other. 
 For I imagine your crop will require some- 
 thing better than tares to fill it. 
 
 Your mother and I, last week, made a trip 
 in a post-ciiaise to Gayiiurst, the seat of Mr. 
 Wright, about four miles off. He under- 
 stood that I did not much affect strange 
 faces, and sent over his servant, on purpose 
 to inform me that he was fjointj into Leices- 
 tcrsliire, and that if I chose to see the gar- 
 dens I might gratify myself without danger 
 of seeing the proprietor. I accepted the in- 
 vitation, and was deliglited with all I found 
 there. The situation is happy, the gardens 
 elegantly disposed, the hot-house in the most 
 flourishing state, and tiie orange-trees the 
 most captivating creatures of the kind I ever 
 saw. A man, in siiort, had need have the 
 talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, 
 to do the whole scene justice. 
 
 Our love attt^nds you all. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Oliicy, Oct. 0, 1779. 
 
 My ftear Friend, — You begin to count the 
 remaining days of the vacation, not with im- 
 patience, but through unwillingness to see 
 the end of it. For the mind of man, at least 
 of most men, is equ illy busy in anticipating 
 the evil and the good. That word anticipa- 
 tion puts me in remembrance of the pamphlet 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 of that name, which, if you purchased, J 
 should be glad to borrow. I have seen only 
 an extract from it in the Review, which 
 made me laugh heartily and wish to peruse 
 the whole. 
 
 The newspaper informs me of the arrival 
 of the Jamaica fleet. I hope it imports some 
 pine-apple plants for me. I have a good 
 frame, and a good bed prepared to receive 
 them. I send you annexed a fable, in which 
 the pine-apple makes a figure, and siiall be 
 glad if you like the taste of it. Two pair of 
 soles, with shrimps, which arrived last night, 
 demand my acknowledgments. You have 
 heard that when Arion performed upon the 
 harp the fish followed him. I really have no 
 design to fiddle you out of more fish ; but, 
 if you should esteem my verses worthy of 
 such a price, though I shall never be so re- 
 nowned as he was, I shall think myself 
 equally indebted to the Muse that helps me 
 
 THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE. 
 
 "The pine-apples," &c.* 
 
 My affectionate respects attend Mrs. Hill. 
 She has put Mr. Wright to the expense of 
 building a new hot-house : the plants pro- 
 duced by the seeds she gave me having 
 grown so large as to require an apartment 
 by themselves. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 31, 1779. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I wrote my last letter 
 merely to inform you that I had nothing to 
 say, in answer to which you have said no- 
 thing. I admire the propriety of your con- 
 duet, though I am a loser by it. I will en- 
 deavor to say something now, and shall hope 
 for something in return. 
 
 I have been well entertained with John- 
 son's biography, for which I thank you : with 
 one exception, and that a swingeing one, I 
 think he has not acquitted himself with his 
 usual good sense and sufficiency. His treat- 
 ment of Milton is unmerciful to the last de- 
 gree. He has belabored that great poet's 
 character with the most industrious cruelty. 
 As a man, he has hardly left him ti'.e shadow 
 of one good quality. Churli:;hness in his 
 private life, and a rancorous hatred of every- 
 thing royal in his public, are the two colors 
 with which he has smeared all the canvas. 
 If he had any virtues, they are not to be 
 found in the Doctor's picture of him; and it 
 is well for Milton that some sourness in hxa 
 temper is the otdy vice with wliich his mem- 
 ory has been charged ; it is evident enough 
 that, if his biographer could have discovered 
 more, he would not have spared him. As a 
 
 * Vide Cowper's Poems.
 
 62 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 poet, he has treated him with severity 
 enough, and has plucked one or two of the 
 most beautiful feathers out of his Muse's 
 wing, and trampled them under his great 
 foot. He has passed sentence of condem- 
 nation upon Lycidas, and has taken occasion, 
 from that charming poem, to expose to ridi- 
 cule (what is indeed ridiculous enough) the 
 childish prattlement of pastoral compositions, 
 as if Lycidas was the prototype and pattern 
 of them all. The liveliness of the descrip- 
 tion, the sweetness of the numbers, the clas- 
 sical spirit of antiquity that prevails in it, go 
 for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, 
 that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or 
 that it was stopped, by prejudice, against the 
 harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any- 
 thing so delightful as the music of the Para- 
 dise Lost ? It is like that of a fine organ ; 
 has the fullest and deepest tones of majesty, 
 with all the softness and elegance of the 
 Dorian flute, variety without end, and never 
 equalled, unless, perhaps, by Virgil. Yet 
 the Doctor has little or nothing to say upon 
 this copious theme, but talks something 
 about the unfitness of the English language 
 for blank verse, and how apt it is, in the 
 mouth of some readers, to degenerate into 
 ieclamation. 
 
 I could talk a good while longer, but I 
 have no room. Our loves attends you. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 14, 1779. 
 My dear Friend, — Your approbation of my 
 last Heliconian present encourages me to 
 send you another. I wrote it, indeed, on 
 purpose for you ; for my subjects are not 
 always such as I could hope would prove 
 agreeable to you. My mind has always a 
 melancholy cast, and is like some pools I 
 have seen, which, though filled with a black 
 and putrid water, will nevertheless, in a 
 bright day, reflect the sunbeams from their 
 surface. 
 
 ON THE PROMOTION OP EDWARD THURLOW, (fccf 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WTLLLAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olnt-y, Dec. 2, 1779. 
 My dear Friend, — How quick is the suc- 
 cession of human events ! The cares of to- 
 day are seldom the cares of to-morrow ; and 
 when we lie down at night, we may safely 
 say to most of our troubles — " Ye have done 
 your worst, and we shall meet no more." 
 
 This observation was suggested to me by 
 'cading your last letter, which, though I 
 * Private correspondence. t Vide Cowper's Poems. 
 
 have written since I received it, I have nevek 
 answered. When that epistle passed under 
 your pen, you were miserable about your 
 tithes, and your imagination was hung round 
 with pictures, that terrified you to such a 
 degree as made even the receipt of money 
 burthensome. But it is all over now. You 
 sent away your farmers in good humor, (for 
 you can make people merry whenever you 
 please,) and now you have nothing to do but 
 to chink your purse and laugh at what is 
 past. Your delicacy makes you groan under 
 that which other men never feel, or feel but 
 lightly. A fly that settles upon the tip of 
 the nose is troublesome ; and this is a com- 
 parison adequate to the most that mankind 
 in general are sensible of upon such tiny 
 occasions. But the flies that pester you al- 
 ways get between your eye-lids, where the 
 annoyance is almost insupportable. 
 
 I would follow your advice, and endeavor 
 to furnish Lord North with a scheme of suj)- 
 plies for the ensuing year, if the difficulty I 
 find in answering the call of my own emer- 
 gencies did not make me despair of satisfy- 
 ing those of the nation. I can say but this : 
 if I had ten acres of land in the world, 
 whereas I have not one, and in those ten 
 acres should discover a gold mine, richer 
 than all Mexico and Peru, when I had re- 
 served a few ounces for my own annual 
 supply I would willingly give the rest to 
 government. My ambition would be more 
 gratified by annihilating the national incum- 
 brances than by going daily down to the 
 bottom of a mine, to wallow in my own 
 emolument. This is patriotism — you will 
 allow ; but, alas ! this virtue is for the most 
 part in the hands of those who can do no 
 good with it ! He that has but a single 
 handful of it catches so greedily at the first 
 opportunity of growing rich, that his patriot- 
 ism drops to the ground, and he grasps the 
 gold instead of it. He that never meetfe 
 with such an opportunity holds it fast in his 
 clenched fists, and says — "Oh, how much 
 good I would do if I could !" 
 
 Your mother says — "Pray send my dear 
 love." There is hardly room to add mine, 
 but you will suppose it. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNAVIN. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 27, 1780. 
 Bly dear Friend,— As you are pleased to 
 desire my letters, I am the more pleased with 
 writing them; though at the same time, I 
 must needs testify my surprise that you 
 should think them worth receiving, as I sel- 
 dom send one that I think favorably of my- 
 self This is not to be understood as an 
 imputation upon your taste or judgment, out
 
 as an encomium upon my own modesty and 
 humility, whicli I desire you to remark well. 
 It is a just observation of Sir Josliua Rey- 
 nolds, that, though men of ordinary talents 
 may be highly satisfied with their own pro- 
 ductions, men of true genius never are. 
 Whatever be their subject, they always seem 
 to themselves to fall short of it, even when 
 they seem to others most to excel ; and for 
 this reason — because they have a certain 
 sublime sense of perfection, which other 
 men are strangers to, and which they them- 
 selves in their performances are not able to 
 exemplify. Your servant. Sir Joshua ! I lit- 
 tle thought of seeing you when I bega.n,but 
 as you have popped in you are welcome. 
 
 \Vlien I wrote last, I was a little inclined 
 to send you a copy of verses, entitled the 
 Modern Patriot, but was not quite pleased 
 with a line or two, which 1 found it ditiicult 
 to mend, tlierefore did not. At niglit I read 
 Mr. Burke's si)eech in the newspaper, and 
 was so well pleased with his proposals for a 
 reformation, and the temper in wliich he made 
 them, that I began to tiiink better of liis 
 cause, and burnt my versos. Such is the lot 
 of the man who writes upon the subject of 
 the day ; the aspect of affairs changes in an 
 hour or two, and his opinion with it ; wliat 
 was just and well-deserved satire in tiie morn- 
 ing, in the evening becomes a libel ; the au- 
 thor commences liis own judge, and, while 
 he coudeuuis with unrelenting severity what 
 he so lately approved, is sorry to tind that he 
 has laid his leaf gold upon touchwood, which 
 crumbled away under his fingers. Alas ! 
 what can I do witJi my wit ? I have not 
 enough to do great things with, and these 
 Httle things are so fugitive, that, while a man 
 catches at the subject, he is ordy filling Ids 
 hand with smoke. I must do with it as I do 
 with my linnet : I keep him for the most 
 part in a cage, but now and tlieii set open 
 the door, that he may whisk about the room 
 a little, and then shut him up again. My 
 wliisking wit has produced tiie following, the 
 subject of w]\ich is more important titan the 
 maimer in which I have treated it seems to 
 imply, but a fabl may speak truth, and all 
 truth i> sterling; I only ])remise that, in the 
 philosoiiliical tract in the Register, I found it 
 asseited that the glow-worm is the nightin- 
 gale's food.* 
 
 An olliccr of a regiment, part of which is 
 qu.irtered here, gave one of the soldiers leave 
 to be drunk ,si.\ weeks in hopes of ciu'ing him 
 by satiety ; he icas drunk six weeks, and is 
 so still, as often as he can find an opportunity. 
 One vice may swallow up another, but no 
 coroner, in the state of Ethics, ever brought 
 in his verdict, when a vice died, that it was — 
 felo dc se. 
 
 This lotlpr contained the Deautiful fable of the Night- 
 m-'ale and tho Glow-worm. 
 
 Thanks for all you have done, and all you 
 intend; the biography will be particularly 
 welcome. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON.* 
 
 OIney, March 4, 1780. 
 
 Dear Madam, — To communicate surprise 
 is almost, perhaps quite, as agreeable as to 
 receive it. This is my present motive for 
 writing to you rather than to Mr. Newtoa. 
 He would be pleased with hearing from me, 
 but he would not be surprised at it; you see, 
 therefore, I am selfish upon the present occa- 
 sion, and principally consult my own gratifi- 
 cation. Indeed, if I consulted yours, I should 
 be silent, for I have no such budget as the 
 minister's, furnished and stuffed with ways 
 and means for every emergency, and shall 
 tind it difficult, perhaps, to raise supplies even 
 for a short epistle. 
 
 You have observed, in common conversa- 
 tion, that the man who coughs the oftenesl 
 (I mean if he has not a cold), does il be- 
 cause he has nothing to say. Even so it is 
 in letter-writing: a long preface, such as 
 mine, is an ugly symptom, and always fore- 
 bodes great sterility in the following pages. 
 
 The vicarage-house became a melancholy 
 object as soon as Mr. Newton had left it; 
 when you left it, it became more melancholy : 
 now it is actually occupied by another fam- 
 ily, even I cannot look at it without being 
 shocked. As I walked in the garden this 
 evening, I saw the smoke issue from the 
 study chimney, and said to myself, That used 
 to be a sign that Mr. Newton was there ; but 
 it is so no longer. The walls of the house 
 know nothinij of the change that has taken 
 place ; tlie bolt of the chamber-door sounds 
 
 just as it used to do; and when Mr. P 
 
 goes up stairs, for aught I kno'v, or ever 
 shall know, the fall of his foot could hardly, 
 perhaps, Ifc distinguished from that of ]Mr. 
 Newton. But Mr. Newton's foot will never 
 be heard upon that staircase again. These 
 reffections, and such as these, occurred to me 
 upon the occasion. ... If I were in a con- 
 dition to leave Olney too, I certainly would 
 not stay in it. It is no attaeiunent to the 
 place that binds me here, but an unlitnessfor 
 every other. I lived in it once, but now I am 
 buried in it, and have no business with the 
 world on tJie outside of my sei)ulchre : my 
 appearance would startle thetn, and theirs 
 would be shocking to me. 
 
 Siu>-h are my thoughts about the matter. 
 Others are more deeply alfected, and by more 
 weighty considerations, having been many 
 years the objects of a ministry which they 
 had reason to account themselves happy in 
 the possession of. . . . 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 64 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 We were concerned at your account of 
 Robert, and have little doubt but he will 
 shuffle himself out of his place. Where he 
 will find another is a question not to be re- 
 solved by those who recommended hira to 
 this. I wrote him a long letter a day or two 
 after the receipt of yours, but I am afraid it 
 was only clapping a blister upon the crown 
 of a wig-block. 
 
 My respects attend Mr. Newton and your- 
 self, accompanied with much affection for 
 you both. 
 
 Yours, dear Madam, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, March 16, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — If I had had the horns 
 of a snail, I should have drawn them in the 
 moment I saw the reason of your epistolary 
 brevity, because I felt it too. May your seven 
 reams be mulliplied into fourteen, till your 
 letters become truly Lncedajmonian, and are 
 reduced to a single syllable. Though I shall 
 be a sufferer by the effect, I shall rejoice in 
 the cause. You are naturally formed for 
 business, and sucli a head as yours can never 
 have too much of it. Though my predictions 
 have been fulfilled in two instances, I do not 
 plume myself much x\\)on my sagacity; be- 
 cause it required but li'tle to foresee that 
 Thurlow would be Chancellor, and that you 
 would have a crowded office. As to the rest 
 of my connexions, tliere too I have given 
 proof of equal foresight, with not a jot more 
 re:.con for vanity. 
 
 To use the phrase of all who ever wrote 
 upon the state of Europe, the political hori- 
 zon is dark indeed. The cloud has been 
 thickening, and the thunder advancing many 
 years. The storm now seems to be vertical, 
 and threatens to burst upon the land, as if 
 with the next clap it would shake all to 
 pieces. — As for me, I am no Quaker, except 
 where military matters are in question, and 
 there I am much of the same mind with an 
 honest man, wlio, when he was forced into 
 the service, declared he would not fight, and 
 gave this reason — because he saw nothino- 
 worth fighting for. You will say, perhaps, 
 is not liberty worth a struggle ? True : but 
 will success ensure it to me? Might I not, 
 .ike the Americans, emancipate myself from 
 one master only to serve a score, and with 
 laurels upon my brow sigh for my former 
 chains again ? 
 
 Many thanks for your kind invitation. 
 Ditto to Mrs. Hill, for the seeds — unexpected, 
 and therefore the more welcome. 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 You gave me great pleasure by v.'hat you 
 said of my uncle.* His motto shall be 
 
 Hie ver perpetuum atque alienis mensibus (Estas. 
 
 I remember the time when I have been 
 kept waking by the fear that he would die 
 before me; but now I think I shall grow 
 old first. 
 
 Yours, ray dear friend, affectionately, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 18, 1780. 
 
 I am obliged to you for the communica- 
 tion of your correspondence with '. It 
 
 was impossible for any man, of any temper 
 whatever, and however wedded to his own 
 purpose, to resent so gentle and friendly an 
 exhortation as you sent him. Men of lively 
 imaginations are not often remarkable for 
 solidity of judgment. They have generally 
 strong passions to bias it, and an^ led far 
 away from their proper road, in pursuit of 
 petty phantoms of their own creating. No 
 law ever did or can effect what he has as- 
 cribed to that of Moses : it is reserved for 
 mercy to subdue tiie corrupt inclinations of 
 mankind, which threatenings and penalties, 
 through the depravity of the heart, have al- 
 ways had a tendency rather to inllame. 
 
 The love of power seems as natural to 
 kings as the desire of liberty is to their sub- 
 jects ; the excess of either is vicious and 
 tends to the ruin of both. There are many, 
 I believe, who wish the present corrupt state 
 of things disolved, in hope that the pure 
 primitive constitution will spring up from the 
 ruins. But it is not for man, by liimsejf man, 
 to bring order out of confusion : the prog- 
 ress from one to the other is not natural, 
 much less necessary, and, without the inter- 
 vention of divine aid, impossible ; and they 
 who are for making the hazardous experi- 
 ment would certainly find themselves disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, March 28, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I have heard nothing 
 more from Mr. Newton, upon the subject you 
 mention ; but I dare say, that, having been 
 given to expect the benefit of your nomina- 
 tion in behalf of his nephew, he still depends 
 
 upon it. His obligations to Mr. have 
 
 been so numerous and so weighty, that, 
 though he has in a few instances prevailed 
 upon himself to recommend an object now 
 and then to his patronage, he has very spar- 
 
 * Ashley Cowper, Esq.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 65 
 
 ingly, if at all, exercised his interest with him 
 in belialf of his own relations. 
 
 With respect to the advice you are required 
 to give a young lady, that siie may be properly 
 instructed in the maruier of keeping the sab- 
 batli, I just subjoin a few hints tiiat iiave oc- 
 cured to me upon the occasion, not because 
 I think you want them, but because it would 
 seem unkind to witlihoUl them. Tiie sabbath 
 then, I think, may be considered, first, as a 
 commandment no less binding upon modern 
 Christians, than upon ancient Jews, because 
 the spiritual people amongst them did not 
 tiiink it enough to abstain from manual occu- 
 pations upon that day, but, entering more 
 deeply into the meaning of the precept, al- 
 lotted those hours they took from the world 
 to the cultivation of ludiness in their own 
 souls, which ever was, and ever will be, a duty 
 incumbent upon all who ever heard of a sab- 
 bath, and is of perpetual obligation both upon 
 Jews and Christians ; (the commandment, 
 therefore, enjoins it ; the prophets have also 
 enforced it; and in many instances, both 
 scriptural and modern, the breach of it has 
 been punished wilh a providential and judicial 
 severity, that may make by-standers trem- 
 ble :) secondly, as a privilege, which you 
 well know how to dilate upon, better than I 
 ciui tell you : thirdly, as a sign of that cove- 
 nant, by which believers are entitled to a rest 
 that yet remaineth ; fourthly, as a sine qua 
 non of tlie Christian character ; and, upon this 
 head, I should guard against being misunder- 
 stood to mean no more than two attendances 
 upon public worship, which is a form complied 
 with by thousands who never kept a sabbath 
 in their lives. Consistence is necessary to 
 give substance and solidity to the whole. To 
 sanctify the day at church, and to trifle it 
 away out of church, is profanation, and 
 vitiates all. After all could I ask my cate- 
 chumen one short question — " Do you love 
 the day, or do you not? If you love it, you 
 will never inquire how far you may safely 
 deprive yourself of the enjoyment of it. If 
 you do not love it, and you fiiid yourself 
 obliged in conscience to acknowledge it, that 
 is an alarming symptom, and ought to make 
 you tremble. If you do not love it, then it is 
 a weariness to you, and you wish it was over. 
 The ideas of labor and rest are not more 
 opposite to each other than the idea of a 
 sabbath and that dislike and disgust with 
 which it fills the souls of thousands to be 
 obliged to keep it. It is worse than bodily 
 labor." 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, April 6, 1780. 
 My dear Friend, — I never was, any more 
 than yourself, a friend to pluralities; they 
 
 are generally found in the hands of the ava- 
 ricious, whose insatiable hunger after prefer- 
 ment proves them unworthy of any at all. 
 They attend much to the regular payment of 
 iheir dues, but not at all to the spiritual in- 
 terests of their parishioners. Having fornfot 
 their duty, or never known it, they differ 
 in nothing from the laity, except their out^ 
 ward garb and their exclusive right to the 
 desk and pulpit. But when pluralities seek 
 the man instead of being sought by him, 
 and when the man is honest, conscientious, 
 and pious, careful to employ a substitute, in 
 those respects, like himself; and, not con- 
 tented with this, will see with his own eyes 
 that the concerns of his parishes are decently 
 and diligently administered ; in that case, con- 
 sidering the present dearth of such charaeters 
 in the ministry, I think it an event advanta- 
 geous to the people, and much to be desired 
 by all who regret the great and apparent 
 want of sobriety and earnestness among the 
 clergy.* A man who does not seek a living 
 merely as a pecuniary emolument has no 
 need, in my judgment, to refuse one because 
 it is so. He means to do his duty, and by 
 doing it he earns his wages. The two recto- 
 ries being contiguous to each other, and fol- 
 lowing easily under the care of one pastor, 
 and both so near to Stock that you can visit 
 them without dilliculty as often as you please, 
 I see no reasonable objection, nor does your 
 mother. As to the wry-mouthed sneers and 
 illiberal misconstructions of the censorious, I 
 know no better shield to guard you against 
 them than what you are already furnished 
 with — a clear and unoffended conscience. 
 
 I am obliged to you for what you said upon 
 the subject of book-buying, and am very fond 
 of availing myself of another man's pocket, 
 when I can do it creditably to myself and 
 without injury to him. Amusements are 
 necessary in a retirement like mine, espe- 
 cially in such a sable state of mind as I labor 
 under. The necessity of amusement makes 
 me sometimes write verses — it made me a 
 carpenter, a bird-cage maker, a gardener — 
 and has lately taught me to draw, and to 
 draw too with such surprising proficiency in 
 the art, considering my total ignorance of it 
 two months ago, that, when I show your 
 mother my productions, she is all admiration 
 and applause. 
 
 Vou need never fear the communication of 
 what you entrust to us in confidence. You 
 know your mother's delicacy on this point 
 sulliciently, and as for me, I once wrote a 
 Connoisseur! upon the subject of secret- 
 keeping, and from that day to this I believe 
 I have never divulged one. 
 
 * A liappy cliaiicce lias occurred since this period, and 
 tlie ri'vival of jiicly in Uie Clmrch of Eugliind muit be 
 pcTcejitiljIe to cviTy oliscrver.— En. 
 
 t His inciiniiiLf is, he contributed to the " Connoisseor" 
 an essay or letter on tliis subject.
 
 66 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 We were much pleased with IMr. Newton's 
 application to you for a charity sermon, and 
 what he said upon that subject in his hast 
 letter, " that lie was glad of an opportunity to 
 give you that proof of liis regard." 
 
 Believe me yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Ajn-il 16, ITHO. 
 Since I wrote last, we have had a visit from 
 . I did not feel myself vehemently dis- 
 posed to receive him with tliat complaisance 
 from whicli a stranger generally infers that 
 he is welcome. By his manner, which was 
 rather bold than easy, I judged that there was 
 no occasion for it, and that it was a trifle 
 which, if he did not meet with, neither would 
 he feel the want of. He iias the air of a 
 travelled man, but not of a travelled gentle- 
 man ; is quite delivered from that reserve 
 which is so common an ingredient in the Eng- 
 lish character, yet does not open himself 
 gently and gradually, as men of polite behav- 
 ior do, but bursts upon you all at once. He 
 talks very loud, and when our poor little 
 robins hear a great noise, they are immedi- 
 ately seized with an ambition to surpass it — 
 the increase of their vociferation occasioned 
 an increase of his, and his in return acted as 
 a stimulus upon tlieirs — neither side enter- 
 tained a thought of giving up the contest, 
 which became continually more interesting 
 to our ears during the whole visit. The birds 
 however survived it, and so did we. They 
 perhaps flatter themselves tliey gained a 
 
 complete victory, but I believe Sir. could 
 
 have killed them both in another hour. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olncy, Hay 3, 1780. 
 
 Dear Sir, — You indulge me in such a vari- 
 ety of subjects, and allow me such a latitude 
 of excursion in tiiis scribbling employment, 
 that I have no excuse for silence. I am 
 much obliged to you for swallowing such 
 boluses as I send you, for the sake of my 
 gilding, and verily believe T ;un the only man 
 alive, from whom they would be wek ome to 
 a palate like yours. I wish I could make 
 them more splendid than they are, more 
 alluring to the eye, at least, if not more 
 pleasing tc the taste ; but my leaf-gold is 
 tarnished, and has received such a tinge from 
 the vapors that are ever brooding over my 
 niind, that I think it no small proof of your 
 partiality to me that you will read my letters. 
 I am not fond of long-winded metaphors ; I 
 have always observed that they halt at the 
 latter end of their progress, and so does 
 cnine. I deal much in ink, indeed, but not 
 
 such ink as is employed by poets and writers 
 of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and 
 guilty of no deceptions but such as may pre- 
 vail, without the least injury, to the person 
 imposed on. I draw mountains, valleys, 
 woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab- 
 chicks. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Un- 
 win admires them, and her praise and my 
 praise put together are fame enough for me. 
 Oil ! I could spend whole days and moon- 
 light nights in feeding upon a lovely pros- 
 pect ! My eyes drink the rivers as they flow. 
 If every human being upon earth could think 
 for one quarter of an hour as I have done for 
 many years, there might, perhaps, be many 
 miserable men among them, but not an un- 
 awakened one would be found from the arc- 
 tic to the antarctic circle. At present, the 
 difference between them and me is greatly to 
 their advantage. I delight in baubles, and 
 know them to be so ; for, viewed without a 
 reference to their author, what is the earth, 
 what are the planets, what is the sun itself, 
 but a bauble 1 Better for a man never to 
 have seen them, or to see them with the eyes 
 of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what 
 he beholds, than not to be able to say, " The 
 Maker of all these wonders is my friend !" 
 Their eyes have never been opened to see 
 that they are trifles ; mine have been, and 
 will be till they are closed forever. They 
 think a fine estate, a large consenatory, a 
 hothouse, rich as a West Indian garden, 
 things of consequence, visit them with pleas- 
 ure, and muse upon them with ten times 
 more. I am pleased with a frame of four 
 lights, doubtful whether the few pines it 
 contains will ever be worth a farthing; 
 amuse myself with a green-house, which 
 Lord Bute's gardener could take upon his 
 back, and walk away with ; and when I have 
 paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, 
 and given it air, I say to myself — " This is 
 not mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the 
 present, I must leave it soon." W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, May C, 1780. 
 My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
 you for your speedy answer to my queries. 
 I know less of the law than a country attor- 
 ney, yet sometimes I think I have almost as 
 much business. ]My former connexion with 
 the profession has got wind, and though I 
 earnestly profess, and protest, and proclaim 
 it abroad, that I know nothing of the matter, 
 they cannot be persuaded to believe, that a 
 head once endowed with a legal periwig can 
 ever be deficient in those natural endowments 
 it is supposed to cover. I have had the good 
 fortune to be once or twice in the right, 
 which, added to the cheapness of a gratui-
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 e-) 
 
 tons counsel, has aavanc-ed my credit to .a de- 
 greo T never expected to attain in tiie capacity 
 ot" a lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest 
 jn the scien.e of jurisprudence may give op- 
 posite opinions on the same point, wliich 
 ■'.oes not unfVeqneritly happen, it seems to 
 be a matter of indifference, whether a man 
 answers by rule or at a venture. He that 
 stumbles upoit the ripfht side of the question, 
 is just as useful to his client as he that ar- 
 rives at the same end by regular approaches, 
 and is conducted to the mark he aims at by 
 the greatest authorities. 
 
 These violent attacks of a distem])er so of- 
 ten fatal are very alarming to all who esteem 
 and respect the Ciiancellor as he deserves. 
 A life f conlinenient and of anxious atten- 
 tion to important objects, where the habit is 
 bilious to such a terrible degree, threatens to 
 be but a short one ; and I wish he nuiy not 
 be made a text for men of reflection to mor- 
 alize upon ; affording a conspicuous instance 
 of the transient and fading nature of all 
 human accomplishments and attainments. 
 Yours afl'ectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. AVILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Oliiey, May 8, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My scribbling humor has 
 of late been entirely absorbed in the passion 
 for landscape-drawing. It is a most amusing 
 art, and, like every other art, requires much 
 practice and attention. 
 
 Nil sine multo 
 Vita labore dedit rnortalibus. 
 
 Excellence is providentially placed beyond 
 the reach of indolence, tiiat success may be 
 the reward of industry, and that idleness may 
 be punished with ol)scurity and disgrace. So 
 long as I am pleased with an employment I 
 nm capable of unwearied application, because 
 my feelings are all of the intense kind: I 
 never received a lUtle pleasure from anvthing 
 in my life : if I am delighted, it is in tiie e.\^ 
 treme. Tiie unhappy consequence of this 
 temperament is, that my attachment to any 
 occupat'on seldom outlives the novelty of it. 
 That nerve of my imagination, th.-it feels the 
 touch of any particular amusement, twangs 
 under the energy of the pressure with so 
 much vehemence, that it soon becomes sen- 
 sible of weariness and fatigue. Hence I draw 
 an unfavorable prognostic, and expect that I 
 shall shortly be constrained to look out for 
 something else. Tin ii perhapa I may string 
 the hnrp again, and be alile to comply with 
 your demand. 
 
 Now for the visit you propose to pay us, 
 %nd propose 7wt to })ay us, the hope of which 
 
 plays upon your paper, like a jack-o-lantern 
 upon the ceiling. This is no mean simile, 
 for Virgil (you remember) uses it. 'Tis here, 
 'tis there, it vanishes, it returns, it dazzles you, 
 a cloud interposes, and it is gone. However 
 just the comparison, I hope you will contrive 
 to spoil it, and that your final determination 
 will be to come. As to the masons you ex- 
 pect, bring them with you — ^bring brick, bring 
 mortar, bring everything, that would oppose 
 itself to your journey — all shall be welcome, 
 I have a green-house that is too small, come 
 and enlarge it ; build me a pinery ; repair the 
 garden-wall, that has great need of your as- 
 sistance ; do anything, you cannot do too 
 much; so far from thinking you and your 
 train troublesome, we shall rejoice to see 
 yon, upon these or upon any other terms 
 you can propose. But, to be serious — you 
 will do well to consider that a long summer 
 is before you — that the party will not have 
 such another opportunity to meet this great 
 while — that you may finish your masoniy 
 long enough before winter, though you 
 should not begin this month, but that you 
 cannot always find your brother and sister 
 Powley at Olney. These and some other 
 considerations, such as the desire we have to 
 see you, and the pleasure we expect from 
 seeing you all together, may, and I think 
 ought, to overcome your scruples. 
 
 From a general recollection of Lord Claren- 
 don's History of the Rebellion, I thought, (and 
 I remember I told you so,) that there was a 
 striking resemblance between that period and 
 the present. But I am now reading, and have 
 read three volumes of, Hume's History, one 
 of which is engrossed entirely by that sub- 
 ject. There T see reason to alter my opinion, 
 and the seeming resemblance has disappeared 
 upon a more particular information. Charles 
 succeeded to a long train of arbitrary j)rinces, 
 whose subjects had tamely ac(]uiescecl in the 
 despotism of their masters till their privileges 
 were all forgot. He did but tread in their 
 steps, and exemplify the principles in which 
 he had been brought up, when he oppressed 
 his people. But, just at that time, unhappily 
 for the monarch, the subject began to see, 
 and to see that he had a right to property 
 and freedom. This marks a sullicient differ- 
 ence between the disputes of that day and 
 the present. But there was another main 
 cause of that rebellion, which at this time 
 does not operate at all. The king was de- 
 voted to the hierarchy ; his subjects were 
 puritans and would not bear it. Every cir- 
 cumstance of ecclesiastical order and disci- 
 pline was an abomination to them, and, in his 
 esteem, an indispensable duty; and, though 
 at last he was obliged to give up many things, 
 he would not abolish episcopacy, and till that 
 were done his concessions could have no con- 
 ciliating effect. These two concurring causes
 
 68 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 were, indeed, suffieient to set three kingdoms 
 in ;i ihuue. But they suhsist not now, nor 
 any otlier, I liope, notwitlistanding the bustle 
 made by tiie patriots, equal to the production 
 of such terrible events.* 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The correspondence of the poet with his 
 cousin Mrs. Cowper was at this time resumed, 
 after an interval of ten years. She was 
 deeply afHicted by the loss of her brother, 
 Frederick Madan, an officer who died in 
 America, after having distinguished himself 
 by poetical talents as well as by military 
 virtues. 
 
 TO MRS. COWa'ER. 
 
 Oluey, Jlay 10, 1780. 
 My dear Cousin, — I do not write to com- 
 fort you ; that office is not likely to be well 
 performed by one who has no comfort for 
 himself; nor to comply witli an impertinent 
 ceremony, which in general might well be 
 spared upon such occasions ; but because I 
 would not seem indifferent to the concerns 
 of those I have so much reason to esteem 
 and love. If I did not sorrow for your 
 brother's death, I should expect that nobody 
 would for mine ; ^vhen I knew him, he was 
 much beloved, and I doubt not continued to 
 be so. To live and die together is the lot 
 of a few happy fimiilies, who hardly know 
 what a separation means, and one sepulchre 
 serves them all ; but the ashes of our kin- 
 dred are dispersed indeed. Whether the 
 American Gulf has swallowed up any other 
 of ray relations, I know not; it has made 
 many mourners. 
 
 Believe me, my dear cousin, though after 
 a long silence, which, perhaps, nothing less 
 than the present concern could have prevailed 
 with me to interrupt, as much as ever, 
 Your affectionate kinsman, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, May 10, 1780. 
 My dear Friend, — If authors could have 
 lived to adjust and authenticate their own 
 text, a commentator would have been a use- 
 less creature. For instance — if Dr. Bentley 
 had found, or opined that he had found, the 
 word tube, where it seemed to present itself 
 to you, and had judged the subject worthy 
 of liis critical acumen, he would either have 
 justified the corrupt reading, or have substi- 
 
 * To those who contemplate the course of modem 
 events, and the signs of the times, there may be a doubt 
 whether the sentiment here expressed is equally applica- 
 ble in the present age. May the \uiion of good and wise 
 men be the means, under the Providence of God, of 
 averting every threatening danger. 
 
 tuted some invention of liis ow"n, in defence 
 of which he would iiave exerted all liis po- 
 lemical abilities, and hnve quarrelled with ' 
 half the literati in Europe. Then suppose 
 the writer himself, as in the present case, to 
 interpose, with a gentle whisper, thus — " If 
 you look again, doctor, you will perceive, 
 that what appears to you to be tube is neither 
 more nor less than the monosyllable i;;/., but 
 I wrote it in great hast<), and tRe want of suf- 
 ficient precision in the character has occa- 
 sioned your mistake ; yau will be satisfied, 
 especially when you see the sense elucidate.! 
 by the explanation." — But I question whether 
 the doctor would quit his ground, or allow 
 any author to be a competent judge in his 
 own case. The world, however, would ac- 
 quiesce immediately, and vote the critic use- 
 less. 
 
 James Andrews, who is my Michael .-.n- 
 gelo, pays me many compliments on my suc- 
 cess in the art of drawing, but I have not yet 
 the vanity to think myself qualified to fur- 
 nish your apartment. If I should ever attain 
 to the degree of self-opinion requisite to sijch 
 an undertaking, I shall labor at it with pLas- 
 ure. I can only say, though I hope not with 
 the affected modesty of the above-mentioned 
 Dr. Bentley, who said the same thing, 
 
 Me quoque dicunt 
 Vatem pastores ; sod non ego crcdulus illis. 
 
 A crow, rook, or raven, has built a nest m 
 one of the young elm-trees at the side of 
 Mrs. Aspray's orchard. In the violent storm 
 that blew yesterday morning, I saw it agi- 
 tated to a degree that seemed to threaten its 
 immediate destruction, and versified the fol- 
 lowing thoughts upon the occasion.* 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTiN.f 
 
 Olney, June % 1780. 
 Dear Madam, — When I write to Mr. New- 
 ton, he answers me by letter; when I write 
 to you, you answer me in fish. I return you 
 many thanks for the mackerel and lobster. 
 They assured me, in terms as intelligible as 
 pen and ink could have spoken, that you still 
 remember Orchard-fide; and, though they 
 never spoke in their lives, audit was still less 
 to be expected from them that they should 
 speak being dead, they gave us an assurance 
 of your affection that corresponds exactly 
 with that which Mr. Newton expresses tow- 
 ards us in all his letters. — For my own part, 
 I never in my life began a letter more at a 
 venture than the present. It is possible that 
 I may finish it, but perhaps more than probiv 
 ble that I shall not. I liave had several in. 
 different nights, and the wind is easterly 
 
 * Cowper's fable of the Raven concluded this letter, 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 tSi 
 
 two circumstances so unfavorable to me in 
 nil my occupations, but especially that of 
 writing, that it was with the greatest ditli- 
 culty I could even bring myself to attempt it. 
 You have never yet perliapsbeen made ac- 
 quainted with the unfortunate Tom F — 's 
 inisadventure. He and his wife, returning 
 from Ilanslope fiur, were coming down Wes- 
 ton-lane: to wit, themselves, their horse, and 
 tiieir great wooden panniers, at ten o'clock 
 at night. The horse having a lively imagi- 
 nation and very weak nerves, fancied he either 
 saw or heard something, bat has never been 
 able to say what. A sudden fright will im- 
 part activity and a momentary vigor even to 
 lameness itself. Accordingly he started and 
 sprang from the middle of the road to the 
 side of it, with such surprising alacrity, that 
 he dismounted the gingerbread baker and his 
 gingerbread wife in a moment. Not con- 
 tented witii this ef!brt, nor thinking liimself 
 yet out of danger, he proceeded as fast as he 
 could to afnll gallop, rushed against the gate 
 at the bottom of the lane, and opened it for 
 himself, witiiout perceiving that there was 
 any gate there. Still he galloped, and with 
 a velocity and momentum continually increas- 
 ing, till he arrived in OIney. I had been in 
 bed about ten minutes, when I heard the 
 most uncommon and unaccountable noise that 
 can be imagined. It was, in fact, occasioned 
 by the clattering of tin pattypans and a Dutch 
 oven against the sides of the panniers. Much 
 gingerbread was picked up in the street, and 
 Mr. Lucy's windows were broken all to 
 pieces. Had this been all, it would have been 
 a comedy, but we learned the next morning 
 that tlie poor woman's collar-bone was broken, 
 and she lias hardly been able to resume her 
 occupation since. 
 
 What ismdded on the other side, if I could 
 have persuaded myself to write sooner, would 
 have reached you sooner; 'tis about ten days 
 old. . . . 
 
 THK DOVES.* 
 
 Tiie male dove was smoking a pipe, and 
 the female dove was sewing, while she de- 
 livered herself as above. This little circum- 
 stance may lead you perhaps to guess what 
 pair I had in my eye. 
 
 Y'ours, dear madam, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TjNWIN. 
 
 ( )|iicy, June 8, 1780. 
 My dear Friend, — It is possible I migiit 
 lave indulged myself in the pleasure of writ- 
 mg to you, without waiting for a letter from 
 you, but for a reason whicli you will not 
 easily guess. Your mother communicated 
 to me the satisfaction you expressed in my 
 ccuTes-pondence, that you tiiought me enter- 
 
 * Vide Cowpcrs Poems. 
 
 taining, and clever, and so forth. Now you 
 must know I love praise dearly, especially 
 from the judicious, and those who have so 
 mucii delicacy themselves as not to otfend 
 mine in giving it. But then, I foimd this 
 consequence attending, or likely to attend, 
 the eulogium you bestowed — if my friend 
 thought me witty before, he shall think me 
 ten times more witty hereafter — where I joked 
 once, I will joke five times, and, for one sen- 
 sible remark, I will send him a dozen. Now 
 this foolish vanity would hav. spoiled me 
 qiljte, and would have made me as disgusting 
 a. letter-writer as Pope, who seems to have 
 thought that unless a sentence was well 
 turned, and every period pointed with some 
 conceit, it was not worth the carriage. Accord- 
 ingly he is to me, except in a very few in- 
 stances, the most disagreeable m.-tke'f of epis- 
 tles that ever I met with. \ nns willing 
 tlierefore to wait till the impression your 
 commendation had m.ade upon the foolish 
 part of me was worn off, that i mjglit scrib- 
 ble away as usual, and write mv uppermost 
 thougiits, and those only. 
 
 You are better skilled in ecclesiastical law 
 than I am. — Mrs. P, desires me to inform 
 her, whether a parson can be obliged to take 
 an apprentice. For sonu; of her husband's 
 
 opposers, at D , threaten to clap one upon 
 
 him. Now I think it W(juld be rather hard 
 if clergymen, who are not allowed to exer- 
 cise any handicraft whatever, should be sub- 
 ject to such an imposition. If Mr. P. was a 
 cordwaiiier or a breeches-maker all the week 
 and a preacher only on Sundays, it would 
 seem reasonable enough in that case that he 
 should take an apprentice if e chose it. But 
 even then, in ray poor judgment, he ought to 
 be left to his option. If they mean by an 
 apprentice a pupil whom they will oblige him 
 to hew into a parson, and, after chipping 
 away the block that hides the minister witiiin, 
 
 to qualify him to stand erect in a pulpit 
 
 that, indeed, is another consideration. But 
 still we live in a free country, and I cannot 
 bring myself even to suspect chjit an English 
 divine can possibly be liable to such compul- 
 sion. Ask your uncle, however; for he is 
 wiser in these things than either of us. 
 
 1 thank you for your two inscriptions, and 
 like the last the best ; the tiiought is just and 
 fine — but the two last lines are sadly dam- 
 aged by the monkish jingle of pepej-U and 
 reperil. I have not vet translated them, nor 
 do I promise to do it, though at some idle 
 hour perhaps I may. In return, I send you 
 a. translation of a simile in the Paradise Lost. 
 Not iiiiving that poem at hand, I cannot refer 
 you to tiie book and page, but you may hunt 
 for it, if you think it worth your while. It 
 begins — 
 
 " So when from mountain tops the dusky clouda 
 Ascending," &c.
 
 70 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 liu .fos acrii inontis de vertice nubes, 
 
 Cum surgunt. et jamBorca: tuinida ova quiorunt, 
 
 Cselum hilares abdit, spissa calij,fine, vultus: 
 
 Turn si jucundo tandem sol ])rodcat ore. 
 
 Et croceo monies ct pascua lumine tingat, 
 
 Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros, 
 
 Balatuque ovium coUes, valesque resultant. 
 
 If you .spy any fault in my Latin, tell me, 
 for I am sometimes in doubt; but, as I told 
 you when you was here, I have not a Latin 
 book in the world to consult, or correct a 
 mistake by, and some years have passed since 
 I was a school-boy. 
 
 AN ENGLISH VERSIFICATION OP A THOUGHT THAT 
 POPPED INTO MY HEAD ABOUT TWO MONTHS 
 SINCE. 
 
 Sweet stream ! that winds through yonder glade — 
 
 Apt emblem of a virtuous maid !— . 
 
 Silent, au'i chaste, she steals along, 
 
 Far from the world's gay, busy throng, 
 With gentle yet prevailing force. 
 Intent u[H!n her destin'd course : 
 Gracefvl jii,'. useful all she does, 
 Blessing end blest where'er she goes; 
 Pure bosom li, as that watery glass, 
 And heav'n reflected in her face. 
 
 Now this is not so exclusively applicable 
 to a maiden as to be the sole property of 
 your sister Shuttleworth. If you look at 
 Mrs. Unwin, you will see that she has not 
 lost her rigiit to tliis just praise by marrying 
 you. 
 
 Your mother sends her love to all, and mine 
 comes jogging along by the side of it. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE r.EV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, June 12, 1780. 
 
 Dear Sir, — We .accept it as an effort of 
 your friendship, that you could prevail with 
 yourself, in a time of such terror and dis- 
 tress, to send us re})eatcd accounts of yours 
 and Mrs. Newton's welfare. You supposed, 
 with reason enoiii,'h, that we should be ap- 
 prehensive for your safety, situated as you 
 were, apparently within the reach of so much 
 danger. We rejoice that you have escaped 
 it all, and that, except the anxiety which you 
 must have felt botlt for yourselves and 
 others, you have suifered nothing upon this 
 dreadful occasion. A metropolis in flames, 
 and a nation in ruins, are subjects of con- 
 templation for such a mind as yours, that 
 will leave a lasting impression behind tliem.* 
 It is well that the design died in tlie execu- 
 
 * Tlie event here alludud to was a ci'isis of great na- 
 tional dangtT. It originated in llie concessions granted 
 by Psirliament to tlie, Roman Cutliolics, in conseiinunce 
 of which a licentious mob assembled in great nuiltitiules 
 in St. George's Fields, and excited the grealesl alajin Ijy 
 their unbridled fury. They proceedeil to destroy all tlie 
 Romish chapels in London and its vicinity. 'I'lie prisons 
 of Newgate, the Fleet, and King's IJenoli, were attacked, 
 
 tion, and will be buried, I hope, never to rise 
 again, in the ashes of its own combustion. 
 There is a melanclioly pleasure in looking 
 back upon such a scene, arising from a com- 
 parison of possibilities with facts; the enor- 
 mous bulk of the intended mischief, with the 
 abortive and iiartial accomplishment of it: 
 much was done, more indeed than could have 
 been supposed practicable in a well-regulated 
 city, not unfurnislied with a military force for 
 its protection. But surprise and astonish- 
 ment seem, at first, to have struck every nerve 
 of the police \\itli a palsy, and to have dis- 
 armed government of all its powers.* 
 
 I congratulate you upon the wisdom that 
 withlield you from entering yourself a member 
 of the Protestant Association. Your friends 
 who did so have reason enough to regret their 
 doing it, even though they should never be 
 called upon. Innocent as they are, and they 
 who know them cannot doubt of their beinsf 
 perfectly so, it is likely to bring an odium on 
 the profession they make that will not soon 
 be forgotten. Neither is it possible for a 
 quiet, inotfensive man to discover on a sud- 
 den that his zeal has carried him into such 
 company, without being to the last degree 
 shocked at his imprudence. Their religion 
 was an honorable mantle, like that of Elijah, 
 but tlie majority wore cloaks of Guy Fawkes's 
 time, and meant nothing so little as what 
 they pretended. W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, June 18, 1780. 
 Reverend and dear William, — The affairs 
 of kingdoms and the concerns of individuals 
 are variegated alike with the chequer-work of 
 joy and sorrow. The news of a great ac- 
 quisition in Americaf has succeeded to terri- 
 
 and exposed to the devouring flame. The Bank itself 
 was threatened with an assault, when a well-disciplined 
 band, called the London Association, aided by the regu- 
 lar troops, dispersed the multitude, but not without the 
 slaughter of about two hundred and twenty of the most 
 active ringleaders. The whole city presented a melan- 
 choly scene of riot and devastation ; and the houses of 
 many ])rivate individuals were involved in the ruin. The 
 house of Lord Chief Justice Mansfield was the particular 
 object of po[)ulrtr fury. Lord George Gordon, who acted 
 a ])rominenl jiart on this occasion, was afterwards brought 
 to trial, and his defence vnidertaken by Mr. Keuyon, af- 
 terwarils well known by the tiUe of Lord Kenyon. Vari- 
 ous facts and circumstances having been adduced in fa- 
 vor of Lord George Gordon, his lordship was .icquitted. 
 It is instructive to contemplate the tide of human pas- 
 sions and events, and to contrast this spirit of religious 
 persecution with the final removal of Catholic disabilities 
 at a later period. 
 
 * Covvper alludes to this afflicting page in our domes- 
 tic history, in his Table Talk: — 
 
 When tuniidt lately burst his prison door. 
 
 And set plebeian thousands in a roar; 
 
 When he usurp'd authority's just iilace. 
 
 And dared to look his master in the face. 
 
 When the rude rabble's watchword was— Destroy 
 
 And blazing London seem'd a second Troy. 
 
 * The surrender of Charles-Town, in South Carolina, to 
 Admiral Arbuthuot and General Sir Henr^ < Clinton.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 ble tumults in London, and the beams of 
 prosperity are now playing upon the smoke 
 of that conflagration whicii so lately terrified 
 the whole land. These sudden changes, 
 which are matter of every man's observation, 
 and may therefore always be reasonably ex- 
 pected, serve to hold up the cliin of despond- 
 ency above water, and preserve mankind in 
 general from the sin and misery of account- 
 ing existence a burden not to be endured — 
 an° evil we should be sure to encounter, if 
 we were not warranted to look for a bright 
 reverse of our most afflictive experiences. 
 The Spaniards were sick of the war at the 
 very connnencement of it ; and I hope that 
 by this time the French themselves begin to 
 find themselves a little indisposed, if not de- 
 sirous of peace, which that restless and med- 
 dling temper of theirs is incapable of desiring 
 for its own sake. But is it true that this 
 detestable plot was an egg laid in France, 
 and iiatched in London, under the influence 
 of French corruption ? — Nam ie scire, deos 
 quoniam propius contingis, ajjoriet. The off- 
 spring has the features of such a parent, and 
 yet, without the clearest proof of the fact, I 
 would not willingly ciiarge upon a civilized 
 nation what perhaps the most barbarous 
 would abhor the thought of. I no sooner 
 saw the surmise, however, in the paper, than 
 I immediately began to write Latin verses 
 upon the occasion. " An odd effect," you 
 will say, " of such a circumstance ;" — but an 
 effect, nevertheless, that whatever has at any 
 time moved my passions, whether pleasantly 
 or otherwise, has always had upon me. 
 Were I to express what I feel on such oc- 
 casions in prose, it would be verbose, inflated, 
 and distrustinir. I therefore have recourse 
 to verse, as a suitable vehicle for the most 
 vehement expressions my thoughts suggest 
 to me. What I have written, I did not write 
 so much for the comfort of the English as 
 for the mortification of the French. You 
 will immediately perceive therefore that 1 
 have been laboring in vain, and that this 
 bouncing explosion is likely to spend itself 
 in tlie air. For I have no means of circu- 
 lating what follows through all the French 
 territories ; and unless that, or something 
 like it, can be done, my indignation will be 
 entirely fruitless. Tell me how I can convey 
 it into Sartine's pocket, or who will lay it 
 upon iiis desk for me. But read it first, and, 
 unless you think it pointed enough to sting 
 the Gaul to the quick, burn it. 
 
 IN SF.DITIOMEM UORUENDAM, CORRUPTF.LIS GALLI- 
 CIS, UT KKRTUR, I.ONDINI NUPKIl KXORTAM. 
 
 Perfitla. cruilclis. victa rt lyinjihata furore, 
 Non arinis, lauruiu (r.iUia frauile petit. 
 
 Vrnalriii prctio picbcm romtucit. ct urit 
 Undique privatas patriciasque domes. 
 
 Nequicquam conata sua, foedissiraa sperat 
 Posse tamen nostra nos supcrare manu. 
 
 Gallia, vanastruis! Precibus nuncutere! Vinces 
 Nam mites tiuiidis, supplicibusque sumus. 
 
 I have lately exercised my ingenuity m 
 contriving an exercise for yours, and have 
 composed a riddle which, if it does not make 
 you laugh before you have solved it, will 
 probably do it afterwards. I would tran- 
 scribe it now, but am really so fatigued with 
 writing, that, unless I knew you had a quhisy, 
 and that a fit of laughter might possibly 
 save your life, I could not prevail with my- 
 self to do it. 
 
 What could you possibly mean, slender as 
 you are, by sallying out upon your two 
 walking sticks at two in the morning, in the 
 midst of such a tumult ? We admire your 
 prowess, but cannot commend your pru- 
 dence. 
 
 Our love attends you all, collectively and 
 individually. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 , 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — A word or two in an- 
 swer to two or three questions of yours, 
 which I have hitherto taken no notice of. 
 I am not in a scribbling mood, and shall 
 therefore make no excursions to amuse 
 either myself or you. The needful will be 
 as much as I can manage at present. — .the 
 playful must wait another opportunity. 
 
 I thank you for your ofler of Robertson, 
 but I have more reading upon my hands at 
 this present writing than I shall get rid of in 
 a twelvemonth, and this moment recollect 
 that I have seen it already. He is an author 
 that I admire mucli, with one exception, that 
 I think his style is too labored. Hume, as an 
 historian, pleases me more. 
 
 I have just read enough of the Biograpliia 
 Britannica to say tliat I have tasted it, and 
 have no doubt but I shall like it. I am 
 pretty much in the garden at this season of 
 the year, so read but little. In summer-time 
 I am as giddy-headed as a boy, and can set- 
 tle to nothing. Winter condenses me, and 
 makes me lumpish and sober: and then 1 
 can read all day long. 
 
 For the same reasons, I have no need of 
 the landscapes at present; when I want 
 them I will renew my application, and repeat 
 tiie description, but "it will hardly be before 
 October. 
 
 Before I rose tliis morning,! composed the 
 three following stanzas ; I send them because 
 I like them pretty well myself; and, 'f you 
 should not, you must accept this handsome 
 comuliment as an amends for their deficien-
 
 72 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 I'ies. You may print the lines, if yon judge 
 them wortli it.* 
 
 I h;ive only time to add love, &c., and my 
 two initials. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOJI.V NEWTON. 
 
 Oliii'}-, .Iinic23, 17S0. 
 My dear Friend, — Your rcHections upon 
 the state of London, the sins and enormities 
 of that great city, while you had a distant 
 view of it from Greenwich, seem to have 
 been prophetic of the iieavy stroke that fell 
 upon it just after, ^lan often prophesies 
 W'ithout knowing it — a spirit speaks by him, 
 which is not his own, though lie does not at 
 that time suspect that he is under the influ- 
 ence of any other. Did he foresee what is 
 always foreseen by Him who dictates, what 
 he supposes to be his own, he would suffer 
 by anticipation as well as by consequence, 
 and wish perhaps as ardently for the happy 
 ignorance to which he is at present so much 
 indebted, as some have foolishly and incon- 
 siderately done for a knowledge that would 
 be but another name for misery. 
 
 And why have I said all this, especially to 
 you who have hitherto said it to me ? not be- 
 cause I had the least desire of informing a 
 wiser man than myself, but because the ob- 
 servation was naturally suggested by the 
 recollection of your letter, "a^id that "letter, 
 though not the last, happened to be upper- 
 most in my mind. I can compare this mind 
 of mine to nothing that resembles it more 
 than to a board that is under tlie carpenter's 
 plane, (I mean while 1 am writing to you,) 
 the shavings are my uppermost thougiits ; 
 after a few strokes of the tool it acqun-es a 
 new surface ; this again upon a repetition of 
 his task he takes oft", and a new surface still 
 succeeds : whether the shavings of the pre- 
 sent day will be w^orth your acceptance, I 
 know not ; I am unfortunately made neither 
 of cedar nor mahogany, but Truncus ficul- 
 nus. inutile lignum — consequently, though I 
 should be planed till I am as thin'as a wafer, 
 it will be but rubbish to the last. 
 
 It is not strange that you siiould be the 
 subject of a false report, for the sword of 
 slander, like that of war, devours one as well 
 as another : and a blameless character is par- 
 ticuhwly delicious to its unsparing appetite. 
 Bnt that you should be the object of such a 
 report, you who meddle less with the designs 
 of government than almost anv man that 
 lives under it, this is strange indeed. It is 
 well, however, when they wiio account it 
 good sport to traduce the reputation of an- 
 other invent a story that refutes itself. I 
 wonder they do not always endeavor to ac- 
 commodate their fiction to the real character 
 
 * Verses on the burning of Lord Chief Justice Mans- 
 ^Id's liouse, duriiiii the, riot.'i in London. 
 
 of the person : their tale would then, at least, 
 have an air of probability, and it might cost 
 a peaceable good man much more trouble to 
 disprove it. But perhaps it would not be 
 easy to discern what part of your conduct 
 lies more open to such an attempt tiian an- 
 other, or what it is that you either say or do, 
 at any time, that presents a fair opportunity 
 to the most ingenious slanderer to slip in a 
 falseiiood between your words or actions, 
 that shall seem to be of a piece with either. 
 You hate compliment, I know, but, by your 
 leave, this is not one — it is a truth — worse 
 and worse — now I have praised you indeed 
 — well you must thank yourself for it, it was 
 absolutely done without the least intention 
 on my part, and proceeded from a pen, that, 
 as far as I can remember, was never guilty 
 of flattery, since I knew how to hold it. He 
 that slanders me, paints me blacker than I 
 am, and he that flatters me, whiter — they 
 both daub me, and when I look in the glass 
 of conscience, I see myself disguised by both 
 — I had as lief my tailor should sew ginger- 
 bread-nuts on my coat instead of buttons as 
 that any man should call my Bristol stone a 
 diamond. The tailor's trick would not at all 
 embellish my suit, nor the flatterer's make 
 me at all the richer. I never make a present 
 to my friend of what I dislike myself. Ergo, 
 (I have reached the conclusion at last,) I did 
 not mean to flatter you. 
 
 We have sent a petition to Lord Dart- 
 mouth, by this post, praying him to interfere 
 in parliament in behalf of the poor lace- 
 makers. I say we, because I have signed it. 
 — Mr. G. drew it up. Mr. - 
 
 did not think 
 it grammatical, therefore would not sign it. 
 Yet I think, Priscian himself would have 
 pardoned the manner for the sake of the 
 matter. I dare say if his lordship does not 
 comply with the prayer of it, it will not be 
 because he thinks it of more consequence to 
 write grammatically than that the poor should 
 eat, but for some better reason. 
 My love to all under your roof. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, July 2, 1780, 
 
 Carissime, I am glad of your confidence, 
 and have reason to hope I shall never abuse 
 it. If you trust me with a secret, I am her- 
 metically sealed: and if you call for the ex- 
 ercise of my judgment, such as it is, I am 
 never freakish or wanton in the use of it, 
 much less mischievous and malignant. Crit- 
 ics, [ believe, do not often stand so clear of 
 those vices as I do. I like your epitaph, ex- 
 cept that I doubt the propriety of the word 
 immalurus ; which, I think, is rather apjilica- 
 ble to fruits than flowers ; and except the last 
 
 -,
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 73 
 
 pentameter, the assertion it contains being 
 rather too ol)vious a tliought to finish with ; 
 not that 1 thinl< an epitaph should be pointed 
 like an epigram. But still there is a close- 
 ness of thought and e.\j)rcssion necessary in 
 the conclusion of all these little tilings, that 
 they may leave an agreeable flavor upon the 
 palate. Whatever is short should be nerv- 
 ous, masculine, and compact. Little men are 
 so; and little poems snould be so; because, 
 where the work is short, the author has no 
 right to the plea of weariness, and laziness 
 is never admitted as an available excuse in 
 anytiiing. Now you know my opinion, you 
 will very likely improve upon my improve- 
 ment, and alter my alterations for the better. 
 To touch and retouch is, though some writ- 
 ers boast of negligence, and others would be 
 ashamed to show their foul copies, the secret 
 of almost all good writing, especially in verse. 
 I am never weary of it myself, and, if you 
 would take as mucli pains as I do, you would 
 ha\e no need to ask for my corrections. 
 
 HIC SKPDLTUS EST 
 INTER SUORU.M LACRYMAS 
 
 GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, 
 
 GULIELMI ET MaRI.S; FH.IUS 
 
 unticus, unice dilectus, 
 
 aui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis, 
 
 aprilis die skptimo, 
 
 1780, ;et. 10. 
 
 Oare, valo ! Sed non aetcrnum, care, valeto ! 
 
 Nam que iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. 
 Turn nihil araplexus poterit diveliere nostros. 
 
 Nee tu inarcesces, nee lacrymahor ego.* 
 
 Having an English translation of it by me, 
 I send it though it may be of no use. 
 
 Farewell ! '' But not forever," Hope replies. 
 Trace but his steps, and meet him in the skies ! 
 There nolhinnr shall renew our parting pain, 
 Thou sluilt not wither, nor I weep again. 
 
 The stanzas that I sent you are maiden 
 ones, having never been seen by any eye but 
 your mother's and your own. 
 
 If you send me franks, I shall write longer 
 letters. — Valete, sicttt el no.s xalemus ! Atnale, 
 sicul et nos amamus ! W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 Oliiey, June 3, 1780. 
 Mon Ami, — By this time, I suppose, yon 
 have ventured to take your fingers out of 
 
 * These lines of Mr. I'nwin, iind here rt'touched by 
 Cowpcr's pen, bear a fstroni: resemblance lotbe beaiitil'iil 
 K|)U;ipli. ciiinposed by liishop I.owlh, on the (Icutb of 
 his bi'lovt'J dannbler, which seem to have suiiifcsled 
 (ome liints, in tlie composition of the above epitaph to 
 Vorllicote. 
 
 Cara, vah', in'.;enio pripstaiis, pietate. pudore, 
 
 Et pbis ipiam nat;e nomine cara, val(!. 
 Cara Miiiia, vale: at veniel feUciiis jrvnm, 
 
 Qiiaiido iternm tecum, sim modo diirnns, ero. 
 Cara redi, l;eti\ tum ilicam voce, paternos 
 Eja a;;e in amplexus, cara Maria, redi. 
 
 ' Private correspondence. 
 
 your ears, being delivered froLi the deafening 
 shouts of the most zealous mob that ever 
 strained their lungs in the cause of religion. 
 I congratulate you upon a gentle relap.se into 
 the customary sounds of a great city, which, 
 though we rustics al)iior them, as noisy and 
 dissonant, are a musical and sweet murmur, 
 compared with what you have lately heard. 
 The tinkling of a kennel may be distinguished 
 now, where tlie roaring of a cascade would 
 have been sunk and lost. I never suspected, 
 till the newspapers informed me of it, a few 
 days since, that the barbarous uproar had 
 reached Great Queen Street. I hope Mrs. 
 Hill was in the country, and sliall rejoice to 
 hear that, as I am sure you did not take up 
 the protestant cudgels* upon this hair-brained 
 occasion, so you have not been pulled in 
 pieces as a papist. VV. C. 
 
 The next letter to Mr. Hill affords a strik- 
 ing proof of Cowper's compassionate feelings 
 towards the poor around him. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, July 8, 1780. 
 
 ]Mon Ami, — If you ever take the tip of 
 the chancellor's ear between your finger and 
 thumb, you can hardly improve the oppor- 
 tunity to better purpose, than if you should 
 whi.sper into it the voice of compassion and 
 lenity to the lace-makers. I am an eye-wit- 
 ness to their poverty, and do know that hun- 
 dreds in this little town are upon the point 
 of starving; and that the most unremitting 
 industry is but barely sufiicient to keep them 
 from it. I know that the bill by which they 
 would have been so fatally affected is thrown 
 out, but Lord Stormont threatens them with 
 another; and if another like it should pass, 
 they are undone. We lately sent a petition 
 to Lord Dartmouth; I signed it, and am sure 
 the contents are true. The purport of it was 
 to inform him, that there are very near one 
 thousand two hundred lace-makers in this 
 beggarly town, the most of whom had reason 
 enough, while tlie bill was in agittitiou, to 
 look upon every loaf they bought as the last 
 they should ever be able to earn. I can never 
 think it good policy to incur the certain in- 
 convenience of ruining thirty thousand, in 
 order to prevent a remote anil possible dam- 
 age, though to a much greater number. The 
 mea.sure is like a scythe, and tlie poor lace- 
 makers yre the sickly crop, tiiat trembles 
 before the edge of it. The prospect of a 
 peace witli America is like the streak of dawn 
 in their horizon ; but this bill is like a black 
 cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of 
 a comlbrtable day with utter extinction. 
 
 * The alarm taken at the concessions made in favor of 
 the Catholics was such, that many persons formed them- 
 selves into an association, for the defence of I'rotestjiut 
 principles. — Ed.
 
 74 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 I did not perceive, till this moment, that I 
 had tacked two si liles together, a practice 
 which, though warranted by the example of 
 Homer, and allowed in an Epic Poem, is 
 rather Inxuriant and licentious in a letter; 
 lest I should add anotlier, I conclude. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, July 11, 1780. 
 
 I account myself sufficiently commended 
 for my Latin exercise, by the number of 
 translations it has undergone. That which 
 you distinguished in the margin by the title 
 of " better" was the production of a friend, 
 and, except that, for a modest reason, lie 
 omitted the third couplet, I think it a good 
 one. To finish the group, I have translated 
 it myself; and, though I would not wish you 
 to give it to the world, for more reasons than 
 one, especially lest some French hero should 
 call me to account for it, I add it on the other 
 side. An author ought to be the best judge 
 of his own meaning; and, whether I have 
 succeeded or not, I cannot but wish, that 
 where a translator is wanted, the writer was 
 always to be his own. 
 
 False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, 
 France qu5ts the warrior's for the assassin's part ; 
 To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys, 
 Bids the low street, and lofty palace blaze. 
 Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone, 
 She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
 Kneel, France ! a suppliant conquers us with ease, 
 We always spare a coward on his knees.* 
 
 I have often wondered that Dryden's illus- 
 trious epigram on Milton,f (in my mind the 
 second best that ever was made) has never 
 been translated into Latin, for the admiration 
 of the learned in other countries. I have at 
 last presumed to venture upon the task my- 
 self The great closeness of tlie original, 
 which is equal, in that respect, to the most 
 compact Latin I ever saw, made it extremely 
 difficult. 
 
 Tres tria, sed longc distantia, saecula vates 
 Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. 
 
 Greciae sublimem, cuin majestate disertum 
 Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. 
 
 Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, 
 Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos. 
 
 I have not one bright thought upon the 
 chancellor's recovery ; nor can 1 strike off so 
 much as one sparkling atom from tliat bril- 
 
 * These lines are founded on the suspicion, prevalent 
 at that time, that the fires in Ijondon were owing to 
 French gold, circulated for the purposes of corrujition. 
 t Three poets in three distant aucs born, 
 Greece, Itiiiy, and Kni;iaiid did adiirn. 
 The first in loftiness of Ihouglit surpassed; 
 The next in majesty, in l)i)lh the last. 
 The force of Nature coidd no further go, 
 To make a third she joined the other two. 
 
 liant subject. It is not when I will, noi 
 upon what I will, but as a thought happens 
 to occur to me ; and then I versify, whether 
 I will or not. I never write but for my 
 amusement; and what I write is sure to an- 
 swer that end, if it answers no other. If, 
 besides this purpose, the more desirable one 
 of entertaining you be effected, I then receive 
 double fruit of my labor, and consider this 
 produce of it as a second crop, the more val- 
 uable because less expected. But when I 
 have once remitted a composition to you, 1 
 have done with it. It is pretty certain tliat I 
 shall never read it or think of it again. From 
 thatmomenti have constituted you sole judge 
 of its accomplishments, if it has any, and of 
 its defects, which it is sure to have. 
 
 For this reason I decline answering the 
 question with which you concluded your last, 
 and cannot persuade myself to enter into a 
 critical examen of the two pieces upon Lord 
 Mansfield's loss,* either with respect to their 
 intrinsic or comparative merit, and, indeed, 
 after having rather discouraged that use of 
 them which you had designed, there is no 
 occasion for it. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, July 12, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Such nights as I fre- 
 quently spend are but a miserable prelude to 
 the succeeding day, and indispose me above 
 all things to the business of writing. Yet, 
 with a pen in my hand, if I am ai>le to write 
 at all, I find myself gradually relieved; and 
 as I am glad of any employment that may 
 serve to engage my attention, so especially 1 
 am pleased with an opportunity of convers- 
 ing with you, though it be but upon paper. 
 This occupation above all others assists me 
 in tliat self-deception to which I am indebted 
 for all the little comfort I enjoy ; things seem 
 to be as they were, and I almost forget that 
 they never can be so again. 
 
 We are both obliged to you for a sight of 
 
 Mr. 's letter. The friendly and obliging 
 
 manner of it will much enhance the difficulty 
 of answering it. I think I can see plainly 
 that, thougli he does not hope for your ap- 
 plause, he would gladly escape your censure. 
 He seems to approach you smoothly and 
 softly, and to take you gently by the hand, 
 as if' he bespoke your lenity, and entreated 
 you at least to spare him. You have such 
 skill in the management of your pen that I 
 doubt not you will be able to send him a 
 balmy reproof, that shall give him no reason 
 to complain of a broken head. How delu- 
 
 * Lord Chief Justice Mansfield incurred the loss, oij 
 this occasion, of one of the most complete and valuabla 
 collections of law books e\er known, toijether with man- 
 uscripts and le<j;al remarks, the result of his own indus- 
 try and professional knowledge. 
 *t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 75 
 
 sive is the wildest speculation, when pursued 
 with eagerness, and nourislied with such ar- 
 guments as the perverted ingenuity of such 
 a mind as his can easily furnish ! Judgment 
 falls asleep upon the bench, while Imagina- 
 tion, like a smug, pert counsellor, stands 
 :;hattering at the bar, and, with a deal of fine- 
 spun, enchanting sopliistry, carries all before 
 him. 
 
 If I had strength of mind, I have not 
 strength of body for the task which, you say, 
 some would impose upon me. I cannot bear 
 mucli thinking. The meshes of tiiat fine net- 
 work, tlie brain, are composed of such mere 
 spinners' threads in me, -that when a long 
 thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, 
 and twangs, and bustles about at such a rate 
 as seems to threaten the whole contexture. 
 No — I must needs refer it again to you. 
 
 My enigma will probably find you out, 
 and you will find out my enigma, at some 
 future time. I am not in a humor to tran- 
 scribe it now. Indeed I wonder that a sport- 
 ive thought should ever knock at the door 
 of my intellects, and still more that it sliould 
 gain admittance. It is as if Iiarlequin siiould 
 intrude himself into the gloomy chamber 
 wliere a corpse is deposited in state. His 
 antic gesticulations would be unseasonable 
 at any rate, but more especially so if they 
 should distort the features of the mournful 
 attendants into laughter. But the mind, long 
 wearied with the sameness of a dull, dreary 
 prospect, will gladly fix its eyes on anything 
 that may make a little variety in its contem- 
 plations, though it were but a kitten playing 
 with her tail. 
 
 You would believe, tliough I did not say it 
 at the end of every letter, tliat we remember 
 you and Mrs. Newton with the same allec- 
 tion as ever : but I would not tlierefore ex- 
 cuse myself from writing what it gives you 
 pleasure to read. I have often wislied in- 
 deed, when writing to an ordinary corre- 
 spondent, for the revival of the Roman cus- 
 tom — sahiiis at top, and vale at bottom. But 
 as the French have tauglit all Europe to 
 enter a room and to leave it witli a most 
 ceremonious bow, so they have taught us to 
 begin and conclude our letters in tiie same 
 manner. However, I can say to you, 
 Sans ceremonie, 
 
 Adieu, man ami ! W. C. 
 
 The poet's affectionate effort in renewing 
 his correspondence with JMrs. Cowper, to 
 wliom he had been accustomed to pour forth 
 his heart without reserve, appears to liave 
 had a beneficial effect on iiis reviving spirits. 
 His pathetic letter to tiiat lady was followed, 
 in the course of two months, by a letter of a 
 more lively cast, in which the reader will 
 find some touches of his native humor, and 
 R vein of pleasantry peculiar to himself. 
 
 TO MRS. COW^PEr.. 
 
 July 20, 1780. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — Mr. Newton having de. 
 sired me to be of the party, I am come to 
 meet him. You see me sixteen years older, 
 at the least, than when I saw you last ; but 
 the effects of time seem to have taken place 
 rather on the outside of my head than with- 
 in it. What was brown is become grey, but 
 what was foolish remains foolish still. Green 
 fruit must rot before it ripens, if the season is 
 such as to afford it nothing but cold winds 
 and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of 
 sunshine. My days steal away silently, and 
 march on (as poor mad Lear would have 
 made his soldiers march) as if they were 
 shod with felt ; not so silently but that I 
 hear them : yet were it not that I am always 
 listening to their flight, having no infirmity 
 tiiat I had not when I was much younger, I 
 should deceive myself with an imagination 
 that I am still young. 
 
 I am fond of writing as an amusement, but 
 do not always find it one. Being rather 
 scantily furnished with subjects that are good 
 for anything, and corresponding only with 
 those who have no relish for such as are 
 good for nothing, I often find myself re- 
 duced to the necessity, the disagreeable ne- 
 cessity, of writing about myself. This does 
 not mend the matter much, for, though in a 
 description of my own condition, I discover 
 abundant materials to employ my pen upon, 
 yet as the task is not very agreeable to me, 
 so I am sufficiently aware, that it is likely to 
 prove irksome to others. A painter who 
 should confine himself, in the exercise of his 
 arl, to the drawing of his own picture, must 
 be a wonderful coxcomb if he did not soon 
 grow sick of his occujiation, and be peculiar- 
 ly fortunate if he did not make others as sick 
 as himself. 
 
 Remote as your dwelling is from the late 
 scene of riot and confusion, I hope that, 
 though you could not but hear the report, 
 you heard no more, and that the roarings of 
 the mad multitude did not reach you. That 
 was a day of terror to the innocent, and the 
 present is a day of still greater terror to the 
 guilty. The law was, for a few moments, 
 like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be of 
 no use, and did no execution ; now it is an 
 arrow upon the string, and many who de- 
 spised it lately are trembling as tliey stand 
 before the ])oint of it. 
 
 I have talked more already than I have 
 formerly done in three visits — you remem- 
 ber my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by 
 those who knew me ; not to depart entirely 
 from what nn'ght be, for aught I know, the 
 moSt shitnng part of my character, I here 
 shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to 
 Olney. 
 
 W. C.
 
 76 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, July 27, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — As two men sit silent, 
 after having exhausted all their topics of con- 
 versation ; one says, " It is very tine weatlier," 
 and the other eays, " Yes ;" — one blows his 
 nose, and the other rubs his eye-brows ; (by 
 the way, this is very much in Homer's man- 
 ner;) such seems to be the case between 
 you and me. After a silence of some days, 
 I wrote you a long something, that (I sup- 
 pose) was nothing to the purpose, because it 
 has not afforded you materials for an answer. 
 Nevertiieless, as it often happens in the case 
 above stated, one of the distressed parties, 
 being deeply sensible of the awkwardness of 
 a dumb duet, breaks silence again, and re- 
 solves to speak, though he has nothing to 
 say, so it tares with me. I am with you 
 again in the form of an epistle, though, con- 
 sidering my present emptiness, I have reason 
 to fear that your only joy upon the occasion 
 will be, that it is conveyed to you in a frank. 
 
 When I began, I expected no interruption. 
 But, if I had expected interruptions without 
 end, I should have been less disappointed. 
 First came the barber ; who, after having 
 embellished the outside of my head, has left 
 the inside just as unfurnished as he found it. 
 Then came Olney bridge, not into the house, 
 but into the conversation. The cause relat- 
 ing to it was tried on Tuesday at Bucking- 
 ham. The Judge directed the jury to find a 
 verdict favorable to Olney. The jury con- 
 sisted of one knave and eleven fools. Tlie 
 last-mentioned followed the afore-mentioned 
 as sheep follow a bell-wether, and decided in 
 direct opposition to the said judge : then a 
 flaw was discovered in the indictment: — tlie 
 indictment was quashed, and an order made 
 for a new trial. The new trial will be in the 
 King's Bench, where said knave and said 
 fools will have nothing to do with it. So the 
 men of Olney fling up their caps, and assure 
 themselves of a complete victory. A victory 
 will save me and your mother many shillings, 
 perhaps some pounds, which, except that" it 
 has afforded me a subject to write upon, was 
 the only reason why I said so much about it. 
 I know you take an interest in all that con- 
 cerns us, and will consequently rejoice with 
 us in the prospect of an event in which we 
 are concerned so nearly. 
 
 Yours affectionatel}^, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, July .-iO, 1780. 
 My dear Sir, — You may think perhaps that 
 [ deal more liberally with Mr. Unwin, in the 
 way of poetical export, than I do with you, 
 and I bi lieve you have reason. The truth is 
 this: if 1 walked the streets with a fiddle 
 
 under my arm, I should never think of per- 
 forming before tlie window of a privy coun- 
 cillor or a chief justice, but should rather 
 make free with ears more likely to be open 
 to such amusement. The trifles I produce 
 in this way are indeed such trifles that I can- 
 not think them seasonable presents for you. 
 iMr. Unwin himself would not be offended if 
 I was to tell him that there is this diflerence 
 between him and iMr. Newton ; that the latter 
 is already an apostle, while he himself is only 
 undergoing the business of incubation, with 
 a hope that he may be hatched in time. 
 When my muse comes forth arrayed in sa- 
 bles, at least in a robe of graver cast, I make 
 no scruple to direct her to my friend at Hox- 
 ton. This has been one reason why I have 
 so long delayed the riddle. But lest 1 should 
 seem to set a value upon it that I do not, by 
 making it an object of still further inquiry, 
 here it comes. 
 
 I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold. 
 And the parent of numbers that cannot be told, 
 I am lawful, unlawful — a duty, a fault, 
 I am often sold dear — good for nothing when 
 
 bought, 
 An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, 
 And yielded with pleasure — when taken by force 
 
 W. c. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Aug. C, 1780. 
 
 ]\Iy dear Friend, — You like to hear from 
 me — this is a very good reason why I should 
 write — but I have nothing to say — this seems 
 equally a good reason why I should not; yet 
 if you had alighted from your horse at our 
 door this morning, and, at this present writ- 
 ing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had 
 found occasion to say to me — "Mr. Cowper, 
 you have not spoke since I came in ; have 
 you resolved never to speak again ?" — it 
 would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to 
 the summons, I should plead inability as my 
 best and only excuse. And this, by the way, 
 suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruc- 
 tion, and reminds me of what I am very apt 
 to forget when I have any epistolary busi- 
 ness in hand ; that a letter may be written 
 upon anything or nothing, just as that any- 
 thing or nothing happens to occur. A man 
 that has a journey before him twenty miles 
 in length, which he is to perform on foot, 
 will not hesitate and doubt whether he shall 
 set out or not, because he does not readily 
 conceive how he shall ever reach the end of 
 it ; for ho knows that, by the simple opera- 
 tion of moving one foot forward first and 
 then the other, he shall be sure to acci>m- 
 plish it. So it is in the present case, and so 
 it is in every similar case. A letter is writ- 
 ten, as a conversation is maintained or a 
 journey performed, not by preconcerted or
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 77 
 
 premeditated means, a new contrivance, or 
 an invention never heard of before ; but 
 merely by maintaining a' progress, and re- 
 solving, as a postilion does, having once set 
 out, never to stop till we reach the appointed 
 end. If a man may talk without thinking, 
 why may he not write upon the same terms ? 
 A grave gentleman of tiie last century, a tie- 
 wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, Wj^%ld say, 
 "My good sir, a man has no right to do 
 either." But it is to be hoped that the pres- 
 ent century has nothing to do with the 
 mouldy opinions of the last ; and so, good 
 Sir Launcelot, or St. Paul, or whatever be 
 your name, step into your picture-frame 
 again, and look as if you thought for another 
 century, and leave us modenis in the mean 
 time to think when we can, and to write 
 whether we can or not, else we might as 
 well be dead as you are. 
 
 Wlien we look back upon our forefathers, 
 we seem to look back upon the people of 
 another nation, almost upon creatures of an- 
 other species. Their vast rambling mansions, 
 spacious halls, and painted casements, the 
 gothic porch, smothered with honeysuckles, 
 their little gardens, and high walls, their bo.\- 
 edgings, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, 
 are become so cnlirely unfashionable now, 
 that we can hardly belie\e it possible that a 
 people who resembled us so little in tneir 
 taste should resemble us in anything else. 
 But in everything else I suppose they were 
 our counterparts exactly, and time, tliat has 
 sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the 
 large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk stock- 
 ings, has left human natiu-e just where it 
 found it. The inside of the man at least 
 has undergone no change. His passions, 
 appetites, and aims, are just what they ever 
 were. They wear perhaps a handsomer dis- 
 guise than they did in the days of yore, for 
 philosophy and literature will have their ef- 
 fect upon the e.xterior; but in every other 
 respect a modern is only an ancient in a dif- 
 ferent dress. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEFH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Oliipy, Ami. 10, 1780. 
 IVIy dear Sir, — I greet you at your castle 
 of Buen Retiro, and wish you could enjoy 
 the unmixed pleasures of the country there. 
 Bui it seems you are obliged to dasii the cup 
 with a portion of those bitters you are al- 
 ways swallowing in town. Well — you are 
 honorably and usefully employed, and ten 
 limes movti beneficially to society than if you 
 were piping to a few siieej) under a spread- 
 mg beech, or listening to a tinkling rill. Be- 
 sides, by the effect of long custom and ha- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 bitual practice, you are not only enabled to 
 endure your occupation, but even find it 
 agreeable. I remember the time when it 
 would not have suited you so well to have 
 devoted so large a part of your vacation to 
 the objects of your profession; and you, I 
 dare say, have not forgot what a sp.;isonable 
 relaxation you found, when lying at full 
 stretch upon the ruins of an old wall, by the 
 sea side, you amused yourself with Tasso's 
 Jerusalem and the Pastor Fido. I recollect 
 that we both pitied Mr. De Grey, when we 
 called at his cottage at Taplow, and found, 
 not the master indeed, but his desk, with his 
 white-leaved folio upon it. which bespoke 
 him as much a man of business in his retire- 
 ment as in Westminster Hall. But by these 
 steps he ascended the betich.* Now he may 
 read what he pleases, and ride where he will, 
 if the gout will give him leave. And you, 
 who have no gout, and probably never will, 
 wlien your hour of dismission comes, will, 
 for that reason, if for no other, be a happier 
 man than he. 
 
 I am, my dear friend, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 P. S.— I\Ir. 
 
 has not thought proper to 
 
 favor me with his book, and having no inter- 
 est in the subject, I have not thought proper 
 to purchase it. Indeed I have no curiosity 
 to read what I .am sure must be erroneous 
 before I read it. Truth is worth everything 
 that can be gi\en for it ; ])ut a mere display 
 of ingenuity, calculated only to mislead, is 
 worth nothing. 
 
 The following letter shows the sportive- 
 ness of his imagination on the minutest sub- 
 jects. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 21, 1780. 
 
 Tiie following occurrence ought not to be 
 passed over in silence, in a place where so 
 few notable ones are to be met with. Last 
 Wednesday night, while, we were at supper, 
 between the hours of eight and nine, I heard 
 an unusual noise in the back parlor, as if one 
 of the hares was entangled and endeavoring 
 to disengage herself I was just going to 
 rise from table when it ceased. In about 
 five minutes a voice on the outside of the 
 parlor door inquired if one of my hares had 
 got away. I immediately rushed into the 
 next room, and found that my poor favorite 
 puss had m.'idelier escape. She had gnawed 
 in sunder the strings of a lattice work, with 
 which I thougiit 1 had snlliciently secured 
 
 * Tills (listin^niislu'd hiwyor was ™ connexion of Cow- 
 per's, liavin,' married Mary, (iaiiijhter of William Cowper, 
 of the I'ark, near llcrlfivnl, Ksq. After liavln;^ succes- 
 sively passed UiniiiKli the ollices of Solicitor and Allnrney 
 (Jeneral, he \v;L-i ad\anced to the div'nily of Chief .Justice 
 of the Court of ( nuiinon Pleas, and sabseqi eiitly elevated 
 to the Peerage by the title of itaron Walsingham.
 
 ".9 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 tlie window, and which I preferi-ed to any 
 other sort of blind, because it admitted 
 plenty of air. From thence I hastened to 
 tiie kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable 
 Thomas Freeman, who told me that, having 
 seen her just after she dropped into tlie street, 
 he attempted to cover her with his hat, but 
 she screamed out, and leaped directly over 
 his head. I then desired him to pursue as 
 fast as possible, and Jidded Richard Coleman 
 to the chase, as being nimbler, and carrying 
 less weight than Thomas ; not expecting to 
 see her again, but desirous to learn, if possi- 
 ble, what became of her. h\ sometliing less 
 than an hour, Richard returned, almost breath- 
 less, with the following account : that, soon 
 after he began to run, he left Tom behind him, 
 and came in sight of a most numerous hunt 
 of men, women, cliildren, and dogs ; that he 
 did his best to keep back the dogs, and pres- 
 ently outstripped the crowd, so that the race 
 was at last disputed between himself and 
 puss : she ran right through the town, and 
 down the lane that leads to Dropshot. A 
 little before she came to the house, he got 
 the start and turned her ; she pushed for the 
 town again, and soon after she entered it 
 sought shelter in Mr. Wagstafl''s tan-yard, 
 adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's har- 
 vest men were at supper, and saw her from 
 the opposite side of tiie way. There she en- 
 countered the tan-pits full of water, and, 
 while she was struggling out of one pit, and 
 plunging into another, and almost drowned, 
 one of the men drew her out by the ears, and 
 secured her. She was then well washed in 
 a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and 
 brought home in a sack at ten o'clock. 
 
 Tills frolic cost us four shillings, but you 
 may believe that we did not grudge a far- 
 thing of it. The poor creature received only 
 a little hurt in one of her claws and one of 
 her ears, and is now almost as well as ever. 
 
 I do not call this an answer to your letter, 
 but such as it is I send it, presuming upon 
 that interest which I know you take in my 
 minutest concerns, which I cannot express 
 better than in the words of Terence, a little 
 varied — Nihil mei a ie alienum putas. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. COWPER. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 31, 1780. 
 
 My dear Cousin, — I am obliged to you for 
 your long letter, which did not seem so, and 
 for your short one, which was more than I 
 had any reason to expect. Short as it was, 
 it conveyed to me two interesting articles of 
 intelligence, — iin account of your recovering 
 from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. 
 The latter was, I suppose, to be expected, for, 
 by what remembrance I have of her Ladyship, 
 
 who was never much acquainted with her 
 she had reached tliose years that are always 
 found upon tlie borders of another world. 
 As for you, your time of life is comparatively 
 of a youthful date. You may think of death 
 as much as you please, (you cannot think of 
 it too much,) but I hope you will live to think 
 of it niiiny years. 
 
 It cosra me not much difficulty to suppose 
 that my friends, who were already grown old 
 when I saw them last, are old still, but it 
 costs me a good deal sometimes to think of 
 those who were at that time young as being 
 older than they were. Not having been an 
 eye-witness of the change that time has made 
 in them, and my former idea of them not 
 being corrected by observation, it remains 
 the same ; my memory presents me with this 
 image unimpaired, and, while it retains the 
 resemblance of what they were, forgets that 
 by this time the picture may have lost much 
 of its likeness, through the alteration that 
 succeeding years have made in the original. 
 I know not what impressions Time may have 
 made upon your person, for while his claws 
 (as our grannams called them) strike deep 
 furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath 
 them with much tenderness, as if fearful of 
 doing injury, to others. But, though an ene- 
 my to the person, he is a friend to the mind, 
 and you have found him so ; though even in 
 this respect his treatment of us depends upon 
 what he meets with at our hands : if we use 
 him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is 
 a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of 
 enemies, who takes from us daily something 
 that we valued, and gives us nothing better 
 in its stead. It is well with them, who, like 
 you, can stand a-tiptoe on the mountain-top 
 of human life, look down with pleasure upon 
 the valley they have passed, and sometimes 
 stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy 
 ilight into eternity. Yet a little while, and 
 your hope will be accomplished. 
 
 When you can flivor me with a little ac- 
 count of your own family, without incon- 
 venience, I shall be glad to receive it, for, 
 though separated from my kindred by little 
 more than half a century of miles, I know as 
 little of their concerns as if oceans and con- 
 tinents were interposed between us. 
 
 Yours, my dear cousin, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 3, 1780. 
 My dear Friend, — I am glad you are so 
 provident, and that, while you are young, you 
 have furnished yourself with the means of 
 comfort in old age. Your crutch and your 
 pipe may be of use to you, (and may they be 
 so !) should your years be extended to an 
 antediluvian date; and, for your pejfect ac-
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 7S 
 
 3onimodation, you seem to want nothing but 
 a clerk culled Snuffle, and a sexton of the 
 name uf Skeleton, to make your ministerial 
 equipage eoniplete. 
 
 I think I have read as much of the first 
 volume of the Biographia as I shall ever read. 
 I find it very amusing; more so, perhaps, than 
 it would have been, had they sifted their 
 characters witii more exactness, and admitted 
 none but those who had in some way or other 
 entitled themselves to immortality by deserv- 
 ing well of the public. Such a compilation 
 would perhaps have been more judicious, 
 though 1 confess it would have afforded less 
 variety. Tlie priests and monks of earlier 
 and the doctors of later days, who have sig- 
 nalized themselves by nothing but a contro- 
 versial pamphlet, long since thrown by and 
 never to be perused again, might have been 
 forgotten, without injury or loss to the na- 
 tional character for learning or genius. This 
 observation suggested to me the following 
 lines, which may serve to illustrate my mean- 
 ing, and at the same time to give my criticism 
 a sprightlier air. 
 
 O fond attempt to give a tleathless lot 
 To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
 In vain ricorJed in historic page, 
 They court the notice of a future age ; 
 Tiiose twinkling, tiny lu-ftrcs of the land, 
 Drop OUL" by one, from Fame's neglecting hand; 
 Lethean gulplis receive them as they tall, 
 And dark Oblivion soon ;d)sorl)s them all. 
 So when a child (as playtul children use) 
 Has burnt to cinder a stale last year's news, 
 The Ilanie extinct, he views the roving lire. 
 There goes my lady, and there goes the 'squire, 
 There goes the parson — O illustrious sparlv ! 
 And there — scarce less illustrious — goes the clerk ! 
 
 Virgil admits none but worthies into the 
 Elysian lields; I cannot recollect the lines in 
 wliicii lie describes them all, but these in par- 
 ticular 1 well remember : 
 
 liuique sui memores alios fecere merendo, 
 Inventus aut qui vitatn cscoluere per artes. 
 
 .\ chaste and scrupulous conduct like this 
 would well become tlie writer of national 
 biograpiiy. But enough of this. 
 
 Our respects attend Miss Shuttleworth, 
 with many thanks for her intended present. 
 Some purses derive all their value from tlieir 
 contents, but these will have an intrinsic 
 value of their own; and, thougii mine should 
 be ofteji empty, which is not an im])robable 
 supposition, f shall still esteem it Jiighly on 
 its own account. 
 
 Tf you could meet witii a second-hand 
 Virgil, ditto Homer, both Iliad and Odyssey, 
 togetMcr with a Chuis, for I have no Lexicon, 
 and all tolerably eheap^ I shall be obliged to 
 you if vou will make the purchase. 
 
 Yours, W, C. 
 
 The three following letters are interesting, 
 as containing Cowper's sentiments on the 
 subject of education. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, Sept. 7, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — As many gentlemen as 
 there are in the world, who have children, 
 and heads capable of reflecting upon the im- 
 portant subject of their education, so many 
 opinions there are about it, and many of them 
 just and sensible, though almost all differing 
 from each other. With respect to the educa- 
 tion of boys, I tliiuk they are generally made 
 to draw in Latin and Greek trammels too 
 soon. It is pleasing no doubt to a parent to 
 see ids child already in some sort a proficient 
 in those languages, at an age when most 
 others are entirely ignorant of them ; but 
 hence it often happens that a boy, wlio could 
 construe a fable of ^Esop at six or seven 
 years of age, having exhausted his little stock 
 of attention and diligence in making that not- 
 able acquisition, grows weary of Iiis task, con- 
 ceives a dislike for study, and pcriiaps makes 
 but a very indifferent progress afterwards. 
 The mind and body have, in this respect, a 
 striking resemblance to each other. In child- 
 hood they are both nimble, but not strong ; 
 they can skip and frisk about with wonder- 
 ful agility, but hard labor spoils them both. 
 In maturer years they become less active, but 
 more vigorous, more capable of a fixed ap- 
 plication, and can make themselves sport 
 with that which a little earlier would have 
 affected them with intolerable fatigue. I 
 should recommend it to you, therefore, (but 
 after all you must judge for yourself,) to allot 
 the two next ye:ii"s of little .lohn's scholar- 
 sliip to writing and arithmetic, together with 
 which, for variety's sake, and because it is 
 capable of being formed into an amusement, 
 I would mingle geography, (a science which, 
 if not .attended to betimes, is seldom made 
 an object of murh consideration,) essentially 
 necessary to the accomplishment of a gentle- 
 man, yet, as I know (by s.id experience) im- 
 ])erfectly, if at all, inculcated in the schools. 
 Lord Spencer's son, when he was four years 
 of age, knew the situation of every kingdom, 
 country, city, river, and remarkable mountain 
 in tiie world. For this attainment, which I 
 suppose his father had never made, he was 
 indebted to a play-thing: having been accus- 
 tomed to anmse himself with those maps 
 which arc cut into se\x'ral compartments, so 
 as to be thrown into a heap of confusion, that 
 they may be put together again with an exact 
 coincidence of all their angles and bearings, 
 so as to form a pei-fect whole. 
 
 If he begins Latin and Greek at eight, or 
 even at nine years of age, it is surely soon 
 enough. Seven years, the usual allowance
 
 80 
 
 COWI ER'S W jRKS. 
 
 for these acquisitions, are more than suffi- 
 cient for the purpose, especially with his 
 readiness in learning; for you would hardly 
 wish to have him qualified for the university 
 before fifteen, a period in my mind much too 
 early for it, and when he could hardly be 
 trusted there without the utmost danger to 
 tiis morals. Upon the whole you will per- 
 ceive that, in my judgment, the difficulty, as 
 well as the wisdom, consists more.in bridling 
 in and keeping back a boy of his parts than 
 in pushing him forward. If therefore at the 
 end of the two years, instead of putting a 
 grammar into his hand, you should allow him 
 to amuse himself with some agreeable writers 
 upon the subject of natural philosophy for 
 another year, I think it would answer well. 
 There is a book called Cosinotheoria Pueri- 
 lis, there are Derham's Physico and Astro- 
 theology, together with several others in the 
 same manner, very intelligible even to a child, 
 and full of useful instruction. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 17, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You desire my further 
 thoughts on the subject of education. I send 
 you such as had for the most part occurred 
 to me when I wrote last, but could not be 
 comprised in a single letter. They are in- 
 deed on a different branch of this interesting 
 theme, but not less important than the for- 
 mer. 
 
 I think it your happiness, and wish you to 
 think it so yourself, that you are in every 
 respect qualified for the task of instructing 
 your son, and preparing him for the univer- 
 sity, without committing him to the care of a 
 stranger. In ray judgment, a domestic edu- 
 cation deserves the preference to a public 
 one, on a hundred accounts, which I have 
 neither time nor room to mention. I shall 
 only touch upon two or three, that I cannot 
 but consider as having a right to your most 
 earnest attention. 
 
 In a public school, or indeed in any school, 
 his morals are sure to be but little attended 
 to, and his religion not at all. If he can 
 catch the love of virtue from the fine things 
 that are spoken of it in the classics, and the 
 love of holiness from the customary attend- 
 ance upon such preaching as he is likely to 
 hear, it will be well ; but I am sure you have 
 had too many opportunities to observe the 
 inefficacy of such means to expect any such 
 advantage from them. In the meantime, the 
 more powerful influence of bad example and 
 perhaps bad company, will continually coun- 
 terwork these only presen'atives he can meet 
 with, and may possibly send him home to 
 you, at the end of five or six years, such as 
 you will be sorry to see him. You escaped 
 
 indeed the contagion yourself, but a few in. 
 stances of happy exemption from a general 
 malady are not sufficient warrant to conclude 
 that it is therefore not infectious, or may be 
 encountered without danger. 
 
 You have seen too much of the world, and 
 are a man of too much reflection, not to have 
 observed, that in proportion as the sons of 
 a family approach to years of maturity they 
 lose a sense of obligation to their parents, 
 and seem ift last almost divested of that ten- 
 der affection which the nearest of all relations 
 seems to demand from them. I have often 
 observed it myself, and have always thought 
 I could sufficiently account for it, without 
 laying all the blame upon the children. While 
 they continue in their parents' house, they 
 are every day obliged, and every day remind- 
 ed how much it is to their interest as well as 
 duty, to be obliging and affectionate in re- 
 turn. But at eight or nine years of age, the 
 boy goes to school. From that moment he 
 becomes a stranger in his father's house. 
 The course of parental kindness is inter- 
 rupted. The smiles of his mother, those ten- 
 der admonitions, and the solicitous care of 
 both his parents, are no longer before his 
 eyes — year after year he feels himself more 
 and more detached from them, till at last he-' 
 is so effectually weaned from the connexion, 
 as to find himself happier anywhere than in 
 their company. 
 
 I should have been glad of a frank for this 
 letter, for I have said but little of what I 
 could say upon the subject, and perhaps I 
 may not be able to catch it by the end again. 
 If I can, I shall add to it hereafter. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLLiM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 5, 1780. 
 My dear Friend, — Now for the sequel — 
 you have anticipated one of my arguments 
 in favor of a private education, therefore I 
 need say but little about it. The folly of 
 supposing that the mother-tongue, in some 
 respects the most difficult of all tongues, 
 may be acquired without a teacher, is pre- 
 dominant in all the public schools that I 
 have ever heard of. To pronounce it well, 
 to speak and to write it with fluency and ele- 
 gance, are no easy attainments ; not one in 
 fifty of those who pass through Westmin- 
 ster and Eton arrives at any remarkable pro- 
 ficiency in these accomplishments; and they 
 that do, are more indebted to their own study 
 and application for it than to any instruction 
 received there. In general, there is nothing 
 so pedantic as the style of a schoolboy, if he 
 aims at any style at all ; and if he does not, 
 he is of course inelegant and perhaps un- 
 gramniatical — a defect, no doubt, in great 
 
 V. 
 
 I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 81 
 
 measure owing to want of cultivation, for 
 the same lad that is often eoinme.nded for his 
 Latin frequently would deserve to be whipped 
 for his English, if the fault were not more 
 iiis master's than his own. I know not where 
 this evil is so liicely to be prevented as at home 
 — supposing always, nevertheless, (wliich is 
 the case in your instance,) that the boy's pa- 
 rents and their acquaintance are persons of 
 elegance and taste liiemselves. For, to con- 
 verse with tiiose who converse with propriety, 
 and to be directed to such authors as have re- 
 fined and improved the language by their 
 prodiiclion.s, are advantages wiiicii ho cannot 
 elsewiiere enjoy in an equal degree. And 
 though it requires some time to regulate the 
 taste and fix the judgment, and these effects 
 must be gradually wrouglit even upon the 
 best understanding, yet I suppose much less 
 time will be necessary for the purpose than 
 could at tirst be imagined, because the oppor- 
 tuniries of improvement are continual. 
 
 A public education is often recommended 
 as tlie most etfectual remedy for that bashful 
 and awkward restraint, so epidemical among 
 the youth of our country. But I verily be- 
 lieve that, instead of l)eing a cure, it is often 
 the cause of it. For seven or eight years of 
 his lite, the boy has hardly seen or conversed 
 witii a man, or a woman, except tlie maids at 
 his bo irding-house. A gentlem ni, or a lady, 
 are consequently sucli novelties to him that 
 he is perfectly at a loss to know what sort 
 of behavior he should preserve l^efore them. 
 He plays with his buttons or the strings of 
 his hat ; he blows his nose, and hangs down 
 his head, is conscious of his own deficiency 
 to a degree that makes him quite unhappy, 
 and trembles lest any one should speak to 
 him, because that would quite overwhelm 
 Iiim. Is not all this miserable shyness the 
 effect of his education? To me it appears 
 to be so. If he saw good company every 
 day, he would never be terrified at the sight 
 of it, and a room full of ladies and gentlemen 
 would alarm him no more than the chairs they 
 sit on. .Such is the effe(;t of custom. 
 
 I neeil add nothing further on this subject, 
 because I believe little John is as likely to be 
 exempted from this weakness as most young 
 genilemen we shall meet with. He seems to 
 have his f ither's spirit in this respect, in whom 
 I could never discern the least trace of bash- 
 fulness, though I have often heard him com- 
 plain of it. Under your management and the 
 iniluence of your example, 1 think he can 
 hardly f lil to escape it. If he does, lie es- 
 capes tliat which has made many a man un- 
 comfortable for life, and ruined not a few, by 
 forcing them into mean and dishonorable 
 compmy, where only they could be free and 
 cheerful. 
 
 Connexions formed at school arc said to 
 be lasting and often beneficial. There are 
 
 two or three stories of this kind upon record; 
 which would not be so constantly cited s.9 
 they are, whenever this subject happens to 
 be mentioned, if the chronicle that preserves 
 their remembrance had many besides to boast 
 of. For my own part, I found such friend- 
 ships, though warm enough in their commence- 
 ment, surprisingly liable to extinction; and 
 of seven or eiglit, whom I had selected for 
 intimates, out of about three hundred, in ten 
 years' time not one was left me. The truth 
 is, that there may be, and often is, an attach- 
 ment of one boy to another that looks very 
 like a friendship, and, while they are in cir- 
 cumstances that enable them mutually to 
 oblige and to assist each other, promises well 
 and bids fair to be lasting. But they are no 
 sooner separated from each other, by enter- 
 ing into the world at large, than other con- 
 nexions and new employments, in which 
 they no longer share together, efface the re- 
 membrance of what passed in earlier days, 
 and they become strangers to each other for- 
 ever. Add to this, the man frequently dif- 
 fers so much from the boij ; his principles, 
 manners, temper, and conduct, undergo so 
 great an alteration, that we no longer recog- 
 nize in him our old playfellow, but find him 
 utterly unworthy, and unfit for the place he 
 once field in our affections. 
 
 To close this article, as I did the last, by 
 applying myself immediately to the present 
 concern — little John is happily placed above 
 all occasion for dependence on all such pre- 
 carious hopes, and need not be sent to school 
 in quest of some great men in embryo, who 
 may possibly make his fortune. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 5, 1780. 
 Dear Madam, — When a lady speaks, it is 
 not civil to make her wait a week for an an- 
 swer. I received your letter within this hour, 
 and, foreseeing that the garden will engross 
 much of my time for some days to come, 
 have seized the present opportunity to ac- 
 knowledge it. I congratulate you on Mr. 
 Newton's safe arrival at Ramsgate, making 
 :io doubt but that he reached that place with- 
 out dirticulty or danger, the road thither from 
 Canterbury being so good as to afford room 
 for neither. He has now a view of the ele- 
 ment with which he was once familiar, but 
 wiiich, I think, he has not seen for many 
 years. The sigiit of his old acquaintance 
 will revive in his mind a pleasing recollection 
 of past deliverances, and \vheu lie looks at 
 him from the beach, he may say — "You have 
 formerly given me trouble enough, but I have 
 cast anchor now where your billows can 
 never reach me." — It is happy for him tha* 
 he can say so 
 
 6
 
 82 
 
 COV/PER'S WORKS. 
 
 Mrs. Unwhi returns you many thanks for 
 
 your anxiety on her account. Her lieallh is 
 
 considerably mended upon the whole, so a~ 
 
 to afford us a hope that it will be established. 
 
 Our love attends '-ou. 
 
 Y ours, dear Diad;nr. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. \VILHAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 9, 1780. 
 
 I wrote the following last summer. 'J'he 
 tragical occasion of it really happened at the 
 next house to ours. I am glad when I can 
 find a subject to work upon; a lapidary, I 
 suppose, accounts it a laborious part of his 
 business to rub away the roughness of the 
 stone ; but it is my amusement, and if, after 
 all the polisiiing I can give it, it discovers 
 some little lustre, I think myself well re- 
 v/arded for my pains.* 
 
 I shall charge you a halfpenny a-piece for 
 every copy I send you, the short as well as 
 the long. This is a sort of afterclap you 
 little expected, but I cannot possibly afford 
 them at a cheaper rate. If this method of 
 raising money had occurred to me sooner, I 
 should have made tlie bargain sooner; but 
 am glad I have hit upon it at last. It will be 
 a considerable encouragement to my Muse, 
 and act as a powerful stimulus to my indus- 
 try. If the American war should last much 
 longer, I may be obliged to raise my price ; 
 but this I shall not do without a real occasion 
 for it — it depends much upon Lord North's 
 conduct in the article of supplies — if he im- 
 poses an additional tax on anything that I 
 deal in, the necessity of this measure on my 
 part will be so apparent that I dare say you 
 will not dispute it. W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 Olney, Dec 10, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^I am sorry that the book- 
 seller shufHes off the trouble of package upon 
 anybody that belongs to you. I think I could 
 cast him upon this point in an action upon 
 the case, grounded upon the terms of his 
 own undertaking. He engages to serve 
 country customers. Ergo, as it would be 
 unreasonable to expect tliat, when a country 
 gentleman wants a book, he should order 
 his chaise, and bid the man drive to Exeter 
 Change ; and as it is not probable that the 
 book would find the way to him of itself, 
 though it were the wisest that ever was writ- 
 ten, 1 should suppose the law would compel 
 him. For I recollect it is a maxim of good 
 authority in the courts, that there is no right 
 without a remedy. And if another, or third 
 person, should not be suffered to interpose 
 
 * Verses on a Goldfinch, starved to death in a cage. 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 between my right and the remedy the law 
 gives me, where the ri^ht is invaded, much 
 less, I appreliend, shall the man himself, who 
 of his own mere motion gives me that right, 
 be suffered to dw it. 
 
 I never made so long an argument upon a 
 law case before. I ask your pardon for do- 
 ing it now. You have but little need of such 
 entertainment. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 21, 1780. 
 I thank you for your anecdote of Judge 
 Carpenter. If it really happened, it is one 
 of the best stories I ever heard ; and if not, 
 it has at least the merit of being ben troxalo. 
 We both very sincerely laughed at it, and 
 think the whole Livery of London must have 
 done the same ; though I have known some 
 persons, whose faces, as if they had been 
 cast in a mould, could never be provoked 
 to the least alteration of a single feature ; so 
 that you might as well relate a good story to 
 a barber's block. 
 
 Non equidem invideo, miror magis. 
 
 Your sentiments with respect to me are 
 exactly Mrs. Unwin's. She, like you, is per- 
 fectly sure of my deliverance, and often tells 
 me so. I make but one answer, and some- 
 times none at all. That answer gives lier no 
 pleasure, and would give you as l»ttle ; there- 
 fore at this time I suppress it. It is better, 
 on every account, that they who interest 
 themselves so deeply in that event should 
 believe the certainty of it, than that they 
 should not. It is a comfort to them at least, 
 if it is none to me ; and as I could not if 1 
 would, so neither would I if I could, deprive 
 them of it. 
 
 I annex a long thought in verse for youf 
 perusal. It was produced about last mid- 
 summer, but I never could prevail with my- 
 self, till n(>w, to transcribe it.f You have 
 bestowed some commendations on a certain 
 poem now in the press, and they, I suppose, 
 have at least animated me to the task. It 
 human nature may be compared to a piece of 
 tapestry, (and why nof?) then human nature, 
 as it subsists in me, though it is sadly faded 
 on the right side, retains all its color on the 
 wrong. I am pleased with commendation, 
 and though not passionately desirous of in- 
 discriminate praise, or what is generally 
 called popularity, yet when a judicious friend 
 claps me on the back, I own I find it an en- 
 couragement At this season of the year, 
 and in this gloomy uncomfortable climate, it 
 is no easy matter for the owner of a mind 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The Verses alluded to appear to have been separated 
 from the letter.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 83 
 
 like mine to divert it from sad subjects, and 
 fix it npon sucli as may administer to its 
 amusement. Poetrj', above all things, is 
 useful to me in this respect. While I am 
 held in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty 
 way of expressing tliem, I forget everything 
 that is irksome, and, like a boy that plays 
 truant, determine to avail myself of the pres- 
 ent opportunity to be amused, and to put by 
 the disagreeable recollection that I mu^it, after 
 all, go home and be whipped again. 
 
 It will not be long, perhaps, before you 
 will receive a poem called " The Progress of 
 Error." That will be succeeded by another, 
 in due time, called "Truth." Don't be 
 alarmed, I ride Pegasus with a curb. He 
 will never run away with me again. I have 
 even convinced Mrs. Unwin that I can man- 
 age him, and make him stop wiien I please. 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 The following letter, to ^Ir. Ilill, contains 
 a poem already printed in the works of Cow- 
 per ; but the reader will be probably gratified 
 in finding the sportiveness of Cowper's wit 
 presented to him, as it was originally de- 
 spatched by the author for the amusement of 
 a friend. 
 
 TO JOSErH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, J)e.(;. 25, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^Weary with rather a 
 long walk in the snow, I am not likely to 
 write a very sprightly letter, or to produce 
 anything that may cheer this gloomy season, 
 unless 1 have recourse to my pocket-book, 
 where, perhaps, I may find sometin'ng to 
 transcribe ; something that was written be- 
 fore tlie sun iiad taken leave of our hemi- 
 sphere, and when I was less fatigued than I 
 am at present. 
 
 Happy is the man who knows just so much 
 of the law as to make himself a little merry 
 now and then with the solemnity of juridical 
 proceedings. I have heard of common kw 
 judgments before nov/ ; indeed have been 
 present at the delivery of some, tiiat, accord- 
 ing to my poor apprehension, while they paid 
 the utmost respect to the letter of the stat- 
 ute, have departed widely from the spirit of 
 it, and, being governed entireh- by the point 
 of law, have left equity, reason, and common 
 sense behind them, at an infinite distance. 
 You will judge whether the following report 
 of a case, drawn up by myself, be not a 
 proof and illustration of this satirieal as- 
 sertion. 
 
 Nose, Plaintif. — Eyes, Defenda/nts. 
 
 Between Nose and E3'es a sad contest arose; 
 The Spectacles set them unhappily wrontj: 
 The point in dispute was, as alltlir world knows, 
 To which the said Spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued thi 
 
 cause, 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of 
 
 learning, 
 While Chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
 So faai'd for his talents at nicely discerning. 
 
 '• In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, 
 And your lordship," he said, '• will undoubtedly 
 
 ■ find. 
 That the Nose has had Spectacles always in wear, 
 Which amounts to possession time out of mind." 
 
 Then holding the Spectacles up to the court, 
 " Your lordship observes, they are made with a 
 
 straddle, 
 As wide as the ridge of the nose is, in short, 
 Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 " Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, 
 ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be 
 
 again,) 
 That the visage, or countenance, had not a nose 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles 
 
 then 1 
 
 "On the whole it appears, and my argument 
 
 shows. 
 With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 
 That the Spectacles plainly were made for the 
 
 Nose, 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.'' 
 
 Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 
 Eut v\ hat were his arguments few people know, 
 For the court did not think they were equally 
 wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn ton , 
 Decisive and clear, without one if or but, 
 "That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on — 
 By day-lio-ht, or candle-light — Eyes should be 
 shut !" 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UJJ-mN. 
 
 Dec, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Poetical reports of inw- 
 cases are not very common, yet it seems to me 
 desirable that tliey sliould be so. Many ad- 
 vantages would accrue from such a measure. 
 They would, in the first place, be more com- 
 monly deposited in liio memory, just as linen, 
 grocery, or otiier such matters, when neatly 
 packed, are known to occupy less room, and 
 to lie more conveuiently in any trunk, chest, 
 or box, to which they may be committed. 
 In the next place, being divested of that in- 
 finite cireumlocu-ion, and the endless embar- 
 rassment ir. which tliey are involved by it, 
 they Avould become surprisingly intelligible, 
 in comparison witii their present obscurity. 
 And, la.-i!y, they would by this means be 
 rendered susceptiblq of musical embellish- 
 ment; and, instead of being quoted in \.\\i 
 country, with that dull monotony which is so 
 wearisome to by-st,niders, and fi-eqiientl% 
 lulls even the judges themselves to sleep 
 might be rehearsed in jecitation; which
 
 C<4 
 
 COWPERS WORKS. 
 
 would have an admirablt; effoct, in keeping 
 (fie attention lixed and lively, and could not 
 fail to disperse that heavy atmosphere of sad- 
 ness and gravity, which hangs over the juris- 
 prudence of our country. I remember, many 
 years ago, being informed by a relation of 
 mine, who, in his youtii, had applied himself 
 to the study of the law, that one of his fel- 
 low-students, a gentleman of sprightly parts, 
 and very respectable talents of the poetical 
 kind, did actually engage in the prosecution 
 of such a design ; for reasons, I suppose, 
 somewhat similar to, if not the same, with 
 those I have now suggested. He began with 
 Coke's Institutes; a book so rugged in its 
 style, that an attempt to polish it seemed an 
 Herculean labor, and not less arduous and 
 dilhcult than it would be to give the smooth- 
 ness of a rabbit's fur to the prickly back of a 
 hedgehog. But he succeeded to admiration, 
 as you will perceive by the following speci- 
 men, which is all that my said relation could 
 recollect of the performance. 
 
 Tenant in fee 
 
 Simple is he, 
 And need neither quake nor quiver, 
 
 Who hath his lands 
 
 Free from demands, 
 To him and his heirs tbrever. 
 
 You have an ear for music, and a taste for 
 verse, which saves me the trouble of pointing 
 out, with a critical nicety, the advantages of 
 such a version. I proceed, therefore, to what 
 r at first intended, and to transcribe the re- 
 cord of an adjudged case thus managed, to 
 which, indeed, what I premised was intended 
 merely as an introduction.* W. C. 
 
 The following year commences by a letter 
 to his friend Mr. Newton, and alludes to his 
 two poems entitled " The Proirress of Error," 
 and " Truth." 
 
 TO THE KEY. JOU.V AKWTON.f 
 
 Jan. 21, 1781. 
 My dear Sir, — 1 am glad that the " Pro- 
 gress of Error" did not err in its progress, 
 as I feared it had, and that it has reached 
 you sale ; and still more pleased that it has 
 met with your app'robation ; for, if it had not, 
 I should have wislied it had miscarried, and 
 have been sorry that the bearer's memory 
 lad served him so well uy,rn the occasion. 
 I knew him to be that sort cf genius, which, 
 being much busied in making e.xcursions of 
 the imaginary kind, is not always present to 
 its own imniedi'ite concerns, much less to 
 those of others; and, having reposed the 
 trust in him, began to regret that 1 had done 
 so when it was too late. But I did it to 
 
 * This letter concluded with tho poetical law-cusc of 
 Nose, i)laiiitiil'— Eyes, delendauls, already iuserted. 
 t Private corfespondence. 
 
 save a frank, and as the afliixir has turned out, 
 that end was very well answered. This is 
 committed to the hands of a less volatile 
 person, and therefore more to be depended on. 
 
 As to the poem called " Truth," which is 
 already longer than its elder brother, and is 
 yet to be lengthened by the addition of per- 
 haps twenty lines, perhaps more, I shrink 
 from the thought of transcribing it at pres- 
 ent. But as there is no need to be in any 
 hurry about it, I hope that, in some rainy 
 season, which the next month will probably 
 bring with it, when perhaps I may be glad of 
 employment, the undertaking will appear less 
 formidable. 
 
 You need not withhold from us any intel- 
 lio-ence relating to yourselves, upon an ap- 
 prehension that Mr. R has been before- 
 hand with you upon those subjects, for we 
 could get nothing out of him. I have known 
 such travellers in my time, and Mrs. Newton 
 is no stranger to one of them, who keep all 
 their observations and discoveries to them- 
 selves, till they are extorted from them by 
 mere din]#of examination and cross-examina- 
 tion. He told us, indeed, that some invisible 
 agent sup]->lied you every Sunday with a 
 coach, which wo were pleased with hearing ; 
 and this, I think, was the sum total of his 
 information. 
 
 We are much concerned for Mr. Bar- 
 ham's loss ;* but it is well for that gentle- 
 man, that those amiable features in his char- 
 acter, which most incline one to sympathize 
 with him, are the very graces and virtues 
 that will strengthen him to bear it with equa- 
 nimity and patfeiice. People that have neither 
 his light nor experience will wonder that a 
 disaster, which would perhaps have broken 
 their hearts, is not heavy enough to make 
 any abatement in the cheerfulness of his. 
 
 Your books came yesterday. I shall not 
 repeat to you what I said to Mrs. Unwin, 
 .ifter having read two or three of the letters. 
 I admire the preface, in which you have given 
 an air of novelty to a worn-out topic, and 
 bave actually engaged the favor of the reader 
 by saying those things in a delicate and un- 
 common way, which in general are disgusting. 
 
 I suppose you know that Mr. Scottf will 
 be in town on Tuesday. He is likely to 
 
 * The loss of his excellent wife. Mr. Barham was tho 
 intimate friend of Newton, and Cowper, and of the pious 
 Lord Dartmouth, whoso name i^ ocrasicuially introduced 
 in these letters in connexion with Gluey, where his lord- 
 ship's charity was libcrallv dis]iensed. Mr. 15arham sug- 
 gested the subject of nianv of the hymns that are in- 
 serted in the Ulney collection, and particularly the ono 
 entille<l "What think ve of Christ?" He was father of 
 the late Jos. Foster IJarham, Esq.. many years M.P. for 
 the borough of Stockbridge. The editor is happy in 
 here bearing testimony to the profound piety and en- 
 dearing virtues of a man, with whose family he became 
 pubse(iuent!y connected. He afterwards married the 
 widow of t^ir Rowland Hill, liart., and lived at Hawke- 
 stune in Shropshire. 
 
 t The late Kov. Thomas Scott, SO weU known and diS' 
 tinguished by his writings.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 85 
 
 take possession of the vicarage at last, with 
 the best grace possible ; at least, if he and 
 ^fr. Browne can agree upon the terms. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 Olncy, Feb. 6, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend,— Much good may your 
 humanity do you, as it does so much good 
 to others.f You can nowliere find objects 
 more entitled to your pity than wlierc your 
 pity seelcs them." A man whose vices and 
 irrenularilies have brought his liberty and 
 litelnto danger will always be viewed with 
 an eye of compassion by those wlio under- 
 stand what human nature is made of. And, 
 while we aclaiowledge the severity of the 
 law to be founded upon principles of neces- 
 sity and justice, and are glad that there is 
 such a barrier provided for the peace of so- 
 ciety, if we consider that the difference be- 
 tween ourselves and the culprit is not of our 
 own making, we shall bo, as you are, tender- 
 ly affected with tlie view of his misery, and 
 not the less so because he has brought it 
 upon himself. I look upon the worst man 
 in Chelmsford gaol with a more favorable 
 
 eye than upon , wlio claims a servant's 
 
 wages from one who never was his master. 
 
 1 give you joy of your own hair. No 
 doubt you" are a considerable gainer in your 
 appearance by being disperivvigged. The 
 best wig is that wliich most resembles the 
 natural hair ; why then should he that has 
 hair enough of his own iiave recourse to imi- 
 tation ? 1 have little doubt but that, if an 
 arm or a leg could have been taken off with 
 as little pain as attends the amputation of a 
 curl or a lock of hair, the natural limb would 
 have been thought less becoming or less con- 
 venient by some men than a wooden one, and 
 been disposed of accordingly. 
 
 Yours ever, W C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 8, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It is possible that Mrs. 
 Hill may not be liersclf a sufTcrer by the late 
 terrible catastrophe in the Islands ; but I 
 should supi)ose, by her correspondence with 
 those parts, she may be connected with some 
 that are. In either case, I condole with her : 
 for it is rcasonablt' to imagine that, since the 
 first tour that Columbus made into the West- 
 ern world, it never before experienced such a 
 convulsion, perhaps never since the found.a- 
 tion of the globe.]: You say the state grows 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t This iilliules to liis ;itteii(l;ince on a condemned raide- 
 Sactor ill the j:ul at Clielinsrord. 
 
 t This seas'uti wiis rtiirirk;il>le for the most destructive 
 hurricuiies ever remembered in the West Indies. 
 
 old, and discovers many symptoms of decline. 
 A writer possessed of a genius for hypothe- 
 sis, like that of Burnet, might construct a 
 plausible argument to prove that the world 
 itself is in a state of superannuation, if there 
 be such a word. If not, there must be such 
 a one as superannuity. When that just 
 equilibrium that has hitherto supported all 
 thinofs seems to fail, when the elements burst 
 the chain that had bound them, the wind 
 sweeping away the works of man, and man 
 himself together with his works, and the 
 ocean seeming to overleap the comiuand, 
 " Hitherto shalt thou come, and no further, 
 and here shall thy proud waves be stayed," 
 these irregular and prodigious vagaries seemed 
 to bespeak a decay, and forebode, perhaps, 
 not a very distant dissolution. This thought 
 has so run away with my attention, that I 
 have left myself no room for the little poli- 
 tics that have only Great Britain for their ob- 
 ject. Who knows but that while a thousand 
 and ten thousand tongues are employed in 
 adjusting the scale of our national concerns, 
 in complaining of new taxes, and funds load- 
 ed with a debt of accumulating millions, the 
 consummation of all things may discharge it 
 in a moment, and the scene of all this bustle 
 disappear, as if it had never been ? Charles 
 Fox would say, perhaps, he thought it very 
 unlikely. I question if he could prove even 
 that. I am sure, however, he could not 
 prove it to be impossible. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 15, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am glad you were 
 pleased with my report of so extraordinary 
 a case.* If the thought of versifying the de- 
 cisions of our courts of justice had struck me 
 while I had the honor to attend them, it 
 would perhaps have been no difficult matter 
 to have compiled a volume of such amusing 
 and interesting precedents ; which, if they 
 wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Ro- 
 n»an oratory, would have amply compens'ifed 
 that deficiency by the harmony of rhyme and 
 metre. 
 
 Your account of my uncle and your mo- 
 ther gave me great pleasure. I have long 
 been afraid to inquire after some in whose 
 welfare I always feel myself interested, lest 
 the question should produce a \ aiiiful an- 
 swer. Longevity is the lot of .so few, and is 
 so seldom rendered comfortable by the asso- 
 ciations of good health and good spirits, that 
 I could not very reasonably suppose either 
 your relations or mine so happy in those re- 
 spects as it seeius they are. May they con- 
 tinue to enjoy those blessings so long as the 
 
 * He aUndcs to tlie humorous verses on the Nose aa 
 the Eyes, inserted in a preceding letter.
 
 86 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 date of life shall last. I do not think that in 
 th(>se costcrmonger days, as I have a notion 
 Falstaff calls them, an antediluvian age is at 
 all a desirable thing, but to live comfortably 
 while we do live is a great matter, and com- 
 prehends in it everything that can be wished 
 for on this side the curtain that hangs be- 
 tween Time and Eternity I 
 
 Farewell, my better friend than any I have 
 to boast of, either among the Lords or gen- 
 tlemen of the House of Commons. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 18, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I send you " Table 
 Talk." It is a medley of many things, some 
 that may be useful, and some that, for aught 
 I know, may be very diverting. I am merry 
 that I may decoy people into my company, 
 an 1 grave that they may be the better for it. 
 Now and then I put on the garb of a philoso- 
 pher, and take the opportunity that disguise 
 procures me to drop a word in favor of re- 
 ligion. In short, there is some froth, and 
 here and there a bit of sweatmeat, which 
 seems to entitle it justly to the name of a 
 certain dish the ladies call a trifle. I do not 
 choose to be more fiicetious, lest I should 
 consult the taste of my readers at the ex- 
 pense of my own approbation ; nor more 
 serious than I have been, lest I should forfeit 
 theirs. A poet in my circumstances has a 
 difficult part to act : one minute obliged to 
 bridle his humor, if he has any ; and the 
 next, to clap a spur to the sides of it : now 
 ready to weep from a sense of the import- 
 ance of his subject, and on a sudden con- 
 strained to laugh, lest his gravity should be 
 mistaken for dulness. If this be not violent 
 exercise for the mind, I know not what is ; 
 and if any man doubt it, let him try. \Vlie- 
 ther all this management and contrivance be 
 necessary I do not know, but am inclined to 
 suspect that if my Muse was to go forth clad 
 in Quaker color, without one bit of riband to 
 enliven her appearance, she might walk from 
 one end of London to the other as little n(?- 
 ticed as if she were one of the sisterhood 
 indeed. 
 
 You hai been married thirty-one years last 
 Monday. When you married I was eighteen 
 years of age, and had just left Westminster 
 school. At that time, I valued a man accord- 
 ing to his proficiency and taste in classical 
 literature, and had the meanest opinion of 
 all other accomplishments unaccompanied by 
 that. I lived to see the vanity of wiiat I had 
 made my pride, and in a few years found that 
 there were other attainments which would 
 carry a man more handsomely through life 
 than a mere knowledge of what Homer and 
 
 * Piivate correspondence. 
 
 Virgil had left behind them. In measure as 
 my attachment to these gentry Vv'ore ofl", 1 
 found a more welcome reception among those 
 whose acquaintance it was more my interest 
 to cultivate. But all this time was spent in 
 painting a.piece of wood that had no life in 
 it. At last I began to think indeed; I found 
 myself in jjossession of many baubles, but 
 not one grain of solidity in all my treasures. 
 Then I learned the truth, and then I lost ii, 
 and there ends my history. I would no more 
 than you wish to live such a life over again, 
 but for one reason. He that is carried to 
 execution, though through the roughest road, 
 when he arrives at the destined spot would 
 be glad, notwithstanding the many jolts he 
 met with, to repeat his journey. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, with our joint love, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. HILL.=^ 
 
 Olney, Feb. 19, 1781. 
 Dear Madam, — ^When a man, especially a 
 man that lives altogether in the country, un- 
 dertakes to write to a lady he never saw, he 
 is the awkwardest creature in the world. He 
 begins his letter under the same sensations 
 he would have if he was to accost her in per- 
 son, only with this difference, — that he may 
 take as much time as he pleases for consider- 
 ation, and need not write a single word that 
 he has not well weighed and pondered be- 
 forehand, much less a sentence that he does 
 not think supereminently clever. In every 
 other respect, whether he be engaged in an 
 interview or in a letter, his behavior is, for 
 the most part, equally constrained and un- 
 natural. He resolves, as they say, to set th« 
 best leg foremost, which often proves to be 
 what Hudibras calls — 
 
 Not that of bone, 
 But much its better — th' wooden one. 
 
 His extraordinary effort only serves, as in the 
 case of that hero, to throv>^ him on the other 
 side of his horse ; and he owes his want of 
 success, if not to absolute stupidity, to his 
 most earnest endeavor to secure it. 
 
 Now I do assure you, madam, that all these 
 sprightly effusions of mine stand entirely clear 
 of the charge of premeditation, and that I 
 never entered upon a business of this kind 
 with more simplicity in my life. I deter- 
 mined, before I began, to lay aside all attempts 
 of the kind I have just mentioned; and, being 
 perfectly free from the fetters that self-con 
 ceit, commonly called bashfulness, fastens 
 upon the mind, am, as you see, surpuisingly 
 brilliant. 
 
 My principal design is to thank you in the 
 plainest terms, which always afibrd the best 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 81 
 
 proof of a man's sincerity, for your obliging 
 present. The seeds will make a figure here- 
 after in the stove of a much greater man than 
 myself, who am a little man, with no stove at 
 all. Some of them, however, I shall raise 
 for my own amusement, and keep them as 
 long as they can be kept in a bark heat, 
 which I give them all the year ; and, in ex- 
 change for those I part with, I shall receive 
 such exotics as are not too delicate for a 
 greenhouse. 
 
 I will not omit to tell you, what no doubt 
 you have heard already, though perhaps you 
 have never made the experiment, that leaves 
 gathered at the fall are found to hold their 
 heat much longer than bark, and are prefer- 
 able in every respect. Next year, 1 intend to 
 use them myself. I mention it, because Mr. 
 Hill told me some time since, that he was 
 building a stove, in which I suppose they will 
 succeed mucli better than in a frame. 
 
 I beg to Ihank you again, madam, for the 
 very fine salmon you were so kind as to favor 
 me with, wliich has all the sweetness of a 
 Ilerti'ordshire trout, and resembles it so much 
 in flavor, that blindfold I should not iiave 
 known the difference. 
 
 I beg, madam, you will accept all these 
 thanks, and believe them as sincere as they 
 really are. Mr. Hill knows me well enough 
 to be able to vouch for me that I am not 
 over-much addicted to compliments and fine 
 speeches ; nor do I mean either tiie one or 
 the other, when I assure you that I am, dear 
 madam, not merely for his sake, but your own, 
 Your most obedient 
 
 and affectionate servant, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO TIIE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 2.5, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — He that tells a long story 
 should take care tliat it be not made a long 
 story by his manner of telling it. His ex- 
 pression siiould be natural, and liis metliod 
 clear ; the incidents should be interrupted by 
 very few rellections, and parentheses should 
 be entirely discarded. I do not know that 
 poor Mr. Teedon guides himself in tlie affair 
 of story-telling by any one of tliese rules, or 
 by any rule indeed that I ever heard of. He 
 has just left us after a long visit, the greatest 
 part of which lie spent in the narration of a 
 certain detail of facts that might have been 
 compressed into a mu:h smaller compass, 
 and my attention to wliich has wearied and 
 worn out all my spirits. You know how 
 scrupulously nice he is in the choice of his 
 expression ; an exactness that soon becomes 
 very inconvenient both to speaker and hearer, 
 where there is not a great variety to choose 
 out of. But Saturday evening is come, the 
 
 * Piivate correspondence. 
 
 time I generally devote to my correspondence 
 with you : and Mrs. Unwin will not allow me 
 to let it pass without writing, though, having 
 done it herself, both she and you might well 
 spare me upon the present occasion. 
 
 Notwithstanding my purpose to shake hands 
 with the Muse, and take my leave of her for 
 the present, we have already had a tete-a-iete 
 since I sent you ti;e last production. I am as 
 much or rather more please ^ with my new 
 plan than with any of the foregoing. I mean 
 to give a short summary of the Jewish story, 
 the miraculous interpositions in behalf of that 
 people, their great privileges, their abuse of 
 them, and their consequent destruction ; and 
 ■jhen, by way of comparison, such anothe- 
 di.:-play of the favors vouchsafed to this coun- 
 try, tlie similar ingratitude with which they 
 have requited them, and the punishment they 
 have therefore reason to expect, unless re- 
 forwntion interpose to prevent it. " Expos- 
 tulation'' is its present title; but 1 have not 
 yet found ii'. the writing it tiiat facility and 
 readiness v/iilicut which I shall despair ij 
 finish it well, or indeed to finish it at all. 
 
 Believe me, iijy dea}' sir, with love to Mrs. N . 
 Your ever affectionate, 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, March 5, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Since writing is be- 
 come one of my principal amusements, and I 
 have already produced so many verses on 
 subjects that entitle them to a hope that they 
 may possibly be useful, I should be sorry to 
 sujjpress them entirely, or to publish them to 
 no purpose, for want of that cheap ingredient, 
 the name of the author. If my name there- 
 fore will serve them in any degree as a pass- 
 port into the public notice, they are welcome 
 to it ; and Mr. Johnson will, if he pleases, 
 announce me to the world by the style and 
 title of 
 
 Wn.T.IAM COWPER, ESa, 
 OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 
 
 If you are of my mind, I think " Table Talk " 
 will be the best to begin with, as the subjects 
 of it are perhaps more popular; and one 
 would wish, at first setting out, to catch the 
 public by the ear, and hold them by it as fast 
 as possible, that they may be willing to hear 
 one on a second and a third occasion. 
 
 The passage you object to I inserted merely 
 by way of catch, and think that it is not 
 unlikely to answer the purpose. My design 
 was to say as many serious things as I could, 
 and yet to be as lively as was compatible 
 with such a purpose. Do not imagine that I 
 mean t) stickle for it, as a pretty creature of 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 88 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 my own that I am loath to part with ; but I 
 am appreliensive that, witliout the sprig-htli- 
 ness of that passage to introduce it, the fol- 
 lowing paragraph would not show to advan- 
 tage. — If the world iiad been filled with men 
 like yourself, I should never have written it; 
 but, thinking myself in a measure obliged to 
 tickle if I meant to please, I therefore affected 
 a jocularity I did not feel. As to the rest, 
 wherever there is war there is misery and 
 outrage ; notwithstanding which it is not only 
 lawful to wish, but even a duty to pray, for 
 the success of one's country. And as to the 
 neutralities, I really think the Russian virago 
 an impertinent puss for meddling with us, 
 and engaging half a score kittens of her ac- 
 quaintance to scratch the poor old lion, who, 
 if .lC has been insolent in his day, has proba- 
 bly acted no otherwise than they themselves 
 would have acted in his circumstances, and 
 with his power to embolden them. 
 
 I am glad that the myrtles reached ycu 
 safe, but am persuaded from past experience 
 that no manaacment will keep them long 
 alive in London, especially in the city. Our 
 own English Tr-it*. IJie natives of the coun- 
 try, are for the nic^t part too delicate to 
 thrive there, much more the nice Italian. To 
 give them, however, the best chance they can 
 have, the lady must keep them well watered, 
 giving them a moderate quantity in summer 
 time every other day, and in winter about 
 twice a week; not spring-water, for that 
 would kill them. At Michaelmas, as much 
 of the mould as can be taken out without 
 disturbing the roots must be evacuated, and 
 its place supplied with fresh, the lighter the 
 better. And once in two years the plants 
 must be drawn out of their pots, with the 
 entire ball of earth about them, and the mat- 
 ted roots pared off with a sharp knife, when 
 they must be planted again with an addition 
 of rich light eartii as before. Thus dealt 
 with, they will grow luxuriantly in a green- 
 house, where they can have plenty of sweet 
 air, which is absolutely necessary to their 
 health. I used to purciuise them at Covent 
 Garden almost every year when I lived in the 
 Temple : but even in that airy situation they 
 were sure to lose their leaf in winter, and 
 seldom recovered it again in spring. I wish 
 them a better fate at Hoxton. 
 
 Olney has seen this day what it never saw 
 before, and what will serve it to talk of, I 
 suppose, for years to yome. At eleven o'clock 
 this morning, a party of soldiers entered the 
 town, driving before them another party, who, 
 after obstinately defending the bridge for 
 some time, were obliged to quit it and run. 
 They ran in very good order, frequently faced 
 about and tired, but were at last obliged to 
 Burr nder prisoners of war. There has been 
 ranch drumming and siiouting, much scamper- 
 ing about in the dirt, but not an inch of lace 
 
 n\ade in the town, at least at the Silver End 
 of it. 
 
 It is onr joint request that you will not 
 again leave us unwritten to for a fortnight 
 We are so like yourselves in this particular, 
 that we cannot help ascribing so long a si- 
 lence to the worst cause. The longer your 
 letters the better, but a short one is better 
 than none. 
 
 ]\l IS. Unwin is pretty well, and adds the 
 greetings of her love to mine. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, March 18, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — A slight disorder in my 
 eye may possibly prevent my writing you a 
 long letter, and would perhaps have pre- 
 vented my writing at all, if I had not known 
 that you account a fortnight's silence a week 
 too long. 
 
 I am sorry that I gave you the trouble to 
 write twice upon so trivial a subject as the 
 passage in question. I did not understand by 
 your first objections to it that you thought it 
 so exceptionable as you do ; but, being better 
 informed, I immediately resolved to expunge 
 it, and subjoin a few lines which you will 
 oblige me by substituting in its place. I am 
 not very fond of weaving a political thread 
 into any of my pieces, and that for two rea- 
 sons ; first, because I do not think myself 
 qualified, in point of intelligence, to form a 
 decided opinion on any such topics; and, 
 secondly, because I think them, thougli per- 
 haps as po})ular as any, the most useless of 
 all. The following verses are designed to 
 succeed immediately after 
 
 fights with justice on his side. 
 
 Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, 
 Reward his mem'ry, dear to every muse, (fccf 
 
 I am obliged to you for your advice with 
 respect to the manner of publication, and feel 
 myself inclined to be determined by it. So 
 far as I have proceeded on the subject of 
 " Expostulation," I have written with tolera- 
 ble ease to myself, and in my own opinion 
 (for an opinion I am obliged to have about 
 what I \\rite, whether I will or no), with more 
 emphasis and energy than in either of the 
 others. But it seems to open upon me with 
 an abundance of matter that forebodes a con- 
 siderable length : and the time of year is 
 come when, what with walking and garden- 
 ing, I can find but little leisure for the pen. 
 I mean however, as soon as I have engrafted 
 a new scion into the "Progress of Error" 
 instead of * * * *, and when I have tran- 
 
 * Private correspoiulence. 
 
 t Vide Poems, wlit^re, i}i llio next line, the cpilhel un 
 shaken is substituted lor the noblest, in tlie letter.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 8e 
 
 scribed " Truth," and sent it to you, to apply 
 myself to the composition last undertaken 
 with as much industry as I can. If, there- 
 fore, the first three are put into the press 
 while I arm spinning and weaving the last, 
 the whole may perhaps be ready for publica- 
 tion before the proper season will be past. I 
 mean at present that a few select smaller 
 pieces, about seven or eight perhaps, the best 
 i can find in a bookful that I have by me, 
 shall accoinpauy them. All together they 
 will furnish, I should imagine, a volume of 
 tolerable bulk, that need not be indebted to 
 an unreasonable breadth of margin for the 
 importance of its figure. 
 
 if a board of inquiry were to be estab- 
 lished, at which poets were to undergo an 
 examination respecting the motives that in- 
 duced tliem to ])ublish, and I were to be sum- 
 moned to attend, tiiiit I might give an account 
 of mine, I think I could truly say, what per- 
 haps few poets could, that, though I have no 
 objection to lucrative consequences, if any 
 such should follow, they are not my aim : 
 much less is it my ambition to exhibit myself 
 to the world as a genius. What then, says 
 Mr. President, can possibly be your motive'? 
 I answer with a bow — amusement. There 
 is nothing but this — no occupation within 
 tlie compass of my small sphere, poetry ex- 
 cepted, that can do much towards diverting 
 that train of melancholy thoughts, which, 
 when I am not thus employed, are forever 
 ])ouring themselves in upon me. And if I 
 did not publish what I write, I could not in- 
 terest myself sufficiently in my own success 
 to make an amusement of it. 
 
 In my account of the battle fought at 01- 
 ney, I laid a snare for your curiosity and suc- 
 ceeded. I supposed it would have an enig- 
 matical appearance, and so it had ; but like 
 most other riddles, when it comes to be 
 solved, you will find that it was not worth 
 the trouble of conjecture. There are soldiers 
 quartered at Newport and at Olney. These 
 met, by order of tlieir respective oiRcers, in 
 Emberton ]\Iarsh, performed all the manreu- 
 vre:j of a decdy battle, and the result was 
 that tliis town was taken. Since I wrote, they 
 have again encountered with the same inten- 
 tion ; and iMr. R kept a room for me 
 
 and 3Irs. Uuwin, that we might sit and view 
 them at our ease. We did so, but it did not 
 answer our expectation ; for, before the con- 
 test could be decided, the powder on both 
 sides being expended, the combatants were 
 obliged to leave it an undecided contest. If 
 it were possible that, when two great armies 
 spend the night in expectation of a battle, a 
 Jiird could silently steal away their ammuni- 
 tion and arms of every kind, what a comedy 
 would it make of that which always has such 
 1 tragical conclusion ! 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, April 2, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — Fine v.'eatiier, and a va- 
 riety of exLra-foraneouH occupations, (search 
 Johnson's dictionary for that woixi, and if 
 not found there, insert it — for it saves a deal 
 of circumli.cation, and is very lawfully com- 
 pounded,) make it difficult, (excuse the length 
 of a parentiiesis, which I did not foresee the 
 length of when I began it, nd which may 
 perhaps a little jx rplex the sense of what I 
 am writing, though, as I seldom deal in that 
 figure of speech, I have the less need to make 
 an apology for doing it at present,) make it 
 difficult (i say) for me to find opi)ortunities 
 for writing. My morning is engrossed by 
 the garden ; and in the afternoon, till I have 
 drunk tea, I am fit for nothing. At five 
 o'clock we walk, and when the walk is over 
 lassitude recommends rest, and again I be- 
 come fit for nothing. The current hour, 
 therefore, which (I need not tell you) is 
 comprised in the interval between four and 
 five, is devoted to your service; as the only 
 one in the twenty-four which is not otherwise 
 engaged. 
 
 1 do not wonder that you have felt a. great 
 deal upon the occasion you mention in your 
 last, especially on account of the as])erity you 
 have met with in the behavior of your friend 
 Reflect, however, that, as it is natural to you 
 to have very fine feelings, it is eiiually natu- 
 ral to some oilier tempers to leave those 
 feelings entirely out of the question, and to 
 speak to you, and to act towards you. just as 
 they do towards the rest of mankind, with- 
 out the least attention to the irrit.ibility of 
 your system. Men of a rough and unspar- 
 ing address should take great care that they 
 be always in the right, the justness and pro- 
 priety of their sentiments and censures being 
 the only tolerable apology that can be made 
 for such a conduct, especially in a country 
 where civility of behavior is inculcated even 
 from the cradle, lint, in \\w, instance now 
 under our contemplation, I think you a suf- 
 ferer under the weight of an animadversion 
 not founded in truth, and which, consequently, 
 you did not deserve. 1 account iiim faithful 
 in the pulpit who dissembles nothing that he 
 believes for fear of giving ofienee. To ac- 
 commodate a discourse to the judgment and 
 opinion of others, for the sake of pleasing 
 them, though by doing so we are obliged to 
 depart widely from our own, is to be un- 
 faiihful to ourselves at least, and cannot be 
 .-'.ccouuted fidelity to Him whom we profess 
 to serve. But there are few nxui wh do 
 not stand in need of the exercise of charity 
 and forbearance : and the gentleman in ques- 
 tion has afforded you an ample opportunity 
 in this respect to show how readily, though 
 diifering in your views, you can practise all 
 that he couid jiossibly expect from you, if
 
 90 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 3'our persuasion corresponded exactly with 
 his own. 
 
 With respect to Monsieur le Cure, I think 
 you not quite e.xcusable for suffering such a 
 man to give you any uneasiness at all. Tlie 
 grossness and injustice of his demand ought 
 to Le its own antidote. If a robber should 
 miscall you a pitiful fellow for not carrying 
 a purse full of gold about you, would his 
 brutality give you any concern ? I suppose 
 not. Wliy, then, have you been distressed 
 in the present instance ? 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, April 8, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Since I commenced au- 
 thor, my letters arc even less worth your ac- 
 ceptance that they were before. I shall soon 
 however, lay down the character, and cease 
 to trouble you with directions to a printer, at 
 least till the summer is over. If I live to see 
 the return of winter, I may, perhaps, assume 
 it again ; but my appetite for fame is not 
 keen enough to combat with my love of fine 
 iveather, my love of indolence, and my love 
 of gardening employments. 
 
 I send you, by Mr. Old, my works com- 
 plete, bound in brown paper, and numbered 
 according to the series in which I would have 
 them published. With respect to the poem 
 called " Truth," it is so true, that it can hardly 
 fail of giving offence to unenlightened read- 
 ers. 1 think, therefore, that, in order to ob- 
 viate in some measure those prejudices that 
 will naturally erect their bristles against it, 
 an explanatory preface, such as you (and no- 
 body so well as you) can furnish me with, 
 will have every gi'ace of propriety to recom- 
 mend it. Or, if you are not averse to the 
 task, and your avocations will allow you to 
 undertake it, and if you think it would be 
 still more proper, I sliould be glad to be in- 
 debted to you for a preface to the whole. I 
 wish you, however, to consult your own judg- 
 ment upon the occasion, and to engage in 
 either of these works, or neither, just as your 
 discretion guides you. 
 
 I have written a great deal to-day, wliich 
 must be my excuse for an abrupt conclusion. 
 Our love attends you both. We are in pretty 
 good health; Mrs. Unwin, indeed, better than 
 usual : and as to me, I ail nothing but the 
 incurable ailment. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 Thanks for the cocoa-nut. 
 I send you a cucumber, not of my own 
 raising, and yet raised by me. 
 
 Solve this enigma, dark enough 
 
 To puzzle any brains 
 That are not downright puzzle-proof, 
 
 And eat it for your pains. 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Monday, April 23, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Having not the least 
 doubt of your ability to execute just such a 
 preface as I should wish to see prefixed to 
 my publication, and being convinced that you 
 have no good foundation for those which you 
 yourself entertain upon the subject, I neither 
 withdraw my requisition nor abate one jot 
 of the earnestness with which I made it. I 
 admit the delicacy of the occasion, but am 
 far from apprehending that you will therefore 
 find it difficult to succeed. You can draw a 
 hair-stroke where another man would make 
 a blot as broad as a sixpence. 
 
 I am much obliged to you for the interest 
 you take in the appearance of my poems, and 
 much pleased by the alacrity with which you 
 do it. Your favorable opinion of them af- 
 fords me a comfortable presage with respect 
 to that of the public ; for though I make al- 
 lowances for your partiality to me and mine, 
 because mine, yet I am sure you would not 
 suffer me unadmonished to add myself to 
 the multitude of insipid rhymers, with whose 
 productions the world is already too much 
 pestered. 
 
 It is worth while to send you a riddle, you 
 make such a variety of guesses, and turn and 
 tumble it about with such an industrious cu- 
 riosity. The solution of that in question is 
 — let me see ; it requires some consideration 
 to explain it, even though I made it. I 
 raised the seed that produced the plant that 
 produced the fruit that produced the seed 
 that produced the fruit I sent you. This 
 latter seed I gave to the gardener of Tyriiig- 
 ham, who brought me the cucumber you 
 mention. Thus you see I raised it — that is 
 to say, I raised it virtually by having raised 
 its progenitor; and yet I did not raise it, 
 because the identical seed from which it grew 
 was raised at a distance. You observe I did 
 not speak rashly when I spoke of it as dark 
 enough to pose an CEdipus, and have no need 
 to call your own sagacity in question for fall- 
 ing short of the discovery. 
 
 A report has prevailed at Olney that you 
 are coming in a fortnight ; but, taking if for 
 granted that you know best when you shall 
 come, and that you will make us happy in the 
 same knowledge as soon as you are possessed 
 of it yourself, 1 did not venture to build any 
 sanguine expectations upon it. 
 
 I have at last read the second volume of 
 
 Mr. 's work, and had some hope that I 
 
 should prevail with myself to read the first 
 likewise. I began his book at the latter end, 
 because the first part of it was engaged when 
 I received the second ; but I had not so good 
 an appetite as the soldier of the Guards, who, 
 I was informed when i lived in London, 
 \V3uld for a small matter, eat up a cat alive 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 ai 
 
 beginning at her tail and finishing with her 
 wliiskers. 
 
 Yours, ut semper, W. C. 
 
 The period was now arrived, in which 
 Cowper was at lengtii to make his appear- 
 ance in the avowed character of an author. 
 It is an epoch in Britisli hterature worthy of 
 being recorded, because poetry in his hands 
 became the handmaid of morahty and rehgion. 
 Too often lias the Muse been prostituted to 
 more ignoble ends. But it is to the praise 
 of Cowper, that he never wrote a line at 
 which modesty might blush. His verse is 
 identilled with whatever is pure in conception, 
 chaste in imagery, and moral in its aim. His 
 object was to strengthen, not to enervate ; to 
 impart iiL-altli, not to administer to disease ; 
 and to inspire a love for virtue, by exhibiting 
 the deformity of vice. So long as nature 
 shall possess the power to charm, and the 
 interests of solid trutli and wisdom, arrayed 
 in tbe garb of taste, and enforced by nervous 
 language, shall deserve to predominate over 
 seductive imagery, the page of Cowper will 
 demand our admiration, and be read with de- 
 light and prolit. 
 
 The following letters afford a very pleasing 
 circumstantial account of the manner in which 
 he was induced to venture into the world as 
 a poet. 
 
 We will only add to the information they 
 contain what we learn from the authority of 
 his guardian friend, Mrs. Unwin, that she 
 strongly solicited him, on his recovery from 
 a very long fit of mental dejection, to devote 
 his thoughts to poetry of considerable extent. 
 She suggested to him, at the same time, the 
 first subject of his verse, " The Progress of 
 Error," which the reader will recollect as the 
 second poem in his first volume. The time 
 when that volume was completed, and the 
 motives of its author for srivinij it to the world, 
 are clearly displayed in an admirable letter 
 to his poetical cousin, Mrs. Cowper. His 
 feelings, on the approach of publication, are 
 described with iiis usual nobleness of senti- 
 ment and siini)licity of expression, in reply to 
 a question upon the subject from the anxious 
 young friend to whom he i^iivc the first notice 
 of his intention in the next letter. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, May ], I'ldl. 
 Your mother says I iniiKt write, and 7n>ist 
 admits of no apology ; I might otherwise 
 plead, that I have nothing to say, that I am 
 vveary, that I am dull, that it would be more 
 convenient therefore for you, as well as for 
 myself, that I should let it alone. But all 
 these })le:is. and whatever pleas besides, either 
 ilisinclination, indolence, or necessity might 
 suggest are overruled, as they ought to l)e, 
 the moment a lady adduces her irrefragable 
 
 argument, you must. You have still however 
 one comfort left, that what I must write, you 
 may or may not read, just as it shall please 
 you ; unless Lady Anne at your elbow should 
 say you must read it, and then, like a true 
 knight, you will obey without looking for a 
 remedy. 
 
 In the press, and speedily will be published, 
 in one volume octavo, price three shillings. 
 Poems, by William Cowper, of the Imier 
 Temple, Esq. You may suppose, by the size 
 of the publication, that the greatest part of 
 them have been long kept secret, because you 
 yourself have never seen them ; but the truth 
 is, that they were most of them, except what 
 you have iu your possession, the produce of 
 the last winter. Two-thirds of the compila- 
 tion will be occupied by four pieces, the first 
 of which sprung up in the month of December, 
 and the last of them in the month of Murch. 
 They contain, I suppose, in all, about two 
 thousand and five hundred lines ; are known, 
 or to be known in due time, by the names of 
 Table Talk— The. Progress of Frror— Truth 
 — Expostulation. Mr. Newton writes a pre- 
 face, and Johnson is the publisher. The 
 principal, I may say the only, reason why I 
 never mentioned to you, till now, an affair 
 which I am just going to make known to all 
 the world (if that Mr. AU-the-world should 
 think it worth his kn<.wing) has been this; 
 that till within these few days, 1 had not the 
 honor to know it myself This may seem 
 strange, but it is true, for, not knowing where 
 to find underwritei;s who would choose to 
 insure them, and not finding it convenient to 
 a purse like mine to run any hazard, even 
 upon the credit of my own ingenuity, I was 
 very much in doubt for some weeks whether 
 any bookseller would be willing to subject 
 himself to an ambiguity, that might prove 
 very expensive in case of a bad market. But 
 Johnson has heroically set all peradventures 
 at defiance, and takes the whole charge upon 
 hin^fSelf So out I come. I shall be glad of 
 my Translations from Vincent Bourne in your 
 next frank. My Muse will lay herself at your 
 feet immediately on her first public appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Oluey, May 9, 1781. 
 My dear Sir, — I am in the press, and it is 
 in vain to deny it. But how mysterious is 
 the conveyance of intelligence from one end 
 to the other of your great city ! Not many 
 days since, except one man, and he but little 
 taller than yourself, all London was igni)rai;t 
 of it ; for I do not suppose that the public 
 prints have yet announced the most agreeable 
 tidings; the; title-page, which is ii.e b.;>i^ ol 
 the advertisement, having so lately reached
 
 92 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 the publisher; and it is now known to you, 
 who live at least two miles distant from my 
 confidant upon the occasion. 
 
 JMy labors are principally the production 
 of the last winter ; all indeed, except a few of 
 the minor pieces. When I can find no other 
 occupation I think, and when 1 think I am very 
 apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass, 
 that the season of the year which generally 
 pinches offthe flowers of poetry unfolds mine, 
 such as they are, and crowns me with a winter 
 garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my 
 contemporary bards are by no means upon a 
 par. Tiiey write when the delightful influen- 
 ces of fime weather, fine prospects, and a brisk 
 motion of the animal spirits, make poetry 
 almost the language of nature; and I, when 
 icicles depend from all the leaves of the Par- 
 nassian laurel, and when a reasonable man 
 would as little expect to succeed in verse as 
 to hear a blackbird whistle. This must be my 
 apology to you for whatever want of fire and 
 animation you observe in what you will 
 shortly have the perusal of As to the public, 
 if they like me not, there is no remedy. A 
 friend will weigh and consider all disadvan- 
 tages, aiad make as large allowances as an 
 author can wish, and larger perhaps than he 
 has any right to expect ; but not so the world 
 at large; whatever tliey do not like, they will 
 not by any apology be persuaded to forgive, 
 and it would be in vain to tell ihe7n that I 
 wrote my verses in January, for they would 
 immediately reply, "Why did not you write 
 them in May?" A question that might puzzle 
 a wiser head than we poets are generally 
 blessed with. W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWTN. 
 
 Olney, May 10, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend. — ^Tt is Friday; I have just 
 drunk tea, and just perused your letter; and 
 though this answer to it cannot set off till 
 Sunday, I obey the warm impulse I feel, v^hich 
 will nut permit me to postpone the business 
 till the reo-ular time of writingf. 
 
 I expected you would be grieved ; if you had 
 not been so, those sensibilities which attend 
 you upon every other occasion must have left 
 you upon this. I am sorry that I have given 
 you pain, but not sorry that you have felt it. 
 A concern of that sort would be absurd, be- 
 cause it would be to regret your friendship for 
 me, and to be dissatisfied with the effect of it. 
 Allow yourself however three minutes only 
 for reflection, and your penetration must ne- 
 cessarily dive into the motives of my conduct. 
 In the first place, and by way of preface, re- 
 member that I do not (whatever your partiality 
 may incline you to do) account it of much con- 
 sequence to any fi-iend of mine whether he is 
 or is net, employed by me upon such an oc- 
 jiasioTi. But all affected renunciations of po- 
 
 etical merit apart, and all unaffected expres 
 sions of the sense I have of my own littleness 
 in the poetical character too, the obvious and 
 only reason why I resorted to Mr. Newton, 
 and not to my friend Unwin, was this: that 
 tlie former lived at London, the latter at 
 Stock; the former was upon the spot to cor- 
 rect the press, to give instructions respecting 
 anv sudden alterations, and to settle with 
 the publisher everything that migljt possibly 
 occur in the course of such a business; the 
 latter could not be applied to for these pur- 
 poses without what I thought would be a 
 manifest encroachment on his kindness; be- 
 cause it might happen that the troublesome 
 office might cost him now and then a journey, 
 which it was absolutely impossible for me to 
 endure the thought of. 
 
 When I wrote to you for the copies you 
 liave sent me, I told you I was making a col- 
 lection, but not with a design to publish. 
 There is nothing truer than at that time I hatJ 
 not the smallest expectation of sending a 
 volume of Poems to the press. I had several 
 small pieces that might amuse, but I would 
 not, when I publish, make the amusement 
 of the reader my only object. When tlie 
 winter deprived me of other employments, I 
 began to compose, and, seeing six or seven 
 months before me which would naturally 
 afl^brd me much leisure for such a purpose, I 
 undertook a piece of some length; that fin- 
 ished, another; and so on, till I had amassed 
 the number of lines I mentioned in my last. 
 
 BeMeve of me what you please, but not 
 that I am indifferent to you or your friend- 
 ship for me on any occasion. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, May 23, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — If a writer's friends have 
 need of patience, how much more the writer ! 
 Your desire to see my Muse in public, and 
 mine to gratify you, must both suffer tlie 
 mortification of delay. I expected that my 
 trumpeter would have informed the world, 
 by this time, of all that is needful for them 
 to know upon such an occasion; and that an 
 advertising blast, blown through every news- 
 paper, would have said — " The Poet is com- 
 ing." — But man, especially man that writes 
 verse, is born to disappointments, as surely 
 as printers and booksellers arc boin to be 
 the most dilatory and tedious of all crea- 
 tures. The plain English of this magnificent 
 preamble is, that the season of publication 
 is just elapsed, that the town is going into 
 the country every day, and that my book 
 cannot appear till they return, that is to say, 
 not till next winter. This misfortune, how 
 ever, comes not without its attendant advan- 
 tage ; I shall now have, what I should not
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 03 
 
 utherwise have had, an opportunity to c(^- 
 rect the press myself: no small advantage 
 upon any occasion, but especially important 
 where poetry is concerned ! A single erratum 
 may knock out the brains of a wliole pas- 
 sage, and that, perhaps, which of all otliers 
 the unfortunate poet is the most proud of 
 Add to this that, now and then, there is to 
 be found in a printing-house a presumptuous 
 intermeddler, who will fancy himself ii poet 
 too, and, what is still worse, a better than 
 lie that employs him. The consequence is 
 that, with cobbling and tinkering, and patch- 
 ing on here and there a shred of his own, he 
 makes such a difference between the original 
 and the copy, that an autlior cannot kiu)w 
 his own work again. Now, as I clioose to 
 be responsible for nobody'.s dulness but my 
 own, 1 jun a little comforted when I rellect 
 that it will be in my power to prevent all 
 such impertinence, and yet not without your 
 assistance. It will be quite necessary tliat 
 the correspondence between me and Johnson 
 should be carried on without the expense of 
 postage, because proof-sheets would make 
 double or treble letters, which expense, as in 
 every instance it must occur twice, first when 
 the packet is sent and again when it is re- 
 turned, would be rather inconvenient to me, 
 who, as you perceive, am forced to live by 
 my wits, and to him who hopes to get a little 
 matter, no doubt, by the same mean.-;. Half 
 a dozen franks, therefore, to me, and totidem 
 to him will be singularly acceptib'e, if you 
 can, without feeling it in any respect a trou- 
 ble, procure them for me.* 
 
 I am much obliged to you for your offer 
 to support me in a translation of Bourne. 
 It is but seldom, however, and never except 
 for my amusement, that I translate ; because 
 I find it disagreeable to work by another 
 man's pattern; I should, at least, be sure; to 
 find it so in a business of any lenglh. Again, 
 that is epigrammatic and witty in Latin which 
 would be perfectly inaipid in English, and a 
 translator of Bourne would frequently find 
 himself obliged to supply what is called the 
 turn, which is in fact the most di;iicuU and 
 the most expensive part of the whole com- 
 position, and could not, perhaps, in many in- 
 stances, be done with any tolerable success. 
 If a Latin poem is neat, elegant, and musical, 
 it is enough — but English readers are not so 
 easily satisfied. To quote myself, you will 
 find, in comparing the jackdaw with the 
 original, that I was obliged to sharpen a 
 point, which, though smart enougli in the 
 Latin, would in English have appeared as 
 plain and as blunt as the tag of a lace. I 
 
 * The privileLfi' of Iniii'viny; lutters wa.'? formerly excr- 
 cisi'il in a very (litlVi'ciit iKimior from what is now in 
 uap. The name of the M.P. was iii:;erte(l, as Is usual, on 
 the cover of the letter, but tiie address was left to be 
 added when and wlicre tho writer of the letter fuuad it 
 most expedient. 
 
 love the memory of Vinny Bourne. I thint' 
 hiin a better Latin poet than Tibullus, Pro- 
 pertius, Ausonius,* or any of the writers in 
 his way, except Ovid, and not at all inferior 
 to him. I love him to'>, with a love of par- 
 tiality, because he was usher of the fifth 
 form at Westminster, when I passed through 
 it. He was so good-natured, and so indo- 
 lent, that I lost more than I got by him ; for 
 he made me as idle as himself. He was such 
 a sloven, as if he had trusted to his genius 
 as a cloak for everything that could disgust 
 you in his person ; and indeed in his writings 
 he has almost made amends for all. His 
 humor is entirely original — he can speak of 
 a magpie or a cat in terms so exquisitely ap- 
 propriate to the character he draws, that one 
 would suppose him animated by the spirit of 
 the creature iie describes. And with all his 
 drollery there is a mixture of rational and even 
 religious reflection at times, and always an 
 air of pleasantry, good-nature, and humanity, 
 that makes him, in my mind, one of the most 
 amiable writers in the world. It is not com- 
 mon to meet with an author, who can make 
 you smile and yet at nobody's expense; who 
 is always entertaining tind yet always harm- 
 less; and who, though always elegant, and 
 classical to a degree not always found in the 
 classics themselves, charms more by the sim- 
 plicity and playfulness of his ideas than by 
 the neatness and purity of his verse; yet 
 such was poor Viiniy. I remember seeing 
 the Duke of Richmond set fire to his greasy 
 locks, and box his ears to put it out again. 
 
 Since I began to write long poems I seem 
 to turn up my nose at the idea of a short one. 
 1 have lately entered upon one, which, if ever 
 finished, cannot easily be comprised in much 
 less than a thousand lines! But this must 
 make part of a second publication, and be 
 accompanied, in due time, by oth.ers not yet 
 thought of; for it seems (what I did not 
 know till the bookseller had occasion to tell 
 me so) tJiat single pieces stand no chance, and 
 that nothing less thtin a volume will go down. 
 You yourself afford me a proof of the ccr- 
 rainty of this intelligence, by sending me 
 franks which nothing less than a volume oan 
 fill. I have accordingly sent you one, but 
 ain obliged to add that, had the wind been in 
 any other point of the compass, or, blowing 
 as it does from the east, liad it been less bois- 
 terous, you must have been contented with 
 a much shorter letter, but tlu' abridgment of 
 every other occupation is very favorable 'o 
 that of writing. 
 
 I ;iin glad I did not expect to hear from 
 
 * The classic beauty and felicity of (expression in the 
 \j\\\:\\ eom|iosillons of liourne litive been justly admired; 
 bill .1 doul)t will exist in tlie mind of the classical reader, 
 whelii T the jiraise which exalts his inei'ils above Jioso 
 of a Tibullus, to whom both Ovid and Horace have 
 borne so distinguished testimony, does not exceed th8 
 boimds of legitimate euiotty.
 
 94 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 you l.y this post, for the boy has lost the 
 Di\ii in \\]iich your letter must have been en- 
 chased — another reason for my prolixity! 
 Yours affec'Jonately, W. C. 
 
 TO THli REV. JOJIN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, May 28, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
 you for tlie pains you have taken with my 
 " Table Talk," and wish that my viva voce 
 table-talk could repay you for the trouble 
 you have liad with the written one. 
 
 The season is wonderfully improved within 
 this day or two ; and if these cloudless skies 
 are continued to us, or rather if the cold 
 winds do not set in again, promises you a 
 pleasant excursion, as far, at least, as the 
 weather can conduce to make it sucli. You 
 seldom complain of too much sunshine, and 
 if you are prepared for a heat somewhat like 
 tliat of Africa, the south walk in our long 
 garden will exactly suit you. Reflected from 
 tlie gravel and from the walls, and beating 
 upon your head at the same time, it may pos- 
 sibly make you wish you could enjoy for an 
 liour or two that immensity of shade aflfbrded 
 by the gigantic trees still growing in the land 
 of your ciijitivity.f If you could spend a 
 day now and tlien in those forests, and return 
 with a wish to England, it would be no small 
 addit'or. to the number of your best pleas- 
 urea. But penme non ho}7wii data. The time 
 will come, perhaps, (but death will come 
 fir.s%) when you will be able to visit them 
 witiiout either danger, trouble, or expense ; 
 and when the contemplation of those well- 
 remembered scenes will awaken in you emo- 
 tions of gratitude and praise, surpassing all 
 you coukl possibly sustain at present. In 
 tills sense, I suppose there is a heaven 
 upon cirth at all times, and that the disem- 
 bodied spirit may find a peculiar joy, arising 
 from the contemplation of those places it 
 was formerly conversant with, and so far, at 
 least, be reconciled to a world it was once 
 so weary of, as to use it in the delightful 
 way of thankful recollection. 
 
 Miss Catlett must not think of any other 
 lodging than we can, without any inconve- 
 nience as we shall with all possible pleasure, 
 furnish her with. We can each of us say — 
 that is, I can say it in Latin, and Mrs. Unwin 
 in English — Nihil Lid a 7iie alienum puto. 
 
 Having two more letters to write, I find 
 nyself obliged to shorten this; so once more 
 wishing you a good journey, and ourselves 
 the happiness of receiving you in good 
 health and spirits, 
 
 I remain affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 * Private corefpoiidi'iicc;. 
 
 t Mr. Newtou's yoyago to Africft, and his state of mind 
 at that period, are feelingly described by himself in liis 
 own writinfjs, iis well as tlie gr(^at moral change which 
 be subaequontly experienced. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Ohiey, May 28, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I believe I never gave 
 you trouble without feeling more than I give. 
 So much by way of prefiice and apology ! 
 
 Thus stands the case — Johnson has begun 
 to print, and Mr. Newton has already cor- 
 rected the first sheet. This unexpected de- 
 spatch makes it necessary for me to furnish 
 myself with the means of communication, 
 viz., the franks, as soon as may be. There 
 are reasons (I believe I mentioned in my 
 last) why I choose to revise the proof my- 
 self: nevertheless, if your delicacy must 
 sufler the puncture of a pin's point in pro- 
 curing the franks for me, I release you en- 
 tirely from the task : you are as free as if I 
 had never mentioned them. But you will 
 oblige me by a speedy answer upon this sub- 
 ject, because it is expedient that the printer 
 should know to whom he is to send his copy ; 
 and when the press is once set, those hum- 
 ble servants of the poets are rather impa- 
 tient of any delay, because the types are 
 wanted for other authors, who are equally 
 impatient to be born. 
 
 This fine weather, I suppose, sets you on 
 horseback, and allures the ladies into the 
 garden. If I was at Stock, I should be of 
 their party, and, while they sat knotting or 
 netting in the shade, should comfort myself 
 with the thought that I had not a beast under 
 me whose walk would seem tedious, whose 
 trot would jumble me, and wiiose gallop 
 might throw me into a ditch. What nature 
 expressly designed me for I have never been 
 able to conjecture, I seem to myself so uni- 
 versally disqualified for the common and 
 customary occupations and amusements of 
 mankind. When I was a boy, I excelled at 
 cricket and football, but the fame I acquired 
 by achievements that way is long since for. 
 gotten, and I do not know that I have made 
 a figure in anything since. I am sure,, how- 
 ever, that she did not design me for a horse- 
 man, and that, if all men were of my mind, 
 there woidd be an end of all jockeyship for- 
 ever. I am rather straitened for time, and 
 not very rich in materials ; therefore, with 
 our joint love to you all, conclude myself, 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. V/ILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jun. 5, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — If the old adage be true, 
 that "he gives twice who gives speedily," it 
 is equally true that he who not only uses ex- 
 pedition in giving, but gives more than was 
 asked, gives thrice at least. Such is the style 
 
 in which Mr. confers a favor. He has 
 
 not only sent me franks to Johnsoi?, but, 
 under another cover, has added six to you. 
 
 „
 
 LIFE OF COVVPER. 
 
 9a 
 
 These last, for aught that appears by your 
 letter, he tlirew in of his own mere bounty. 
 I beg tliat my share of thanks may not be 
 wanting on this occasion, and that, when you 
 write to him next, you will assure him of the 
 sense I have of the obligation, which is the 
 more flattering, as it includes a proof of his 
 predilection in favor of the poems iiis franks 
 are destined to enclose. ]\Iay they not for- 
 feit his good opinion hereafter, nor yours, to 
 whom I hold myself indebted in the fir-st 
 place, and who have ecpially given me credit 
 for their deservings ! Your mother says that, 
 although there are passages in them contain- 
 ing opinions win'cli will not be universally 
 subscribed to, the world will at least allow 
 what my great modesty will not permit me 
 to subjoin. I have the highest opinion of 
 her judgment, and know, by having experi- 
 enced the soundness of them, that her observ- 
 ations are always worthy of attention and 
 regard. Yet, strange as it may seem, I do 
 not feel the vanity of an author, when she 
 connnends me; but I feel something better, 
 a spur to my diligence, and a cordial to my 
 spirits, l)!)th together animating me to de- 
 serve, at least not to fall short of, her expect- 
 ations. For I verily believe, if my dulness 
 should earn me the character of a dunce, the 
 censure would affect her more than me ; not 
 that I ;'.m insensible of the value of a good 
 name, either as a man or an author. With- 
 out an ambition to attain it, it is absolutely 
 unattainable under either of those descrip- 
 tions. But my life having been in many 
 respects a series of mortifications and disap- 
 pointments, I am become less apprehensive 
 and impressible, perhaps, in some points, than 
 I siiould otherwise have been; and, though I 
 should be exquisitely .sorry to disgrace my 
 friends, could endure my own share of the 
 affliction with a reasonable measure of tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 Tliese seasonable showers have poured 
 floods upon all the neighl)oring parishes, but 
 have passed us by. My garden languishes, 
 and, what is worse, the fields too languish, 
 and tlie upland-grass is burnt. These dis- 
 criminations are not fortuitous. But if they 
 are providential, what do they import? I 
 can only answer, as a friend of mine once 
 answered a mathematical question in the 
 schools — •■' Prorsus nebcin." Perhaps it is 
 that men who will not believe what they 
 cannot understand may learn the folly of 
 their conduct, while their very senses are 
 made to witness against them; and them- 
 selves, in the course of providence, become 
 the subjects of a thousand dispensations they 
 cannot explain. But the end is never an- 
 swered. The lesson is inculcated, indeed, 
 frequently enough, but nobody learns it. 
 Well. Instruction, vouchsafed in vain, is (I 
 Buppos'^) a debt to be accounted for hereafter. 
 
 You must understand this to be a scli= 
 loquy. I wrote my thoughts without recol- 
 lecting that I was writing a letter, and to you. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 
 
 OIncy, June 24, 17*. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The letter you witliheld 
 so long, lest it should i ve me pain, gave me 
 pleasure. Horace says, the poets are a wasp- 
 ish race; and, from my own experience of 
 the temper of two or three with whom I was 
 formerly connected, I can readily subscribe to 
 the character he gives l«iem. But, for my 
 own part, I have never yet felt that exces- 
 sive irritability, which some writers discover, 
 wiien a friend, in the words of Pope, 
 
 '• Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike." 
 
 Least of all would I give way to such an un- 
 seasonable ebullition, merely because a civ- 
 il question is proposed to me, with such 
 gentleness, and by a man whose concern for 
 my credit and char<icter I verily believe to be 
 sincere. I reply therefore, not peevishly, but 
 with a sense of the kindness of your inten- 
 tions, that I hope you may make yourself 
 very easy on a siibject, tiiat I can perceive 
 has occasioned you some solicitude. When 
 I wrote the poem culled " Truth," it was in- 
 dispensably necessary that 1 should set forth 
 that doctrine which I know to be true, and 
 that I should pass what I understood to be a 
 just censure upon opinions and persuasions 
 that differ from or stand in direct opposiaon 
 to it ; because, though some errors may be 
 innoc-^nt, and even religious errors are not 
 always ;u.rniciou3, yet, in a case where the 
 faitlL a.il hope of a Christian are cou'^erned, 
 they must necessarily be destructive ; and be- 
 cause, neglecting this, I should have betrayed 
 my subject ; either suppressing wliat in my 
 judgment is of f;he lust importance, or giving 
 countenance by a timid silence to the very 
 evils it was my design to combat. That you 
 may understand me better, I will subjoin — 
 that I wrote tiiat poem on purpose to in- 
 culcate the elcemesynary character of the 
 Gospel, as a dispensation of mercy in the 
 most absolute sense of the word, to the ex- 
 clusion of all claims of merit on the part of 
 the receiver; conBe([uently to set the brand 
 of invalidity upon U\o plea of works, and to 
 discover, upon scriptural ground, tlie absurd- 
 ity of that notion, which includes a solecism 
 in the very terms of it, that man by ropent,- 
 of his Maker : I call it a solecism, because 
 ance and good works may descsrve the mercy 
 mercy deserved ceases to be mercy, and must 
 take the name of justice. Tiiis is the oj an- 
 ion which I said in my last the world wjuld 
 not acquiesce in, but except tliis I do not re-
 
 ^6 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 collect that I have introduced a syllable into 
 an}' of my pieces that they can possibly ob- 
 ject to ; and even this I have endeavored to 
 deliver from doctrinal dryness, by as many 
 pretty things in the way of trinket and play- 
 thing as I could muster upon the sulyect. So 
 that, if I have rubbed their guais, I lia\'e taken 
 care to do it with a coral, and even that coral 
 embellished by the ribbon to w!ii„;- i; 's tied, 
 and recommended by tbe tinklini:' cf all the 
 bells I could contrive to annex to it. 
 
 You need not trouble yourself to call on 
 Johnson; being perfectly acqu.-.iutod with 
 the progress of the business. I aiu able to 
 satisfy your curiosity myself — the p"st be- 
 fore the last, I returned to him tl)(- -,Piond 
 slieet of " Table Talk," wliich he Jiad «ent me 
 I'or correction, and wiiich stands foremost in 
 the volume. The delay has enabled me to 
 add a piece of considcr/ible length, which, but 
 for the delay, would not have made its ap- 
 pearance upon this ccasion : it answers to 
 the name of Hope. 
 
 I remember a line in the Odyssey, which, 
 literally translated, imports tliat there is no- 
 thing in the world more impudent than the 
 belly. But, had Homer met with an instance 
 of modesty like yours, he would either have 
 suppressed that observation, or at least have 
 qualilied it with an exception. I hope that, 
 for the future, Mrs. Unwin will never sutler 
 you to go to London without putting some 
 victuals in your pocket ; for what a strange 
 article would it make in a newspaper, that a 
 tail, well-di-essed gentleman, by his appear- 
 ance a clergyman, and with a purse of gold 
 in his pocket, was found starved to death in 
 the street. How would it puzzle conjecture 
 to account for such a phenomenon ! some 
 would suppose that you had been kidnapped, 
 like Betty Canning, of hungry memory ; 
 others would* say the gentleman was a 
 Methodist, and had practised a rigorous self- 
 denial, which had unliappily proved too hard 
 for his constitution ; but I will venture to say 
 that nobody would divine the real cause, or 
 suspect for a moment that your modesty had 
 occasioned the tragedy in question. By the 
 way. is it not possible that the spareness and 
 slenderness of your person may be owing to 
 the same cause 1 for surely it is reasonable 
 to suspect that the bashfulness which could 
 prevail against you on so trying an occasion 
 may be equally prevalent on others. I re- 
 member having been told by Colman, that, 
 when he once dined witli Garrick, he repeat- 
 edly pressed him to eat more of a certain dish 
 that lie was known to be particularly fond of; 
 Colman as often refused, and at last declared 
 he could not, "But could not you," says 
 Garrick, " if you was in a dark closet by your- 
 self? Tlie same question miglit perhaps be 
 j>:'t to vou, with as mucli or more propriety 
 and therefore I recommend it to you, either 
 
 to furnish yourself with a little more assur 
 ance or always to eat in the dark. 
 
 We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and, if it 
 will be any comfort to her to know it, can 
 assure lier, that a lady in our neighborhood 
 is always, on such occasions, the most mis- 
 erable of ail things, and yet escapes with 
 great facility through all tlie dangers of her 
 state. 
 
 Yours, ui semper, W. C. 
 
 Among the occurrences that deserve to be 
 recorded in the life of Cowper, the com- 
 mencement of his acquainiance with Lady 
 Austen, from its connexion witli his literary 
 history, is entitled to distinct notice. This 
 lady possessed a highly cultivated mind, and 
 tlie power, in no ordinary degree, to engage 
 and interest the attention. This acquaintance 
 soon ripened into friendship, and it is to her 
 that we are primarily indebted for the poem 
 of "The Task," for tiie ballad of "John Gil- 
 pin," and for the translation of Homer. The 
 occasion of this acquaintance was as follows. 
 
 A lady, whose name was Jones, was one 
 of the few neighbors admitted in the resi- 
 dence of the retired poet. She was the wife 
 of a clergyman, who resided at the village of 
 Clifion, within a mile of Olney. Her sister 
 the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, 
 came to pass some time with her in the sum- 
 mer of 1781 ; and, as the two ladies Mitered 
 a shop in Olney, opposite to the hoase of 
 Mrs. Unwiii, Cowper observed them from 
 his window. Although naturally shy, and 
 now rendered more so by his very long ill- 
 ness, he was so struck with the appearance 
 of the stranger, that, on hearing she was sis- 
 ter to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwii! 
 to invite them to tea. So strong was his re- 
 luctance to admit the company of strangers, 
 that, after he had occasioned this invitation, 
 he was for a long time unwilling to join the 
 little party ; but, having forced himself at 
 last to engage in conversation with Lady 
 Austen, he was so delighted with her collo- 
 quial talents, that he attended the ladies on 
 their return to Clifton ; and from that time 
 continued to cultivate the regard of his new 
 acquaintance with such assiduous attention, 
 that she soon received from hhn the familiar 
 and endearing title of Sister Ann. 
 
 Tlie great and happy influence which an 
 incident that seems at first siglit so trivial 
 produced on the imagination of Cowper, will 
 best appear from the following epistle, which, 
 soon after Lady Austen's return to London 
 for the winter," the poet addressed to her on 
 the 17th December, 1781. 
 
 Dear Anna, — between friend and friend, 
 Prose answers every conimon end ; 
 Serves, in a plain and homely way, 
 T' express th' occurrencs of the day;
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 97 
 
 Our health, the weather, and the news ; 
 What walks we take, what books we choose; 
 And all the floating thoughts we find 
 Upon the surface ot" the mind. 
 
 But when a poet takes the pen, 
 Far more alive than other men. 
 He ft els a gentle tingling come 
 Down to his finger and his thamb, 
 Deriv d from nature's noblest part, 
 The centre of a glowing lieart ! 
 And this is what the world, who knows 
 No flights above the pitch of prose. 
 His more sublime vagaries slighting, 
 Denominates an itch lor writing. 
 No wonder I, who scribble rhyme, 
 To catch the triflers of the time, 
 And tell them trutlis divine and clear. 
 Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear; 
 Who labor hard to allure, and draw, 
 The loiterers I never saw. 
 Should feel that itching and that tinglizig, 
 With all my purpose intermingling, 
 To your intrinsic merit true. 
 When called to address myself to you. 
 
 Mysterious are his ways, whose power 
 Brings forth that unexpected hour. 
 When minds, that never met beibre, 
 Shall meet, unite, and part no more: 
 It is th' allotment of the skies. 
 The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
 That guides and governs our affections. 
 And plans and orders our connexions ; 
 Directs us in our distant road, 
 And marks the bounds of our abode. 
 Thus we were settled when you found us, 
 Peasants and children all around us. 
 Not dreaming of so dear a friend, 
 Deep in tlie abyss of Silver End,* 
 Thus Martha, ev'n against her will, 
 Perch'd on the top of yonder hill; 
 And you, though you must needs prefer 
 The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,f 
 Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
 A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
 This page of Providence quite nev7, 
 And now just opening to our view, 
 Employs our present thoughts and pains 
 To guess and spell what it contains: 
 But day by day, and year l>y year, 
 Will make the dark enigma clear; 
 And furnish us perha|)s at last. 
 Like other scenes already past, 
 With proof that we and our affairs 
 Are part of a Jehovah's cares: 
 For God unfolds, by slow degrees, 
 The purport of his deep decrees; 
 Sheds every hour a clearer light. 
 In aid of our defective sight; 
 And spreads at length beibre the soul, 
 A beautiful and piTli'ct wiiole. 
 Which busy man's inventive brain 
 Toils to anticipate in vain. 
 
 Say, Anna, had you never known 
 The beauties of a rose full blown, 
 Could you, tho' luminous your eye, 
 By looking on the bud descry, 
 
 * All obsciu-e iiart of (DIney, luljoitiinR to the residence 
 tif C'owper, which fucod tho miirket-place. 
 t Lady Austeu's residence iu rruuce. 
 
 Or guess with a prophetic power. 
 
 The future splendor of the flower'? 
 
 Just so, th' Omnipotent, who turn.s 
 
 The system of a world's concerns. 
 
 From mere minutiaa can educe 
 
 Events of most important use; 
 
 And bid a dawning sky display 
 
 The blaze of a meridian day. 
 
 The works of man tend, one and all, 
 
 As needs they must, from great to small; 
 
 And vanity absorbs at length 
 
 The monuments of human strength. 
 
 But who can tell how vast the plan 
 
 Which this day's incident began 1 
 
 Too small perhaps the slight occasion 
 
 For our dim-sighted observation ; 
 
 It pass'd unnotic'd. as the bird 
 
 That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
 
 And yet may prove, when understood, 
 
 An harbinger of endless good. 
 
 Not that I deem or mean to call 
 Friendship a blessing cheap or small; 
 But merely to remark that ours. 
 Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
 Rose from a seed of tiny size. 
 That seemed to promise no such prize : 
 A transient visit intervening, 
 And made almost without a meaning, 
 (Hardly the effect of inclination. 
 Much less of pleasing expectation !) 
 Produced a friendship, then begun. 
 That has cemented us in one ; 
 And plac'd it in our power to prove. 
 By long fidelity and love, 
 That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
 " A three-fold cord is not soon broken." 
 
 In this interesting poem the author seems 
 prophetically to anticipate the literary efforts 
 that were to spring, in process of time, from 
 a friendship so unexpected and so pleasing. 
 
 Genius of the most exquisite kind is some- 
 times, and perhaps generally, so modest and 
 diflident as to require continual solicitation 
 and encouragement from the voice of sym- 
 pathy and friendship to lead it into perma- 
 nent and successful exertion. Sucli was the 
 genius of Cowper ; and he therefore con- 
 sidered the cheerful and animating society 
 of his new and accomplished friend as a 
 blessing conferred on him by the signal favor 
 of Providence. 
 
 We shall fmd frequent allusions to this 
 lady in the progress of the following corre- 
 spondence. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olncy, .luly 7, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — Mr. Old brought us th< 
 acceptable news of your safe arrival. My 
 sensations at your departure were far from 
 pleasant, and Mrs. Unwin suffered more upon 
 the occasion than when you first took leave 
 of Olncy. When we shall meet again, and 
 in what circumstances, or whether we sliall 
 meet or not, is an article to be found no- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 7
 
 98 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 where but in that volume of Providence 
 which belongs to the current year, and will 
 not be understood till it is accomplished. 
 This I know, that your visit was most agree- 
 able here. It was so even to me, who, 
 though I live in the midst of many agreea- 
 bles, am but little sensible of their charms. 
 But, when you came, I determined, as much 
 as possible, to be deaf to the suggestions of 
 despair ; that, if I could contribute but little 
 to the pleasure of the opportunity, I might 
 not dash it with unseasonable melancholy, 
 and, like an instrument with a broken string, 
 interrupt the harmony of the concert. 
 
 Lady Austen, waving all forms, has paid 
 us the first visit ; and, not content with show- 
 ing us that proof of her respect, made hand- 
 some apologies for her intrusion. We re- 
 turned the visit yesterday. She is a lively, 
 agreeable woman ; has seen much of tlie 
 world, and accounts it a great simpleton, as 
 it is. She laughs and makes laugh, and 
 keeps up a conversation without seeming to 
 labor at it. 
 
 I had rather submit to chastisement now 
 than be obliged to undergo it hereafter. If 
 Johnson, therefore, will mark with a margin- 
 al Q, those lines that he or his object to as 
 not sufhciently finished, I will willingly re- 
 touch them, or give a reason for my refusal. 
 I shall moreover think myself obliged by any 
 hints of that sort, as I do already to some- 
 body, who, by running here and there two 
 or three paragraphs into one, has very much 
 improved the arrangement of my matter. I 
 am apt, I know, to fritter it into too many 
 pieces, and, by doing so, to disturb that 
 order to which all writings must owe thair 
 perspicuity, at least in a considerable meas- 
 ure. With all that carefulness of revisal I 
 have exercised upon the sheets as they have 
 been transmitted to me, I have been guilty 
 of an oversight, and have suffered a gn-eat 
 fault to escape me, which I shall be glad to 
 correct, if not too late. 
 
 In the " Progress of Error," a part of the 
 Young Squire's apparatus, before he yet en- 
 ters upon his travels, is said to be 
 
 Memorandum-book to minute down 
 
 The several posts, and where the chaise broke 
 down. 
 
 Here, the reviewers would say, is not only 
 "down," but "dovyn derry down" into the 
 bargain, the word being made to rhyme to 
 itself. This never occurred to me till last 
 night, just as I was stepping into bed. I 
 should be glad, however, to alter it thus — 
 
 With memorandum-book for every town, 
 
 And ev'ry inn, and where the chaise broke down. 
 
 I have advanced so far in " Charity," that I 
 have ventured to give Johnson notice of it, 
 and his option whether he will print it now 
 
 or hereafter. I rather wish he may choose 
 the present time, because it will be a proper 
 sequel to " Hope," and because I am willing 
 to think it will embellish the collection. 
 
 Whoever means to take my phiz will find 
 himself sorely perple.xed in seeking for a fit 
 occasion. That I shall not give him one, is 
 certain ; and if he steals one, he must be as 
 cunning and quicksighted a thief as Auto- 
 lycus himself. His best course will be to 
 draw a fiice, and call it mine, at a venture. 
 They who have not seen me these twenty 
 years will say, It may possibly be a striking 
 likeness now, though it bears no resemblance 
 to what he was : time makes great altera- 
 tions. They who know me better will say, 
 perhaps. Though it is not perfectly the thing, 
 yet there is somewhat of the cast of his 
 countenance. If the nose was a little longer, 
 and the chin a little shorter, the eyes a little 
 smaller, and the forehead a little more pro- 
 tuberant, it would be just the man. And 
 thus, without seeing me at all, the artist may 
 represent me to the public eye, with as much 
 exactness as yours has bestowed upon you, 
 though, I suppose, the original was full in 
 his view when he made the attempt. 
 
 We are both as well as when you left us. 
 Our hearty afiections wait upon yourself and 
 Mrs. Newton, not forgetting Euphrosyne, the 
 laughing lady. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 The playfulness of Cowper's humor is 
 amusingly exerted in the following letter : — 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Oluey, July 12, 1781. 
 
 My very dear Friend, — I am going to send, 
 what when you have read, you may scratch 
 your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody 
 knows whether what I have got be verse or 
 not; — by the tune and the time, it ought to 
 be rhyme, but if it be, did you ever see, of 
 late or of yore, such a ditty before ? 
 
 I have writ Charity, not for popularity, bux 
 as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and 
 if the Reviewer should say " to be sure the 
 gentleman's Muse wears Methodist shoes, 
 you may know by her pace and talk about 
 grace, that she ancl her bard have little regard 
 for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, 
 and hoidening play, of the modern day ; and 
 though she assume a borrowed plume, and 
 now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only 
 her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and 
 gay, as they go that Avay, by a production on 
 a new construction : she has baited her trap, 
 in hopes to sniip all that may come with a 
 sugar-plum." — His opinion in this will not be 
 amiss ; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, 
 and, if I .succeed, and folks should read, till a 
 few are brought to a serious thought, I shall
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 93 
 
 think T am paid fur all I have said and all I 
 nave done, though I have run many a time, 
 after a rhyme, as far as from hence to the end 
 of my sense, and by hook or crook, write 
 another book, if I live and am here, another 
 year. 
 
 I have heard before, of a room with a floor 
 laid upon springs, and such like things, with 
 so much art in every part, that when you 
 went in you was forced to begin a minuet 
 pace, with an air and a grace, swimming 
 about, now in and now out, with a deal of 
 state, in a figure of eight, without pipe, or 
 string, or any such thing ; and now I have 
 writ, in a rhyming ht, wiiat will make you 
 dance, and as you advance, will keep you 
 still, though against your will, dancing away, 
 alert and gay, till you come to an end of what 
 1 have penn'd, which that you may do, ere 
 Madam and you are quite worn out with jig- 
 ging about, i take my leave, and here you re- 
 ceive a bow profound, down to the ground, 
 from your humble me — W. C- 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, July 22, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am sensible of your 
 difficulties in finding opportunities to write; 
 and therefore, though always desirous and 
 sometimes impatient to hear from you, am 
 never peevish when I am disappointed. 
 
 Johnson, having begun to print, has given 
 me some sort of security for his perseverance; 
 else the tardiness of his operations Avould 
 almost tempt me to despair of the end. He 
 has, indeed, time enough before him ; but that 
 very circumstance is sometimes a snare, and 
 gives occasion to delays that cannot be reme- 
 died. Witness the hare in the fable, who fell 
 asleep in the midst of the race, and waked 
 not till the tortoise had won the prize. 
 
 Taking it for granted that the new inar- 
 riage-bill would pass, I took occasion, in the 
 Address to Liberty, to celebrate the joyful 
 era ; but in doing so afforded another proof 
 that poets are not ahv;iys prophets, for tiie 
 House of Lords have thrown it out. I am, 
 however, provided with four lines to fill up 
 the gap, which I suppose it will be time 
 enough to insert when the copy is sent down. 
 I am in the middle of an aflair called "Con- 
 versation," which, as " Table Talk " serves in 
 the present volumes by way of introductory 
 fiddle to the band that follows, I design shall 
 perform the same olHce in a second. 
 
 Sic brevi fortes jaculamur acvo. 
 
 You cannot always find time to write, and 
 r cannot always write a great deal ; not for 
 tvant of time, but for want of something 
 equally requisite ; perhaps materials, perhaps 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 spirits, or perhaps more frequently for want 
 
 of ability to overcome an indolence that I 
 
 have sometimes heard even you complain of. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, and Mrs. Newton's, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, July 29, 1781. 
 
 Mj dear Friend, — Having given the case 
 you laid before me in your last all due con- 
 sideration, I proceed to answer it ; and, in or- 
 der to clear my way, shall, in the first place, 
 set down my sense of those passages in 
 Scripture, which, on a hasty perusal, seem to 
 clash with the opinions I am going to give— 
 " If a man smite one cheek, turn tlie other " — 
 " If he take thy cloak, let him take thy coat 
 also." That is, I suppose, rather than on a 
 vindictive principle avail yourself of that 
 remedy the law allows you, in the way of re- 
 taliation, for that was the subject immedi- 
 ately under the discussion of the speaker. 
 Nothing is so contrary to the genius of the 
 gospel as the gratification of resentment and 
 revenge ; but I cannot easily persuade my- 
 self to think, that the Autlior of that dispen- 
 sation could possibly advise his followers to 
 consult their own peace at the expense of the 
 peace of society, or inculcate a universal ab- 
 stinence from the use of lawful remedies, 
 to the encouragement of injury and oppro" 
 sion. 
 
 St. Paul again seems to condemn the prac- 
 tice of going to law — " Why do ye not rather 
 suffer wrong," &c. But if we look again we 
 shall find that a litigious temper had obtained, 
 and was prevalent, among the professors of 
 the day. This he condemned, and with good 
 reason ; it was unseemly to the last degree 
 that the disciples of the Prince of Peace 
 should worry and vex each other with injuri- 
 ous treatment and unnecessary disputes, to 
 the scandal of their religion in the eyes of tho 
 iicathen. But surely he did not mean, any 
 more than his Master, in the place above al- 
 luded to, that the most harmless members of 
 society should receive no advantage of its 
 laws, or should be the only persons in the 
 world who should derive no benefit from 
 those institutions without which society can- 
 not subsist. Neitlier of them could mean to 
 throw down the pale of property, and to lay 
 the Christian part of the world open, through- 
 out all ages, to the incursions of unlimited 
 violence and wrong. 
 
 By tiiis time you are sufficintly aware that 
 I tiiink you have an indisputable right to re- 
 cover at law what is so dishonestly w'ithhcld 
 from you. The fellow, I suppose, has dis- 
 cernment enough to see a difference be- 
 tween you and the generality of the clergy, 
 and cunning enough to conceive the purpose 
 of turning your meekness and forbearance to
 
 100 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 good account, and of coining them into hard 
 casli, wliicli he nusans to put in his poclcet, 
 But I would disappoint him, and show him 
 that, though a Christian is not to be quarrel- 
 some, he is not to be crushed ; and that, 
 though he is but a worm before God, he 
 is not such a worm as every selfish and 
 unprincipled wretch may tread upon at his 
 pleasure. 
 
 I lately heard a story from a lad\', who spent 
 many years of her lile in France, somewhat 
 to the present purpose. An Abbe, univer- 
 sally esteemed for his piety, and especially 
 for the meekness of his manners, had yet un- 
 designedly giving some otience to a shabby 
 fellow in his parish. The man concluding 
 he might do as he pleased with so forgiving 
 and gentle a character, struck him on one 
 cheek, and bade him turn the other. The 
 good man did so, and when he had received 
 the two slaps, which lie thought himself 
 obliged to submit to, turned again, and beat 
 liim soundly. I do not wish to see you fol- 
 low the French gentleman's example, but I 
 believe nobody that has heard the story con- 
 demns hiin much for the spirit he showed 
 upon the occasion. 
 
 I had the relation from Lady Austen, sis- 
 ter to Mrs. Jones, wife of the minister at 
 Clifton. She is a most agreeable woman, 
 and has fallen in love with your mother and 
 me : insomuch, that I do not know but she 
 may settle at Olney. Yesterday se'nnight 
 we all dined together in the Spinnie — a most 
 delightful retirement, belonging to Mrs.' 
 Throckmorton of Weston. Lady Austen's 
 lacquey, and a lad that waits on me in the 
 garden, drove a wheelbarrow full of eatables 
 and drinkables to the scene of our fete-cham- 
 pelre. A board laid over the top of the wheel- 
 barrow, served us for a table ; our dining- 
 room was a root-hous5, lined with moss and 
 ivy. At six o'clock, the servants, who had 
 dined under the great elm upon the ground, 
 at a little distance, boiled the kettle, and the 
 said wheelbarrow served us for a tea-table. 
 We then took a walk into the wilderness, 
 about half a mile off, and were at home 
 again a little after eight, having spent the day 
 together from noon till evening, without one 
 cross occurrence, or the least weariness of 
 each other — a happiness few parties of pleas- 
 ure can boast of. 
 
 Yours, with our joint love, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, August, 1781. 
 
 Dear Madam, — Though much obliged to 
 
 you for the favor of your last, and ready 
 
 enough to acknowledge the debt ; the present 
 
 however, is not a day in which I should have 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 cliosen to pay it. A dejection of mind, which 
 perliaps may be removed by to-morrow, 
 rather disqualifies me for writing, — a busi- 
 ness I would always perform in good spirits, 
 because melancholy is catching, especially 
 where there is much sympathy to assist the 
 contagion. But certain poultry, which I un- 
 derstand are about to pay their resi>ects to 
 you, have advertised for an agreeable com- 
 panion, and I find myself obliged to embrace 
 the opportunity of going to town witli them 
 in that capacity. 
 
 While the world lasts, fashion will continue 
 to lead it by the nose. And, after all, what 
 can fashion do for its most obsequious fol- 
 lowers? It can ring the changes upon the 
 same things, and it can do no more. Whe- 
 ther our hats be white or black, our caps higl- 
 or low, — whether we wear two watches or 
 one — is of little consequence. There is in- 
 deed an appearance of variety; but the folly 
 and vanity that dictate and adopt the change 
 are invariably the same. When the fashions 
 of a particular period appear more reasona- 
 ble than those of the preceding, it is not be- 
 cause the world is grown more reasonable 
 than it was ; but because in the course of 
 perpetual changes, some of them must some- 
 times happen to be for the beker. Neither 
 do I suppose the preposterous customs that 
 prevail at present a proof of its greater folly. 
 In a few years, perhaps next year, the fine 
 gentleman will shut up his umbrella, and give 
 it to his sister, filling his hand with a crab- 
 tree cudgel instead of it : and when he has 
 done so, will he be wiser than now ? By no 
 means. The love of change will have be- 
 trayed him into a propriety, which, in reality, 
 he has no taste for, all his merit on the occa- 
 sion amounting to no more than this — that, 
 being weary of one plaything, he has taken 
 up another. 
 
 In a note I received from Johnson last 
 week, he expresses a wish that my pen may 
 be still employed. Supposing it possible that 
 he V\-ould yet be glad to swell the volume, 1 
 have given him an order to draw upon me 
 for eight hundred lines, if he chooses it ; 
 " Conversation," a piece which I think I men- 
 tioned in my last to Mr. Newton, being fin- 
 ished. If Johnson sends for it, I shall tran- 
 scribe it as soon as I can, and transmit it to 
 Charles-square. Mr. Newton will take the 
 trouble to forward it to the press. It is not 
 a dialogue, as the title would lead you to 
 surmise ; nor does it bear the least resem- 
 blance to "Table Talk," except that it is 
 serio-comic, like all the rest. My design in 
 it is to convince the world that they make 
 but an indiiferent use of their tongues, con- 
 sidering the intention of Providence when he 
 endued them with the faculty of speech ; to 
 point out the abuses, which is the jocular
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 lOi 
 
 part of the business, and to prescribe the 
 r(,'inecl_v, wliich is the grave and sober. 
 
 We felt ourselves not tlie less obliged to 
 you for the cocoa-nuts, thougii they were 
 good for nothing. They contained nothing 
 but a putrid liquor, with a round white lump, 
 wiiicli in taste and substance much resembled 
 tallow, and was of the size of a small walnut. 
 Nor am I tlie less indebted to your kindness 
 for the fish, thouglt none is yet come. 
 Yours, dear Madam, 
 
 Most allectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 f)liRn, Aug 16, 1781. 
 
 i\Iy dear Friend, — I miglit date my letter 
 from the greenhouse, which we have con- 
 verted into a summer parlor. The walls 
 hung with garden mats, and the floor covered 
 with a carpet, the sun, too, in a great measure, 
 excluded by an awning of mats, whicli forbids 
 him to siiine anywhere except upon the ear- 
 pet, it affords us by far the pleasantest retreat 
 in Olney. We eat, drink, and sleep, where 
 we always did ; but here we spend all the 
 rest of our time, and find that the sound of 
 tliewind in the trees, and the singing of birds, 
 are much more agreeable to our ears than the 
 incessant barkin<i' of dogs and screaming of 
 children. It is an observation that naturally 
 occurs upon the occasion, and wiiich many 
 otiier occasions furnish an opportunity to 
 make, that people long for wliat they have 
 not, and overlook the good in their posses- 
 sion. This is so true in the present instance, 
 that for years past I should have thought my- 
 self happy to enjoy a retirement, even less 
 flattering to my natural taste than this in 
 whicli 1 am now writing: and have often 
 looked wistfully at a snug cottage, which, on 
 account of its situation, at a distance from 
 noise and disagreeable objects, seemed to 
 promise ine all I could wish or expect, so fiir as 
 happiness maybe said to be local: luiver once 
 ad\erting to this comfortable nook, wliich af- 
 foi'ds me all that could be found in the most 
 sequestered iiermitage, with the advantage of 
 having all those accommodations near at hand 
 uhich no hermitage could possibly alford me. 
 People imagine tiiey should be happy in cir- 
 cumstances which they would find insupport- 
 ably burthensome in less than a week. A 
 man tiiat has been clothed in fine linen, and 
 fared sumptuously every day, envies the 
 peasant under a thatched hovel; who, in re- 
 turn, envies him as much his palace and his 
 pleasure-ground. Could they ciiange situa- 
 tions, tlie hue gentleman would lind iiis ceil- 
 ings were too low, and that his casements 
 admitted too much wind; that he had no cel- 
 lar for his wine, and no wine to put in his 
 cellar. These, with a thousand other morti- 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 fying deficiencies, would shatter his romantic 
 project into innumerable fragments in a mo- 
 ment. The clown, at the same time, would 
 find the accession of so much unwieldy 
 treasure an incumbrance quite incompatible 
 with an hour's easts. His choice would be 
 puzzled by variety. He would drink to ex- 
 cess, because he would foresee no end of his 
 abundance ; and he would eat himself sick 
 for the same reason. ^ He would have no idea 
 of any other happiness than sensual gratifica- 
 tion; would make himself a beast, and die of 
 his good fortune. The rich gentleman had, 
 perhaps, or might have had, if l^p pleased, at 
 the shortest notice, just such a recess as this ; 
 but if he had it, he overlooked it, or, if he had 
 it not, forgot that he might command it when- 
 ever he would. The rustic, too, was actually 
 in possession of some blessings, which he 
 was a fool to relinquish, but which he could 
 neither see nor feel, because he had the daily 
 and constant use of thera ; such as good 
 health, bodily strength, a head and a, heart that 
 never ached, and tenii)erance, to the practice 
 of which he was bound by necessity, that, hu- 
 manly speaking, was a pledge and security 
 for the continuance of them all. 
 
 Thus I have sent you a schoolboy's theme. 
 When I write to you, I do not write without 
 thinking, but always without premeditation : 
 the consequence is, that such thoughts as pass 
 through my head when I aii^ not writini; 
 make the subject of my letters to you. 
 
 Johnson sent me lately a sort of apology 
 for his printer's negligence, with his promise 
 of greater diligence for the future. There 
 was need enough of both. I have received 
 but one sheet since you left us. Still, indeed, 
 I see that there is time enough before us; 
 but I see, likewise, that no length of time 
 can be sufficient for the accomplishment of a 
 work that does not go forward. I know not 
 yet whether he will add " Conversation" to 
 those poems already in his hands, nor do I 
 care much. No man ever wrote such quan- 
 tities of verse as I have written this last year 
 with so much inditi'erenee about the event, or 
 rather with so little ambition of public praise. 
 IMy pieces are such as may possibly be made 
 useful. The more they are approved, the 
 more likely they are to spread, and, conse- 
 quently, the more likely to attain the end of 
 usefulness; which, as 1 said once before, ex- 
 cept my present amusement, is the only end 
 I propose. And, even in the pursuit of this 
 purpose, commendable as it is in itself, 1 
 have not the spur I should once have had; 
 my labor nmst go unrewarded : and, as Mr. 
 
 R once said, I am raising a scaffold before 
 
 a house that others are to live in, and not I. 
 
 I have left myself no room for politics, 
 which I thought, when 1 began, would have 
 been my principal theme. 
 
 Yi.urs, my dear sir, W. C.
 
 102 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The striking and beautiful imagery, united 
 with the depressive spirit of the following 
 letter, will engage the attention of the dis- 
 cerning reader. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Aug. 21, 1731. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You wish you could em- 
 ploy your time to better purpose, yet are 
 never.idle. In all that you say or do ; whetlier 
 you are alone, or pay visits, or receive them ; 
 whether you think, or write, or walk, or sit 
 still ; the state of your mind is such as dis- 
 covers, even to yourself, in spite of all its 
 wanderings, that there is a principle at bot- 
 tom, whose determined tendency is towards 
 the best things. I do not at all doubt the 
 truth of what you say, when you complain of 
 that crowd of triiiing thoughts that pester 
 you without ceasing; but then you always 
 have a serious thought standing at the door 
 of your imagination, like a justice of peace 
 with the riot-act in 'his hand, ready to read it 
 and disperse the mob. Here lies the differ- 
 ence between you and me. My thoughts are 
 clad in a sober livery, for the most part as 
 grave as that of a bishop's servants. They 
 turn, too, upon spiritual subjects, but the tall- 
 est fellow, and the loudest amongst them all, 
 is he who is continually crying, with a loud 
 voice, Ac^wm est de tc,periisti. You wish for 
 more attention, I for less. Dissipation itself 
 would be welcome to me, so it were not a 
 vicious one ; but, however earnestly invited, 
 it is coy, and keeps at a distance. Yet, with 
 all this distressing gloom upon my mind, I 
 experience, as you do, the slipperiness of the 
 present hour, and the rapidity with which 
 time escapes me. Everything around us, and 
 everything that befalls us, constitutes a va- 
 riety, which, whether agi'eeable or otherwise, 
 has still a thievish propensity, and steals from 
 us days, months, and years, with such unpar- 
 alleled address, that even while we say they 
 are here they are gone. From infimcy to 
 manhood is rather a tedious period, chiefly, I 
 suppose, because, at that time we act under 
 the control of others, and are not sulfered to 
 have a will of our own. But thence down- 
 ward into the vale of years is such a declivity, 
 that we have just an opportunity to reflect 
 upon the steepness of it, and then find our- 
 selves at the bottom. 
 
 Here is a new scene opening, which, 
 whether it perform what it promises or not, 
 will add fresh plumes to the wings of time ; 
 at 1( ast while it continues to be a subject of 
 contemplation. If the project take effect, a 
 thousand varieties will attend the change it 
 will make in our situation at Olney. If not, 
 it will serve, however, to speculate and con- 
 verse upon, and steal away many hours, by 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 engaging our attention, before it be entirely 
 dropped. Lady Austen, very desirous of re* 
 tirement, especially of a retirement near her 
 sister, an admirer of Mr. Scott as a preacher, 
 and of your two humble servants now in the 
 greenhouse as the most agreeable creatures 
 in the world, is at present determined to set- 
 tle here. That part of our great building 
 which is at present occupied by Dick Cole- 
 man, his wife, child, and a thousand rats, is 
 the corner of the world she chooses above all 
 others as the place of her future residence. 
 Next spring twelvemonth she begins to repair 
 and beautify, and the following winter (by 
 which time the lease of her house in town 
 will determine) she intends to take posses- 
 sion. I am highly pleased with the plan upon 
 Mrs. Unwin's account, who, since Mrs. New- 
 ton's departure, is destitute of all female 
 connexion, and has not, in any emergency, a 
 woman to speak to. Mrs. Scott is indeed in 
 the neighboriiood, and an excellent person, 
 but always engaged by a close attention to 
 her family, and no more than ourselves a 
 lover of visiting. But these things are all at 
 present in the clouds. Two years must 
 intervene, and in two years not only this 
 project, but all the projects in Europe maybe 
 disconcerted. 
 
 Cocoa-nut naught, 
 Fish too dear, 
 None must be bought 
 For us that are here ; 
 
 No lobster on earth 
 That ever I saw, 
 To me would be worth 
 Sixpence a claw. 
 
 So, dear Madam, wait 
 Till fish can be got 
 At a reas'nable rate, 
 AVhether lobster or not. 
 
 Till the French and the Dutch 
 Have quitted the seas, 
 And then send as much, 
 And as oft as you please. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. (/. 
 
 TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 25, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We rejoice with you 
 sincerely in the birth of another son, and in 
 the prospect you have of IMrs. Unwin's re- 
 covery : may your three children, and the next 
 three, when they shall make their appearance, 
 prove so many blessings to their parents, and 
 make you wish that you had twice the num- 
 ber ! But what made you expect daily that 
 you should hear from me ? Letter for letter 
 is the law of all correspondence whatsoever, 
 and, because I wrote last, I have indulged 
 myself for some time in expectation ^+' a
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 10« 
 
 sheet frcTi you. Not that I govern myself 
 entirely by the punctilio of reciprocation, but 
 havnig been pretty much occupied of late, I 
 was not sorry to find myself at liberty to 
 exercise my discretion, and furnished with a 
 good excuse if I chose to be silent. 
 
 I expected, as you remember, to have been 
 published last spring, and was disappointed. 
 The delay has afforded me an opportunity to 
 increase the quantity of my publication by 
 about a third; and, if ray Muse has not for- 
 saken me, wliich I rather suspect to be the case, 
 may possibly yet add to it. I iiave a subject 
 in iiand, which promises me a great abund- 
 ance of poetical matter, but which, for want 
 of a something I am not able to describe, I 
 cannot at present proceed with. The name 
 of it is " Retirement," and my purpose, to 
 recommend the proper improvemej|t of it, to 
 set forth the requisites for that end, and to 
 enlarge upon the happiness of that state of 
 life, when managed as it ougiit to be. In the 
 course of my journey through this ample 
 theme, I should wish to touch upon the char- 
 acters, the deficiences, and tiie mistakes of 
 tliousands, who enter on a scene of retire- 
 ment unqualified for it in every respect, aid 
 with such designs as have no tendency to 
 promote either tlieir own hajipiness or that 
 of others. But as I have told you before, 
 there are times when I am no more a poet 
 than I am a mathematician, and when such 
 u time occurs, I always think it better to give 
 up tiie point than to labor it in vain. I siiall 
 yet again be obliged to trouble you for franks, 
 the addition of three thousand Hues, or near 
 tiiat munber, having occasioned a demand 
 wiiicli I did not always foresee, but your 
 obliging friend and your obliging self having 
 allowed me the liberty of application, I make 
 it williout apology. 
 
 The solitude, or rather the duality, of our 
 condition at Olney seems drawing to a con- 
 clusion. You have not forgot perhaps that 
 tlie building we inhabit consists of two man- 
 sions. And, because you have only seen the 
 inside of that part of it which is in our occu- 
 pation, I tlierefore inform you that the other 
 end of it is by far the most superb, as well 
 as the most commodious. Lady Au.sten has 
 seen it, has set her heart upon it, is going to 
 fit it up and furnish it, and, if she can get rid 
 of tlie remaining two years of the lease of her 
 London house, will probably enter upon it in 
 a twelvemonth. You will be pleased witli 
 this intelligence, because I have already told 
 you that she is a woman perfectly well-bred, 
 sensible, and in every n^spect agreeable ; and 
 above all, because she loves your mother 
 dearly. It has in ray eyes (and I doubt not it 
 will have tlie same in yours) strong marks of 
 providential interposition. A female friend, 
 and one wiio bids fair to prove lierself wortiiy 
 of the appellation, comes recommended by a 
 
 variety of considerations to such a place as 
 Olney. Since Mr. Newton went, and till this 
 lady came, there was not in the kingdom a re- 
 tirement more absolutely such than ours. We 
 did not want company, but when it came we 
 found it agreeable. A person that has seen 
 much of the world and understands it well, 
 has high spirits, a lively fancy, and great read- 
 iness of conversation, introduces a sprightli- 
 ness into such a scene as this, which, if it 
 was peaceful before, is not the worse for be- 
 ing a little enlivened. In case of illness too, 
 to which all are liable, it was rather a gloomy 
 prospect, if we allowed ourselves to advert 
 to it, that there was hardly a w(?man in the 
 place from whom it would have been reason- 
 able to have expected either comfort or as- 
 sistance. The present curate's wife is a val- 
 uable person, but has a family of her own, 
 and, though a neighbor, is not a very rear 
 one. But, if this plan is effected, we shall 
 be in a manner one family, and I suppose 
 never pass a day without some intercourse 
 with each other. 
 
 Your mother sends her warm affections, 
 and welcomes into the world the new-bom 
 William. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Oluey, Aug. 25, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — By Johnson's last note, 
 (for 1 have received a packet from him since 
 I wrote last to you,) I ara ready to suspect 
 that you have seen him, and endeavored to 
 quicken his proceedings. His assurrance of 
 greater expedition leads me to think so. I 
 know little of booksellers and printers, but 
 have heard from others that they are the most 
 dilatory of all people ; otherwise, I am not 
 in a hurry, nor would be so troublesome; 
 but ara obliged to you nevertheless for your 
 interference, if his promised alacrity be owing 
 to any spur that you have given him. He 
 chooses to add " Conversation" to the rest, 
 and says he will give me notice when he is 
 ready for it ; but 1 shall send it to ijou by the 
 first opportune conveyance, and beg you to 
 deliver it over to him. He wishes me not 
 to be afraid of making the volume too large; 
 by which expression I suppose he means, 
 that if I had still another piece, there would 
 be room for it. At present I have not, but 
 am in the way to produce another, /rtiea^ modo 
 Musa. I have already begun and proceeded 
 a little way in a poem called " Retirement." 
 My view in choosing that subject is to direct 
 to tiie proper use of tiie opportunities it af- 
 fords for the cultivation of a man's best in- 
 terests ; to censure the vices and the follies 
 which people carry with them into their re- 
 treats, wiiere they make no other use of theii 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 104 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 leisure, than to gratify tliemselves with tlie 
 induloence of their favorite appetites, and to 
 pay themselves by a life of pleasure for a 
 life of business. In conclusion, I would en- 
 large upon the happiness of that state, when 
 discreetly enjoyed and religiously improved. 
 But all this is, at present, in embryo. I gene- 
 rally despair of my progress when I begin ; 
 but if, like my travelling 'squire, I should 
 kindle as J go, this likewise may make a part of 
 the volume, for I have time enough before me. 
 I forgot to mention that Johnson uses the 
 discretion my poetship has allowed him, with 
 much discernment. He has suggested sever- 
 al alterations, or rather marked several defec- 
 tive passages, which I have corrected much to 
 the advantage of the poems. In the last sheet 
 he sent me, he noted three such, ajl which I 
 have reduced into better order. In the fore- 
 going sheet, I assented to his criticism in 
 some instances, and chose to abide by the 
 original expression in others. Thus we jog 
 on together comfortably enough : and perhaps 
 it would be as well for authors in general, if 
 their booksellers, when men of some taste, 
 were allowed, though not to tinker the work 
 themselves, yet to point out the flaws, and 
 humbly to recommend an improvement. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEW^TON.* 
 
 Olney, Sept. 9, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am not willing to let 
 the post set off without me, tliough I have 
 nothing material to put into his bag. I am 
 writing in the greenhouse, where my myrtles, 
 ranged before tjie windows, make the most 
 agreeable blind imaginable ; where I am un- 
 disturbed by noise, and where I see none but 
 pleasing objects. The situation is as favor- 
 able to my purpose as I could wish ; but the 
 state of my mind is not so, and the deficien- 
 cies I feel there are not to be remedied by 
 the stillness of my retirement or the beauty 
 of the scene before me. I believe it is in 
 part owing to the excessive heat of the wea- 
 ther that I find myself so much at a loss when 
 I attempt either verse or prose : my animal 
 spirits are depressed, and dulness is the con- 
 sequence. That dulness, liowever, is all at 
 your service; and the portion of it that is 
 necessary to fill up the present epistle I send 
 you without the least reluctance. 
 
 I am sorry to find that the censure I have 
 passed upon Occiduus is even better founded 
 than I supposed. Lady Austen has been at 
 his sabbatical concerts, which, it seems, are 
 composed of song-tunes and psalm-tunes in- 
 discriminately ; music without words — and I 
 suppose one may say, consequently, without 
 devotion. On a certain occasion, when her 
 niece was sitting at her side, she asked his 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 opinion concerning the lawfulness of such 
 amusements as are to be found at Vauxhall or 
 Ranelagh ; meaning only to draw from him a 
 sentence of disapprobation, that Miss Green 
 might be the better reconciled to the restraint 
 under which she was held, when she found it 
 warranted by the judgment of so famous a 
 divine. But she was disappointed : he ac- 
 counted them innocent, and recommended 
 them as useful. Curiosity, he said, was nat- 
 ural to young persons; and it was wrong to 
 deny them a gratification which they might 
 be indulged in with the greatest safety ; be- 
 cause, the denial being uin-easonable, the de- 
 sire of it would still subsist. It was but a 
 walk, and a walk was as harmless in one 
 place as another; with other arguments of a 
 similar import, which might have proceeded 
 with mor^ grace, at least with less offence, 
 from the lips of a sensual layman. He seems, 
 together with others of our acquaintance, to 
 have suffered considerably in his spiritual 
 character by his attachment to music. The 
 lawfulness of it, when used wiih moderation 
 and in its proper place, is unquestionable; but 
 I believe that wine itself, though a man be 
 gailty of habitual intoxication, does not more 
 debauch and befool the natural understanding 
 than music, always music, music in season 
 and out of season, weakens and destroys the 
 spiritual discernment. If it is not used with 
 an unfeigned reference to the worship of 
 God, and with a design to assist the soul in 
 the performance of it, which cannot be the 
 case when it is the only occupation, it degen- 
 erates into a sensual delight, and becomes a 
 most powerful advocate for the admission of 
 other pleasures, grosser perhaps in degree, 
 but in their kind the same.* 
 
 Mr. M , though a simple, honest, good 
 
 man — such, at least, he appears to us — is 
 not likely to give general satisfaction. He 
 preaches the truth it seems, but not the 
 whole truth ; and a certain member of that 
 church, who signed the letter of invitation, 
 which was conceived in terms sufficiently en- 
 couraging, is likely to prove one of his most 
 strenuous opposers. The little man, how- 
 ever, has an independent fortune, and has 
 nothing to do but to trundle himself away 
 to some other place, where he may find 
 hearers neither no nice nor so wise as we 
 are at Olney. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, 
 
 With our united love. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, Sept. IG, 1781, 
 A noble theme demands a noble verse, 
 In such I thank you lor your line oysters. 
 
 * It is recorded of the Rev. Mr. Cecil, that, being pa» 
 sionately fond of phiyini; on Ow violin, and, finding that 
 it enffrossed too much of lils time .ind thonijlits, he on» 
 day foolt it into his lianda and biolie it to pieces. 
 
 f Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 105 
 
 The barrel was mafrnificently large, 
 But, being sent to Olney at tree charge, 
 Was not inserted in the driver's list, 
 And tberel'ore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd; 
 For, when the messenger whom we dispatch'd 
 Inquir' J tor oysters, Hoh his noddle scratch'd ; 
 Denying that his wagon or his wain 
 Did any sueh commodity contain. 
 In const qiu nee ot" which year welcome boon 
 Did not arrive till yesterday at noon; 
 In con,scquence ot' which some chanc'd to die, 
 And some, though very sweet, were very dry. 
 Now Madam says (and what she says must still 
 Deserve attention say she what she will,) 
 That what we call the diligence, be-case 
 It goe.-i to London with a svviller pace. 
 Would better suit tlie carriage of your gift, 
 Returning downward with a pace as swilt; 
 And th'-refore recommends it with this aim — 
 To save at least tliree days — the price the same ; 
 For though it will not carry or convey [may, 
 For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you 
 For oysters bred upon the salt sea-shore, 
 Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more. 
 
 News have I none that I can deign to write, 
 Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night; 
 And that ourselves vvere, at the seventh hour, 
 Cauglit in the first beginning of the show'r; 
 But walking, running, and with much ado. 
 Got home — just time enough to be wet through. 
 Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told, 
 Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold ; 
 And wishing just the same good hap to you. 
 We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu I 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 The Greenhouse, Sept. 18, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I return yoiu- prefiice, 
 with m,iny thanks for so atii'ctionate an in- 
 troduction to the public. I have observed 
 nothinir that in my judgment required altera- 
 tion, except a single sentence in the first 
 paragrapii, wliicii 1 iiave not obliterated, that 
 you m:iy restore it, if you please, by oblite- 
 rating my interlineation. My reason for pro- 
 posing an amendment of it was, that your 
 meaning did not inunediately strike me, 
 wliicli therefore I have endeavored to make 
 more obvious. Tiie rest is what I would 
 wish it to be. You say, indeed, more in my 
 commendation than I can modestly say of 
 myself: but something will be allowed to 
 the partiality of friendship on so interesting 
 an occasion. 
 
 I have no objection in tiie world to your 
 conveying a copy to Dr. Johnson ; tiiough I 
 well know that one ot" his pointed sarcasm.s, 
 if he should happen to be displeased, would 
 soon find its way into all companies, and 
 spoil the sale. lie writes, indeed, like a man 
 that thinks a great deal, and that sometimes 
 thinks religiously : but report intbrms me 
 that he has been severe enough in his ani- 
 madversions upon Dr, Watts, who was, nev- 
 
 * Private correspondeace. 
 
 ertheless, if I am in any degree a judge of 
 verse, a man of true poetical ability ; care- 
 less, indeed, for the most part, and inatten- 
 tive too often to those niceties which consti- 
 tute elegance of expression, but frequently 
 sublime in his conceptions and masterly in 
 his execution. Pope, I have heard, had 
 placed him once ii; the Dunciad ; but^ on 
 being advised to read before he judged him, 
 was convinced that he deserved other treat- 
 ment, and thrust somebody's blockhead into 
 the gap, whose name, consisting^of a mono- 
 syllable, happened to fit it. Whatever faults, 
 however, I may be chargeable with as a poet, 
 I cannot accuse myself of negligence. I 
 never suffer a line to pass till T have made it 
 as good as I can; and, though my doctrines 
 may offend this king of critics, he will not,- 1 
 flatter myself, be disgusted by slovenly in- 
 accui-acy, either in the numbers, rhymes, or 
 language. Let the rest take its chance. It 
 is possible he may be pleased ; and, if h<* 
 should, I shall have engaged on my side one 
 of the best trumpeters in the kingdom. Let 
 him only speak as favorably of me as he 
 has spoken of Sir Richard Blackmore (who 
 though he shines in his poem called Crea- 
 tion, has written more absurdities in verse 
 than any writer of our country,) and my suc- 
 cess will be secured. 
 
 I have often promised myself a laugh with 
 you about your pipe, but have always forgot- 
 ten it when I have been writing, and at pres- 
 ent I am not much in a laughing humor. 
 You will observe, however, for your comfort 
 and the honor of that same pipe, that it 
 hardly falls within the line of my censure. 
 You never fumigate the ladies, or force them 
 out of company ; nor do you use it as an in- 
 centive to hard drinking. Your friends, in- 
 deed, have reason to complain that it fre- 
 quently deprives them of the pleasure of 
 your own conversation, while it leads you 
 either into your study or your garden ; but 
 in all other respects it is as innocent a pipe 
 as cm be. Smoke away, therefore ; and re- 
 member that, if one poet has condemned the 
 ])ractice, a better than he (the witty and ele- 
 gant Hawkins Browne*) has been warm in 
 the praise of it. 
 
 " Retirement" grows, but more slowly th;!n 
 any of its predecessors. Time was when I 
 could with ease produce fifty, si.xty, or seven- 
 ty lines in a morning; now, I generally fall 
 short of thirty, and am sometimes forced 
 to be content with a dozen. It consists, at 
 
 * Author (if the popuhir poem, "Do Animi Inimor- 
 talitati','" writk'u in thu style of Lucretius. The luiiuor- 
 ourf po(uu Mlhuli'd to l)y (\)wper, iu pniisc of sniokini^, is 
 I'lililli'd "Till! I'ipi" oftoljaceo." It. is R'UiurUable as e.x- 
 liil)itiu'.; a happy imitation of the style of si.\ tliflcreut 
 authors — Cililier, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, I'ope, 
 Swift, and Vouni;. The singularity and talent discover- 
 able in this production i)rociu-ed for it much celebrity. 
 An I'dition of his Poems was published bv his son, Isaac 
 Hawkins lirowne, Esq.
 
 106 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 present, I suppose, of between six and seven 
 hundred ; so that there are hopes of an end, 
 and I dare say Johnson will give me time 
 enough to finish it. 
 
 I nothing add but this — that still I am 
 Your most affectionate and humble 
 
 William. 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 ' Olney, Sept. 2G, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I may, I suppose, con- 
 gratulate you on your safe arrival at Briglit- 
 helmstone ; and am the better pleased with 
 your design to close the summer there, be- 
 cause I am acquainted with the place, and, 
 by the assistance of fancy, can without much 
 difficulty join myself to the party, and par- 
 take with you in your amusements and ex- 
 cursions. It happened singularly enough, 
 that, just before I received your last, in which 
 you apprise me of your intended journey, I 
 had been writing upon the subject, having 
 found occasion, towards the close of my last 
 poem, called " Retirement," to take some no- 
 tice of the modern passion for sea-side enter- 
 tainments, and to direct to the means by 
 which they might be made useful as well as 
 agreeable. I think with you, that the most 
 magnificent object under heaven is the great 
 deep ; and cannot but feel an unpolite species 
 of astonishment, when I consider the multi- 
 tudes that view it witliout emotion and even 
 without reflection. In all its various forms, 
 it is an object of all others the most suited 
 to affect us with lasting impressions of the 
 awful Power that created and controls it. I 
 am the less inclined to think this negligence 
 excusable, because, at a time of life when I 
 gave as little attention to religious subjects 
 as almost any man, I yet remember that the 
 waves would preach to me, and that in the 
 midst of dissipation I had an ear to hear 
 them. One of Shakspeare's characters says, 
 " I am never merry when I hear sweet mu- 
 sic." The same effect that harmony seems 
 to have had upon him I have experienced 
 from the sight and sound of the ocean, which 
 have often composed my thoughts into a 
 melancholy not unpleasing nor without its 
 use. So much for Signor Nettuno. 
 
 Lady Austen goes to London this day se'n- 
 night. We have told her that you shall visit 
 her; which is an enterprise you may engage 
 in with the more alacrity, because, as she 
 loves everything that has any connexion with 
 your mother, she is sure to feel a sufficient 
 partiality for her son. Add to this that your 
 own personal recommendations are by no 
 means small, or such as a woman of her fine 
 taste and discernment can possibly overlook. 
 She has many features in her cliaracter which 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 you will admire ; but one, in particular, on 
 account of the rarity of it, will engage your 
 attention and esteem. She has a degTce of 
 gratitude in her composition, so quick a sense 
 of obligation, as is hardly to be found in any 
 rank of life, and, if report say true, is scarce 
 indeed in the superior. Discover but a wish 
 to please her, and she never forgets it ; not 
 only thanks you, but the tears will start into 
 her eyes at the recollection of the smallest 
 service. With these fine feelings, she has 
 the most, and the most harmless, vivacity 
 you can imagine. In short, she is — what you 
 will find her to be, upon half an hour's con- 
 versation with her ; and, when I hear you 
 have a journey to town in contemplation, I 
 will send you her address. 
 
 Your mother is well, and joins with me in 
 wishing that you may spend your time agree- 
 ably upon the coast of Sussex. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Oct. 4, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^I generally write the day 
 before the post, but yesterday had no oppor- 
 tunity, being obliged to employ myself in 
 settling my greenhouse for the winter. I am 
 now writing before breakfast, that I may 
 avail myself of every inch of time for the pur- 
 pose. N. B. An expression a critic would 
 quarrel with, and call it by some hard name, 
 signifying a jumble of ideas and an unnatural 
 match between time and space. 
 
 I am glad to be undeceived respecting the 
 opinion I had been erroneously led into on 
 the subject of Johnson's criticism on Watts. 
 Nothing can be more judicious, or more char- 
 acteristic of a distinguishing taste, than his 
 observations upon that writer; though I flunk 
 him a little mistaken in his notion that divine 
 subjects have never been poetically treated 
 with success. A little more Christian knowl- 
 edge and experience would perlnips enable 
 him to discover excellent poetry upon spirit- 
 ual themes in the aforesaid little Doctor. I 
 perfectly acquiesce in the propriety of send- 
 ing Johnson a copy of my productions ; and I 
 think it would be well to send it in our joint 
 names, accompanied with a handsome card, 
 such a one as you will know how to flibri- 
 cate, and such as may predispose him to a 
 favorable perusal of the book, by coaxing him 
 into a good temper; for he is a great bear, 
 with all his learning and penetration. f 
 
 I forgot to tell you in my last that I was 
 well pleased with your proposed appearance 
 in the title-page under the name of the editor. 
 I do not care under how many names you 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t Goldsmith used to say of Johnson, that he had 
 nothing of the bear but the external roughness of iU 
 coat.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 10-7 
 
 appear in a book that calls me its author. In 
 my last piece, which I finished tlie day before 
 'yesterday, I have told the public tliat I live 
 upon the banks of the Ouse : that public is a 
 G^reat simpleton if it does not know that you 
 live in London; it will consequently know 
 that I had need of tiie assistance of some 
 friend in town, and that I could have recourse 
 to nobody with more propriety tiian yourself. 
 I shall transcribe and submit to your appro- 
 bation as fast as possible. I have now, I 
 think, finished my volume ; indeed I am al- 
 most weary of composing, having spent a 
 year in doing notiiing else. I reckon my 
 volume will consist of about eicht thousand 
 
 • JICS. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIncy, Oct. G, 1781. 
 
 My dear friend, — What a world are you 
 daily conversant with, which I have not seen 
 tiiese- twenty years, and shall never see again ! 
 The arts of dissipation (I suppose) are no- 
 wiicre practised witii more refinement or suc- 
 cess than at the place of your present resi- 
 dence. By your account of it, it seems to be 
 just vvliat it was when I visited it, — a scene 
 of idleness and luxury, music, dancing, cards, 
 walking, riding, bathing, eating, drinking, cof- 
 fee, tea, scandal, dressing, yawning, sleeping, 
 tiie rooms perhaps more magnificent, because 
 the proprietors are grown richer, but the 
 manners and occupations of the company just 
 the same. Though my life has long been 
 that of a recluse, I have not the temper of 
 one, nor am I in tlie least an enemy to cheer- 
 fulness and good humor; but I cannot envy 
 you your situation ; I even feel myself con- 
 strained to prefer tiie silence of this nook, 
 and the snug fireside in our own diminutive 
 parlor, to ail the splendor and gayety of 
 Brighton. 
 
 You ask me how I feel on the occasion of 
 my approacinng publication? Perfectly at 
 my ease. If I, had not been pretty well as- 
 sured beforehand that my tranquillity would 
 be but little endangered by sucii a measure, I 
 would never iiavc eng.-iwd in it; for I cannot 
 bear disj,urbance. I have had in view two 
 principal objects; first, to amusie myself; and, 
 secondly, to compass tiiat point in sucii a 
 manner that others miglit possibly be the 
 better for my amusement. If I Jiave suc- 
 ceeded, it will give me pleasure ; but, if I have 
 failed, I shall not be mortified to the de'^ree 
 that miglit perhaps be expected. I remem- 
 ber an ohl atlage (thougii not where it is to 
 be found) " bene vixi/, qui bene latuit" and, if 
 I had recollected it at the riglit time, it siiould 
 have been tiie motto to my book. By the 
 way, it will make an excellent one for " Re- 
 
 tirement," if you can but tell me whom to quote 
 for it. The critics cannot deprive me of the 
 pleasure I have in refiecting, that, so far a* 
 my leisure has been employed in writing for 
 the public, it has been conscientiously em- 
 ployed, and witli a view to their advantage. 
 There is nothing agreeable, to be sure, in 
 being chronicled for a dunce ; but, I believe, 
 there lives not a man upon earth who would 
 be less affected by it tlian myself. With all 
 this indifierence to fame, which you know me 
 too well to suppose me capable of aflTecting, 
 I have taken the utmost pains to' deserve it. 
 Tins may appear a mystery or a paradox in 
 practice, but it is true. I considered that the 
 taste of the day is refined and delicate to 
 excess, and that to disgust that delicacy of 
 taste, by a slovenly inattention to it, would 
 be to forfeit, at once, all hope of being useful ; 
 and for this reason, though I have written 
 more verse tiiis last year than perhaps any 
 man in England, I have finished, and polished, 
 and touclied, and retouched, with the utmost 
 care. If after all I should be converted into 
 waste paper, it may be my misfortune, but it 
 will not be my fault. I shall bear it with the 
 most perfect serenity. 
 
 I do not mean to give • a copy ; he is a 
 
 good-natured little man, and crows exactly 
 like a cock, but knows no more of verse than 
 the cock he imitates. 
 
 Whoever supposes that Lady Austen's for- 
 tune is precarious is mistaken. I can assure 
 you, upon the ground of tiie most circum- 
 stantial and authentic information, that it is 
 both genteel and perfectly safe. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 OIney, Oct. 14, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I would not willingly 
 deprive you of any comfort, and therefore 
 would wish you to comfort yourself as much 
 as you can with a notion that you are a more 
 bountiful correspondent than I. You will 
 give me leave in the meantime, however, to 
 assert to myself a share in the same species 
 of consolation, and to enjoy the fl.attering 
 recollection that I have sometimes written 
 three letters to your one. I never' knew a 
 poet, except myself, who was punctual in 
 anything, or to be depended on for tiie due 
 discharge of any duty, except what he tliought 
 he owed to the Muses. The moment a man 
 takes it into his foolish head that he has what 
 the world calls genius, he gives himself a 
 discharge from tiic servile drudgery of all 
 friendly offices, and becomes good for nothing 
 except in tlie pursuit of his favorite employ- 
 ment. But I am not yet vain enough to 
 tiiink myself entitled to such self-conferred 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 .08 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 honors ; and, thongli I liave sent much poetry 
 to the press, or, at least, what I hope my 
 readers will account such, am still as desirous 
 as ever of a place in your heart, and to take 
 all opportunities to convince you that you 
 have siill the same in mine. My attention to 
 my poetiv al function has, I confess, a little 
 interfered of late with my other employments, 
 and occasioned my writing less frequently 
 than I should have otherwise done. But it is 
 over, at least for the present, and I think for 
 some time to come. I have transcribed " Re- 
 tirement," and send it. You will be so good 
 as to forward it to Johnson, who will forward 
 it, I suppose, to the public, in his own time ; 
 but not very speedily, moving as he does. 
 The post brought me a sheet this afternoon, 
 but we have not yet reached the end of 
 " ?Iope." • 
 
 Mr. Scott, I perceive by yours to him, has 
 mentioned one of his troubles, but, I believe, 
 not the principal one. The question, whether 
 he shall have an assistant at the great liouse 
 
 in Mr. R , is still a question, or, at least, 
 
 a subject of discontent between Mr. Scott and 
 the people. In a tete-a-tete I had with this 
 candidate for the chair in the course of the 
 last week, I told him my thoughts upon the 
 subject plainly ; advised him to change places, 
 by the help of fancy, with Mr. Scott, for a mo- 
 ment, and to ask himself how he would like a 
 self-intruded deputy ; advised him likewise by 
 no means to address Mr. Scott any more upon 
 the matter, for that he might be sure he would 
 never consent to it ; and concluded with 
 telling him that, if he persisted in his pur- 
 pose of speaking to the people, the probable 
 consequence would be that, sooner or later, 
 Mr. Scott would be forced out of the parish, 
 and the blame of his expulsion would all 
 light upon him. He heard, approved, and I 
 think the very next day put all my good 
 counsel to shame, at least, a considerable pnrt 
 of it, by applying to Mr. Scott, in company 
 
 with Mr. P , for his permission to speak 
 
 at the Sunday evening lecture. Mr. Scott, as 
 I had foretold, was immovable ; but offered, 
 for the satisfaction of his hearers, to preach 
 three times to them on the Sabbath, which 
 he could have done, Mr. Jones having kindly 
 otFered, though without their knowledge, to 
 olliciate for him at Weston. Mr. R. an- 
 swered, " That will not do, Sir ; it is not what 
 the people wish; they want variety." Mr. 
 Scott replied very wisely, '■ If tliey do, they 
 must be content without it ; it is not my duty 
 to indulge that humor." This is the last in- 
 telligence I have had upon the subject. I 
 received it not from Mr. Scott, but from an 
 ear- witness. 
 
 I did not suspect, till the reviewers told me 
 so, that you are made up of artifice and de- 
 sign, and tiiat your ambition is to delude your 
 bearers. Wdl, I suppose they please them- 
 
 selves with the thoug-ht of having mortified 
 you ; but how much are they mistaken ! 
 They shot at yju, and their arrow struck the 
 Bible, recoiling, of course, upon themselves. 
 My turn will come, for I think I shall hard-ly 
 escape a thrashing. 
 
 Yours, my dear sir. 
 
 And Mrs. Newton's, W. C. 
 
 TO MPS. COWFER, 
 
 Olney, Oct. 19, 1781. 
 My dear Cousin, — Your fear lest I should 
 think you unworthy of my correspondence, 
 on account of your delay to answer, may 
 change sides now, and more properly belongs 
 to me. It is long since I received your last, 
 and yet I believe I can say truly, that not a 
 post has gone by me since the receipt of it, 
 that has not reminded me of the debt I owe 
 you for your obliging and unreserved com- 
 munications both in prose and verse, espe- 
 cially for the latter, because I consider them 
 as marks of your peculiar confidence. The 
 truth is, I have been such a verse-maker my- 
 self, and so busy in preparing a volume for 
 the press, which I imagine will make its ap- 
 pearance in the course of the winter, that I 
 hardly had leisure to listen to the calls of 
 any other engagement. It is, however, fin- 
 ished, and gone to the printer's, and I have 
 nothing now to do with it but to correct tJie 
 sheets as they are sent to me, and consign it 
 over to the judgment of the public. It is a 
 bold undertaking at this time of d.'iy, when 
 so many writers of the greatest abilities have 
 gone before, who seem to have anticipated 
 every valuable subject, as well as all the 
 graces of poetical embellishment, to step 
 forth into the world in the character of a 
 bard, especially when it is considered that 
 luxury, idleness, and vice, have debauched 
 the public taste, and that nothing hardly is 
 welcome but childish fiction, or what has, at 
 least, a tendency to excite a laugh. I thought, 
 however, that I had stumbled upon some 
 subjects that had never beforejaeen poetically 
 treated, and upon some others to which I 
 imagined it would not be difficult to give an 
 air of novelty by the manner of treating 
 them. My sole drift'is to be useful; a point 
 which, however, I knew I should in vain aim 
 at, unless I could be likewise entertaining. 
 I have therefore fixed these two strings upon 
 my bow, and by the help of both have done 
 my best to send the arrow to the mark. My 
 readers will hardly have begun to laugh, be- 
 fore they will be called upon to correct that 
 levity and peruse me with a more serious air. 
 As to the effect I leave it alone in His hands 
 who can alone produce it ; neither prose nor 
 verse can reform the manners of a dissolute 
 age, much less can they inspire a sense of
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 I OS 
 
 religious obligation, unless assisted and made 
 ellicacious by the Power who superintends 
 the trutli he has vouchsafed to impart. 
 
 You m;ide my heart aciie with a sympa- 
 thetic sorrow when you described the state 
 of your mind on occasion of your late visit 
 into Hertfordsliire. Had I been previously 
 informed of your journey befoie you made 
 it, I slioidd have been able to iiavcj foretold 
 ail your feelings with the most unerring cer- 
 tainty of prediction. You will never cease 
 to feel upon that subject, but, witli your prin- 
 ciples of resignation and acquiescence in the 
 divine will, you will always feel as becomes 
 a Cliristian. We are forbidden to murmur, 
 but we are not forbidden to regret ; and 
 wiiom we loved tenderly wiiiie living, we 
 may still pursue with an aftectionate remem- 
 brance, without having any occasion to 
 charge ourselves witli rebellion against the 
 sovereignity tiiat appointed a separation. 
 A day is coming when, I am confident, you 
 will see and know that mercy to both parties 
 was the principal agent in a. scene, the recol- 
 lection of whicli is still painful. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Those who read what the poet has here 
 ■jaid of his intended publicalion may perhaps 
 think it strange that it was introduced to the 
 world with a preface, not written by liimself 
 but by his friend Mr. Newton. Tlie circum- 
 stance arose from two amiable peculiarities 
 in the character of Cowper — his extreme 
 dillidence in regard to himself, and his kind 
 eagerness to gratify the affectionate ambition 
 of a friend whom he tenderly esleemed ! 
 Mr. Newton has avowed this feeling in a very 
 Migenuous and candid manner. lie seems 
 not to iiave been insensible to the honor of 
 presenting himself to the public as the bosom 
 friend of that incompnrnble autlior wliom lie 
 had attended so faithfully in sickness and 
 sorrow. 
 
 In the course of the following letters, the 
 reader will fnid occasion to admire the grate- 
 ful delicacy of the poet, not oidy towards 
 the writer of his preface, but even in the 
 liberal praise Vith which he speaks of his 
 publisher. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olricy, Oct. 22, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^Ir. Bates, without in- 
 tending it, lias passed a severer censure upon 
 the modern world of readers, than any tiiat can 
 be found in my volume. If they are so mer- 
 rily disposed, in the midst of a thousand 
 calamities, tliat they will not deign to read a 
 preface of three or four pages, because the 
 purport of it is serious, they are fir gone in- 
 deed, and in the last stage of a frenzy, such as 
 I suppose has prevailed in all nations that 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 have been exemplarily punished, just before 
 the infliction of the sentence. But, though 
 he lives in the world he has so ill an opinion 
 of, and ought therefore to know it better 
 than I, who have no intercourse with it at ail, 
 I am willing to hope that he may be mistaken. 
 Curiosity is a universal passion. There are 
 few people who think a book worth their 
 reading, but feel a desire to know something 
 about the writer of it. This desire will na- 
 turally lead them to peep into the preface, 
 where they will soon find that a little perse- 
 verance will furnish tliein with some informa- 
 tion on the subject. If, therefore your pre- 
 face finds no readers, I shall take it for 
 granted that it is because the book itself is 
 accounted not worth their notice. Be that 
 as it may, it is quite sufficient that I have 
 played the antic myself for their diversion; 
 and that, in a state of dejection such as they 
 are absolute strangers to, I have sometimes 
 put on an ait of cheerfulness and vivacity, to 
 which I myself am in reality a stranger, for 
 the sake of winning their attention to more 
 useful matter. I cannot endure the thought 
 for a moment, that you should descend to my 
 level on the occasion, and court their favor 
 in a style not more unsuitable to your func- 
 tion than to the constant and consistent train 
 of your whole character and conduct. No — ■ 
 let the pretace stand. I cannot mend it. I 
 could easily make a jest of it, but it is better 
 as it is. 
 
 By the way— will it not be proper, as you 
 have taken some notice of the modish dress 
 I wear in '^ Table Talk " to include " Con- 
 versation " in the same description, which is 
 (the first half of it at least) the most airy of 
 the two ? They will otherwise tliink, per- 
 haps, that the observation might as well liave 
 been spared entirely ; though I sliould have 
 been sorry if it iiad, for when I am jocular 
 I do violence to myself, and am therefore 
 pleased with your telling them in a civil way 
 that I play the fool to amuse them, not be- 
 cause 1 am one myself, but because I have a 
 foolish world to deal with. 
 
 I am inclined to think that Mr. Scott will 
 no more be troubled by iMr. R witit ap- 
 plications of the sort I mentioned in my last. 
 Mr. Scott, since I wrote that account, has re- 
 lated to us himself what passed in the course 
 of their interview ; and, it seems, the dis- 
 course ended with his positive assurance 
 ■ that he never would consent to the measure, 
 I though, at the same time, he declared he 
 j would never interrupt or attempt to suppress 
 
 it. To which IMr. R rei)lied, tliat unless 
 
 lie had his free consent, he should never en- 
 ; gage in tlic office. It is to be hoped, there- 
 j fore, that, in time, that part of the peo- 
 ple who may at present be displeased with 
 JMr. Scott for withholding his consent, will 
 i grow cool upon the subject, and be satisfied
 
 110 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 with receiving their instruction from their 
 proper minister. 
 
 I beg you will, on no future occasion, 
 leave a blank for Mrs. Newton, unless you 
 have first engaged her promise to fill it ; for 
 thus we lose the pleasure of your company, 
 without being indemnified for the loss by 
 the acquisition of hers. Our love to you 
 both. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 5, 1781. 
 My dear William, — I give you joy of your 
 safe return from the lips of the great deep. 
 You did not discern many signs of sobriety 
 or true wisdom among the people of Bright- 
 helmstone, but it is not possible to observe 
 the manners of a multitude, of whatever 
 rank, without learning somethiijg ; I mean if 
 a man has a mind like yours, capable of re- 
 flection. If he sees nothing to imitate, he is 
 sure to see something to avoid ; if nothing 
 to congratulate his fellow creatures upon, at 
 least much to excite his compassion. There 
 is not, I think, so melancholy a sight in the 
 world (an hospital is not to be compared with 
 it) as fliat of a thousand persons distin- 
 guished by the name of gentry, who, gentle 
 perhaps by nature, and made more gentle by 
 education, have the appearance of being in- 
 nocent and inoflfensive, yet being destitute of 
 all religion, or not at all governed by the re- 
 ligion they profess, are none of them at any 
 great distance from an eternal state, where 
 self-deception will be impossible, and where 
 amusements cannot enter. Some of them, 
 we may say, will be reclaimed — it is jnost 
 probable indeed that some of them will, be- 
 cause mercy, if one may be allowed the ex- 
 pression, is fond of distinguishing itself by 
 seeking its objects among the most desperate 
 class ; but the Scripture gives no encourage- 
 ment to the warmest charity to hope for de- 
 liverance for them all. When I see an 
 afflicted and unhappy man, I say to myself, 
 there is, perhaps, a man whom the world 
 would envy, if they knew the value of his 
 sorrows, which are possibly intended only to 
 soften his heart, and to turn his aflfections 
 towards their proper centre. But when I 
 see or heaj- of a crowd of voluptuaries, who 
 have no ears but for music, no eyes but for 
 splendor, and no tongue but for imperti- 
 nence and folly — I say, or at least I see oc- 
 casion to say — This is madness — this per- 
 sisted in must have a tragical conclusion. 
 It will condemn you not only as Christians 
 unworthy of the name, but as intelligent 
 creatures. You know by the light of nature, 
 if you have not quenched it, that there is a 
 God, and that a life like yours cannot be ac- 
 cording to his will. 
 
 I ask no pardon of you for the gravity 
 and gloominess of these reflections, which I 
 stumbled on when I least expected it ; though, 
 to say the truth, these or others of a like 
 complexion, are sure to occur to me when I 
 think of a scene of public diversion like that 
 you have lately left. 
 
 I am inclined to hope that Johnson told 
 you the truth, when he said he should publish 
 me soon after Christmas. His press has been 
 rather more punctual in its remittances than 
 it used to be; we have now but httle more 
 than two of the longest pieces, and the small 
 ones that are to follow, by way of epilogue, 
 to print oft', and then the affair is finished. 
 But once more I am obliged to gape for 
 franks ; only these, which I hope will be the 
 last I shall want, at yours and Mr. — — 's 
 convenient leisure. 
 
 We rejoice that yon have so much reason 
 to be satisfied with John's proficiency. The 
 more spirit he has the better, if his spirit is 
 but manageable, and put under such manage- 
 ment, as your prudence and Mrs. Unwin's 
 will suggest. 1 need not guard you against 
 severity, of which I conclude there is no 
 need, and which I am sure you are not at all 
 inclined to practise without it ; but perhaps 
 if I was to whisper, beware of too much in- 
 dulgence, I should only give a hint that the 
 fondness of a fiither for a fine boy might seem 
 to justify. I have no particular reason for the 
 caution, at this distance it is not possible I 
 should, but, in a case like yours, an admoni- 
 tion of that sort seldom wants propriety. 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 7, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — Having discontinued the 
 practise of verse-making for some weeks, I 
 now feel quite incapable of resuming it ; and 
 can only wonder at it as one of the most ex- 
 traordinary incidents in my life that I should 
 have composed a volume. Had it been sug- 
 gested to me as a practicable thing in better 
 days, though I should have been glad to have 
 found it so, many hindrances would have con- 
 spired to withhold me from such an enter- 
 prise. I should not have dared, at that time 
 of day to have committed my name to the 
 public, and my^ reputation to the hazard of 
 their opinion. But it is otherwise with me 
 now. I am more indifferent about what may 
 touch me in that point than ever I was in my 
 life. The stake tliat would then have seemed • 
 important now seems trivial ; and it is of little 
 consequence to me, who no longer feel myself 
 possessed of what I accounted infinitely more 
 valuable, whether the world's verdict shall 
 pronounce me a poet, or an empty pretender 
 to the title. This hapjjy coldness towards a 
 * Pj\vate correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 rnatter so generally interesting to all rhymers 
 left me quite at liberty for the undertaking, 
 unfettered by fear, and under no restraints of 
 that diiiidence winch is my natural temper, 
 and which would either have made it impossi- 
 ble for me to commence an author by name, 
 or would have insured my miscarriage if 1 
 had. In mv last despatches to Johnson I 
 sent him a new edition of the title-p;ige, having 
 discarded the Latin paradox which stood at 
 the liead of tiie former, and added a French 
 moUo to tliat from Virgil. It is taken from 
 a volume of the excellent Caraccioli,* called 
 Jouixsance de sni-nieme, and strikes me as pe- 
 euli:irly apposite lo my purpose. 
 
 Mr. Uull is an lionest man. We have seen 
 him twice since he received your orders to 
 march liither, and failiifully told us it was in 
 conse>iueiice of those orders that he came. — 
 lie dined with us yesterday; we were all in 
 prelty good spirits, and tlie day passed very 
 agreeably. It is not long since he called on 
 
 Mr. Scolt. xVIr. R came in. Mr. Bull 
 
 began, addressing himself to the former, " My 
 friend, you are in trouble; you are unhappy; 
 I read it iu your countenance." Mr. tScott 
 replied, lie had been so, but lie Wus better. 
 "Come tlien," says Mr. iiuU, "I will expound 
 to you the cause of all your anxiety, i'ou 
 are too common; you make yourself cheap. 
 Visit your people less, and converse more 
 willi youi- own heart. How often do you 
 speak to ihem in the week .'' Thrice. — "Ay, 
 tliere it is. Your sermons are an old ballad; 
 your prayers are an old ballad; and you are 
 au old ballad too." — 1 would wish +'^ Vead in 
 the steps of Mr. Newlon. — •' i'ou do well lo 
 follow his steps in ail other instances, but 
 iu tills instance you are wrong, and so was 
 lie. Mr. Newton trod a palii which no man 
 but himself could have used so long as he 
 did, and he wore it out long before he went 
 from Uluey. Too much familiaiity and con- 
 descension cost him tiie estimation of his 
 people. He tliought he should insure their 
 love, to wiiicii he had the best possible title, 
 and by tiioso very means he lost it. Ee 
 wise, my friend ; take warning ; make yourself 
 scarce, if you wish that persons of little un- 
 derstanding should know how lo prize you." 
 When he related lo us this harangue, so nicely 
 adjusted to the case of the third person pres- 
 ent, it did us both good, and as Jacques says, 
 
 " It made my lungs to crow like chanticleer." 
 
 Our love of you both, though often sent to 
 
 * M;iri|uis C'iiraccioli, borii at I'liris, 173iJ. It is now 
 well known thill llio lullfM of I'opc^ (JiinLCiiiielli, tlioufjh 
 passing nudcr tlic name of that pontilt, woru cojajjosuj 
 by tliis wrilL'i'. Tliesu letters, as well as all liis wriUii',',s, 
 are ilisliiiLtiuslu'd by a sweet strain of moral feelin;;, tliat 
 powerfully awaliens the best eniolioiis of the heart ; but 
 there is a want of more evangelical li'ght. lie is ulso the 
 Ruthor of " l,a .louissance de boi-mi!nie ;" " La L'oriver- 
 Batiou avec soi-uiOme ;" "La Grandeur d'Ame,'" 4tc. ; 
 BJid of " 'flic I^ife of Madame de iMaintenon." 
 
 London, is still with us. If it is not an in- 
 exhaustible well, (there is but one love that 
 can with propriety be called so,) it is, how- 
 ever, a very deep one, and not likely to fail 
 while we are living. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, VV. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 24, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — News is always accept- 
 able, especially from another v/orkl. I can- 
 not tell you what has been done in the Ches- 
 apeake, but I can tell you what has passed in 
 West Wycombe, in this county. Do you 
 feel yourself disposed to give credit to the 
 story of an apparition 1 No, say you. I am 
 of your mind. I do not believe more tlian 
 one in a hundred of those tales with which old 
 woman frighten children, and teach children 
 to frighten each other. But you are not such 
 a philosopher, I suppose, as to have persuaded 
 yourself that an tipparition is an impossible 
 tiling. You can attend to a story of tht!t 
 sort, if well authenticated? Yes. Then I 
 can tell you one. 
 
 You have heard, no doubt, of the romantic 
 friendship thtit subsisted once between Paul 
 Whiieiiead, ttiid Lord le Despenser, the late 
 ;Sir Francis Dashwood. — When Paul died, he 
 left his lordship a legacy. It was his heart, 
 which was taken out of his body, and sent as 
 directed. His friend, having built a church, 
 and at that time just tinished it, used it as a 
 mausoleum upon this occasion ; and, having 
 (^as i tiiinit tiie newspapers told us at the 
 time) erected an elegant pillar in the centre 
 of it, on the summit of this pillar, enclosed 
 in a golden urn, he placed the heart in ques- 
 tion ; but not as a lady places a cliina hgure 
 upon her mantel-tree, or on the top of her 
 cabinet, but vvith much respectful ceremony 
 and all the forms of funeral solemnity. He 
 hired the best singers and the best perform- 
 ers. He composed an anthem for the pur- 
 pose; he invited all the nobility and gentry 
 111 the country to assist at the celebration of 
 these obsequies, and, having formed them all 
 into an august procession, marched to the 
 place appointed at their head, ttiid consigned 
 the posthumous tr-'^oure, with his own hands, 
 to its state of honorable elevation. Having 
 thus, as he thought, and as he might well 
 
 think, ( ) appetised the 
 
 manes of the deceased, he rested satisfied 
 with what he had done, and supposed his 
 friend would rest. But not so, — about a 
 week since I received a letter from a person 
 who cannot have been misinformed, telling 
 me that Paul has appeared frequently of late, 
 and that there ;ire few, if any, of his lordship's 
 numerous household, who have not seen liini, 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 112 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 sometimes in the park, sometimes in the gar- 
 den, as well as in the house, by day and by 
 night, indifferently. I make no reilection 
 upon this incident, having other things to 
 write about and but little room. 
 
 1 am much indebted to Mr. S for more 
 
 franks, and still more obliged by the handsome 
 note witli which he accompaived them. He 
 has furnished me sufficiently for the present 
 occasion, and, by his readiness and obliging 
 manner of doing it, encouraged me to have 
 recourse to him, in case another exigence of 
 the same kind should offer. A French author 
 I was reading last night says, He that has 
 v/ritten will write again. If the critics do not 
 set their foot upon this first egg tliat I have 
 laid and crush it, 1 shall probably verify his 
 observation ; and, when I feel my spirits rise, 
 and that I am armed with industry sufficient 
 for the purpose, undertake the production of 
 another volume. At present, however, I do 
 not feel myself so disposed ; and, indeed, he 
 that would write should read, not that he may 
 retail the observations of other men, but that, 
 being thus refreshed and replenislied, he may 
 find himself in a condition to make and to 
 produce his owij. I reckon it among my 
 principal advantages, as a composer of verses, 
 that I have not read an English poet these 
 thirteen years, and but one these twenty 
 years. Imitation, even of the best models, is 
 my aversion ; it is servile and mechanical, a 
 trick that has enabled many to usurp the 
 name of author, who could not have written 
 at all, if they had not written upon the pat- 
 tern of somebody indeed original. But when 
 the ear and the taste have been much accus- 
 tomed to the manner of others, it is almost 
 impossible to avoid it; and we imitate, in spite 
 of ourselves, just in proportion as we admire. 
 But enough of this. 
 
 Your mother, who is as well as the season 
 of the year will permit, desires me to add 
 her love. — The salmon you sent us arrived 
 safe, and was remarkably fresh. What a 
 comfort it is to have a friend who knows that 
 we love salmon, and who cannot pass by a 
 fishmonger's shop without finding his desire 
 to send us some, a temptation too strong to 
 be resisted. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Not. 26, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you much for 
 your letter, which, without obliging me to 
 travel to Wargrave at a time of year when 
 journeying is not very agreeable, has intro- 
 duced me in the most commodious manner, 
 to a perfect acquaintance with your neat little 
 garden, your old cottage, and above all, your 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 m.ost prudent and sagacious landlady. Aa 
 much as I admire her, I admire much more 
 that philosophical temper with which you 
 seem to treat her; for I know few characters 
 more provoking, to me at least, than the self- 
 ish, who are never honest, especially if, while 
 they determine to pick your pocket, Ihey have 
 not ingenuity enough to conceal their pur- 
 pose. But you are perfectly in the right, and 
 act just as I would endeavor to do on the 
 same occasion. You sacrifice everything to 
 a retreat you admire, and, if the natural indo- 
 lence of my disposition did not forsake me, 
 so would I. 
 
 You might as well apologize for sending 
 mfe forty pounds, as for writing about your- 
 self Of the two ingredients, I hardly know 
 which made your letter the most agreeable 
 (observe, I do not say the most acceptable). 
 The draft, indeed, was welcome ; but though 
 it was so, yet it did not make me laugh. I 
 laughed heartily at the account you give me 
 of yourself, and your landlady, Dame Saveall, 
 whose picture you have drawn, though not 
 with a fiattering hand, yet, I dare say, with a 
 strong resemblance. As to you, I have nev- 
 er seen so much of you since I saw you in 
 London, where you and I have so often made 
 ourselves merry with each other's humor, yet 
 never gave eacli other a moment's pain by 
 doing so. We are both humorists, and it is 
 well for your wife and my Mrs. Umvin that 
 they have alike found out the way to deal 
 with us. 
 
 More thanks to Mrs. Hill for her inten- 
 tions. She has the true enthusiasm of a 
 gardener, and I can pity her under her disap- 
 pointment, having so large a share of that 
 commodity myself. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, affectionately, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 2G, 1781. 
 
 ]\Iy dear Friend, — I wrote to you by the 
 last post, supposing you at Stock ; but, lest 
 that letter should not follow you to Layton- 
 stone, and you should suspect me of um-ea- 
 sonable delay, and lest the frank you have 
 sent me sJiould degenerate into waste paper 
 and perish upon my hands, I write again. 
 The former letter, however, containing all 
 my present stock of intelligence, it is more 
 than possible that this may prove a blank, or 
 but little worthy your acceptance. You will 
 do me the justice to suppose tliat, if I could 
 be very enteri.aining I would be so, because, 
 by giving me credit for such a willingness to 
 please, you only allow me a share of that 
 universal vanity wh.ich inclhies every man, 
 upon all occasions, to exhibit himself to the 
 best advantage. To say the truth, however, 
 when I write, as I do to you, not about
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 113 
 
 business, nor on any sul)ject that approaches 
 to that description, I mean mucii less my cor- 
 respondent's amusement, wliich my modesty 
 will not always permit me to hope for, than 
 my own. There is a pleasure annexed to the 
 communication of one's ideas, wliether by 
 word of mouth or by letter, which nothing 
 earthly can supply the place of; and it is the 
 delight we fmd in this mutual intercourse that 
 not only proves us to be creatures intended 
 for social life, but, more than anything else, 
 perhaps, fits us for it. I have no patience 
 with philosophers: they, one and all, suppose 
 (at least I understand it to be a prevailing 
 opinion among them) that man's weakness, 
 his necessities, his inability to stand alone, 
 have furnisiied tlie prevailing motive, under 
 the inrtuenee of which he renounced at first 
 a life of solitude, and became a gregarious 
 creature. It seems to me more reasonable, 
 as well as more honorable to my species, to 
 suppose that generosity of soul and a brother- 
 ly attachment to our own kind, drew us, as 
 it were, to one common centre, taught us to 
 build cities and inhabit them, and welcome 
 every stranger that would cast in his lot 
 amongst us, that we might enjoy fellowship 
 with each other and the luxury of reciprocal 
 endearments, without which a paradise could 
 afford no comfort. There are indeed all sorts 
 of characters in the world ; there are some 
 whose understandings are so sluggish, and 
 whose hearts are such mere clods, that they 
 live in society without either contributing to 
 the sweets of it, or having any relish for them. 
 A man of this stamp passes by our window 
 continually ; I never saw him conversing with 
 a neigiibor but once in my life, though 1 have 
 known him by sight these twelve years ; he is 
 ol" a very sturdy make, and has a round protu- 
 berance, which he evidently considers as his 
 best friend, because it is his only companion, 
 and it is the labor of his life to fill it. I can 
 easily conceive that it is merely the love of 
 good eating and drinking, and now and then 
 the want of a new pair of shoes, tiiat attaches 
 this man so much to the neighborhood of his 
 fellow mortals; for suppose these exigencies 
 and others of a like kind to subsist no longer, 
 and what is there that could give society the 
 preference in his esteem? He might strut 
 about with his two thumbs upon his hips in 
 the wilderness; he could hardly be more si- 
 lent than he is at Olney ; and, for any advan- 
 tage of comfort, of friendship, of brotherly 
 affection, he could not be more destitute of 
 such blessings there than in his present situa^ 
 tion. But otiier men have something more to 
 satisfy ; tiiere are the yearnings of the heart, 
 which, let the philosphers say wh.at they will, 
 are more importunate than all the necessities 
 of the body, that will not suffer a creature 
 worthy to be called human to be content witii 
 an insulated life, or to look for his friends 
 
 among the beasts of the forest.* Yourself, 
 for instance ! It is not because there are no 
 tailors or pastrycoo'ksto befound upon Salis- 
 bury plain, that you do not choose it for your 
 abode, but because you are a philanthropist; 
 because you are susceptible of social impres- 
 sions ; and have a pleasure of doing a kind- 
 ness when you can. Now, upon the word 
 of a poor creature, I have said all that I have 
 said, without the least intention to say one 
 word of it when I began. But thus it is with 
 my thoughts — when you shake a crab-tree 
 the fruit falls; good for nothing indeed when 
 you have got it, but still the best that is to be 
 expected from a crab-tree. You are welcome 
 to them, such as they are; and, if you ap- 
 prove my sentiments, tell the philosophers of 
 the day tiiat I have outshot them all, and have 
 discovered the true origin of society when I 
 least looked for it. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV, JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, Nov. 27, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — First Mr. Wilson, then 
 Mr. Teedon, and lastly Mr. Whitford, each 
 with a cloud of melancholy on his brow and 
 with a mouth wide open, have just announced 
 to us this unwelcome intelligence from Amer- 
 ica.J We are sorry to hear it, and should be 
 more cast down than we are, if we did not 
 know that this catastrophe was ordained be- 
 forehand, and that therefore neither conduct, 
 nor courage, nor any means that can possibly 
 be mentioned, could have prevented it. If 
 the king and his ministry can be contented to 
 close the business here, and, taking poor Dean 
 Tucker's advice, resign the Americans into the 
 hands of their new masters, it may be well 
 for Old England. But, if they will still per- 
 severe, they will had it,I doubt, a hopeless 
 contest to the last. Domestic murmurs will 
 grow louder, and the hands of faction, being 
 strengthened by this late miscarriage, will find 
 it easy to set fire to the pile of combustibles 
 they have been so long employed in building 
 These are ray politics, and, for aught I can 
 see, you and we, by our respective firesides, 
 though neither connected with men in power, 
 nor professing to possess any share of tliat 
 sagacity which thinks itself qualified to wield 
 the affairs of kingdoms, can make as probable 
 conjectures, and look forward into futurity 
 with as clear a siijht as the greatest man in 
 the cabinet. 
 
 * "Thoro is a solitude of the gods, and there is the 
 solitude of wild beiisls." 
 
 t Privati ccirrospondence. 
 
 t The surri'iider ot'tlu! army of Lord ComwaTlis to the 
 combined forces of America and France, Oct. 18th, 1781. 
 It is remarlcable that Miis event occurred precisely four 
 years after the surrender of General Burgoyae, al'Sara- 
 tot;a, in the same month, and almost on the same day. 
 This disastrous occurrence decided the fate of the Ameri- 
 can war, which cost (;n>at Britain an expenditure of ouo 
 hundred and Iwiiity millions, and drained it of its best 
 blood, aud exhausted its vital resources. 
 
 8
 
 114 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Though, when I wrote the passage in ques- 
 tion, I was not at all aware of any impropri- 
 ety in it, and though I have frequently, since 
 that time, both read and recollected it with 
 the same approbation, I lately became uneasy 
 upon the subject, and had no rest in my mind 
 for tliree days, till I resolved to submit it to 
 a trial at your tribunal, and to dispose of it 
 ultimately according to your sentence. I am 
 glad you have condemned it, and, though I do 
 not feel as if I could presently supply its 
 place, shall be willing to attempt the task, 
 whatever labor it may cost me, and rejoice 
 that it will not be in the power of the critics, 
 whatever else they may charge me with, to 
 accuse me of bigotry or a design to make a 
 certain denomination of Christians odious, at 
 the hazard of the public peace. I had ratlier 
 my book were burnt than a single line of such 
 a tendency should escape me. 
 
 We thank you for two copies of your Ad- 
 dress to your Parishioners. The first I lent 
 to Mr. Scott, whom I have not seen since I 
 put it into his hands. You have managed 
 your subject well ; have applied yourself to 
 despisers and absentees of every description, 
 in terms so expressive of the interest you take 
 in their welfare, that the most wrongheaded 
 person cannot be offended. We both wish it 
 may have the effect you intend, and that, 
 prejudices and groundless apprehensions be- 
 ing removed, the immediate objects of your 
 ministry may make a more considerable part 
 of your congregation. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir. as ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Same date. 
 
 My dear Friend, — A visit from Mr. Whit- 
 ford shortened one of your letters to me; 
 and now the cause has operated with the 
 same effect upon one of mine to you. He 
 is just gone, desired me to send his love, and 
 talks of enclosing a letter to you in my next 
 cover. 
 
 Literas tuas irato Sacerdoti scriptas, legi, 
 perlegi, et ne verbum quidem mutandum cen- 
 seo. Gratias tibi acturum si sapiat, existimo ; 
 sin aliter eveniat, amici tamen officium pras- 
 stitisti, et te coram te vindicasti. 
 
 I have not written in Latin to show my 
 scholarship, nor to excite Mrs. Newton's cu- 
 riosity, nor for any other wise reason what- 
 ever; but merely because, just at that mo- 
 ment, it came into my head to do so. 
 
 I never wrote a copy of Mary and John 
 in my life, except that which I sent to you. 
 It was one of those bagatelles which s Dme- 
 times spring up like mushrooms in my ima- 
 gination, either while I am writing or just 
 
 * Private coriespondence. 
 
 before I begin. I sent it to you, because to 
 you I send anyt'iing that I think may raise a 
 smile, but should never have thought of mul- 
 tiplying the impression. Neither"" did I ever 
 repeat them to any one except Mrs. Unwin. 
 The inference is fair and easy, that you have 
 some friend who has a good memory.* 
 
 This afternoon the maid opened the par- 
 lor-door, and told us there was a lady in the 
 kitchen. We desired she might be intro- 
 duced, and prepared for the reception of Mrs. 
 Jones. But it proved to be a lady unknown 
 to us, and not Mrs. Jones. She walked di- 
 rectly up to Mrs. Unwin, and never drew 
 back till their noses were almost in contact. 
 It seemed as if she meant to salute her. An 
 uncommon degree of fiimiliarity, accompanied 
 with an air of most extraordinary gravity, 
 made me think her a little crazy. I was 
 alarmed, and so was Mrs. Unwin. She had 
 a bundle in her hand — a silk handkerchief 
 tied up at the four corners. When I found 
 she was not mad, I took her for a smuggler, 
 and made no doubt but she had brought 
 samples of contraband goods. But our sur- 
 prise, considering the lady's appearance and 
 deportment, was tenfold what it had been, 
 when we found that it was Mary Philips's 
 daughter, who had brought us a few apples 
 by way of a specimen of a quantity she had 
 for sale. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 Olney, Dec. 2, 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for the note. 
 There is some advantage in having a tenant 
 who is irregular in his payments : the longer 
 the rent is withheld, tlie more considerable 
 the sum when it arrives ; to which we may 
 add, that its arrival, being unexpected, a cir- 
 cumstance that obtains always in a degree 
 exactly in proportion to the badness of the 
 tenant, is always sure to be the occasion of 
 an agreeable surprise ; a sensation that de- 
 serves to be ranked among the pleasantest 
 that belong to us. 
 
 I gave two hundred and fifty pounds for 
 the chambers. Mr. Ashurst's receipt, and 
 the receipt of the person of whom he pur- 
 chased, are both among my papers ; and 
 when wanted, as I suppose they will be in 
 case of a sale, shall be forthcoming at your 
 order. 
 
 The conquest of America seems to go on 
 but slowly. Our ill success in that quarter 
 
 * The lines alluded to are the following, which appeared 
 afterwards, somewhat varied, in the Elegant Extracts in 
 Verse : 
 
 If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 
 'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. 
 Should John wed a score, oh 1 the claws and tte 
 
 scratches ! 
 It can't be a match : 'tis a bundle of matches. — £d. 
 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 115 
 
 tvill oblige me to suppress two pieces that I 
 was rather proud of. They were written 
 two or three years ago ; not long after the 
 double repulse sustained by JMr. D'Estaing 
 at Lucia and at Savannah, and when our 
 operations in the western world wore a more 
 promising aspect. Presuming upon such 
 promises, that I might venture to prophesy 
 an illustrious consummation of the war, I 
 did so. But my predictions proving false, 
 the verse in which they were expressed must 
 perish with them. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 4, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — The present to the queen 
 of France, and the piece addressed to Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds, my only two political ef- 
 forts, being of the predictive kind, and both 
 falsihed, or likely to be so, by tlie miscar- 
 riage of the royal cause in America, were 
 already condemned when I received your 
 last.f I have a poetical epistle which I 
 wrote last summer, and aiiotlier poem not 
 vet finished, in stanzas, with which I mean 
 
 * Private corvcspondenco. 
 
 t As tlic reader may wish to seethe lines to Sir loshiui, 
 they are here supplied from the dosnineiits left by Dr. 
 Johnson. Those to the Queen of France arc no . found. 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Dear President, whose art sublime 
 Gives perpetuity to time, 
 And bids transactions of a day. 
 That Heetin? hours would waft away 
 To dark futurity, survive. 
 And in unfading beauty live, — 
 You cann(jt with a grace decline 
 A special mandate of the Nine — 
 Yourself, whal(^ver task you choose, 
 So much indebted to the Muse. 
 
 Thus says the Sisterhood :— We come— 
 Fix well your pallet on your thumb. 
 Prepare the i>ciii-il and the lints— 
 We coini' lo furnish yoii witli hints. 
 French disappointment, Uritish glory. 
 Must bo the subject of ray story. 
 
 First strike a curve, a gracrful bow, 
 Then slope it to a point below ; 
 Your outline c;usy, airy, li;;lil, 
 Fill'd up, becomes a papc r kite. 
 Let indi'pendence, san'.;uiiie, horrid. 
 Blaze like a meteor on IIk^ Ibrehead: 
 Beneath (but lay suside your graces) 
 Draw sir and twrnty rtirfid faces. 
 Each with a staring, stedfast eye, 
 Fix'd on his great and trood ally. 
 
 France Hies the kite— 'tis on tlie wing 
 
 Britannia's liehtniiig cuts the siring. 
 The wind that raised it, ere it ccjiscs. 
 Just rends it into thirteen pieces, 
 Takes charge of every tlutt'ring sheet. 
 And lays them all at (ieorge's feet. 
 
 Iberia, trembling fi-om afar. 
 Renounces the confed'rate war. 
 Her elforls and her arts o'ereome, 
 France calls hrr shatler'd navies home: 
 Repenting Holland learns to mnurn 
 The sacreil treaties she has lorn ; 
 Astonisliincnl aTid awe profoinid 
 Are stami)'d upon the nation?, round: 
 Without one friend, above all foes, 
 Britannia gives the world repose. 
 
 to supply their places. Henceforth I have 
 done with politics. The stage of national 
 affairs is stjch a fluctuating scene that ar 
 event which appears probable to-day be- 
 comes impossible to-morrow ; and unless a 
 man were indeed a prophet, he cannot, but 
 with tlie greatest hazard of losing his labor, 
 bestow his rhymes upon future contingen- 
 cies, wliich perhaps are never to take place 
 but in iiis own wishes and in the reveries of 
 his own flincy. 1 learned wiien I was a boy, 
 being the son of a staunch Whig, and a man 
 that loved his country, to glow with that pa- 
 triotic entliusiasm which is apt to break forth 
 into poetry, or at least to prompt a person, if 
 he has any inclination that way, to poetical 
 endeavors. Prior's pieces of that sort were 
 recommended to my particular notice ; and, 
 as that part of the present century was a 
 season when clubs of a political character, 
 and consequently political songs, were much 
 in f;isliion, the best in that style, some writ- 
 ten by Rowe, and I think some by Congreve, 
 and many by other wits of the day, were 
 proposed to my admiration. Being grown 
 up, I became desirous of imitating such 
 bright examples, and while I lived in the 
 Temple produced several half-penny ballads, 
 two or three of which had the honor to be 
 popular. What we learn in childiiood we 
 retain long; and the successes we met with 
 about three years ago, when D'Estaing was 
 twice repulsed, once in America and once in 
 the West Indies, having set fire to my patri- 
 otic zeal once more, it discovered itself by 
 the same symptoms, and produced effects 
 much like those it iiad produced before. But, 
 unhappil3% the ardor I felt upon the occasion, 
 disdaining to be confined within the bounds 
 of fact, pushed me upon uniting the prophet- 
 ical with the poetical character, and defeated 
 its own purpose. — I am glad it did. The 
 less there is of that sort in my book the 
 better; it will be more consonant to your 
 character, who patronize the volume, and, 
 indeed, to tlie constant tenor of my own 
 thoughts upon public matters, that I siiould 
 exhort my countrymen to repentance, than 
 that I should flatter their pride — that vice 
 for which, perhaps, they are even now so 
 severely punished. 
 
 We are glad, for ^Mr. Barham's sake, that 
 he has been happily disappointed. How lit- 
 tle does the world suspect what passes in it 
 every day ! — that true religion is working 
 the same wonders now as in the first ages 
 of the church — that parents surrender up 
 their children into the hands of God, to die 
 at his own appointed moment, and by what 
 death lie pleases, witiiout ti murmur, and re- 
 ceive them again as if by a resurrection from 
 the dead ! The world, however, would be 
 more justly chargeable with wilful blindnesd 
 than it is, if all professors of the truth e.xera-
 
 J16 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 plified its power in llieir conduct as conspic- 
 uously as Mr. Barhani. 
 
 Easterly winds and a state of confinement 
 within our own walls suit neither mo nor 
 Mrs. Unwin ; though we are both, to use the 
 Irish term, rather unwell than ill. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 Mrs. Madan is happy. — She will be found 
 ripe, fall when she may. 
 
 We are sorry you speak doubtfully about 
 a spring visit to Olney. Those doubts must 
 not outlive the winter. W. C. 
 
 We now conclude this portion of our work. 
 The incidents recorded in it cannot fail to ex- 
 ( ite interest, and to awaken a variety of re- 
 tlections. Remarks of this kind will, how- 
 ever, appear more suitable, when all the 
 details of the poet's singular history are 
 brought to a close, and presented in a con- 
 nected series. In the meantime we cannot 
 but admire that divine wisdom and mercy, 
 which often so remarkably overrules the 
 darkest dispensations — 
 
 From seeminjT evil still educincr crood. 
 
 It might have been anticipated that the mor- 
 bid temperament of Cowper would either 
 have unhtted him for intellectual exertion, or 
 that his productions would have been tinged 
 with all the colors of distempered mind : but 
 such was not the case. Whether he com- 
 posed in poetry or prose, the etfect upon his 
 mind seems to have been similar to the influ- 
 ence of the harp of David over tlie spirit of 
 Saul. The inward struggles of the soul 
 yielded to the magic power of song ; and the 
 inimitable letter-writer forgot his sorrows in 
 the sallies of his own sportive imagination. 
 The peculiarity of his temperament, so far 
 from restraining his powers, seems from his 
 own account to have quickened them into 
 aotion. "I write," he says, in one of his let- 
 ters, " to amuse and forget myself; and yet 
 always with the desire of benefiting others." 
 His object in writing was twofold, and so 
 was his success ; for he wrote and forgot 
 himself; and yet wrote in such a manner, as 
 never to be forgotten by others. 
 
 We have now conducted Cowper to the 
 threshhold of fame, with all its attendant 
 hopes, fears, and anxieties ; a fame resting 
 on the noblest foundation, the application of 
 the powers of genius to improvement of the 
 age in which he lived. The circumstances 
 under which he commenced his career as an 
 Author are singular. They form a profitable 
 subject of inquiry to those who analyze the 
 operations of the human mind ; for he wrote 
 in the moments of depression and sorrow, 
 
 under the influence of a morbid tempera, 
 ment, and with an imagination assailed by 
 the most afflicting images. In the midst of 
 these discouragements his mind burst forth 
 from its prison-house, arrayed n all the 
 charms of wit and humor, sportive without 
 levity, and never provoking a smile at the 
 expense of virtue. 
 
 A mind so constituted furnishes a remark- 
 able proof of the wisdom and goodness of 
 God ; for it shows that the greatest trials are 
 not without their alleviations, and that in the 
 bitterest cup are to be found the ingredients 
 of mercy. Who can tell how often the mind 
 might lose its equilibrium, or sink under the 
 pressure of its woes, were it not for the in- 
 terposition of that Almighty Power which 
 guides the planets in their orbits, and says to 
 tlie great water, " Hitherto shalt thou come, 
 but no further; and here shall thy proud 
 waves be stayed." Job xxxviii. 11. 
 
 We now resume the correspondence of 
 Cowper which contains some incidental no- 
 tices of his admired Poems of Friendship 
 and Retirement. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 17, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — The poem I had in hand 
 when I wrote last is on the subject of Friend- 
 ship. By the following post I received a 
 packet from Johnson. The proof-sheet it 
 contained brought our business down to the 
 latter part of "Retirement;" the next will 
 consequently introduce the first of the smaller 
 pieces. The volume consisting, at least four- 
 fifths of it, of heroic verse as it is called, and 
 graver matter, I was desirous to displace the 
 " Burning Mountain"! from the post it held 
 in the van of tlie light infantry, and throw it 
 into the rear. Having finished "Friendship," 
 and fearing that, if I delayed to send it, the 
 press would get the start of my intention, 
 and knowing perfectly that, with respect to 
 the subject and the subject matter of it, it 
 contained nothing that you would think ex- 
 ceptionable, I took the liberty to transmit it 
 to Johnson, and hope that the next post will 
 return it to me printed. It consists of be- 
 tween thirty and forty stanzas ; a length that 
 qualifies it to supply the place of the two 
 cancelled pieces, without the aid of the epis- 
 tle I mentioned. According to the present 
 arrangement, therefore, " P^'riendship," which 
 is rather of a lively cast, though quite sober, 
 will follow next after "Retirement," and 
 "iEtna" will close the volume. Modern nat- 
 uralists, I think, tell us that the volcano forms 
 the mountain. I shall be charged therefore, 
 perhaps, with an unphilosophical error in 
 supposing that ^tna was once unconscious 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The poem al'terwarda entitled "Heioism." — Vids 
 Poems.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 in 
 
 of intestine fires, and as lofty as at present 
 before the commencement of the eruptions. 
 It is possible, however, that the rule, though 
 just ill some instances, may not be of univer- 
 sal application; and, if it be, I do not know 
 that a poet is obH^ed to write with a pliilo- 
 sopher at his elbow, prepared always to bend 
 down his imagination to more matters of fact. 
 You will oblige me by your opinion; and 
 tell me, if you please, whether you think an 
 apolngetical note may be necessary; for I 
 would not appear a dunce in matters tliat 
 every Review reader must needs be apprized 
 of. I say a note, because an alteration of the 
 piece is impracticable; at least without cut- 
 ting off its head, and seitiiig on a new one; 
 a task I should not readily undertake, be- 
 cause tlie lines which must, in that case, be 
 thrown out, are some of the most poetical in 
 the performance. 
 
 Possessing greater advantages, and being 
 equally dissolute with the most abandoned 
 of the neighboring nations, we arc certainly 
 more criminal than they. They cannol see, 
 and we will not. It is to be expected, there- 
 fore, that when judgment is walking through 
 the earth, it will come commissioned with the 
 heaviest tidings to the people chargeable with 
 the most perversenesa. In the latter part of 
 the Duke of Newcastle's aduiiuistration, all 
 faces gathered blackness. The people, as 
 they walked the streets, had, every one of 
 them, a countenance like wliat we may sup- 
 pose to have been tiie prophet Jonah's, when 
 he cried, " Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall 
 be destroyed." But our Nineveh too re- 
 pented, that is to say, she was attected in a 
 manner somcwiiat suitable to lier condition. 
 She was dejected ; she learned an humbler 
 language, and seemed, if she did not trust in 
 God, at least to have renounced lier conti- 
 dence in herself. A respite ensued; the 
 expected ruin was averted; and her prosper- 
 ity became greater than ever. Again she 
 became self-conceited and proud, as at the 
 first; and how stands it with our Nineveh 
 now? Even as you say; her distress is infi- 
 nite, her destruction appears inevitable, and 
 iier heart as hard as the nether millstone. 
 Thus, I suppose, it was wiien ancient Nine- 
 veh found lierself agrce;ibly disappointed; 
 she turned the grace of God into lascivious- 
 ness, and that flagrant abuse of mercy ex- 
 posed her, at tlie expiration of forty years, to 
 the complete execution of a sentence slie 
 had only been threatened witii before. A 
 similarity of events, accompanied by a strong 
 simihirity of condtu-t, seems to justify our 
 expectations tiiat tlie catastrophe will not be 
 very ditlerent. But, after all, the designs of 
 Providence are inscrutable, and, as in the case 
 of individuals, so in that of nations, the same 
 causes do not always produce the same ef- 
 fects. The country indeed cannot be saved 
 
 in its present state of profligacy and profane- 
 ness, but may, nevertheless, be led to re- 
 pentance by means we are little aware of, 
 and at a time when we least expect it. 
 
 Our best love attends yourself and Mrs. 
 Newton, and we rejoice that you feel no bur- 
 thens but those you bear in common with 
 the liveliest and most fiivored Christians. It 
 is a happiness in poor Peggy's case, that she 
 can swallow five shillings' worth of physic in 
 a day, but a person must be in her case to be 
 duly sensible of it. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 Oliiey, Dec. 19, 1781. 
 
 My dear William, — I dare say I do not en- 
 ter exactly into your idea of a present theo- 
 cracy, because mine amounts to no more than 
 the common one, that all mankind, though 
 few are really aware of it, act under a provi- 
 dential direction, and that a gracious superin- 
 tendence in particular is the lot of those who 
 trust in God. Thus I think res])ecting indi- 
 viduals, and with respect to the kingdoms of 
 the earth, that, perhaps, by his own immedi- 
 ate operation, though more probably by the 
 intervention of angels, (vide Daniel,) the 
 great Governor manages and rules them, as- 
 signs them their origin, duration, and end, 
 appoints them prosperity or adversity, glory 
 or disgrace, as their virtue or their vices, their 
 regard to the dictates of conscience and his 
 word, or their prevailing neglect of both, may 
 indicate and require. But in this persuasion, 
 as I said, I do not at all deviate from the gen- 
 eral opinion of those who believe a Provi- 
 dence, at least who have a scriptural belief of 
 it. I suppose, therefore, you mean something 
 more, and shall be glad to be more particu- 
 larly informed. 
 
 I see but one feature in the face of our na- 
 tional concerns that pleases me ; — the war 
 with America, it seems, is to be conducted on 
 a different plan. This is something, when 
 a long series of measures, of a certain de- 
 scription, has proved unsuccessful, the adop- 
 tion of others is at least pleasing, as it en- 
 courages a hope that they may possibly prove 
 wiser and more eftectual : but, indeed, with- 
 out discipline, all is lost. Pitt himself could 
 have done nothing with such tools ; but ho 
 would not lia\e been so betrayed ; he would 
 have made the traitors answer with their 
 heads for their cowardice or supineness, and 
 their punishment would have made survivors 
 active. W. C, 
 
 TO THE REV, JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 OIney. The sliortfist day, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — I might easily make this 
 * I'rivate correspondence.
 
 118 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 letter a I'ontiniiation of my last, another na- 
 tional miscarriage having furnished me with 
 a fresh illustration of the remarks we have 
 
 both been making. Mr. S ,* vho lias 
 
 most obligingly supplied me with franks 
 throughout my whole concern with Johnson, 
 accompanied the last parcel he sent me with 
 a note dated from the House of Commons, in 
 whicii he seemed happy to give me the earli- 
 est intelligence of the capture of the French 
 transports by Admiral Kempenfelt, and of a 
 close engagement between the two fleets, so 
 mucli to be expected. This note was written 
 on Monday, and reached me by Wednesday's 
 post; but, alas! the same post brought us 
 the newspaper that informed us of his being 
 forced to fly before a much superior enemy, 
 and glad to take shelter in tlie port he had 
 left so lately. This event, I suppose, will 
 have worse consequences than the mere dis- 
 appointment ; will furnish Opposition, as all 
 our ill success has done, with the fuel of dis- 
 sention, and with the means of thwarting 
 and perplexing administration. Thus, all we 
 purchase with the many millions expended 
 yearly is distress to ourselves, instead of our 
 enemies, and domestic quarrels instead of 
 victories abroad. It takes a great many blows 
 to knock down a great nation; and, in the 
 case of poor England, a great many heavy 
 ones have not been wanting. They make us 
 reel and staffer indeed, but the blow is not 
 yet struck that is to make us fall upon our 
 knees. That fall would save us ; but, if we 
 fall upon our side at last, we are undone. 
 So much for politics. 
 
 I enclose a few lines on a thought which 
 struck me yesterday.f If you approve of 
 them, you know what to do with them. I 
 should tliink they might occupy the place of 
 an introduction, and should call them by that 
 name, if I did not judge the name I have 
 given them necessary for the information of 
 the reader. A flatting-mill is not met witJi in 
 every street, and my book will, perhaps fall 
 into the hands of many who do not know 
 that such a mill was ever Invented. It hap- 
 pened to me, however, to spend much of my 
 time in one, when I was a boy, when I fre- 
 quently amused jnyself with watching the 
 operation I describe. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 The reader will admire the sublimity of 
 the following letter in allusion to England 
 and America. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 
 
 Olney. The last day of 1781. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Yesterday's pjst, which 
 
 • Mr. Str ;th, afterwards Lord Carrinston. 
 t The hnes alluded to are entitled '-The Flatting-Mill, 
 an niustr.-.tlon." 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 brought me yours, brought me a packet fic: ; 
 Johnson. We have reached the middle of 
 the Mahometan Hog. By the way, you_' 
 lines, V lich, when we had the pleasure of 
 seeing you here, you said you would furnish 
 him With, are not inserted in it. I did not 
 recollect, till after I had finished the " Flat- 
 ting-Mill," that it bore any affinity to the 
 motto taken from Caraccioli. The resem- 
 blance, however, did not appear to me to give 
 any impropriety to the verses, as the thought 
 is mucli enlarged upon, and enlivened by the 
 addition of a new comparison. But if it is 
 not wanted, it is superfluous, and if super- 
 fluous, better omitted. I shall not bumble 
 Johnson for finding fault with " Friendship," 
 though I have a better opinion of it myself; 
 but a poet is of all men the most unfit to be 
 judge in his own cause. Partial to all his 
 productions, he is always most partial to the 
 youngest. But, as there is a sufficient quan- 
 tity without it, let that sleep too. If I should 
 live to write again, I may possibly take up 
 that subject a second time, and clothe it in a 
 different dress. It abounds with excellent 
 matter, and much more than I could find 
 room for in two or three pages. 
 
 I consider England and America as once 
 one country. They were so, in respect of 
 interest, intercourse, and affinity. A great 
 earthquake has made a partition, and now 
 the Atlantic Ocean flows between them. He 
 that can drain that ocean, and shove the two 
 shores together, so as to make them aptly 
 coincide, and meet each other in every part, 
 can unite them again. But this is a work for 
 Omnipotence and notliing less than Omnipo- 
 tence can heal the breach between us. This 
 dispensation is evidently a scourge to Eng- 
 land ; but is it a blessing to America 1* Time 
 
 * Cowper, though a Whig, vindicates the American 
 war, keenly as he censures the inefficiency with which it 
 was conducted. The subject has now lost much of its 
 interest, and is become rather a matter of historical rec- 
 ord. Such is the influence of the lapse of time on the 
 intenseness of political feeling ! The conduct of Franco, 
 at this crisis, is exhibited with a happy poignancy of wit. 
 
 " True we have lost an empire— let it pass. 
 True ; we may thank the perfidy of France, 
 That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown. 
 With all the cunning of an envious shrew. 
 And let that jjass— 'twas but a trick of state." 
 
 Task, book ii. 
 
 Cowper subsequently raises the question how far the 
 attainment of Independence was likely to exercise a salu- 
 tary influence on the future prospects of America. He 
 anticipates an unfavorable issue. Events, however, have 
 not fulfilled this prediction. What country has made 
 such rapid strides towards Imperial greatness? Wher* 
 shall we find a more boundless extent of territory, a more 
 rapid increase of population, or ampler resources for a 
 commerce that promises to make the whole world tribu- 
 tary to its support? Besides, why should not the de- 
 scendants prove worthy of their sires? Why should a 
 great experiment in legislation and government suspend 
 the natural co\u'se of political and moral causes? May 
 the spiritual improvement of her religious privileges 
 keep pace with the career of her national greatness! 
 What we most apprehend tor America is the dancer of 
 internal dissension. If corruption be the disease of mon- 
 archies, faction is the bane of republics. We add one 
 more reflection, with sentiments of profound regret, and
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 lis 
 
 may prove it one, but at present it does not 
 seern to wear an aspect favorable to their 
 privileges, either civil or religious. I cannot 
 doubt the truth of Dr. W.'s assertion; but 
 the French, who pay but little regard to trea- 
 ties that clash with tiieir convenience, with- 
 out a treaty, and even in direct contradiction 
 to verbal engagements, can easily pretend a 
 claim to a country which they have both bled 
 and paid for; and, if tlic validity of that 
 claim be disputed, behold an army ready 
 Imded, and well-appointed, and in possession 
 Df some of the most fruitful provinces, pre- 
 pared to prove it. A scourge is a scourge 
 at one end only. A bundle of thunderbolts, 
 such as you have seen in the talons of Jupi- 
 ter's eagle, is at both ends equally tremen- 
 dous, and can inflict a judgment upon the 
 West, at the same moment that it seems to 
 intend only the chastisement of the East. 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 Dr. .Johnson's celebrated work, " The Lives 
 of the Poets," had at this time made its ap- 
 pearance, and some of the following letters 
 refer to that subject. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 5, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Did I allow myself to 
 plead the common excuse of idle correspond- 
 ents, and esteem it a sufficient reason for 
 not writing that I have nothing to write 
 about, I certainly should not write now. But 
 I have so often found, on similar occasions, 
 when a great penury of matter has seemed 
 to threaten me with an utter impossibility of 
 hatching a letter, that nothing is necessary 
 but to put pen to paper, and go on, in order 
 to conquer all difficulties ; that, availing my- 
 self of past experience, I now begin with the 
 most assured persuasion that, sooner or later, 
 one idea naturally suggesting another, I shall 
 come to a most prosperous conclusion. 
 
 In the last " Review," I mean in the last but 
 one, I saw Johnson's critique upon Prior and 
 Pope. I am bound to acquiesce in his opin- 
 ion of the latter, because it has always been 
 my own. I could never agree with those 
 wlio preferred him to Dryden, nor with others 
 (I have known such, and persons of taste 
 and discernment too) who could not allow 
 liim to be a poet at all. He was certainly a 
 mechanical maker of verses, and, in every 
 line he ever wrote, we sec indubitable marks 
 
 borrdw llie muse of Cowpcr to convey our meaning and 
 our wislios. 
 
 " I would not havp a slave to liU my ground, 
 To carry nii', to Ian me wliile I sleep, 
 And tremble when I wake, tor all the wealth 
 That sinews bouijht and sold have ever earn'd. 
 No; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just esliinalion pri/.'d above all price, 
 1 had much rather be myself the slave, 
 Aul wear the bonds, than fasten them on him." 
 
 Task, book iL 
 
 of most indefatigable industry and labor 
 Writers, who tind it necessary to make such 
 strenuous and painful exertions, are generally 
 as phlegmatic as they are correct; but Popa 
 was, in this respect, exempted from the com- 
 mon lot of authors of that class. With thG 
 unwearied application of a plodding Flemish 
 painter, who draws a shrimp with the most 
 minute exactness, he had all the genius of 
 one of the first masters. Never, \ believe, 
 were such talents and such drudgery united. 
 But I admire Dryden most, who has suc- 
 ceeded by mere dint of genius, and in spite 
 of a laziness and carelessness almost pecu- 
 liar to himself. His faults are nu^nbe2•less, and 
 so are his beauties. His faulty are those of 
 a great man, and his beauties are such (at 
 least sometimes) as Pope, with a'd his touch- 
 ing and retouching, could never equal. So 
 far, therefore, I have no quarrel with Johnson. 
 But I cannot subscribe to what he says of 
 Prior. In the first place, though ray memory 
 may fail me, I do not recollect that he takes 
 any notice of his Solomon, in my mind the 
 best poem, whether we consider the subject 
 of it or the execution, that he ever wrote.* 
 In the next place, he condemns him for in- 
 troducing Venus and Cupid into his love 
 verses, and concludes it impossible his pas- 
 sion could be sincere, because when he would 
 express it, he has recourse to fables. But, 
 when Prior wrote, those deities were not so 
 obsolete as they are at present. His cotem- 
 porary writers, and some that succeeded him, 
 did not think them beneath their notice. 
 Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved their existence 
 as much as we do ; yet Tibullus is allowed 
 to be the prince of all poetical inamoratos, 
 though he mentions them in almost every 
 page. There is a fashion in these things 
 which the Doctor seems to have forgotten. 
 But what shall we s.ay of his rusty-fusty re- 
 marks upon Henry and Emma ? I agree with 
 him, that, morally considered, both the knight 
 and his lady are bad characters, and that each 
 exhibits an example which ought not to be 
 followed. The man dissembles in a way 
 that would have justified the woman had she 
 renounced him, and the woman resolves to 
 follow him at the expense of delicacy, pro- 
 priety, and even modesty itself But when 
 the critic calls it a dull dialogue, who but a 
 critic will believe him ? There are few read- 
 ers of poetry of either sex in this country 
 who cannot remember how that enchanting 
 piece has bewitched thein, who do nut know 
 that, instead of finding it tedious, they have 
 been so delighted with the romantic turn of 
 
 * Tliis remark is inaccm-ate. Prior's Solomon is dis- 
 tinctly mentioned, thoui,'h Johnson observes that it fails 
 in excitini; interest. His concluding remarks are, how- 
 ever. Iii;,'hly houoi-abl(> to the [uerit of that work. "Ha 
 that shall peruse it will be able to mark many iiiissages, 
 to whicb he may recur for instruction or delight; manji 
 frjin which the'poet may learn to write, and the philoso^ 
 pher to reason."— /^(/e vf Prior.— Editor.
 
 120 
 
 COWPER'S WORKb. 
 
 It as to have overlooked all its defects, and 
 to have given it a consecrated phice in their 
 memories without ever feeling it a burthen. 
 I wonder almost, that, as the bacciianals 
 served Orpheus, the boys and girls do not 
 tear this husky, dry commentator, limb from 
 limb, in resentment of such an injury done 
 to tiieir darling poet. I admire Jolinson as a 
 man of great erudition and sense, but, when 
 he sets himself up for a judge of writers 
 upon the subject of love, a passion which I 
 suppose lie never felt in his life, he might as 
 (veil think himself qualified to pronounce 
 upon a treatise on horsemanship, or the art 
 of fortification. 
 
 The next packet I receive will bring me, I 
 imagine, the last proof-sheet of my volume, 
 which will consist of about three hundred 
 and fifty pages, honestly printed. My public 
 entree therefore is not far distant. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 13, 1782. 
 My dear Friend, — I believe I did not thank 
 you for your anecdotes, either foreign or do- 
 mestic, in my last, therefore I do it now ; and 
 still feel myself, as I did at the time, truly 
 obliged to you for them. More is to be 
 learned from one matter of fact than from 
 a thousand speculations. But alas ! what 
 course can Government take ? I have heard 
 (for I never made the experiment) that if a 
 man grasp a red-hot iron with his naked hand, 
 it will stick to him, so that he cannot pres- 
 ently disengage himself from it. Such are 
 the colonies in the hands of administration. 
 While they hold them they burn their fingers, 
 and yet they must not quit them. I know 
 not whether your sentiments and mine upon 
 this part of the subject exactly coincide, 
 but you will know when you understand 
 what mine are. It appears to me that the 
 King is bound, both by the duty he owes to 
 himself and to his people, to consider him- 
 self, with respect to every inch of his terri- 
 tories, as a trustee deriving his interest in 
 them from God, and invested with them by 
 divine authority for the benefit of his sub- 
 jects. As he may not sell them or waste them, 
 so he may not resign them to an enemy, or 
 transfer his right to govern them to any, not 
 even to themselves, so long as it is possible 
 for him to keep it. If he does, he betrays 
 at once his own interest and that of his other 
 dominions. It may be said, suppose Provi- 
 dence has ordained that they shall be wrested 
 from him, how then? I answer, that cannot 
 appear to be the case, till God's purpose is 
 actually accomplished ; and in the meantime 
 the most jirobable prospect of such an event 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 does not release him from his obligation to 
 hold them to the last moment, forasmuch as 
 adverse appearances are no infallible indica^ 
 tion of God's designs, but may give place to 
 more comfortable symptoms, when we least 
 expect it. Viewing the thing in this light, if 
 I sat on his Majesty's throne, I should be as 
 obstinate as he,* because, if I quitted the 
 contest while I had any means of carrying it 
 on, I should never know that I had not re- 
 linquished what I might have retained, or be 
 able to render a satisfactory answer to the 
 doubts and inquiries of my own conscience. 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 17, 1782. 
 
 My dear William, — I am glad we agree in 
 our opinion of king critic,f and the writers on 
 whom he has bestowed his animadversions. 
 It is a matter of inditference to me whether I 
 think with the world at large or not, but I 
 wish my friends to be of my mind. The 
 same work will wear a different appearance 
 in the eyes of the same man, according to the 
 different views with which he reads it ; if 
 merely for his amusement, his candor being 
 in less danger of a twist from interest or 
 prejudice, he is pleased with what is really 
 pleasing, and is not over-curious to discover 
 a blemish, because the exercise of a minute 
 exactness is not consistent with his purpose. 
 But if he once becomes a critic by trade, the 
 case is altered. He must then, at any rate, 
 establish, if he can, an opinion in every mind 
 of his uncommon discernment, and his ex- 
 quisite taste. This great end he can never 
 accomplish by thinking in the track that has 
 been beaten under the hoof of public judg- 
 ment. He must endeavor to convince the 
 world that their favorite authors have more 
 faults than they are aware of, and such as 
 they have never suspected. Having marked 
 out a writer universally esteemed, whom he 
 finds it for that very reason convenient to de- 
 preciate and traduce, he will overlook some 
 of his beauties, he will faintly praise others, 
 and in such a manner as to make thousands, 
 more modest though quite as judicious as 
 himself, question whether they are beauties 
 at all. Can there be a stronger illustration 
 of all that I have said than the severity o! 
 Johnson's remarks upon Prior — I might have 
 said the injustice ? His reputation as an au- 
 thor, who, with much labor indeed, but with 
 admirable success, has embellished all his 
 poems with the most charming ease, stood 
 
 * The retention of tlie American colonies was known 
 to be a favorite project with George lit. ; but the sense 
 of the nation was opposed to tlie war, and the expense 
 and i-e verses attending its prosecution iucreajisd thi! pub- 
 lic discontent. 
 
 t Dr. Johnson.
 
 LIFE OF COWPEh,. 
 
 121 
 
 unshaken till Johnson thrust his head against 
 it. And how does he attack him in this his 
 principal fort? I cannot recollect his very 
 words, but I am much mistaken indeed, if my 
 memory fails me witli respect to liie purport 
 of them. "His words," he says, "appear to 
 be forced into their proper places. There 
 indeed we find tliem, but find likewise that 
 their arrangement has been the efi'ect of con- 
 straint, and that without violence they would 
 certainly have stood in a dit^'erent order."* 
 By your leave, most learned Doctor, this is 
 the most disinirenuous remark I ever met 
 with, :!nd would have come with a better 
 grace from Curl or Dennis. Every man con- 
 versant witli verse-writing knows, and knows 
 by painful experience, that the familiar style 
 is of all styles the most diflicult to succeed 
 in. To make verse speak the language^ of 
 prose, without being prosaic, to marshal the j 
 words of it in such an order as tliey might j 
 naturally take in falling from tiie lips of an ] 
 extemporary speaker, yet without meanness, '. 
 harmoniously, elegantly, and without seeming 
 to displace a syllable for the sake of the 
 rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a 
 poet can undertake. He that could accom- 
 plish this task was Prior ; many have imitated \ 
 his excellence in this particular, but the best 1 
 copies have fallen far short of the original. ! 
 And now to tell us, after we and our fathers 
 have admired him for it so long, that he is an , 
 ea.sy writer indeed, but that his ease has an ! 
 air of stillness in it; in short, that iiis ease is [ 
 not ease, but only something like it, what is 
 it but a self-contradiction, an observation that 
 grants what it is just going to deny, and de- 
 nies what it has just gr;intcd, in the same 
 sentence, and in the same breath 1 — But I 
 have filled tlie greatest part of my sheet with 
 a very uninteresting subject. I will only say 
 that, as a uiition, we are not much indebted, 
 in point of poetical credit, to this too saga- 
 cious and unmerciful judge ; and that, for my- 
 self in particular, I iiave reason to rejoice that 
 he entered upon and exhausted tlie labors of 
 his olliee, before my poor volume could pos- 
 sibly become an object of them. 
 
 [That .Tohnson, in his " Lives of the Poets," 
 has exhibited many instances of erroneous 
 criticism, and that he sometimes censures 
 where lie might liave praised, is we believe 
 very generally admitted. His treatment of 
 Swift, Gay, Prior, and Gray, has excited re- 
 gret ; and .Milton, though justly extolled as a 
 sublime poet, is lashed as a republican, witli 
 unrelenting severity.f Few will concur in 
 
 * Tlio liin3;U!ige in the ori?inal is as follows : " His ex- 
 pression Ikw every mark of ial)(iriouj sliuly ; the line sel- 
 dom seems to have been fornu^d at once ; the words did 
 not come till they were called, and were then put hy con- 
 8tn\int into their places, where they do their duty, but do 
 it B.lllenly.'" — See /Jvrs of I he Purls. 
 
 t The severity of.Iohnson's strictures on Milton, in his 
 ^.ives of the Poets, awalcenud a keen sense of indignatioa 
 
 Johnson's remarks on Gray's celebrated 
 " Progress of Poetry ;" and Murphy, in speak- 
 ing of his critique on the well-known and 
 admired opening of " The Bard," 
 
 " Ruin seize thee, ruthless king," &c., 
 
 expresses a wish that it had been blotted 
 out.* But Johnson was the Jupiter Tonans 
 of literature, and not untVequently hurls his 
 thunder and darts his lightning with an air 
 of conscious superiority, which, though it 
 awakens terror by its power, does not always 
 command respect for its judgment. 
 
 With all these deductions, the " Lives of 
 the Poets" is a work abounding in inimitable 
 beauties, and is a lasting memorial of John- 
 son's fame. It has been justly characterized 
 as " the most brilliant, and, certainly, the 
 most popular, of all his writings."f The most 
 splendid passage, among many that might be 
 
 in the breast of Cowper, which he has recorded in the 
 marginal remarks, written in his own copy of that work. 
 They are characteristic of the generous ardor of his 
 mind, in behalf of a man whose |)olitical views, however 
 strong, wei'e at least sincere and conscientious ; and tho 
 splendor of whose name ought to have dissipated the 
 animosities of ])arty feeling. From those curious and in- 
 teresting cotnments we extract the following :— 
 
 Johiisiin — " 1 know not any of the Articles which seem 
 to thwart his opinions, but the thoughts of obedience, 
 whether canonical or civil, roused his indignation." 
 Coiopm — " Candid." 
 
 Johnson — '' Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they 
 are, he was proud enough to publish them Jefore his 
 poems; though he says he cannot be suspected but to 
 have known that they were said, J^oii tarn dc sc, quain 
 supra se.'" Cumpn — " He ilid well." 
 
 Juhnsoii.—'-^ I have transcribed this title to show, by his 
 contemptuous mention of Usher, that he had now adojile'l 
 a piu'itanical s.ivageness of manners." Cowper — '• Why 
 is it contemptuous? Especially, why is it savage ?" 
 
 Jo/uison — "■ i-'rom this time it is observed, that he be- 
 came an enemy to the Presbyterians, whom he had fa- 
 vored before. H(! that changes his party by his humor, 
 is not mca-e virtuous than lie that changes it by his in- 
 terest, lie loves himself rather than truth." Coicpcr — 
 " You should have proved that he was inlluenocd by hi» 
 humor." 
 
 .Juhnsoii—^^ \{ were Injurious to omit, that Milton after- 
 wards received her father and her brothers in his own 
 house, wlieii ttu^y were distressed, with other Royalists." 
 C'»w/)tr— "Strong proof of a temper both forgiving and 
 liberal." 
 
 Johnson — "But, as faction seldom leaves a man hon- 
 est, however it may tiud hijn, Milton is suspected of hav- 
 ing interpolatecl liie book called ' Ikon liasilike,' &c." 
 Cowper — " A strange proof of your proposition !" 
 
 Johnson — "1 cannot but remark a kind of respect, per- 
 haps unconsciciusly paid to this great man by his biogra- 
 phers. lOvery house lu which he resided is historically 
 mentioned, us if it were an injury to neglect naming any 
 place that he honored by his presence." Ctwpcr — "They 
 have all paid him more" than you." 
 
 Johnson — " If he considered the Latin Secretary as ex- 
 ercising any of the powers of Coveriiment, lie that had 
 showed authority either with the Parliament or with 
 Cromwell, niiglit have forborne to talk very loudly of his 
 honesty." Coicper — " lie might if he acted on principle, 
 talk a-s loudly a.s he pleased." 
 
 J:i!inson — "This darkness, had his eyes been better 
 employed, had undoubtedly deservecl compassion.'- 
 Coro/«')— "Brute!" 
 
 Johnson — "That his own daughters might not break 
 the ranks, he sulfei^xl tliem to be depressed by a mean 
 and penurious education, lie thougbt women made 
 only for obedience, and man only for rebellion." Cowper 
 — "And could you write this wiUiout blushing'/ (>• 
 hontinis /" 
 
 Johnson — " Such is his malignity, that hell grows darker 
 at his frown." Cowper—'^ Aiid at thine !" 
 
 * See Murphy's " Essay on the Genius of Ui Johnson." 
 
 t Ibid.
 
 122 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 quoted, is perhaps the eloquent comparison 
 instituted between the relative merits of Pope 
 and Dryden. As Cowper alludes to this 
 critique with satisfaction, we insert an ex- 
 tract from it, to gratify those who are not 
 familiar with its existence. Speaking of Dry- 
 den, Johnson observes : " His mind has a 
 larger range, and he collects his images and 
 illustrations from a more extensive circum- 
 ference of science. Dryden knew more of 
 raan in his general nature, and Pope in his 
 ocal manners. The notions of Dryden were 
 formed by comprehensive speculation ; and 
 those of Pope by minute attention. There 
 is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, 
 and more certainty in that of Pope." Again : 
 "Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid; 
 Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. 
 Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into 
 inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu- 
 berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a 
 velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and lev- 
 elled by the roller." 
 
 " Of genius, that power which constitutes 
 a poet; that quality without which judgment 
 is cold, and knowledge is inert ; that energy 
 which collects, combines, amplifies, and ani- 
 mates ; the superiority must, with some hesi- 
 tation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be 
 inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had 
 only a little, because Dryden had more ; for 
 every other writer since Milton must give 
 place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must 
 be said that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he 
 has not better poems." 
 
 He concludes this brilliant comparison in 
 the following words. " If the fliglits of Dry- 
 den, therefore, are higher. Pope continues 
 longer on the wing ; if of Dryden's fire the 
 blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more 
 regular and constant. Dryden often sur- 
 passes expectation, and Pope never falls be- 
 low it. Dryden is read with frequent aston- 
 ishment, and Pope with perpetual delight."* 
 
 We now insert the sequel of tlie preceding 
 letter to Mr. Unwin.] 
 
 You have already furnished John's memory 
 with by far the greatest part of what a parent 
 would wish to store it with. If all that is 
 merely trivial, and all that has an immoral 
 tendency, were expunged from our English 
 poets, how would they shrink, and how would 
 some of them completely vanish ! I believe 
 there are some of Dryden's Fables, which he 
 would find very entertaining; they are for 
 the most part fine compositions, and not 
 above his apprehension ; but Dryden has 
 written few things that are not blotted here 
 and there with an unchaste allusion, so that 
 you must pick his way for him, lest he should 
 tread in the dirt. You did not mention Mil- 
 ton's " Allegro " and " Penseroso," which 1 
 * See "Life of Pope." 
 
 remember being so charmed with when a 
 boy, that I was never weary of them. There 
 are even passages in the paradisiacal part ol 
 " Paradise Lost," which he miglit study with 
 advantage. And to teach him, as you can, to 
 deliver some of the fine orations made in the 
 Pandajmonium, and those between Satan, 
 Ithuriel, and Zephon, with emphasis, dignity, 
 and propriety, might be of great use to him 
 hereafter. The sooner the ear is formed, 
 and the organs of speech are accustomed to 
 the various inflections of the voice, which the 
 rehearsal of tliose passages demiinds, the 
 better. I should think too that Thomson's 
 " Seasons " might afford him some useful les- 
 sons. At least they would have a tendency 
 to give his mind an observing and a philo- 
 sophical turn, I do not forget that he is but 
 a child, but I remember that he is a child fa- 
 vored with talents superior to his years. We 
 were much pleased with his remarks on your 
 alms-giving, and doubt not but it will be 
 verified with respect to the two guineas you 
 sent us, which have made four Christian 
 people happy. Ships I have none, nor have 
 touched a pencil these three years ; if ever I 
 take it up again, which I rather suspect I 
 shall not (the employment requiring stronger 
 eyes than mine,) it shall be at John's service. 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 31, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Having thanked you for 
 a barrel of very fine oysters, I should have 
 nothing more to say, if I did not determine to 
 say everything that may happen to occur. 
 The political world affords no very agreeable 
 subjects at present, nor am I sufficiently con- 
 versant with it to do justice to so magnificent 
 a theme, if it did. A man that lives as I do, 
 whose chief occupation at this season of the 
 year, is to walk ten times in a day from the 
 fire-side to his cucumber frame and back 
 again, cannot show his wisdom more, if he 
 has any wisdom to show, than by leaving the 
 mysteries of government to the management 
 of persons in point of situation and informa- 
 tion, much better qualified for the business. 
 Suppose not, hovv'ever, that I am perfectly an 
 unconcerned spectator, or that I take no in- 
 terest at all in the affairs of the country ; far 
 from it — I read the news— I see that things 
 go wrong in every quarter. I meet, now and 
 then, with an account of some disaster that 
 seems to be the indisputable progeny of 
 treachery, cowardice, or a spirit of faction ; I 
 recollect that in those happier days, when 
 you and I could spend our evening in enume- 
 rating victories and acquisitions, that seemed 
 to follow each other in a continued series, 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 123 
 
 there was some pleasure in hearing a politi- 
 cian ; and a man might talk away upon so 
 entertaining a subject, witiiout danger of be- 
 coming tiresome to others, or incurring weari- 
 ness himself. When poor Bob White brought 
 me the news of Eoscawen's success ofl' the 
 coast of Portugal, how did I leap for joy ! 
 When Hawke demolished Conflans, I was 
 still more transported. But nothing could 
 express my rapture, wiien Wolfe made the 
 conquest of Quebec. I am not, therefore, I 
 suppose, destitute of true patriotism; but 
 the course of public events has, of late, af- 
 forded me no opportunity to exert it. I can- 
 not rejoice, because I see no reason; and I 
 will not murmur, because for that I can find 
 no good one. And let me add, he that has 
 seen both sides of fifty, has lived to little 
 purpose, if he has not other views of tlie 
 world than he had when he was much 
 younger. He finds, if he reflects at all, thai it 
 will be to the end what i{ has been from the 
 beginning, a shifting, uncertain, fluctuating 
 scene ; that nations, as well as individuals, 
 have their seasons of infancy, youth, and age. 
 If he be an Englishman, he will observe that 
 ours, in particular, is affected with every 
 symptom of decay, and is already sunk into 
 a state of decrepitude. I am reading Mrs. 
 Macaulay's History, I am not quite such a 
 superannuated simpleton as to suppose that 
 mankind were wiser or much better when I 
 was young than they are now. But I may 
 venture to assert, without exposing myself 
 to the charge of dotage, that tlie men whose 
 integrity, courage, and wisdom, broke the 
 bands of tyranny, established our constitu- 
 tion upon its true basis, and gave a people 
 overwhelmed with the scorn of all countries 
 an opportunity to emerge into a state of the 
 highest respect and estinuxtion, make a better 
 figure in liistory than any of tiic present day 
 are likely to do, when their petty harangues 
 are forgotten, and nothing shall survive but 
 the remembrance of the views and motives 
 with wiiich they made them. 
 
 My dear friend, I have written at random, 
 in every sense, neither knowing what senti- 
 ments I sliould broach when I began, nor 
 whetiier they would accord with yours. Ex- 
 cuse a rustic, if he errs on such a subject, 
 and believe mc sincerely yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Oliifv, Feb. 2, 1782. 
 3Iy dear Friend, — Though I value your 
 correspondence higldy on its own account, I 
 certainly value it tlie more in consideration 
 of the many dilhculties under wiiicli you 
 ca'ry it on. Having so many otiier engage- 
 ments, a d engagements ?o much more wor- 
 thy youi c ttention, I ought to esteem it, as 
 
 I do, a singular proof of your friendship that 
 you so often make an opportunity to bestow 
 a letter upon me ; and this not only because 
 mine, which I write in a state of mind not 
 very favorable to religious contemplations, 
 are never worth your reading, but especially 
 because while you consult my gratification, 
 and endeavor to amuse my melancholy, your 
 thoughts are forced out of the only channel 
 in which they delight to flow, and constrained 
 into another so different, and so little inter- 
 esting to a mind like yours, that, but for me, 
 and for my sake, they would perhaps never 
 visit it. Though I should be ghid therefore 
 to hear from you every week, J do not com- 
 plain that I enjoy that privelege but once in 
 a fortnight, but am rather happy to be in- 
 dulged in it so often. 
 
 I thank you for the jog you gave John- 
 son's elbow ; communicated from iiim to the 
 printer, it has produced me two more sheets, 
 and two more will bring the business, I sup- 
 pose, to a conclusion. 1 sometimes feel such 
 a perfect indifference, with respect to the 
 public opinion of my book, that I am ready 
 to flatter myself no censure of reviewers gr 
 other critical readers would occasion me the 
 smallest disturbance. But not feeling my- 
 self constantly possessed of this desirable 
 apathy, I am sometimes apt to suspect that 
 it is not altogether sincere, or at least that I 
 may lose it just at the moment when I may 
 happen most to want it. Be it, however, 
 as it may, I am still persuaded that it is 
 not in their power to mortify me much. 
 I have intended well, and performed to the 
 best of my ability : so far was right, and this 
 is a boast of which they cannot rob me. If 
 they condemn my poetry, I must even say 
 with Cervantes, " Let them do better if they 
 can !" — if my doctrine, they judge that which 
 they do not understand; I shall except to 
 the jurisdiction of the court, and plead Coram 
 mm judice. Even Horace could say he 
 should neither be the plumper for the praise 
 nor the leaner for the commendation of his 
 readers ; and it will prove me wanting to 
 myself indeed, if, supported by so many sub- 
 limer considerations tlian he was master of, I 
 cannot sit loose to popularity, which, hke tiie 
 wind, bloweth where it listeth, and is equally 
 out of our command. If you, and two or 
 three more such as you are, say, well done, 
 it ought to give me more contentment than 
 if I could earn Churchill's laurels, and by the 
 same means. 
 
 I wrote to Lord Dartmouth to apprise him 
 of my intended present, and have received a 
 most affectionate and obliging answer. 
 
 I am rather pleased that you have adopted 
 other sentiments respecting our intended 
 present to the critical Doctor.* I allow him 
 to be a man of gigantic talents and most 
 
 * Dr. Johnson.
 
 124 
 
 COWRER'S WORKS. 
 
 same thoughts 
 
 profound learning, nor have I any doubts 
 about the universality of his knowledge : but, 
 by what I have seen of his animadversions 
 on the poets, I feel myself much disposed to 
 question, in many instances, either his can- 
 dor or his taste. He finds fault too often, 
 like a man that, having sought it very indus- 
 triously, is at last obliged to stick it on a 
 pin's point, and look at it through a micro- 
 scope ; and, I am sure, I could easily convict 
 him of having denied many beauties and 
 overlooked more. Whether his iudsfment 
 be HI itself defective, or whether it be warped 
 by collateral considerations, a writer upon 
 such subjects as I have chosen would proba- 
 bly find but little mercy at his hands. 
 
 No winter, since we knew Olney, has kept 
 us more confined than the present. We 
 have not more than three times escaped into 
 the fields since last autumn. Man, a change- 
 able creature in himself, seems to subsist 
 best in a state of variety, as his proper ele- 
 ment: — a melancholy man, at least, is apt 
 to grow sadly weary of the same walks 
 and the same pales, and to find that the 
 same scene will suggest the 
 perpetually. 
 
 Though I have spoken of the utility of 
 
 changes, we neither feel nor wish for any in 
 
 our friendships, and consequently stand just 
 
 where we did with respect to your whole self. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 9, 1782. 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for I\Ir. 
 Lowth's verses. They are so good that, had 
 I been present when he spoke them, I should 
 have trembled for the boy, lest the man 
 should disappoint the hopes such early genius 
 had given birth to. It is not common to see 
 so lively a fancy so correctly managed, and 
 so free from irregular exuberance, at so un- 
 experienced an age, fruitful, yet not wan- 
 ton, and gay without being tawdry. When 
 scliool-boys write verse, if they have any fire 
 at all, it generally spends itself in flashes and 
 transient sparks, which may indeed suggest 
 an expectation of something better hereafter, 
 but deserve not to be much commended for 
 any real merit of their own. Their wit is 
 generally forced and fjilse, and their sublim- 
 ity, if they affect any, bombast. I remember 
 well \vhen it was thus with me, and when a 
 turgid, noisy, unmeaning speech in a tragedy, 
 which I should now laugh at, aflforded me 
 raptures, and filled me with wonder. It is 
 not in general till reading and observation 
 have settled the taste that we can mve the 
 prize to the best writing in preference to the 
 worst. Much less are we able to execute what 
 is good ourselves. But Lowth seems to have 
 
 stepped into excellence at once, and to have 
 gained by intuition what we little folks are 
 iiappy if we can learn at last, after much la^ 
 bor of our own and instruction of others. 
 The compliments he pays to the memory of 
 King Charles he would probably now retract, 
 though he be a bishop, and his majesty's 
 zeal for episcopacy was one of the causes of 
 his ruin. An age or two must pass before 
 some characters can be properly understood. 
 The spirit of party employs itself in veiling 
 their faults and ascribing to them virtues 
 which they never possessed. See Charles's 
 face drawn by Clarendon, and it is a hand- 
 some portrait. See it more justly exhibit- 
 ed by Mrs. Macaulay, and it is deformed to 
 a degree that shocks us. Every feature 
 expresses cunning, employing itself in the 
 maintaining of tyranny ; and dissimulation, 
 pretending itself an advocate for truth. 
 
 My letters have .already apprized you of 
 that close and intimate connexion that took 
 place between the lady you visited in Queen 
 Anne's .street and us.* Nothing could be 
 more promising, though sudden in the com- 
 mencement. She treated us with as much 
 unreservedness of. communication as if we 
 had been born in the same house and edu- 
 cated together. At her departure, she her- 
 self proposed a correspondence, and because 
 writing does not agree with your mother, 
 proposed a correspondence with me. By her 
 own desire, I wrote to her under the assumed 
 relation of brother, and she to me as my 
 sister. 
 
 I thank you for the search you have made 
 after my intended motto, but I no longer 
 need it. 
 
 Our love is always with 3'ourself and 
 fiimily. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 Lady Austen returned in the following 
 summer to the house of her sister, situated 
 on the brow of a hill, the foot of which is 
 washed by the river Ouse, as it flows between 
 Clifton and Olney. Her benevolent ingenuity 
 was exerted to guard the spirit of Cowper 
 from sinking again into that hypochondriacal 
 dejection to which, even in her company, he 
 still sometimes discovered an alarming ten- 
 dency. To promote his occupation and 
 amusement, she furnished him with a small 
 portable printing press, and he gratefully sent 
 her the following verses printed by himself, 
 and enclosed in a billet that alludes to the 
 occasion on which they were composed — a 
 very unseasonable flood, that interrupted the 
 communication between Clifton and Olney. 
 
 To watch the storms, and hear the sky 
 Give all our almanacks the lie ; 
 To shake with cold, and see the plains 
 In autumn drown'd with wintry rains; 
 
 * Lady Austen.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 I2C 
 
 'Tis thus I gpend my moments here, 
 And wish myself a Dutch mynheer; 
 I then should have no need of wit; 
 For lumpish Hollander unlit ! 
 Nor should I then repine at mud, 
 Or meadows delui,'ed with a Hood ; 
 But in a hot; liye well content, 
 And find it just my element; 
 Should be a clod, and not a man ; 
 Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, 
 With charitable aid to drag 
 iVIy mind out of its proper quag; 
 Should have the genius of a boor. 
 And no ambition to have more. 
 
 My dear Sister,— You see my beginning— 
 I do not know but in time, 1 may proceed 
 even to the printing of halfpenny ballads- 
 excuse the coarseness of my p'lper — 1 wasted 
 such a quantity before I could accomplish 
 anything legible that I could not afford tiner. 
 I intend^to employ an ingenious mechanic of 
 the town to make me a longer case : for you 
 may observe that my lines turn up their tails 
 like Dutch mastiffs, so dithcult do I find it to 
 make the two halves exactly coincide with 
 each other. 
 
 We wait with impatience for the departure 
 of this unseasonable flood. We tliink of you, 
 and talk of you, but we can do no more till 
 the waters shall subside. I do not think our 
 correspondence siiould drop because we are 
 within a mile of cacii other. It is but an 
 imaginary approximation, the flood iiaving in 
 reality as effectually parted us as if the Brit- 
 ish channel rolled between us. 
 
 Yours, my dear sister, with Mrs. Unwin's 
 best love, "^V. C. 
 
 A flood that precluded him from the con- 
 versation of such an enlivening friend was to 
 Cowper a serious evil ; but he was happily 
 relieved from the apprehension of such disap- 
 pointment in future, by seeing the friend so 
 pleasing and so useful to him very comfort- 
 ably settled as his next-door neighbor. An 
 event so agreeable to the poet was occasioned 
 by circumstances of a painful nature, related 
 .n a letter to Mr. Unwin, which, though it 
 ocars no date of month or year, seems pro- 
 perly to claim insertion in this place. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 ]\ry dear William, — Tlic modest terms in 
 which you express yourself on the subject of 
 Lady Austen's coinmendanon embolden me 
 to add my suffrage to iiers, and to confirm it 
 by assuring you that I think her just and well- 
 founded in her opinion of you. The compli- 
 ment indeed glances at myself: for, were you 
 less than she accounts you, I ought not to 
 afford you that place in my esteem whicii you 
 have held so long. My own sagacity, there- 
 fore, and discernment are not a little con- 
 cerned upon the occasion, for either you 
 
 resemble the picture, or 1 have strangelv 
 mistaken my man, and formed an erroneous 
 judgment of his character. With respect to 
 yoifr face and figure, indeed, there I leave the 
 ladies to determine, as being naturally best 
 qualified to decide the point; but whether 
 you are perfectly the man of sense and the 
 (■■entleman, is a question in which I am as 
 much interested as they, and which, you be- 
 ing my friend, I am of course prepared to 
 settle in your fovor. The lady (whom, when 
 you know her as well, you will love her as 
 much, as we do) is, and has been, during the 
 last fortnight, a part of our family. Before 
 she was perfectly restored to health, she re- 
 turned to Clifton. Soon after she came back, 
 Mr. Jones had occasion to go to London. 
 No sooner was he gone than the chateau, be- 
 ing left without a garrison, was besieged as 
 regularly as the night came on. Villains were 
 bolli heard and seen in the garden, and at the 
 doors and windows. The kitchen window in 
 particular was attempted, from which they 
 took a complete pane of glass, exactly oppo- 
 site to the iron by which it was fastened, but 
 providentially the window had been nailed to 
 the wood-work in order to keep it close, and 
 that the air might be excluded ; thus they were 
 disappointed, and, being discovered by the 
 maid, withdrew. The ladies, being worn out 
 with continual watching and repeated alarms, 
 were at last prevailed upon to take refuge 
 with us. Men furnished with firearms were 
 put into the house, and the rascals, having 
 intelligence of this circumstance, beat a re- 
 'treat. ° Mr. Jones returned ; filrs. Jones and 
 Miss Green, her daughter, left us, but Lady 
 Austens spirits having been too much dis- 
 turbed to be able to repose in a place where 
 she had been so much terrified, she was left 
 behind. She remains with us till her lodg- 
 ings at the vicarage can be made ready for 
 hei- reception. 1 have now sent you what 
 has occured of moment in our history since 
 my last. 
 
 I say amen with all my heart to your ob- 
 servation on religious characters. Men who 
 profess themselves adepts in mathematical 
 knowledge, in astronomy, or jurisprudence, 
 are generally as well qualified as they would 
 ajipear. The reason may be, that they are 
 always liable to detection sliould they at- 
 tempt to impose upon mankind, and therefore 
 take care to be what they pretend. In re- 
 ligion alone a profession is often slightly 
 taken up and slovenly carried on, because, 
 forsooth, candor and charity require us to 
 hope the best, and to judge favorably of our 
 neighbor, and because it is easy to deceive 
 tiie ign<n-ant, wiio are a great majority, upon 
 this subject. Let a man attach himself to 
 a particular party, contend furiously for what 
 are properly called evangelical doctrines, and 
 enlist himself under the banner of some
 
 popular preacher, and the business is done. 
 Behold a Christian ! a saint ! a phoenix ! In 
 the meantime, perhaps, his heart and his 
 temper, and even his conduct, are unsancti- 
 fied ; possibly less exemplary than those of 
 some avowed infidels. No matter — he can 
 talk — he has the Shibboleth of the true 
 church — the Bible in his pocket, and a head 
 well stored with notions. But the quiet, 
 humble, modest, and peaceable person, who 
 is in his practice what the other is only 
 in his profession, who hates a noise, and 
 therefore makes none, who, knowing the 
 snares that are in the world, keeps himself as 
 much out of it as he can, and never enters it 
 but when duty calls, and even then with fear 
 and trembling — is the Christian, that will al- 
 ways stand highest in the estimation of those 
 who bring all characters to the test of true 
 wisdom, and judge of the tree by its fruit. 
 
 You are desirous of visiting the prisoners ; 
 you wish to administer to their necessities, 
 and to give them instruction. This task you 
 will undertake, though you expect to en- 
 counter many things in the performance of 
 it that will give you pain. Now this I can 
 understand — you will not listen to the sensi- 
 bilities that distress yourself, but to the dis- 
 tresses of others. Therefore, when I meet 
 with one of the specious praters above men- 
 tioned, I will send him to Stock, that by your 
 diffidence he may be taught a lesson of mod- 
 esty ; by your generosity, a little feeling for 
 others ; and by your general conduct, in short, 
 to chatter less and do more. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 16, 1782. 
 
 Carraccioli says — "There is something 
 very bewitching in authorship, and that he 
 who has once written will write again." It 
 may be so ; I can subscribe to the former 
 part of his assertion from my own experience, 
 having never found an amusement, among 
 the many I have been obliged to have re- 
 course to, that so well answered the purpose 
 for which I used it. The quieting and com- 
 posing effect of it was such, and so totally 
 absorbed have I sometimes been in my rhym- 
 ing occupation, that neither the past nor the 
 future (those themes which to me are so fruit- 
 ful in regret at other times) had any longer 
 a share in my contemplation. For this 
 reason, I wish, and have often wished, since 
 the fit left me, that it would seize me again ; 
 but hitherto I have wished it in vain. I see 
 no want of subjects, but I feel a total dis- 
 ability to discuss them. Whether it is thus 
 with other writers or not I am ignorant, but 
 I should suppose ray case in this respect a 
 'ittle peculiar. The voluminous writers, at 
 
 least, whose vein of fancy seems ahvays to 
 have been rich in proportion to their oc- 
 casions, cannot have been so unlike and so 
 unequal to themselves; There is this differ- 
 ence between my poetship and the generality 
 of ihem — they have been ignorant how much 
 they have stood indebted to an Almighty 
 power for the exercise of those talents they 
 have supposed their own. Whereas I know, 
 and know most perfectly, and am perhaps to be 
 taught it to the last, that my power to think, 
 whatever it be, and consequently my power 
 to compose, is, as much as my outward form, 
 afforded to me by the same hand that makes 
 me in any respect to differ from a brute. 
 This lesson, if not constantly inculcated, 
 might perhaps be forgotten, or at least too 
 slightly remembered. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. ^VILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 24, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — If I should receive a 
 letter from you to-morrow, you must still 
 remember, that I am not in your debt, hav- 
 ing paid you by anticipation. Knowing that 
 you take an interest in my publication, and 
 that you have waited for it with some im- 
 patience, I write to inform you, that, if it is 
 possible for a printer to be punctual, I shall 
 come forth on the first of March. I have 
 ordered two copies to Stock ; one for Mr. 
 John Unwin. It is possible, after all, that 
 my book may come forth without a preface. 
 Mr. Newton has written (he could indeed 
 write no other) a very sensible, as well as a 
 very friendly one : and it is printed. But the 
 bookseller, who knows him well, and es- 
 teems him highly, is anxious to have it can- 
 celled, and, with my consent first obtained, 
 has offered to negotiate that matter with the 
 author. He judges, that, though it would 
 serve to recommend the volume to the re- 
 ligious, it would disgust the profane, and 
 that there is in reality no need of a preface 
 at all. I have found Johnson a very judi- 
 cious man on other occasions, and am there- 
 fore willing that he should determine for me 
 upon this. 
 
 There are but few persons to whom I pre- 
 sent my book. The Lord Chancellor is one. 
 I enclose in a packet I send by this post to 
 Johnson a letter to his lordship, which will 
 accompany the volume ; and to you I en- 
 close a copy of it, because I know you will 
 have a friendly curiosity to see it. An au- 
 thor is an important character. Whatever 
 his merits may be, the mere circumstance of 
 authorship warrants his approach to persons 
 whom otherwise perhaps he could hardly ad- 
 dress without being deemed impertinent. He 
 can do me no good. If I should happen to 
 do him a little, I shall be a greater man than
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 127 
 
 lie. I have ordered a copy likewise to Mr. 
 Smith. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOVV. 
 (enclosed TO MR. UNWIN.) 
 
 Olney, Bucks, Feb. SJ5, 1782. 
 
 My Lord, — I make no apolo^-y for what I 
 account a duty. I should oflToud against the 
 cordiality of our former friendship sliould I 
 send a volume into tlie w^orld, and forget 
 how much I am bound to pay my particular 
 respects to your lordship upon that occasion. 
 When we parted, you little thought of hear- 
 ing from me again ; and I as little that I 
 should live to write to you, ^itill less that I 
 sliould wait on you in the capacity of an 
 author. 
 
 Among the pieces I have the honor to 
 send there is one for which I must entreat 
 your pardon ; I mean that of wliich your 
 "lordship is the subject. The best excuse I 
 can make is, that it flowed almost spontane- 
 ously from the affectionate remembrance of 
 a coanexion that did me so much honor. 
 
 As to the rest, their merits, if they have 
 any, and their defects, which are probably 
 more than I am aware of, will neither of 
 them escape your notice. But where there 
 is much discernment, there is generally much 
 candor ; and I commit myself into your lord- 
 ship's hands with the less anxiety, being well 
 acquainted with yours. 
 
 If my tirst visit, after so long an interval, 
 should prove neither a troublesome nor a dull 
 one, but especially, if not altogether an un- 
 profitable one, omne tul.U piuiclam. 
 
 I have the honor to be, though with very 
 different impressions of some subjects, yet 
 with the same sentiments of affection and 
 esteem as ever, your lordship's faithful and 
 most obedient, humble servant, 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Oliicy, Feb., 1782. 
 My dear Friend, — I enclose Joiuison's let- 
 ter upon the subject of the Preface, and 
 would send you my reply to it, if I had kept 
 a copy. Tins however was the purport of 
 
 it. That 3Ir. , whom I described as you 
 
 described iiim to me, had made a similar ob- 
 jection, but that, being willing to hope that 
 two or three pages of sensible matter, well 
 expressed, might possibly go down, though 
 of a religious cast, I was resolved to believe 
 him mistaken, and to pay no regard to it. 
 That his judgment, however, who by his 
 occupation is bound to understand what will 
 promote the sale of a book, and what will 
 hinder it, seemed to deserve more attention. 
 That therefore, according to his own offer. 
 
 ! written on a small slip of paper now lost, j 
 should be obliged to him it" he would state 
 his difficulties to you; adding, I need not 
 inform him, who is so well acquainted with 
 you, that he would find you easy to be per- 
 suaded to sacrifice, if necessary, what you 
 had written, to the interests of the book. I 
 find he has had an interview with you upon 
 the occasion, and your behavior in it has 
 verified my prediction. What course he de- 
 termines upon, I do not know, nor am I at 
 all anxious about it. It is impossible for 
 me, however, to be so insensible of your 
 kindness in writing the Preface, as not to be 
 desirous of defying all contingencies, rather 
 than entertain a wish to suppress it. It will 
 do me honor in the eyes of those whose good 
 opinion is indeed an honor; and if it hurts 
 me in the estimation of others, I cannot help 
 it ; the fault is neither yours, nor mine, but 
 theirs. If a minister's is a more splendid 
 character than a poet's, and I think nobody 
 that understands their value can hesitate in 
 deciding that question, then undoubtedly the 
 advantajje of havinjj our names united in the 
 .same volume is all on my side. 
 
 We thank you for the Fast-sermon. I had 
 not read two pages before I exclaimed — the 
 man has read Expostulation. But though 
 there is a strong resemblance between the 
 two pieces, in point of matter, and some- 
 times the very same expressions are to be 
 met with, yet I soon recollected that, on 
 such a theme, a striking coincidence of both 
 might happen without a wonder. I doubt 
 not that it is the production of an honest 
 man, it carries with it an air of sincerity an 
 zeal that is not easily counterfeited. But, 
 though I can see no reason why kings 
 should not hear sometimes of their faults 
 as well as other men, I think I see many 
 good ones why they should not be reproved 
 so publicly. It can hardly be done with that 
 respect which is due to their oOice, on the 
 part of the author, or without encouraging a 
 spirit of unmannerly censure in his readers. 
 His majesty too, perhaps, might answer — my 
 own personal feelings, and offences, I am 
 ready to confess, but were I to follow your 
 advice, and cashier the profligate from my 
 service, where must I seek men of faith and 
 true Christian piety, qualified by nature and 
 by education to succeed them ? Business 
 must be done, men of business alone can do 
 it, and good men are rarely found, under that 
 description. When Nathan reproved David, 
 he did not employ a herald, or accompany 
 his charge with the sound of the trumpet ; 
 nor can I think the writer of this sermon 
 quite justifiable in exposing the king's faults 
 in the sight of the people. 
 
 Your answer respecting ^tna is quite sat- 
 isfactory, and gives me much pleasure. I 
 hate altering, though I never refuse the task
 
 128 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 when propriety seems to enjoin it ; and an 
 alteration in this instance, if I am not mis- 
 taken, would have been singularly difficult. 
 Indeed, when a piece has been finished two 
 or three years, and an author finds occasion 
 to amend or make an addition to it, it is not 
 easy to fall upon the very vein from which 
 he drew his ideas in the first instance, but 
 either a diflerent turn of thought or expres- 
 sion will betray the patch, and convince a 
 reader of discernment that it has been cob- 
 bled and varnished. 
 
 Our love to you both, and to the young 
 Euphrosyne ; the old lady of that name be- 
 tng Jong since dead, if she pleases, she shall 
 fill her vacant oifice, and be my muse here- 
 •fter. 
 
 Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 6, 1782. 
 Is peace the nearer because our patriots 
 have resolved that it is desirable ? Will the 
 victory they have gained in the House of 
 Commons be attended with any other? Do 
 they expect the same success on other occa- 
 sions, and, having once gained a mnjority, are 
 they to be the majority forever 1* These are 
 the questions we agitate by the fire-side in 
 an evening, without being able to come to 
 any certain conclusion, partly, I suppose, be- 
 cause the subject is in itself uncertain, and 
 partly, because we are not furnished with 
 the means of understanding it. I find the 
 politics of times past more intelligible than 
 those of the present. Time has thrown light 
 npon what was obscure, and decided what 
 was ambiguous. The characters of great 
 men, which are always mysterious while 
 they live, are ascertained by the faithful his- 
 torian, and sooner or later receive the wages 
 of fame or infamy, according to their true 
 deserts. How have I seen sensible and 
 learned men burn incense to the memory of 
 Oliver Cromwell, ascribing to him, as the 
 greatest hero in the world, the dignity of 
 the British empire, during the interregnum. 
 A century passed before that idol, which 
 seemed to be of gold, was proved to be a 
 wooden one. The fallacy, however, was at 
 length detected, and the honor of that detec- 
 tion has fallen to the share of a woman. I 
 do not know whether you have read Mrs. 
 Macaulay's history of that period. She has 
 handled him more roughly that the Scots did 
 at the battle of Dunbar. He would have 
 thought it little worth his while to have 
 broken through all obligations divine and 
 
 * The nation was growing weary of the American war, 
 especially since the surrender of Lord Coriiwallis's army 
 at York Town, and the previous capture of General Bur- 
 goyne's at Saratoga. The ministry at tliis time were fre- 
 quently outvoted, and Lord North's administration was 
 Ultimately dissolved. 
 
 human, to have wept crocodile's tears, and 
 wrapped himself up in the obscurity of 
 speeches that nobody could understand, 
 could he have foreseen that, in the ensuing 
 century, a lady's scissors would clip his lau- 
 rels close, and expose his naked villainy to 
 the scorn of all posterity. This however 
 has been accomplished, and so effectually, 
 that I suppose it is not in the power of the 
 most artificial management to make them 
 grow again. Even the sagacious of man- 
 kind are blind, when Providence leaves them 
 to be deluded ; so blind, that a tyrant shall 
 be mistaken for a true patriot : true patriots 
 (such were the long Parliament) shall be ab- 
 horred as tyrants, and almost a whole nation 
 shall dream that they have the full enjoy- 
 ment of liberty, for years after such a com- 
 plete knave as Oliver shall have stolen it 
 completely from them. I am indebted for 
 all this show of historical knowledge to Mr. 
 Bull, who has lent me five volumes of the 
 work I mention. I was willing to display 
 it while I have it; in a twelvemonth's time, 
 I shall remember almost nothing of the 
 matter. W. C. 
 
 It has been the lot of Cromwell to be 
 praised too little or too mnch. Of hispoliti- 
 crd delinquencies, and gross hypocrisy, there 
 can be only one opinion. But those who 
 are conversant with that period well know 
 how the genius of Mazarine, the minister of 
 Louis XIII., was awed by the decision and 
 boldness of Cromwell's character ; that Spain 
 and Holland experienced a signal humilia- 
 tion, and that the victories of Admiral Blake 
 at that crisis are among the most brilliant 
 records of our naval fame. It was in allu- 
 sion to these triumphs that Waller remarks, 
 in his celebrated panegyric on the Lord Pro- 
 tector, 
 
 " The seas our own, and now all nations greet, 
 With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet. 
 Your power extends as far as winds can blow, 
 Or swelling sails upon the globe may go."* 
 
 We add the following anecdote recorded of 
 Waller, though it is probably familiar to 
 many of our readers. On Charles's resto- 
 ration the poet presented that prince with a 
 congratulatory copy of verses, when the king 
 shortly afterwards observed, "You wrote 
 better verses on Cromwell ;" to which Wal- 
 ler replied, "Please your majesty, we poets* 
 always succeed better in fiction than in truth." 
 
 TO THE REV. WM. UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, March 7, 1782. 
 j\Iy dear Friend, — We have great pleasure 
 in the contemplation of your northern jour- 
 ney, as it promises us a sight of you and 
 
 * Waller's Panegyric to my Lord Protector, 1654,
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 129 
 
 yours by the way, and are only sorry Miss 
 Shuttleworth cannot be of the party. A line 
 to ascertain the hour when we may expect you, 
 by the next preceding post, will be welcome. 
 
 It is not much for my advantage tliat the 
 printer delays so long to gratify your ex- 
 pectation. It is a state of mind that is apt 
 to tire and disconcert us; and there are but 
 few pleasures that make us amends for the 
 pain of repeated disappointment. I take it 
 for granted you have not received the vol- 
 ume, not iniving received it myself, nor in- 
 deed lieard from Jolmson, since he tixed tiie 
 first of the month for its publication. 
 
 What a medley are our public prints ! Half 
 the page tilled with tlie ruin of the country, 
 and the other half filled with tlie vices and 
 pleasures of it — here is an island taken, and 
 there a new comedy — here an empire lost, 
 and there an Italian opera, or a lord's rout 
 on a Sundiy ! 
 
 " May it please your lordship ! I am an 
 Englishman, and must stand or fall with the 
 nation. Religion, its true palladium, has 
 been stolen away ; and it is crumbling into 
 dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great 
 especially, aud of their sins especially the 
 violation of the sabbath, because it is natu- 
 rally productive of all the rest. If you wish 
 well to our aruis, and would be glad to see 
 the kingdom emerging from lier ruins, pay 
 more respect to an ordinance that deserves 
 the deepest ! I do not say, pardon this short 
 remonstrance ! The concern I feel for my 
 country, and the interest I have in its pros- 
 perity, give me a right to make it. I am, &.c." 
 
 Thus one might write to his lordship, and 
 (I suppose) might be as protitably employed 
 in whistling the tune of an old ballad. " 
 
 I have no copy of the Preface, nor do I 
 know at present how Johnson and Mr. New- 
 ton have settled it. In the matter of it there 
 was nothing offensively peculiar. But it 
 was thought too pious. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 It is impossible to read this passage with- 
 out very painful emotions. How low must 
 have been the state of religion at that period, 
 when the introduction of a Preface to the 
 Poems of Cowper, by the Rev. John New- 
 ton, was sufficient to endanger their popu- 
 larity. We are at the same time expressly 
 assured, that there was nothing in the Pref- 
 ace offensively peculiar; and that the only 
 charge alleged against it was that of its be- 
 ing " too pious." What a melancholy pic- 
 ture does this single fact present of the state 
 of religion in those days ; and with wiiat 
 sentiment'- of gratitude ought we to hail the 
 great moral revolution that has since oc- 
 curred ! Witness the assemblage of so many 
 Christian charities, our Bible, Missionary, 
 Jewish, and Tract Societies, which, to use 
 
 the emphatic language of Burke, " hke so 
 many non-conductors, avert the impending 
 wrath of heaven !" Witness the increasing 
 instances of rank ennobled by piety, and 
 consecrated to its advancement ! Witness 
 too the entrance of religion into our seats of 
 learning, and into nome of our public schools, 
 thus presenting the delightful spectacle of 
 classic taste and knowledge in alliance with 
 heavenly wisdom. To these causes of pious 
 gratitude we may add the revival of religion 
 among our clergy, and generally among the 
 ministers of the sanctuary, till we are con- 
 strained to exclaim, " How beautiful upon 
 the mountains are the feet of him that bring- 
 eth good tidings, that publisheth peace, that 
 saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth !"* We 
 trust that we are indulging in no vain ex- 
 pectation, when we express our firm persua- 
 sion, that the dawn of a brighter day is ar- 
 rived ; and though we see, both at home and 
 on the continent of Europe, much over which 
 piety may weep and tremble, while idolatry 
 and superstition spread their thick veil of 
 darkness over the largest portion of the 
 globe, still, notwithstanding all these impedi- 
 ments and discouragements, we believe that 
 the materials for the moral amelioration of 
 mankind are all prepared; and that nothing 
 but the fire of the Eternal Spirit is wanting, 
 to kindle them into flame and splendor. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 14, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^I can only repeat what 
 I said some time since, that the world is 
 grown more foolish and careless than it was 
 when I had the honor of knowing it. Though 
 your Preface was of a serious cast, it was 
 yet free from everything that might with 
 propriety expose it to the charge of Method- 
 ism, being guilty of no offensive peculiari- 
 ties, nor containing any of those obnoxious 
 doctrines at which the world is apt to be an- 
 gry, and which we must give her leave to be 
 angry at, because we know she cannot help it. 
 It asserted nothing more than every rational 
 creature must admit to be true — " that divine 
 and earthly things can no longer stand in 
 competition with each other, in the judgment 
 of any man, than while he continues igno- 
 rant of their respective value; and that the. 
 moment the eyes are opened, the latter are 
 always cheerfully relinquished for the sake 
 of the former." Now I do most certainly 
 remember the time when such a proposition 
 as this would have been at least supportable, 
 and when it would not have spoiled the market 
 of any volume to which it had been prefixed; 
 ergo — the times are altered for the worse. 
 
 I have reason to be very much satisfied 
 with my publisher — he marked such lines as 
 * laaiah lii. 7. 
 9
 
 130 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 did not please him, and, as often a.s I could, 
 I paid all possible respect to his animadver- 
 sions. You will accordingly find, at least if 
 you recollect how they stood in the MS., 
 that several passages are better for having 
 undergone his critical notice. Indeed I know 
 not where I could have found a bookseller 
 who could have pointed out to me my de- 
 fects with more discernment ; and as I find 
 it is a fashion for modern bards to publish 
 the names of the literati who have favored 
 their works with a revisal, would myself 
 most willingly have acknowledged my obli- 
 gations to Johnson, and so I told him. I 
 am to thank you likewise, and ought to have 
 done it in tJie first place, for having recom- 
 mended to me the suppression of some lines, 
 which I am now more than ever convinced 
 would at least have done me no honor. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, March 14, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — As servant-maids, and 
 such sort of folks, account a letter good for 
 nothing, unless it begins with — This comes 
 hoping you are well, as I am at this present : 
 so I should be chargeable with a great omis- 
 sion, were I not to make frequent use of the 
 following grateful exordium — Many thanks 
 for a fine cod and oysters. Your bounty 
 never arrived more seasonably. I had just 
 been observing that, among other deplorable 
 eflfects of the war, the scarcity of fish which 
 it occasioned was severely felt at Olney ; but 
 your plentiful supply immediately reconciled 
 me, though not to the war, yet to my small 
 share in the calamities it produces. 
 
 I hope my bookseller has paid due atten- 
 tion to the order I gave him to furnish you 
 with my books. The composition of those 
 pieces afforded me an agreeable amusement 
 at intervals, for about a twelvemonth ; and I 
 should be glad to devote the leisure hours 
 of another twelvemonth to the same occu- 
 pation ; at least, if my lucubrations should 
 meet with a favorable acceptance. But I 
 cannot write when I would ; and whether I 
 shall find readers is a problem not yet decided. 
 So the Muse and I are parted for the present. 
 
 I sent Lord Thurlow a volume, and the 
 following letter witb it, which I communicate 
 because you will undoubtedly have some cu- 
 riosity to see it.f 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLLA.M TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, March 18,1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Nothing has given me so 
 much pleasure, since the publication of my 
 volume, as your favorable opinion of it. It 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t This letter has been inserted in the preceding pages. 
 
 may possibly meet with acceptance from hun. 
 dreds, whose commendation would afford me 
 no other satisfaction than what I should find 
 in the hope that it might do them good. I 
 have some neighbors in this place, who say 
 they like it; doubtless 1 had rather they 
 should than that they should not, but I know 
 them to be persons of no more taste in poetry 
 than skill in the mathematics ; their applause, 
 therefore, is a sound that has no music in it 
 for me. But my vanity was not so entirely 
 quiescent when 1 read your friendly account 
 of the manner it liad affected you. It was 
 tickled, and pleased, and told me in a pretty 
 loud whisper, that others, perhaps, of whose 
 taste and judgment I had a high opinion, 
 would approve it too. As a giver of good 
 counsel, I wish to please all ; as an author, I 
 am perfectly indifferent to the judgment of 
 all, except the few who are indeed judicious. 
 The circumstance, however, in your letter 
 which pleased me most was, that you wrote 
 in high spirits, and, though you said much, 
 suppressed more, lest you should hurt my 
 delicacy ; my delicacy is obliged to you, but 
 you observe it is not so squeamish but that, 
 after it has feasted upon praise expressed, it 
 can find a comfortable dessert in the contem- 
 plation of praise implied. I now feel as if I 
 should be glad to begin another volume, but 
 from the will to the power is a step too wide 
 for me to take at present, and the season of 
 the year brings with it so many avocations 
 into the garden, where I am my own fac-totum, 
 that I have little or no leisure for the quill. 
 I should do myself much wrong, were I to 
 omit mentioning tiie great complacency with 
 which 1 read your narrative of Mrs. Unwin's 
 smiles and tears ; persons of much sensibility 
 are always persons of taste ; and a taste for 
 poetry depends indeed upon that very article 
 more than upon any other. If she had Aris- 
 totle by heart, I should not esteem her judg- 
 ment so highly, were she defective in point 
 of feeling, as I do and must esteem it, know- 
 ing her to have such feelings as Aristotle 
 could not communicate, and as half the read- 
 ers in the world are destitute of. This it is 
 that makes me set so high a price upon your 
 mother's opinion. She is a critic by nature 
 and not by rule, and has a perception of what 
 is good or bad in composition that I never 
 knew deceive her, insomuch that when two 
 sorts of expression have pleaded equally for 
 the precedence in my own esteem, and I have 
 referred, as in such cases I always did, the 
 decision of the point to her, I never knew her 
 at a loss for a just one. 
 
 Whether I shall receive any answer from 
 his Chancellorsliip* or not, is at present in 
 ambiguo, and will probably continue in the 
 same state of ambiguity much longer. He is 
 so busy a man, and at this time, if the papers 
 
 * Lord Tlmrlow.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 131 
 
 may be credited, so particularly busy, that I 
 am forced to mortify myself with the thought, 
 that botli my book and my letter may be 
 thrown into a corner, as too insignificant for a 
 statesman's notice, and never found till his 
 executor finds them. This affair, however, is 
 neither at my libitum nor his. I have sent 
 him the truth. He tliat put it into the heart 
 of a certain eastern monarch to amuse himself, 
 one sleepless night, with listening to the rec- 
 ords of his kingdom, is able to give birth to 
 such another occasion, and inspire his lord- 
 ship with a curiosity to know what he has 
 received from a friend he once loved and 
 valued. If an answer comes, however, you 
 shall not long be a stranger to the contents 
 of it. 
 
 I have read your letter to their worships, 
 and mnch approve of it. IMay it have the de- 
 sired effect it ougiitl If not, still you have 
 acted a humane and becoming part, and the 
 poor aching toes and fingers of the prisoners 
 will not appear in judgment against you. I 
 have made a slight alteration in the last sen- 
 tence, which perhaps you will not disapprove. 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 The conclusion of tlie preceding letter al- 
 ludes to an application made byMr. Unwinto 
 the magistrates, for some warmer clothing for 
 the prisoners in Chelmsford gaol. 
 
 It is a gratifying reflection, that tlie whole 
 system of prison discipline has undergone an 
 entire revision since the above period. Tiiis 
 reformation first commenced under the great 
 philantiiropist Howard, who devoted his life 
 to the prosecution of so benevolent an object, 
 and finally fell a victim to his zeal. Subse- 
 quently, and in our own times, the system has 
 been extended still further ; and the names of 
 a Gurney, a Buxton, a Hoare, and others, will 
 long be remembered with gratitude, as the 
 friends and benefactors of these outcasts of 
 society. One more effort was still wanting to 
 complete this Inunane enterprise, viz., to en- 
 deavor to eradicate the habits of vice, and to 
 implant the seeds of virtue. This attempt 
 has been made by ]Mrs. Fry and her excellent 
 female associates in the prison of Newgate : 
 and the result, in some instances, has proved 
 that no one, however depraved, is beyond the 
 reach of mercy ; and tiiat divine truth, con- 
 veyed with zeal, and in the accents of Chris- 
 tian love and kindness, seldom fails to pene- 
 trate into the heart and conscience. 
 
 The unwillingness with which the mind 
 receives the consolations of religion, when 
 laboring under an illusion, is painfully evinced 
 in the following letter : — 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Mfircli 2.1, 1782. 
 My dear Friend, — I was not unacquainted 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 with Mr. B 's extraordinary case,* before 
 
 you fjxvored me with his letter and his in- 
 tended dedication to the Queen, though I am 
 obliged to you for a sight of those two curi- 
 osities, which I do not recollect to have ever 
 seen till you sent them. I could, however, 
 were it not a subject that would make us all 
 melancholy, point out to you some essential 
 differences between his state of mind and my 
 own, which would prove mine to be by far 
 the most deplorable of the two. I suppose 
 no man would despair, if he did not apprehend 
 something singular in tlie circumstances of 
 his own story, something that discriminates 
 it from that of every other man, and that in- 
 duces despair as an inevitable consequence. 
 You may encounter his unhappy persuasion 
 with as many instances as you please of per- 
 sons who, like him, having renounced all hope, 
 were yet restored ; and may thence infer that 
 he, like them, sliall meet with a season of 
 restoration — but it is in vain. Every such 
 individual accounts himself an exception to all 
 rules, and therefore the blessed reverse that 
 otiiers have experienced affords no ground of 
 comfortable expectation to him. But, you 
 will say, it is reasonable to conclude, that as 
 all your predecessors in this vale of misery 
 and horror have found themselves delightful- 
 ly disappointed at last, so will you : — I grant 
 the reasonableness of it ; it would be sinful, 
 perhaps, because uncharitable, to reason oth- 
 erwise ; but an argument, hypothetical in its 
 nature, however rationally conducted, may 
 lead to a false conclusion; and, in this in- 
 stance, so will yours. But I forbear. For 
 the cause above mentioned, I will say no 
 more, though it is a subject on which I could 
 write more than the mail would carry. I 
 must deal with you as I deal with poor Mrs. 
 Unwin, in all our disputes about it, cutting 
 all controversy short by an appeal to the 
 event. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, April 1, 1782. 
 jMy dear Friend, — I could not have found a 
 
 * The porsoii here alluded to is Simnn Browne, a 
 learned Dissentini; minister, born at Slu'iiton Mallet, 
 alxmt the year KJSJ. Ili; lal)nre(l under a most extraor- 
 dinary spe<'ies of menial deranL,'emi'nt, wliieli led him to 
 believe "tliat i'-od luul in a irradual manner annihilated 
 in him the lliinkin.; s\ibs(anee, and utterly divested him 
 of consciousness; and thai, althouifli he retained the hu- 
 man shape, and tlie faculty of speaking, in a manner that 
 appeared toothers rational, he had all the while no more 
 notion of what he said than a jiarrol." His intellectual 
 faculties were not in any way all'ected by tliis siiiufular 
 alienation of n.ind, in jiroof of which In' [uiblished many 
 theological works, written with ^reat clearness and 
 vicfor of llioui;ht. lU: addressed a Dedication to Queen 
 Caroline, in which he details the peculiarities of his ex- 
 traordinary case, but his friends prevented its publica- 
 tion. It was sulisecpiently inserted in No. H8 of the "Ad- 
 venturer." Such was the force of his delusion, that he 
 considered himself no loii^'er to be a moral aLrent ; ho de- 
 sisted from his ministerial functions, and could never be 
 induced to entrance in any act of worship, pulilic or pri- 
 vate. In this state he died, in th« year 173J, aged fil'ty- 
 flve years.
 
 132 
 
 COWPER'S WORKb. 
 
 better trumpeter. Your zeal to serve the in- 
 terest of my volume, together with your ex- 
 tensive acquaintance, qualify you perfectly for 
 that most useful office. Methinks I see you 
 with the long tube at your mouth, proclaim- 
 ing to your numerous connexions ray poetical 
 merits, and at proper intervals levelling it at 
 Olney, and pouring into my ear the welcome 
 sound of their approbation. 1 need not en- 
 courage you to proceed ; your breath will 
 never fail in such a cause ; and, thus encour- 
 aged, I myself perhaps may proceed also, and, 
 when the versifying fit returns, produce anoth- 
 er volume. Alas ! we shall never receive such 
 corameudations from him on the woolsack 
 as your good friend has lavished upon us. 
 Whence I learn that, however important I 
 may be in my own eyes, I am very insigniii- 
 cant in his. To make me amends, however, 
 for this mortification, Mr. Newton tells me 
 that my book is likely to run, spread, and pros- 
 per ; that the grave cannot help smiling, and 
 the gay are struck with the truth of it; and 
 that it is likely to find its way into his Ma^ 
 jesty's hands, being put into a proper course 
 for that purpose. Now, if the King should 
 fall in love with my muse, and with you for 
 her sake, such an event would make us am- 
 ple amends for the Chancellor's indiirerenee, 
 and you might be the first divine that ever 
 reached a nfitre, from the shoulders of a poet. 
 But (I believe) we must be content, I with 
 my gains, if I gain anything, and you with 
 the pleasure of knowing that I am a gainer. 
 
 We laughed heartily at your answer to lit- 
 tle John's question ; and yet I tliink you 
 might have given him a direct answer — 
 "There are various sorts of cleverness, my 
 dear. — I do not know that mine lies in the 
 poetical way, but I can do ten times more 
 towards the entertainment of company in the 
 way of conversation than our friend at Olney. 
 He can ryhme and I can rattle. If he had my 
 talent, or I had his, we should be too charm- 
 ing, and the world would almost adore us." 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, April 27, 1782. 
 My dear William, — A part of Lord Har- 
 rington's new-raised corps have taken up 
 their quarters at Olney, since you left us. 
 They have the regimental music with them. 
 The men have been drawn up this mornino- 
 upon the Market-hill, and a concert, such as 
 we have not heard these many years, has 
 been performed at no great distance from our 
 window. Your mother and I both thrust our 
 heads into tlie coldest east wind that ever 
 blew in April, that we might hear them to 
 greater advantage. The band acquitted them- 
 selves with taste and propriety, nol blairing, 
 like trumpeters at a fair, but producing gentle 
 
 and elegant symphony, such as charmed our 
 ears and convinced us that no length of time 
 can wear out a taste for harmony, and that 
 though plays, balls, and masquerades, have 
 lost all their power to please us, and we 
 should find them not only insipid but insup- 
 portable, yet sweet music is sure to find a 
 corresponding faculty in the soul, a sensi- 
 bility that lives to the last, which even re- 
 ligion itself does not extinguish. 
 
 When we objected to your coming for a 
 single night, it was only in the way of argu- 
 ment, and in hopes to prevail on you to con- 
 trive a longer abode with us. But rather 
 than not see you at all, we should be glad of 
 you though but for an hour. If the paths 
 should be clean enough, and we are able to 
 walk, (for you know we cannot ride,) we will 
 endeavor to meet you in Weston-park. But 
 1 mention no particular hour, that I may not 
 lay you under a supposed obligation to be 
 punctual, which might be ditlicult at the end 
 of so long a journey. Only, if the weather 
 be favorable, you shall find us there in the 
 evening. It is winter in the south, perhaps 
 therefore it may be spring at least, if not 
 summer, in the north ; for 1 have read that it 
 is warmest in Greenland when it is coldest 
 here. Be that as it may, we may hope at the 
 latter end of such an April, that the first 
 change of wind will improve the season. 
 
 The curate's simile Latinized — 
 
 Sors adversa gerit stiinulura, sed tendit et alas : 
 Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit. 
 
 What a dignity there is in the Roman lan- 
 guage ; and what an idea it gives us of the 
 good sense and masculine mind of the people 
 that spoke it ! The same thought which, 
 clothed in English, seems childish and even 
 foolish, assumes a different air in Latin, and 
 makes at least as good an epigram as some 
 of Martial's. 
 
 I remember your making an observation, 
 when here, on the subject of "parentheses," 
 to which I acceded without limitation ; but a 
 little attention will convince us both that they 
 are not to be universally condemned. When 
 they abound, and when they are long, they 
 both embarrass the sense, and are a proof that 
 the writer's head is cloudy ; that he has not 
 properly arranged his matter, or is not well 
 skilled in the graces of expression. But, as 
 parenthesis is ranked by grammarians among 
 the figures of rhetoric, we may suppose they 
 had a reason for conferring that honor upon 
 it. Accordingly we shall find that, in the use 
 of some of our finest writers, as well as in 
 the hands of the ancient poets and orators, it 
 has a peculiar elegance, and imparts a beauty 
 which the period would want without it.' 
 
 '■Hoc nemus, hunc, inquit, frondoso vertice collem 
 (Q,uis dcus intertum est) habitat deus." 
 
 ViRG. Ma. 8.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 13S 
 
 In tliis instance, the first that occurred, it is 
 graceful. I have not time to seek for more, 
 nor room to insert thoin. But your own ob- 
 servation, I believe, will confirm my opinion. 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, May 27, 1782, 
 ^[y dear Friend, — Rntiier ashamed of having- 
 been at all dejected by the censure of the 
 Critical Reviewers, wiio certainly could not 
 read without prejudice a book replete witii 
 opinions and doctrines to which they cannot 
 subscribe, I have at present no little occasion 
 to keep a strict guard upon my vanity, lest it 
 should be too much flattered by the following 
 eulogium. I send it to you for the reasons I 
 gave, wlicn I imparted to you some other 
 anecdotes of a similar kind, while we were 
 together. Our interests in the success of this 
 same volume are so closely united, that you 
 must sliare with me in the praise or blame 
 that attends it; and, sympathizing with ine 
 under the burden of injurious treatment, 
 have a right to enjoy with me the cordials I 
 now and then receive, as I happen to meet 
 with more candid and favorable judges. 
 
 A merchant, a friend of ours,* (you will 
 soon guess him,) sent my Poems to one of 
 the first philosophers, one of the most emi- 
 nent literary characters, as well as one of the 
 most important in the political world, that the 
 present age can boast of. Now perhaps your 
 conjecturing f;iculties are puzzled, and you 
 begin to ask "who, where, and what is he? 
 speak out, for I am all impatience." I will 
 not say a word more : the letter in which he 
 returns iiis thanks for the present shall speak 
 for iiim.f 
 
 We may now treat'the critics as the arch- 
 bishop of Toledo treated Gil Bias, when he 
 found fault with one of his sermons. His 
 grace gave him a kick and said, " Begone for 
 a jackanapes, and furnish yourself with a 
 better taste, if you know where to find it." 
 
 We are glad that you are safe at home 
 again. Could we see at one glance of the 
 eye what is passing every day upon all the 
 roads in the kingdom, how many are terrified 
 and hurt, how many plundered and abused, 
 we should indeed find reason enough to be 
 thankful for journeys performed in safety, 
 and for deliverance from dangers w^e are not 
 perhaps even permitted to see. When, in 
 some of the high southern latitudes, and in a 
 dark tempestuous night, a flasli of lightin'ng 
 discovered to Captain Cook a vessel, which 
 glanced along close by his side, and which 
 but for the lightning he must have run foul 
 
 * John Thornton, Esq. 
 
 t Hero Cowpoi- transcrilied the loltor writtoii from 
 Passy, by the Ainj rican ambassador, Franklin, in praise 
 of his book. 
 
 of, both the danger and the transient light 
 that showed it were undoubtedly designed to 
 convey to him this wholesome instruction, 
 that a particular Providence attended him, 
 and that he was not only preserved from evils 
 of which he had notice, but from many more 
 of which he had no information, or even the 
 least suspicion. What unlikely contingencies 
 may nevertheless take place ! How improb- 
 able that two ships should dash against each 
 other, in the midst of the vast Pacific Ocean, 
 and that, steering contrary courses from parts 
 of the world so immensely distant from each 
 other, they should yet move so exactly in a 
 line as to clash, fill, and go to the bottom, in 
 a sea, where all the ships in the world might 
 be so dispersed as that none should see 
 another ! Yet this must have happened but 
 for the remarkable interference which he has 
 recorded. The same Providence indeed might 
 as easily have conducted them so wide of 
 each other that they should never have met 
 at all, but then this lesson would have been 
 lost ; at least, the heroic voyager would have 
 encompassed the globe, without having had 
 occasion to relate an incident that so naturally 
 suggests it. 
 
 I am no more delighted with the season 
 than you are. The absence of the sun, which 
 has graced the spring with much less of his 
 presence than he vouchsafed to the winter, 
 has a very uncomfortable effect upon my 
 frame ; I feel an invincible aversion to em- 
 ployment, which I am yet constrained to fly 
 to as my only remedy against something 
 worse. If I do nothing I am dejected, if I do 
 anything I am weary, and that weariness is 
 best described by the word lassitude, which of 
 all weariness in the world is the most op- 
 pressive. But enough of myself and the 
 weather. 
 
 The blow w^e have struck in the West In- 
 dies* will, I suppose, be decisive, at least for 
 the present year, and so far as that part of 
 our possessions is concerned in the present 
 conflict. But the news-writers and their cor- 
 respondents disgust me and make me sick. 
 One victory, after such a long series of ad- 
 verse occurrences, has filled them with self- 
 conceit and impertinent boasting ; and, while 
 Rodney is almost accounted a Methodist for 
 
 * This alludes to the celebrated victory gained by Sir 
 Ceorsfe Rodney over Count do (Jrasse, April 12, 1782. 
 On this occasion, eight sail of the line were captured 
 from the French, three foundered at sea, two were for- 
 ever disabled, and the French Admiral was taken in the 
 Ville de Paris, which had l>een presented by the city of 
 Paris to I<ouis XV. Lord Kobert Manners fell in this 
 engagement. It was the tirst instance wliere the attempt 
 was ever made of breaking tlie line, a system adopted 
 afterwards with great success by Lord Nelson. Lord 
 Roilney, on receiving the thanks of Parliament on this 
 occasion, addressed a letter of acknowledgment to the 
 speaker, conveyed in the following terms. "To fulfil," 
 he observed, '-the wishes, and execute the commands of 
 my Sovereign, was my duty. To command a Meet so 
 well appointed, both in officers and men, was my good 
 fortune ; ,is by their undaunted spirit and valor, imdef 
 Divine Providence, the glory of that day wis acquired,"
 
 134 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ascribing his success to Providence,* men 
 who have renounced all dependence upon 
 such a friend, without whose assistance 
 nothing can be done, threaten to drive the 
 French out of the sea, laugh at the Spaniards, 
 sneer at the Dutch, and are to carry the world 
 before them. Our enemies are apt to brag, 
 and we deride them for it ; but we can sing 
 as loud as they can, in the same key ; and no 
 doubt, wherever our papers go, shall be de- 
 rided in our turn. An Englishman's true 
 glory should be, to do his business well and 
 say little about it ; but he disgraces himself 
 when he puffs his prowess, as if he had fin- 
 ished his task, when he has but just begun it. 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jiuie 12, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Every extraordinary oc- 
 currence in our lives affords us an opportu- 
 nity to learn, if we will, something more of our 
 own hearts and tempers than we were before 
 aware of. It is easy to promise ourselves 
 beforehand that our conduct shall be wise, or 
 moderate, or resolute, on any given occasion. 
 But when that occasion occurs, we do not 
 always find it easy to make good the promise : 
 such a difference there is between theory and 
 practice. Perhaps this is no new remark : 
 but it is not a whit the worse for being old, 
 if it be true. 
 
 Before I had published, I said to myself — 
 you and I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern our- 
 selves much about what the critics may say 
 of our book. But, having once sent my wits 
 for a venture, I soon became anxious about 
 the issue, and found that I could not be satis- 
 fied with a warm place in my own good 
 graces, unless my friends were pleased with 
 me as much as I pleased myself. Meeting 
 with their approbation, I began to feel the 
 workings of ambition. It is well, said I, that 
 my friends are pleased ; but friends are some- 
 times partial, and mine, I have reason to think, 
 are not altogether free from bias. Methinks 
 I should like to hear a stranger or two speak 
 well of me. I was presently gratified by the 
 approbation of the " London Magazine" and 
 the " Gentleman's," particularly by that of 
 the former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Frank- 
 lin. By the way, magazines are publications 
 we have but little respect for till we ourselves 
 are chronicled in them, and then they assume 
 an importance in our esteem which before we 
 could not allow them. But the " Monthly 
 Review," the most formidable of all my 
 judges, is still behind What will that criti- 
 
 * Lord Rodney's despatc) es commenced in the follow- 
 ing words : " It has pleased God, out of his Divine Provi- 
 dence, to grant to his Majesty's arms," fee. This was 
 more religious than the nation at that time could tolerate. 
 Lord Nelson afterwards was the tirst British Admiral 
 that adopted the same language. 
 
 cal RJ^adamanthus say, when my shivering 
 genius shall appear before him ] Still he 
 keeps me in hot water, and I must wait an- 
 other montli for his award. Alas ! when I 
 wish for a favorable sentence from that quar- 
 ter (to confess a weakness that I should not 
 confess to all,) I feel myself not a little in- 
 fluenced by a tender regard to my reputation 
 here, even among my neighbors at Olney. 
 Here are watchmakers, who themselves are 
 wits, and who at present, perliaps think me 
 one. Here is a carpenter, and a baker, and 
 not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. 
 
 , whose smile is ftime. AH these read 
 
 the "Monthly Review," and all these will 
 set me down for a dunce, if those terrifble 
 critics should show them the example. But 
 oh! wherever else I am accounted dull, dear 
 Mr. Griffith, let me pass for a genius at 
 Olney. 
 
 We are sorry for little William's illness. 
 It is, however, the privilege of infancy to re- 
 cover almost immediately what it has lost 
 
 by sickness. We are sorry too for Mr. 's 
 
 dangerous condition. But he that is well 
 prepared for the great journey cannot enter 
 on it too soon for himself, though his friends 
 will weep at his departure. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 The immediate success of his first volume 
 was very far from being equal to its extraor- 
 dinary merit. For some time it seemed to 
 be neglected by the public, although the first 
 poem in the collection contains such a pow- 
 erful image of its author as might be thought 
 sufficient not only to excite attention but to 
 secure attachment : for Cowper had unde- 
 signedly executed a masterly portrait of him- 
 self in describing the true poet : we allude to 
 the following verses in " Table Talk." 
 
 Nature, exerting an unwearied power, 
 Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ; 
 Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leada 
 The dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads: 
 She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
 With music, modulating all their notes ; [known, 
 And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds un- 
 With artless airs and concerts of her own ; 
 Bur seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
 Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 
 Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought. 
 Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought: 
 Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 
 Brings colors, dipt in heaven, that never die ; 
 A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
 Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 
 And, as the sun in rising beauty drest 
 Looks from the dappled orient to the west, 
 And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
 Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close— 
 An eye like his to catch the distant goal — 
 Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
 Like his to shed illuminating rays 
 On every scene and subject it surveys : 
 Thus grac'd. the man asserts a poet's name, 
 And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 139 
 
 The concluding lines may be considered 
 as an omen of that celebrity which such a 
 writer, in the process of time, could not fail 
 tc obtain. How just a subject of surprise 
 and admiration is it, to beliold an author 
 starting under such a load of disadvantages, 
 and displaying on the sudden such a variety 
 of excellence ! For, neglected as it was for 
 a few years, the first volume of Cowper exliib- 
 its such a diversity of poetical powers as have 
 very rarely indeed been known to be united 
 in the same individual. He is not only great 
 in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he 
 is equally admirable in wit and humor. Af- 
 ter descanting most copiously on sacred sub- 
 jects, witii the animation of a propliet and 
 tiie simplicity of an aj)ostle, iie paints the j 
 ludicrous characters of conmiou life witii tlie I 
 comic force of a Moliere, particularly in his 
 poem on Conversation, and his exquisite por- 
 trait of a fretful temper; a piece of moral 
 painting so highly tinished and so happily cal- 
 culated to promote good humor, that a tran- 
 
 script of the verses cannot but interest the 
 reader. 
 
 Some fretful tempers wince at every touch ; 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain : 
 You fall at once into a lower key ; 
 That 's worse the drone-pipe of an humble bee ! 
 The southern sash admits too strong a light ; 
 You rise and drop the curtain : — now it's night. 
 He shakes with cold ; — you stir the fire and strive 
 To make a blaze : — that 's roasting him alive. 
 Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish ; 
 With sole, that's just the sort he would ^o( 
 
 wish. 
 He takes what he at first profess'd to loath ; 
 And in due time teeds heartily on both ; 
 Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
 Himself should work that wonder, if he can. 
 Alas ! his eflbrts double his distress ; 
 He likes yours little and his own still less. 
 Thus, always teazing others, always teaz'd, 
 His only pleasure is — to be displeas'd. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Mr. Bull, to whom the. following poetical 
 epistle is addressed, has already been mention- 
 ed as the person who suggested to Cowper 
 the translation of Madame Guion's Hymns. 
 Cowper used to say of him, that he was the 
 master of a fine imagination, or, rather, that 
 he was not master of it. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLLA.M BULL.* 
 
 Oliioy, June S!2, 17S2. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 If reading verse be your delight, 
 'Tis mine as much, or more, to write; 
 But what we would, so weak is man, 
 Lies oft remote from what we can. 
 For instance, at this very time, 
 I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme, 
 To soothe my friend, and had I power, 
 To cheat him of an anxious liour; 
 Not meaning (for I must confess, 
 It were but folly to suppress ) 
 His pleasure or his good alone. 
 But squinting partly at my own. 
 But though the sun is flaming high 
 r th' centre of yon arch, the sky. 
 And he had once (and who but hel) 
 The name for setting genius free ; 
 Yet whether poets of past days 
 Yielileil him undeserved praise, 
 And he by no uncommon lot 
 Wiis famed for virtues he had not; 
 Or whether, which is like enough, 
 His Highness may have taken huff, 
 
 * Private correspoudence. 
 
 So seldom sought with invocation. 
 
 Since it has been the reigning fashion 
 
 To disregard his inspiration, 
 
 I seem no brighter in my wits, 
 
 For all the radiance he emits, 
 
 Than if I saw through midnight vapor 
 
 The glimm'ring of a farthing taper. 
 
 O for a succedaneum, then, 
 
 T' accelerate a creeping pen, 
 
 O for a ready succedaneum, 
 
 Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium 
 
 Pondere liberet exoso, 
 
 Et morbo jam caliginoso ! 
 
 'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd 
 
 With best tobacco, finely mill'd, 
 
 Beats all Anticyra's pretences 
 
 To disengage the encumber'd senses. 
 
 O Nymph of Transatlantic fame, 
 Where'er thine haunt, whate'cr thy name 
 Whether reposing on the side 
 Of Oroono(pio's spacious tide, 
 Or list'ning with delight not small 
 To Niagara's distant fall, 
 'Tis thine to cherish and to feed 
 The pungent nose-refreshing weed, 
 Which, whether, pulverized it gain 
 A speedy passage to the brain, 
 Or, whether touch'd with fire, it rise 
 In circling eddies to the skies, 
 Does thought more quicken and refine 
 Than all the breath of all the Nine- 
 Forgive the Bard, if Bard be he. 
 Who once too wantonly made free 
 To touch with a satiric wipe 
 That symbol of thy power, the pipe ;
 
 So may no blight infest thy plains, 
 
 And no unseasonable rains. 
 
 And so may smiling Peace once more 
 
 Visit America's sad shore ; 
 
 And thou secure from all alarms 
 
 Of thund'ring drums and glitt'ring arms, 
 
 Rove unconlined beneath the shade 
 
 Thy wide-expanded leaves have made ; 
 
 So may thy votaries increase, 
 
 And fumigation never cease. 
 
 May Newton, with renew'd delights, 
 
 Perform thine odorif rous rites 
 
 While clouds of incense half divine 
 
 Involve thy disappearing shrine ; 
 
 And so may smoke-inhaling Bull 
 
 Be always filling, never full. 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Ohiey, .July Ifi, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Though some people 
 pretend to be clever in the way of propheti- 
 cal forecast, and to have a peculiar talent of 
 sagacity, by which they can divine the meaning 
 of a providential dispensation while its conse- 
 quences are yet in embryo, I do not. There 
 is at this time to be found, I suppose, in the 
 cabinet, and in both houses, a greater assem- 
 blage of able men, both as speakers and 
 counsellors, than ever were contemporary in 
 the same land. A man not accustomed to 
 trace the workings of Providence, as record- 
 ed in Scripture, and that has given no atten- 
 tion to this particular subject, while employed 
 in the study of profane history, would assert 
 boldly, that it is a token for good, that much 
 may be expected from them, and that the 
 country, though heavily afflicted, is not yet 
 to be despaired of, distinguished as she is by 
 so many characters of the highest class. Thus 
 he would say, and I do not deny that the 
 event might justify his skill in prognostics. 
 God works by means : and, in a case of great 
 national perplexity and distress, wisdom and 
 political ability seem to be the • only natural 
 means of deliverance. But a mind more re- 
 ligiously inclined, and perhaps a little tinc- 
 tured with melancholy, might with equal prob- 
 ability of success hazard a conjecture di- 
 rectly opposite. Alas I what is the wisdom 
 of man, especially when he trusts in it as the 
 only god of his confidence ? When I con- 
 sider the general contempt that is poured 
 upon all things sacred, the profusion, the dis- 
 sipation, the knavish cunning, of some, the 
 rapacity of others, and the impenitence of all, 
 I am rather inclined to fear that God, who 
 honors himself by bringing human glory to 
 shame, and by disappointing the expectations 
 of those whose trust is in creatures, has sig- 
 nalized the present day as a day of much hu- 
 man sufficiency and strength, has brought 
 together from all quarters of the land the 
 most illustrious men to be found in it, only 
 that he may prove the vanity of idols, and 
 
 that, when a great empire is falling, and he 
 has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it. 
 the inhabitants, be they weak or strong, wise 
 or foolisii, must fall with it. I am rather con- 
 firmed in this persuasion by observing that 
 these luminaries of the state had no sooner 
 fixed themselves in the political heaven, than 
 the fall of the brightest of them shook all 
 the rest. The ardi of their power was no 
 sooner struck than the key-stone slipped out 
 of its place, those that were closest in con- 
 nexion with it followed, and the wiiole build- 
 ing, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. 
 If a man should hold this language, who 
 could convict him of absurdity? The Alar- 
 quis of Rockingham is minister — all the world 
 rejoices, anticipating success in war and a 
 glorious peace. The Marquis of Rocking- 
 ham is dead — all the world is afflicted, and 
 relapses into its former despondence. What 
 does this prove, but that the Marquis was 
 their Almighty, and that, now he is gone, they 
 know no other? But let us wait a little, 
 they will find another. Perhaps the Duke of 
 
 Portland, or perhaps the unpopular , 
 
 whom they now represent as a devil, may ob- 
 tain that honor. Thus God is forgot, and 
 when he is, his judgments are generally his 
 remembrancers. 
 
 How shall I comfort you i^on the subject 
 of your present distress? Pardon me that I 
 find myself obliged to smile at it, because, 
 who but yourself would be distressed upon 
 such an occasion? You have behaved po- 
 litely, and, like a gentleman, you have hos- 
 pitably offered your house to a stranger, who 
 could not, in your neighborhood at least, have 
 been comfortably accommodated anywhere 
 else. Pie, by neither refusing nor accepting 
 an offer that did hira too much honor, has 
 disgraced himself, but not you. I think for 
 the future you must be more cautious of lay- 
 ing yourself open to a stranger, and never 
 again expose yourself to incivilities from an 
 archdeacon you are not acquainted with. 
 
 Though I did not mention it, I felt with 
 you what you suffered by the loss of Miss 
 ; I was only silent because I could min- 
 ister no consolation to you on such a subject, 
 but what I knew your mind to be already 
 stored with. Indeed, the application of com- 
 fort in such cases is a nice business, and per- 
 haps when best managed might as well be 
 let alone. I remember reading many years 
 ago a long treatise on the subject of conso- 
 lation, written in French, the author's name I 
 forgot, but I wrote these words in the mar- 
 gin. Special consolation! at least for a 
 Frenchman, who is a creature the most easily 
 comforted of any in the world ! 
 
 We are as happy in Lady Austen, and she 
 in us, as ever — having a lively imagination, 
 and being passionately diisirous of consolida- 
 ting all into one family (for she has taken
 
 her leave of London), she has just sprung a 
 project which serves at least to amuse us and 
 to make us laugli ; it is to hire Mr. Small's 
 house, on the top of Clifton-iiiU, which is 
 large, commodious, and handsome, will hold 
 us conveniently, and any friends wiio may 
 occasionally favor us with a visit ; the house 
 is furnished, but, if it can be hired without 
 the furniture, will let for a trifle — your sen- 
 timents if you please upon this demarche ! 
 
 I send you n-y last frank — our best love 
 attends you individually and all togetlier. I 
 give you joy of a happy change in the season, 
 and myself also. 1 have iilled four sides in 
 less time than two would have cost me a 
 week ago; sucli is the effect of sunshine 
 upon such a butterfly as I am. 
 
 Yours. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 3, 1782. 
 My dear Friend, — Entertaining some hope 
 that Mr. Newton's no.\t letter would furnish 
 me witli the means of satisfying your iii([uiry 
 on the subject of Dr. Jolmson's opinion, 1 
 have till now delayed my answer to your 
 last; but the information is not yet come, 
 Mr. Newton having intermitted a week more 
 than usual, since his last writing. When I 
 receive it, fiivorable or not, it shall be com- 
 municated to you ; but I am not over-san- 
 guine in my expectations from that quarter. 
 Very learned and very critical iieads are hard 
 to please. He may perhaps treat me with 
 lenity for the sake of the subject and design, 
 but the composition, I think, will hardly es- 
 cape ills censure. But tiiougii all doctors 
 may not be of the same mind, there is one 
 doctor at least, whom I have lately discovered, 
 my professed aduiircr.* He too, like John- 
 sou, was with dithculty persuaded to read, 
 having an aversion to all poetry, except the 
 " Nigiit Thoughts," which, on a certain occa- 
 sion, wlien being conhned on board a ship 
 he had no otiier employment, he got by Iieart. 
 He was however prevailed upon, and read me 
 several times over, so that if my volume had 
 sailed with him instead of Dr. Young's, I 
 perhaps migiit have occupied tliat shelf in his 
 memory whicii he then allotted to the Doctor. 
 It is a sort of paradox, but it is true : we 
 are never more in danger than when we think 
 ourselves most secure, nor in reality more 
 secure than v.'hen we seem to be most in 
 danger. Both sides of this apparent contra- 
 di:tion were lately verified in my experience : 
 passing from the greenhouse to the barn, I 
 saw three kittens (for we iiave so many in 
 our retinue) looking with fixed attention on 
 something which lay on the threshold of a 
 door nailed up. I took but little notice of 
 * Dr. Franklin. 
 
 them at first, but a loud hiss engaged me to 
 attend more closely, when behold — a viper! 
 the largest that I remember to have seen, 
 rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and 
 ejaculating the aforesaid hiss at the nose of a 
 kitten, almost in contact with his lips. I ran 
 into the hall for a hoe with a long handle, 
 with which I intended to assail him, and re- 
 turning in a few seconds, missed him : he 
 was gone, and I feared had escaped me. Still, 
 however, the kitten sat watching immoveably 
 on tlie same spot. I concluded, therefore, that 
 sliding between the door and the threshold, 
 he had found his way out of the garden into 
 the yard. I went round immediately, and 
 there found him in close conversation with 
 the old cat, whose curiosity being excited by 
 so novel an appearance, inclined her to pat 
 his head repeatedly with her fore foot, with 
 her claws however sheatiied, and not in anger, 
 but in the way of philosophic inquiry and ex- 
 amination. To prevent lier falling a victim 
 to so laudable an exercise of her talents, I 
 interposed in a moment with the hoe, and 
 performed upon him an act of decapitation, 
 which, though not immediately mortal, proved 
 so in the end. Had he slid into the passages, 
 where it is dark, or had he, when in the yard, 
 met with no interruption from the cat, and 
 secreted himself in any of the out-houses, it 
 is hardly possible but that some of the family 
 must have been bitten ; he might have been 
 trodden upon without being perceived, and 
 have slipped away before the sufferer could 
 have distinguished what foe had wounded 
 him. Three years ago we discovered one in 
 the same place, which the barber slew with 
 a trowel. 
 
 Our proposed removal to Mr. Small's was, 
 as you may suppose, a jest, or rather a joco- 
 serious matter. We never looked upon it as 
 entirely feasible, yet we saw in it something 
 so like»practicabiiity that we did not esteem 
 it altogether unworthy of our attention. It 
 was one of those projects which people of 
 lively imaginations play with and admire for 
 a few days, and then break in pieces. Lady 
 Austen returned on Thursday from London, 
 where she spent the last fortnight, and 
 whither she was called by an unexpected op- 
 portunity to dispose of the remainder of her 
 lease. She has therefore no longer any con- 
 nexion with the great city, and no house but 
 at Olney. Her abode is to be at the vicarage, 
 where siie has hired as much room as she 
 wants, whicii she will embellish with her own 
 furniture, and which she will occupy as soon 
 as tlie minister's wife has produced another 
 child, which is expected to make its entry in 
 October. 
 
 Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of New- 
 port, a learned, ingenious, good-natured, pious 
 friend of ours, who sometimes visits us, and 
 whom we visited last week, put into my 
 
 I
 
 138 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 hands three volumes of French poetry, com- 
 posed by Madame Guion — a quietist, say 
 you, and a fanatic, I will have nothing to do 
 with her. — 'Tis very well, you are welcome 
 to have nothing to do with her, but, in the 
 meantime, her verse is the only French verse 
 I ever read that I found agreeable ; there is a 
 neatness in it equal to that which we applaud, 
 with so much reason, in the compositions of 
 Prior. I have translated several of them, 
 and shall proceed in my translations till I 
 have filled a Lilliputian paper-book I happen 
 to have by me, which, when filled, I shall pre- 
 sent to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate ad- 
 mirer ; rode twenty miles to see her picture 
 in the house of a stranger, which stranger 
 politely insisted on his acceptance of it, and 
 it now hangs over his chimney. It is a strik- 
 ing portrait, too characteristic not to be a 
 strong resemblance, and, were it encompassed 
 with a glory, instead of being dressed in a 
 
 nun's hood, 
 angel. 
 
 might 
 
 pass for the face of an 
 
 Yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 To this letter we annex a very lively lusus 
 poeticus from the pen of Cowper, on the sub- 
 ject mentioned in the former part of the pre- 
 
 ceding letter. 
 
 THE COLUBRIAD. 
 
 Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast, 
 
 Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. 
 
 I, passing swift and inattentive by, 
 
 At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; [there, 
 
 Not much concerned to know what they did 
 
 Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 
 
 But presently a loud and furious hiss 
 
 Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, '• What's this 1" 
 
 When, lo ! upon the threshold met my view, 
 
 With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 
 
 A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 
 
 Forth from his head his Ibrked tongue he throws. 
 
 Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 
 
 Who, having never seen, in field or housfe. 
 
 The nice, sat still and silent as a mouse : 
 
 Only projecting, with attention due, [you "?" 
 
 Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are 
 
 On to the hall went I, with pace not slow. 
 
 But swift as lightning, lor a long Dutch hoe : 
 
 With which well arm'd I hastened to the spot, 
 
 To find the viper, but I found him not. 
 
 And turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 
 
 Found only — that he was not to be found. 
 
 But still the kittens, sitting as before. 
 
 Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 
 
 " I hope," said I, "the vidian I would kill 
 
 Has slipt between the door and the door's sill ; 
 
 And, if I make despatch and Ibllow hard, 
 
 No doubt but I shall find him in the yard ;" 
 
 For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 
 
 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
 
 Ev'n there I found him, there the full-grown cat 
 
 His head with velvet paw did gently pat : "' 
 
 As curious as the kittens erst had been 
 
 To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
 
 Fill'd with heroic ardor at the sight, 
 
 And fearing every moment he would bite, 
 
 And rob our household of our only cat, 
 That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
 With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, 
 And taught him never to come there no more. 
 
 Lady Austen became a tenant of the vi- 
 carage at Olney. When Mr. Newton occu- 
 pied that parsonage, he had opened a door in 
 the garden-wall, which admitted him in the 
 most commodious manner to visit the se- 
 questered poet, who resided in the next 
 house. Lady Austen had the advantage of 
 this easy intercourse ; and so captivating was 
 her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. 
 Unwin, that these intimate neighbors might 
 be almost said to make one family, as it be- 
 came their custom to dine always together, 
 alternately in the houses of the two ladies. 
 
 The musical talents of Lady Austen in- 
 duced Cowper to write a few songs of pecu- 
 liar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular 
 airs that she was accustomed to play on the 
 harpsichord. We insert three of these, as 
 proofs that, even in his hours of social 
 amusement, the poet loved to dwell on ideas 
 of tender devotion and pathetic solemnity. 
 
 SONG written in THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THK 
 REaUEST OF LADY AUSTEN. 
 
 Air — " My fond shepherds of late," Sic. 
 
 No longer I follow a sound ; 
 No longer a dream I pursue : 
 
 happiness ! not to be found, 
 Unattaiuable treasure, adieu ! 
 
 1 have sought thee in splendor and dress, 
 
 In the regions of pleasure and taste ; 
 
 I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess 
 
 But have proved thee a vision at last. 
 
 An humble ambition and hope 
 
 The voice of true wisdom inspires ! 
 
 'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope 
 And the summit of all our desires. 
 
 Peace may be the lot of the mind 
 That seeks it in meekness and love ; 
 
 But rapture and bliss are confined 
 To the glorified spirits above ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air — " The lass of Pattie's mill." 
 
 When all within is peace. 
 
 How nature seems to smile ! 
 Delights that never cease, 
 
 The live-long day beguile. 
 From morn to dewy eve. 
 
 With open hand she showers 
 Fresh blessings to deceive 
 
 And soothe the silent hours. 
 
 It is content of heart 
 
 Gives Nature power to please ; 
 The mind that feels no smart 
 
 EnHvens all it sees ; 
 Can make a wint'ry sky 
 
 Seem bright as smiling May 
 And evening's closing eye 
 
 As peep of early day.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 13» 
 
 The vast majestic globe, 
 
 So beauteously array'd 
 In Nature's various robe, 
 
 With wond'rous skill display'd, 
 Is to a mourner's heart 
 
 A dreary wild at best; 
 It flutters to depart, 
 
 And longs to be at rest. 
 
 The following song, adapted to the march 
 in Scipio, obtained too great a celebrity not 
 to merit insertion in this place. It relates to 
 the loss of the Royal George, the flag-ship 
 of Admiral Kempcnfelt, which went down 
 with nine hundred persons on board, (among 
 whom was Rear-Adrniral Kcmpenfelt,) at 
 Spithcad, August 29, 178-2. The song was 
 a favorite production of the poet's ; so much 
 so, tliat lie amused himself by translating it 
 into Latin verse. We take the version from 
 one of his subsequent letters, for the sake of 
 annexing it to the original. 
 
 SONG, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 The brave that are no more ! 
 All sunk beneath the wave, 
 
 Fast by their native sliore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave. 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel. 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 \ land-breeze shook the shrouds, 
 
 And she was overset ; 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Keuipenfelt is gone; 
 His last sea-fight is fought ; 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 She sprang no fatal leak ; 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath ; 
 
 His fingers held the pen, 
 
 When Kempentelt went down 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 t 
 
 Weigii the vessel up, 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 And mingle with our cup 
 
 The tear that ICiigland owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound. 
 
 And she may (loat again. 
 Full-charged witli Kiighmd's thunder, 
 
 And plough the distant main.* 
 
 But Kempcnfelt is gone. 
 
 His victories are oer ; 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 
 * Attempts Imve rccontly been made to rocovur this 
 vcss<_'l ; iinil snnio nf Uw i,'iiri3 have beon raised, and 
 found to be in excellent order. 
 
 IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, GUI GEORGIUS, REGALE 
 NOMEN, INDITUM. 
 
 Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes, 
 Patrium propter periere littus 
 Bis quater centum ; subito sub alto 
 jEquore mersi. 
 
 Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, 
 Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, 
 Cum levis, funes quatiens, ad imum 
 Depulit aura. 
 
 Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam 
 Fortibus vitam voluere parcte. 
 Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes 
 Ncctere laurus. 
 
 Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, 
 Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! 
 At tuos olim memorabit aevum 
 Omne triumphos. 
 
 Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, 
 Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, 
 Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox 
 Abstulit ensis. 
 
 Navitae sed tum nimium jocosi 
 Voce fallebant hilari laborem, 
 Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im- 
 pleverat heK>s. 
 
 Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
 Humidum ex alto spolium levate, 
 Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos 
 Reddite amicis ! 
 
 Hi quidem (sic diis placuit) fuere: 
 Sed ratis, nondiim putris, ire possit 
 Rursus in bellum, Britonumque nomen 
 Tollere ad astra. 
 
 Let the reader, who wishes to impress on 
 his mind a just idea of the variety and ex- 
 tent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast 
 this heroic ballad of exquisite pathos with 
 his diverting history of John Gilpin! 
 
 That admirable and highly popular piece 
 of pleasantry was composed at the period of 
 which we are now speaking. An elegant 
 and judicious writer, who has favored tlie 
 public with three interesting volumes relating 
 to tlie early poets of our country,* conjec- 
 tures, that a poem, written by the celebrated 
 Sir Thomas More in his youth, (the merry 
 jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have 
 suggested to Cowper his tale of Jolm Gilpin ; 
 but this singularly amusing ballad had a dif- 
 ferent origin ; and it is a very remarkable 
 fact, that, full of gayety and humor as this 
 favorite of the pnbli(>. has abundantly proved 
 itself to be, it was really composed at a time 
 when the spirit of the poet was very deeply 
 tinged with his depressive malady. It luip- 
 pened one afternoon, in those years when lii.s 
 accouiplislu'd friend, liady Austen, made a 
 partT)f his little evening circle, that she ob- 
 served him sinking into increasing dejection 
 
 * See Ellis's " Specimens of the early Ensjlish Poets, 
 with an hisloriciil sketch olthe rise and progress of Eng- 
 lish poetry and language."
 
 140 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 It was her custom on these occasions, to try 
 all the resources of her sprightly powers for 
 his immediate relief. She told him the story 
 of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in 
 her memory from her childhood) to dissipate 
 the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on 
 the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchant- 
 ment: he informed her the next morning, 
 that convulsions of laughter, brought on by 
 his recollection of her story, had kept him 
 waking during the greatest part of the night, 
 and that he had turned it into a ballad. — So 
 arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin. It 
 was eagerly cepied, and, finding its way rap- 
 idly to the newspapers, it was seized by the 
 lively spirit of Henderson the comedian, a 
 man, like the Yorick described by Shakspeare, 
 " of infinite jest and most excellent fancy." 
 By him it Vt'as selected as a proper subject for 
 the display of his own comic powers, and, by 
 reciting it in his public readings, he gave un- 
 common celebrity to the ballad, before the 
 public suspected to what poet they were in- 
 debted for the sudden burst of ludicrous 
 amusement. Many readers were astonished 
 when the poem made its first authentic ap- 
 pearance in the second volume of Cowper. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Sept. 6, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Yesterday, and not be- 
 fore, I received your letter, dated the 1 1th of 
 June, from the hands of Mr. Small. I should 
 have been happy to have known him sooner; 
 but whether being afraid of that horned mon- 
 ster, a Methodist, or whether from a principle 
 of delicacy, or deterred by a flood, which has 
 rolled for some weeks between Clifton and 
 Olney, I know not, — he has favored me only 
 with a taste of his company, and will leave 
 me on Saturday evening, to regret that our 
 acquaintance, so lately begun, must be so 
 soon suspended. He will dine with us that 
 day, which I reckon a fortunate circumstance, 
 as 1 shall have an opportunity to introduce 
 him to the liveliest and most entertaining 
 woman in the country.f I have seen him 
 but for half an hour, yet, without boasting of 
 much discernment, I see that he is polite, easy, 
 cheerful, and sensible. An old man thus 
 qualified, cannot fail to charm the lady in ques- 
 tion. As to his religion, I leave it — I am 
 neither his bishop nor his confessor. A man 
 of his character, and recommended by you, 
 would be welcome here, were he a Gentoo 
 or a Mahometan. 
 
 I learn from him that certain friends of 
 mine, whom I have been afraid to inouire 
 about by letter, are alive and well. Th *cur- 
 rent of twenty years has swept away so many 
 whom I once knew, that I doubted whether 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 t Lady Austen. 
 
 it might be advisable to send my love to yom 
 mother and your sisters. They may have 
 thought my silence strange, bu*, they hai«e 
 here the reason of it. Assure them of my 
 affectionate remembrance, and that nothing 
 would make me happier than to receive you 
 all in my greenhouse, your own Mrs. Hill 
 included. It is fronted with myrtles, and 
 lined with mats, and would just hold us, for 
 Mr. Small informs me ycmr dimensions are 
 much the same as usual. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 4, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You are too modest; 
 though your last consisted of three sides only, 
 I am certainly a letter in your debt. It is 
 possible that this present writing may prove 
 as short. Yet, short as it may be, it will be 
 a letter, and make me creditor, and you my 
 debtor. A letter, indeed, ought not to be 
 estimated by the length of it, but by the con- 
 tents, and how can the contents of any letter 
 be more agreeable than your last. 
 
 You tell me that John Gilpin made you 
 laugh tears, and that the ladies at court are 
 delighted with my poems. Much good may 
 they do them ! May they become as wise as 
 the writer wishes them, and they will be 
 much happier than he ! I know there is in 
 the book that wisdom which cometh from 
 above, because it was from above that I re- 
 ceived it. May they receive it too ! For, 
 whether they drink it out of the cistern, or 
 whether it falls upon them immediately from 
 the clouds, as it did on me, it is all one. It 
 is the water of life, \vhich whosoever drinketh 
 shall thirst no more. As to the famous horse- 
 man above mentioned, he and his feats are an 
 inexhaustible source of merriment. At least 
 we find him so, and seldom meet without re- 
 freshing ourselves with the recollection of 
 them. You are perfectly at liberty to deal 
 with them as you please. Auctore tantum 
 anonymo, imprhnantur ; and when printed 
 send me a copy. 
 
 I congratulate you on the discharge of your 
 duty and your conscience by the pains you 
 have taken for the relief of the priso«ers. — 
 You proceeded wisely, yet courageously, and 
 deserved better success. Your labors, how- 
 ever, will be remembered elsewhere, when 
 you shall be forgotten here ; and, if the poor 
 folks at Chelmsford should never receive the 
 benefit of them, you will yourself receive it 
 in heaven. It is pity that men of fortune 
 should be determined to acts of benefience, 
 sometimes by popular whim or prejudice, and 
 sometimes by motives still more unworthy. 
 The liberal subscription, raised in beiialf of 
 the widows of seamen lost in the Royal
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 141 
 
 George was au instanee of the former. At 
 least a plain, short and sensible letter in the 
 newspaper, eonvinced me at the time tiiat it 
 was au unnecessary and injudicious collec- 
 tion: and tlie diUiculty you found in etfecLu- 
 aling your benevolent inlentioiis on this occa- 
 sion, consti'ains me to think that, had it been 
 an atiiiir of more notoriety than merely to fur- 
 nisli a few poor fellows with a little fuel to 
 preserve tlieir extremilies from the frost, you 
 would have succeeded better. 3Ien really 
 pious delight in doing good by stealth. But 
 noihing less than an oslentaiious display of 
 bounly will satisfy mankind in general. I 
 feel myself disposed to furnish you Vv'ith an 
 opportunity to shine in secret. We do what 
 we can. liut that can is little. You have 
 ricli friends, are eloquent on all occasions, 
 and know how to be pathetic on a proper one. 
 The winter will be severely felt at Oiney by 
 many, whose sobriety, industry, and honesty, 
 recommended them lo charitable notice; and 
 we think we could tell sucii persons as Mr. 
 , or JMr. , half a dozen tales of dis- 
 tress, that would tind their way into hearts as 
 feeling as theirs. Vou will do as you see 
 good ; and we in tiie meantime shall remain 
 convinced that you will do your best. Lady 
 Austen will, no doubt, do something, for she 
 has great sensibility aud compassion. 
 
 Yours, my dear Unwin, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 
 
 OIney, Nov. .'5, lT8;i. 
 Charissime Tauroruin — 
 
 Q,uot sunt, vel luerunt, vel posthac aliis crunt in 
 annis, 
 
 We shall rejoice to see you, and I just write 
 to tell you so. VVhaiever else 1 want, 1 
 have, at least, this quality in common with 
 publicans and sinners, that I love those that 
 love me, and for tliat reason, you in particular. 
 Your warm and alfcctionate maiuier demands 
 it of me. And, though 1 consider your love 
 as growing out of a mistaken expectation that 
 you shall see me a spiritual man hereafter, I 
 do not love you inucli the less for it. I only 
 regret liiat 1 did not know yon intimately ni 
 those happier days, wlien the frame of my 
 heart and mind was such as migiit have made 
 a connexion with me not altogether unworthy 
 of you. 
 
 1 add only Mrs. Unwin's remembrances, 
 and that 1 am glad you believe me to be, 
 what 1 truly am, 
 
 Your faithful and aftbetionate, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olnc.v, Nov. 11, 1782. 
 My dear Friend, — Y'our shocking scrawl, 
 * Private correspoiiUeuce. 
 
 as you term it, was however a very welcome 
 one. The character indeed has not quite the 
 neatness and beauty of an enoTaving; but 
 if it cost me some pains to decipher it, they 
 were well rewarded by the minute informa- 
 tion it conveyed. I am glad your health is 
 such that you have nothing more to complain 
 of than may be expected on the down-hill 
 side of life. If mine is better than yours, it 
 is to be attributed, I suppose, principally to 
 the constant enjoyment of country air and 
 retirement; the most perfect regularity in 
 matters of eating, drinking, and sleeping ; and 
 a happy emancipation from everything that 
 wears the face of business. 1 lead the life I 
 always wished for, and, the single circum- 
 stance of dependence excepted, (which, be- 
 tween ourselves, is very contrary to my pre- 
 dominant humor and disposition,) have no 
 want left broad enough for another wish to 
 stand upon. 
 
 You may not, perhaps, live to see your 
 trees attain to the dignity of timber : I never- 
 theless approve of your planting, and the dis- 
 interested spirit that prompts you to it. Few 
 people plant when they are young; a thou- 
 sand other less profitable amusements divert 
 their attention ; and most people, when the 
 date of youth is once expired, tiiink it too late 
 to begin. I can tell you, however, for your 
 comfort and encouragement, that when a 
 grove which Major Cowper had planted was 
 of eighteen years' growth, it was no small 
 ornament to his grounds, and afforded as 
 complete a shade as could be desired. Were 
 I as old as your mother, in whose longevity 
 I rqoice, and the more because I consider it 
 as in some sort a pledge and assurance of 
 yours, and should come to the possession of 
 land worth planting, I would begin to-inor- 
 row, and even without previously insisting 
 upon a bond from Providence that I should 
 live five years longer. 
 
 I saw last week a gentleman who was 
 lately at Hastings. I asked him where he 
 
 lodged. lie replied at P "s. I next in- 
 
 (pnied after the poor man's wife, whether 
 alive or dead. He answered, dead. So then, 
 said I, she has scolded her last ; and a sensi- 
 ble old man will go down to his grave in 
 
 pence. Mr. P , to be sure, is ol' no great 
 
 consequence either to you or to me ; but, 
 iiaving so fair an opportunity to inform my- 
 self about him, I could not neglect it. It 
 gives me pleasure to learn somewliat of a 
 man I knew a little of so many years since, 
 and for that reason merely I mention the cir- 
 cumstance to you. 
 
 1 find a single expression in your letter 
 which needs correction. You say I carel'ully 
 avoid paying you a visit at Wargrave. Not 
 so ; but connected as I happily am, and rooted 
 where I am, and not having travelled these 
 twenty years — being besides of an indoleut
 
 142 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 temper, and having spirits that cannot bear a 
 bustle — all these are so many insuperables in 
 the way. They are not however in yours; 
 and if you and Mrs. Hill will make the ex- 
 periment, you shall find yourselves as wel- 
 come here, both to me and to Mrs. Unwin, as 
 it is possible you can be anywhere. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ."^ 
 
 Olney, Nov., 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am to thank you for a 
 very fine cod, which came most opportunely 
 to make a figure on our table, on an occa- 
 sion that made him singularly welcome. I 
 write, and you send me a fish. This is very 
 well, but not altogether what I want. I 
 wish to hear from you, because the fish, 
 though he serves to convince me that you 
 have me still in remembrance, says not a 
 word of those that sent him ; and, with re- 
 spect to your and Mrs. Hill's health, pros- 
 perity, and happiness, leaves me as much in 
 the dark as before. You are aware, like- 
 wise, that where there is an exchange of let- 
 ters it is much easier to write. But I know 
 the multiplicity of your affixirs, and therefore 
 perform my part of the correspondence as 
 well as I can, convinced that you would not 
 omit yours, if you could help it. 
 
 Three days since I received a note from 
 old Mr. Small, which was more than civil — 
 it was warm and friendly. The good vet- 
 eran excuses himself for not calling upon 
 me, on account of the feeble state in which 
 a fit of the gout had left him. He tells me 
 however that he has seen Mrs. Hill, and 
 your improvements at Wargrave, which will 
 soon become an ornament to the place. May 
 they, and may you both live long to enjoy 
 them ! I shall be sensibly mortified if the 
 season and his gout together should deprive 
 me of the pleasure of receiving him here ; 
 for he is a man much to my taste, and quite 
 an unique in this country. 
 
 jMy eyes are in general better than I re- 
 member them to have been since I first opened 
 them upon this sublunary stage, which is 
 now a little more than half a century ago. 
 We are growing old ; but this is between 
 ourselves: the world knows nothing of the 
 matter. Mr. Small tells me you look much 
 as you did ; and as for me, being grown rather 
 plump, the ladies tell me I am as young as 
 ever. Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 18, 1782. 
 
 My dear William, — On the part of the 
 poor, and on our part, be pleased to make 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 acknowledgements, such as the occasion calls 
 
 for, to our beneficent friend, Mr. . I 
 
 call him ours, because, having experienced 
 his kindness to myself, in a former instance, 
 and in the present his disinterested readiness 
 to succor the distressed, my ambition will 
 be satisfied with nothing less. He may de- 
 pend upon the strictest secrecy ; no creature 
 shall hear him mentioned, either now or 
 hereafter, as the person from whom we have 
 received this bounty. But when I speak of 
 him, or hear him spoken of by others, which 
 sometimes happens, I shall not forget what 
 is due to so rare a character. I wish, and 
 your mother wishes too, that he could some- 
 times take us in his way to : he will 
 
 find us happy to receive a person whom we 
 must needs account it an honor to know. 
 We shall exercise our best discretion in the 
 disposal of the morey ; but in this town, 
 where the gospel has been preached so many 
 years, where the people have been tavored 
 so long with laborious and conscientious 
 ministers, it is not an easy thing to find 
 those who make no profession of religion at 
 all, and are yet proper objects of charity. 
 The profane are so profane, so drunken, dis- 
 solute, and in every respect worthless, that 
 to make them partakers of his bounty would 
 be to abuse it. We promise, however, that 
 none shall touch it but such as are miserably 
 poor, yet at the same time industrious and 
 honest, two characters frequently united here, 
 where the most watchful and unremitting 
 labor will hardly procure them bread. We 
 make none but the cheapest laces, and the 
 price of them is tiillen almost to nothing. 
 Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and 
 are hereby accordingly rendered, for waiving 
 your claim in behalf of your own parishion- 
 ers. You are always with them, and they 
 are always, at least some of them, the better 
 for your residence among them. Olney is a 
 populous place, inhabited chiefly by the half- 
 starved and the ragged of the earth, and it is 
 not possible for our small party and small 
 ability to extend their operations so far as to 
 be much felt among such numbers. Accept, 
 therefore, your share of their gratitude, and 
 be convinced that, when they pray for a 
 blessing upon those who relieved their wants, 
 he that answers that prayer, and when he 
 answers it, will remember his servant at 
 Stock. 
 
 I little thought when I was writing the 
 history of John Gilpin, that he would appear 
 in print — I intenaed to laugh, and to make 
 two or three others laugh, of whom you 
 were one. But now all the world laugh, at 
 least if they have the same relish for a tale 
 ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we 
 have. Well, they do not always laugh so 
 innocently, and at so small an expense, for 
 in a world like this, abounding with subjects
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 143 
 
 for satire, and with satirical wits to mark 
 them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least 
 the grace of novelty to recommend it. Swift's 
 darhng motto was, Vive la bagalelle! a good 
 wish for a philosopher of his complexion, 
 the greater part of whose wisdom, whence- 
 soever it came, most certainly came not from 
 above. La bagatelle has no enemy in me, 
 thougl\ it has neither so warm a friend nor 
 so able a one as it had in him. If I trifle, 
 and merely trifle, it is because I am reduced 
 to it by necessity — a melancholy tliat noth- 
 ing else so etfectually disperses engages me 
 sometimes in the arduous task of being mer- 
 ry by force. And, strange as it may seem, 
 the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have 
 been written in tlie saddest mood, and but 
 for tliat saddest mood, perhaps, had never 
 been written at all. 
 
 I hear from Mrs. Newton that some great 
 persons have spoken with great approbation 
 of a certain book — who they are, and wliat 
 titey have said, I am to be told in a future 
 letter. Tlie Montiily Reviewers, in the mean- 
 time, have satisfied me well enough. 
 Yours, my dear William, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 ]\ry dear William, — Dr. Beattie is a re- 
 spectable character.* 1 account him a man 
 of sense, a philosopher, a scholar, a person 
 of distinguished genius, and a good writer. 
 I believe him too a Christian; with a pro- 
 found reverence for the scripture, with great 
 zeal and ability to enforce the belief of it, 
 botii w!iieh he e.xerts with the candor and 
 good manners of a gentleman: he seems 
 well entitled to that allowance: and to deny 
 it him, would impeach one's right to the ap- 
 pellation. With all these good things to 
 recommend him, there can be no dearth of 
 sufficient reasons to read his writings. You 
 favored me some years since with one of his 
 volumes ; by which 1 was both pleased and 
 instructed : and I beg you will send me 
 the new one, when you can conveniently 
 spare it, or rather bring it yourself, while 
 the swallows are yet upon the wing: for the 
 summer is going down apace. 
 
 You tell me you have been asked, if I am 
 intent upon another volume? I reply, not 
 at present, not being convinced tliat 1 have 
 met with sufticient encouragement. I ac- 
 count myself happy in having pleased a few, 
 but am not rich enougii to despise the many. 
 I do not know what sort of market my com- 
 modity has found, but, if a slack one, I must 
 beware how I make a second attempt. My 
 bookseller will not be willing to incur a cer- 
 tain loss ; and I can as little aflbrd it. Not- 
 tvithstanding what I have said, I write, and 
 * The well-known author of " The Minstrel." 
 
 am even now writing, for the press. I told 
 vou that I had translated several of the 
 ipoems of Madame Guion. I told you too, 
 or I am mistakeu, that Mr. Bull designed to 
 print them. That gentleman is gone to the 
 sea-side with Mrs. WilberftH-ce, and will be 
 absent six weeks. My intention is to sur- 
 prise him at his return with the addition of 
 as much more translation as I have already 
 given him. This, hovi^ever, is still less likely 
 to be a popular work than my former. Men 
 that have no religion would despise it ; and 
 men that have no religious experience would 
 not understand it. But the strain of simple 
 and unatfected piety in the original is sweet 
 beyond expression. She sings like an angel, 
 and for that very reason has found but few 
 admirers. Other things I write too, as you 
 will see on the other side, but these merely 
 for my amusement.* 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON.f 
 
 Oliioy, Nov. 23, 17g2. 
 My dear Madam, — Accept my thanks for 
 the trouble you take in vending my poems, 
 and still more for the interest you take in 
 their success. My authorship is undoubt- 
 edly pleased, when I hear that they are ap- 
 proved either by the great or the small ; but 
 to be approved by the great, as Horace ob- 
 served many years ago, is fame indeed. Hav- 
 ing met v,-ith encouragement, I consequently 
 wish to write again ; but wishes are a very 
 small part of the qualifications necessary for 
 such a purpose. Many a man, who has suc- 
 ceeded tolerably well in his first attempt, 
 has spoiled all by the second. But it just 
 occurs to me that I told you so once before, 
 and, if ray memory had served me with the 
 intelligence a minute sooner, I would not 
 have repeated the observation now. 
 
 The winter sets in with great severity. 
 The rigor of the season, and the advanced 
 price of grain, are very threatening to the 
 poor. It is well with those that can feed 
 upon a promise, and wrap themselves up 
 warm in the robe of salvation. A good fire- 
 side and a well-spread table are but very in- 
 dillerent substitutes for these better accom- 
 modations ; so very indiflerent, that I would 
 gladly exchange them both for the rags and 
 the unsatisfii'd hunger of the poorest crea- 
 ture that looks forward with iiope to a bet- 
 ter world, and weeps tears of joy in the 
 midst of pemiry and distress. What a world 
 is this ! How mysteriously governed, and in 
 appearance left to itself! One man, having 
 squandered thousands at a gaming-table, 
 finds it convenient to travel ; gives his estate 
 to somebody to manage for him; amuses 
 
 * This lettor closed with the English and Latin vcrsea 
 on Uie loss of the Royal George, inserted before, 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 144 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 himself a few years in France and Italy ; re- 
 turns, perhaps, wiser than he went, having 
 acquired knowledge whicli, but for his follies, 
 he would never have acquired ; again makes 
 a splendid figure at home, shines in the sen- 
 ate, governs his country as its miinster, is 
 admired for his abilities, and, if successful, 
 adored at least by a p'lrty. When he dies 
 he is praised as a demi-god, and his monu- 
 ment records everything but his vices. The 
 exact contrast of such a picture is to be 
 found in many cottages at Olney. I have 
 no need to describe them; you know the 
 characters I mean. They love God, they 
 trust him, they pray to him in secret, and, 
 though he means to reward them openly, 
 the day of recompense is delayed. In the 
 meantime they sutler everytliing that infirmi- 
 ty and poverty can inflict upon them. Who 
 would suspect, that has not a spiritual eye 
 to discern it, that the fine gentleman was 
 one whom his Maker had in al)horrence, and 
 the wretch last-mentioned dear to him as the 
 apple of his eye! It is no wonder that the 
 world, who are not in the secret, find them- 
 selves obliged, some of them, to doubt a 
 Providence, and others absolutely to deny it, 
 when almost all the real virtue there is in it 
 is to be found living and dying in a state of 
 neglected obscurity, and all_ the vices of 
 others cannot exclude them from the privi- 
 lege of worship and honor! But behind the 
 curiam the matter is explained; very little, 
 however, to the satisfaction of the great. 
 
 If you ask me why I have written thus, and 
 to yon especially, to whom there was no need 
 to write thus, I can only reply, that, having a 
 letter to write, and no news to communicate, 
 I picked up the first subject I found, and pur- 
 sued it as far as was convenient for my 
 purpose. 
 
 Mr. Newton and I are of one mind on the 
 subject of patriotism. Our dispute was no 
 sooner begun than it ended. It would be well, 
 perhaps, if, when two disputants begin to en- 
 gage, their friends would hurry each into a 
 separate chaise, and order them to opposite 
 points of the compass. Let one travel twenty 
 miles east, the other as many west ; tlxen let 
 them write their opinions by the post. Much 
 altercation and chafing of the spirit would be 
 prevented ; they would sooner come to a 
 right understanding, and running away from 
 each other, would carry on the combat more 
 judiciously, in exact proportion to the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 My love to that gentleman, if you please ; 
 and tell him that, like him, though I love my 
 country, I hate its follies and its sins, and had 
 rather see it scourged in mercy than judi- 
 eially hardened by prosperity. 
 Yours, dear Madam, as ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.'*' 
 
 Olney, Dec. 7, 1732. 
 My dear Friend, — At seven o'clock this 
 evening, being the seventh of December, I 
 imagine I see you in your box at the coflec- 
 house. No doubt the waiter, as ingenious 
 and adroit as his predecessors were before 
 him, raises the tea-not to the ceilinij with his 
 rigiit hand, while in his left the tea-cup de- 
 scending almost to the floor, receives a limpid 
 stream ; limpid in its descent, but no sooner 
 has it readied its destination, than frothing 
 and foaming to the view, it becomes a roaring 
 syllabub. This is the nineteenth winter since 
 I saw you in this situation ; and if nineteen 
 more pass over me before I die, I shall still 
 remember a circumstance we have often 
 laughed at. 
 
 How different is the complexion of your 
 evenings and mine ! — yours, spent amid the 
 ceaseless hum that proceeds from the inside of 
 fifty noisy and busy periwigs ; mine, by a do- 
 mestic fire-side, in a retreat as silent as retire- 
 ment can make it, wiiere no noise is made but 
 what we make for our own amusement. For 
 instance, here are two rustics and your hum- 
 ble servant in company. One of the ladies 
 has been playing on the harpsichord, while I 
 with the other have been playing at battledore 
 and shuttlecock. A little dog, in t!ie mean- 
 time, howling under the cfeair of the former, 
 performed in the vocal way to admiration. 
 This entertainment over, I began my letter, 
 and, having nothing more important to com- 
 municate, have given you an account of it. 1 
 know you love dearly to be idle, when you 
 can find an opportunity to be so ; but, as such 
 opportunities are rare with you, I thought it 
 possible that a short description of the idle- 
 ness I enjoy might give you pleasure. The 
 happiness we cannot call our own we yet 
 seem to possess, while we sympathize with 
 our friends who can. 
 
 The papers tell me that peace is at hand, 
 and tliat it is at a great distance ; that the 
 siege of Gibralter is abandoned, and that it is 
 to be still continued. It is happy for me, 
 that, though I love my country, I have but 
 little curiosity. There was a time when 
 these contradictions would have distressed 
 me; but I have learned by experience tliat it 
 is best for little people like myself to be pa- 
 tient, and to wait till time affords the intelli- 
 gence which no speculations of theirs can 
 evdr furnish. 
 
 I thank you for a fine cod with oysters, 
 and hope that ere long I shall have to thank 
 you for procuring me Elliott's medicines. 
 Every time I feel the least uneasiness in 
 either eye, I tremble lest, my ^Esculapius be- 
 ing departed, my infallible remedy should be 
 lost forever. Adieu. Mv respects to Mrs, 
 Hill. Yours, faithfully, W. C. 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 145 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN, 
 
 Olney, Jan. 19, 1783. 
 
 My dear William, — Not to retaliate, but for 
 want of opportunity, I have delayed writing. 
 From a scene of most uninterrupted retire- 
 ment, Ave have passed at once into a state of 
 constant engagement, not that our society is 
 much multiplied. The addition of an indi- 
 vidual has made all this ditference. Lady 
 Austen and we pass our days alternately at 
 each other's chateau. In the morning I walk 
 with one or other of the ladies, and in the 
 afternoon wind thread. Thus did Hercules 
 and Sampson, and thus do I ; and, were both 
 those heroes living, I should not fear to chal- 
 lenge them to a trial of skill in that business, 
 or doubt to beat them both. As to killing 
 lions, and other amusements of tliat kind, 
 with which they were so delighted, I should 
 be their humble servant, and beg to be ex- 
 cused. 
 
 Having no frank, I cannot send you Mr. 
 's two letters, as I intended. We corre- 
 sponded as long as the occasion required, and 
 then ceased. Charmed with his good sense, 
 politeness, and liberality to the poor, I was in- 
 deed ambitious of continuing a correspond- 
 ence with him, and told him so. Perhaps I 
 had done more prudently hid I never proposed 
 it. But warm iiearts are not famous for wis- 
 dom, and mine was too warm to be very con- 
 siderate on such an occasion. I have not 
 heard from him since, and have long given up 
 all expectation of it. I know he is too busy 
 a man to have leisure for me, and I ought to 
 have recollected it sooner. He found time to 
 do much good, and to employ us, as his agents. 
 In doing it, and that might have satisfied me. 
 Tiiough laid under the strictest injunctions of 
 secrecy, both by him and by you on his be- 
 half, 1 consider myself as under no obligation 
 to conceal from you the remittances he made. 
 Otily, in my turn, I beg leave to request se- 
 crecy on your part, because, intimate as you 
 are with him, and higidy as he values you, I 
 cannot yet be sure, that the communication 
 would please him, his delicacies on tiiis sub- 
 ject being as singular as his benevolence. He 
 sent forty pounds, twenty at a time. Olney 
 has not had such a friend as this many a day ; 
 nor has there been an instance, at any time, 
 of a few families so elTectually relieved, or so 
 completely encouraged to the pursuit of that 
 honest industry, by which, their debts being 
 paid, and the parents and children comforta- 
 bly clothed, they are now enabled to maintain 
 themselves. Their labor was almost in vain 
 before ; but now it answers : it earns them 
 bread, and all their other wants are plentiful- 
 ly supplied.* 
 
 I wish that, by Mr. 's assistance, your 
 
 purpose in behalf of the prisoners may be 
 
 * The benevolent character hero alluded to is John 
 Thornton, Esq. 
 
 effectuated. A pen so formidable as his 
 migiit do much good, if properly directed. 
 The dread of a bold censure is ten times 
 more moving than the most eloquent persua- 
 sion. They that cannot feel for others are 
 the persons of all the world who feel most 
 sensibly for themselves. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Jan. 2G, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It is reported among per- 
 sons of the best intelligence at Olney — the 
 barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of 
 a corps quartered at this place — that the bel- 
 ligerent powers are at last reconciled, the ar- 
 ticles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is 
 at the door.f I saw this morning, at nine 
 o'clock, a group of about twelve figures, very 
 closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, 
 upon the same subject. The scene of con- 
 sultation was a blacksmith's shed, very com- 
 fortably screened from the wind, and directly 
 opposed to the morning sun. Some held 
 their hands behind them, some had them 
 folded across their bosom, and others had 
 thrust them into their breeches pockets. 
 Every man's posture bespoke a pacific turn 
 of mind ; but, the distance being too great for 
 their words to reach me, nothing transpired. 
 I am willing, however, to hope that the secret 
 will not be a secret long, and that you and 
 I, equally interested in the event, though not 
 perhaps equally well informed, shall soon have 
 an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of 
 it. The powers of Europe have clashed with 
 each other to a fine purpose ;t that the Amer- 
 icans, at length declared independent, may 
 keep themselves so, if they can; and that 
 what the parties, who have thought proper to 
 dispute upon that point have wrested from 
 each other in the course of the conllict may- 
 be, in the issue of it, restored to the proper 
 owner. Nations may be guilty of a conduct 
 that would render an individual infamous for- 
 ever ; and yet carry tlicir heads high, talk 
 of their glory, and despise their neiglibors. 
 Your opinions and mine, I mean our political 
 ones, are not exactly of a pi(?ce, yet 1 cannot 
 think otherwise upon this subject than I have 
 always done. England, more perhaps through 
 the foult of her generals than her councils, 
 has, in some instances, acted with a spirit of 
 cruel animosity she was never chargeable with 
 till now. But this is the worst that can be 
 said. On the other hand, the Americans, who, 
 if they had contented themselves with a strug- 
 gle for lawful liberty, would have deserved 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t Preliminiu-ies of peace with America and France 
 were sia;ned at Versailles, Jan. 20th, 1783. 
 
 J France, Spain, and Holland, all of Whom united 'Tith 
 America against England. 
 
 10
 
 146 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 applause, seem to me to have incurred the 
 guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, 
 by making her ruin their favorite object, and 
 by associating tliemselves with her worst en- 
 emy for the accomplishment of their purpose. 
 France, and of course Spain, have acted a 
 treacherous, a thievisii part. They have sto- 
 len America from England; and, whether they 
 ai-e able to possess themselves of tliat jewel or 
 not hereafter, it was doubtless what they in- 
 tended. Holland appears to me in a meaner 
 light than any of them. They quarrelled with 
 a friend for an enemy's sake. The Frencli 
 led them by the nose, and the English have 
 thrashed them for suffering it. My views of 
 tlie contest being, and having been always, 
 such, I have consequently brighter hopes for 
 England than her situation some time since 
 seemed to justify. She is the only injured 
 party. America may perhaps call her the ag- 
 gressor; but, if she were so, America has not 
 only i-epelled the injury, but done a greater. 
 As to the rest, if perfidy, treachery, avarice, 
 and ambition, can prove their cause to have 
 been a rotten one, those proofs are found 
 upon them. I think, therefore, that, wliat- 
 ever scourge may be prepared for England on 
 some future day, her ruin is not yet to be 
 expected. 
 
 Acknowledge now that I am worthy of a 
 place under the shed I described, and that I 
 should make no small figure among the quicL 
 nuncs of Olney. 
 
 I wish the society you have formed may 
 prosper. Your subjects will be of greater 
 importance, and discussed with more sufii- 
 ciency.* The earth is a grain of sand, but 
 the spiritual interests of man are commensu- 
 rate with the heavens. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, as ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The humor of the following letter in refer- 
 ence to the peace, is ingenious and amusing. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.f 
 
 Olney, Feb. 2, 1783. 
 I give you joy of the restoration of that 
 sincere and firm friendship between the kings 
 of England andFrance, that has been so long 
 interrupted. It is a great pity when hearts 
 so cordially united are divided by triiles. 
 Thirteen pitiful colonies, which the king of 
 England chose to keep, and the king of 
 France to obtain, if he could, have disturbed 
 that harmony which would else no doubt 
 have subsisted between those illustrious per- 
 sonages to this moment. If the king of 
 France, whose gi-eatness of mind is only 
 
 * This passage alludes to the formation of what was 
 called " the Eclectic Society," consisting of several pious 
 ministers, who statedly met for the purpose of mutual 
 edification. It consisted of Newton, Scott, Cecil, Foster, 
 gtc It is still in existence. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 equalled by that of his queen, had regarded 
 them, unworthy of his notice as they were, 
 with an eye of suitable indiiference ; or, had 
 he thought it a matter deserving in any de- 
 gree his princely attention, that they were in 
 reality the property of his good friend the 
 king of England ; or, had the latter been less 
 obstinately determined to hold fast liis inter- 
 est in them, and could he with that civility 
 and politeness in which monarchs are ex- 
 pected to e.xcel, have entreated his majesty 
 of France to accept a bagatelle, for which he 
 seemed to have conceived so strong a predi- 
 lection, all this mischief had been prevented. 
 But monarchs, alas! crowned and sceptred 
 as they are, are yet but men ; they foil out, 
 and are reconciled, just like the meanest of 
 their subjects. I cannot, however, sufficient- 
 ly admire the moderation and magnanimity 
 of the king of England. His dear friend ou 
 the other side of the Channel has not indeed 
 taken actual possession of the colonies in 
 question, but he has effectually wrested them 
 out of the hands of their original owner, who 
 nevertheless, letting fall the extinguisher of 
 patience upon the flame of his resentment, 
 and glowing with no other flame than that of 
 the sincerest affection, embraces the king of 
 France again, gives him Senegal and Goree 
 in Africa, gives him the islands he had taken 
 from him in the West, gives him his con- 
 quered territories in the East, gives him a 
 fishery upon the banks of Newfoundland; 
 and, as if all this were too little, merely be- 
 cause he knows that Louis has a partiality 
 for the king of Spain, gives to the latter an 
 island in the Mediterranean, which thousands 
 of English had purchased with their lives; 
 and in America all that he wanted, at least 
 all that he could ask. No doubt there will 
 be great cordiality between this royal trio for 
 the future : and, though wars may perhaps be 
 kindled between their posterity some ages 
 hence, the present generation shall never bo 
 witnesses of such a calamity again. I ex- 
 pect soon to hear that the queen of France, 
 who just before this rupture happened, made 
 the queen of England a present of a watch, 
 has, in acknowledgment of all these acts of 
 kindness, sent her also a seal wherewith to 
 ratify the treaty. Surely she can do no less. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 8, 1783. 
 My dear Friend, — When I consider the 
 peace as the work of our ministers, and re- 
 flect that, with more wisdom, or more spirit, 
 they might perhaps have procured a better, I 
 confess it does not please me.f Such ano- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t Lord Shelburne, who made this peace, was taunted 
 in the House of Commons by Mr. Fox with having been 
 previously averse to it, and even of having said that,
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 147 
 
 other peace would ruin us, I suppose, as ef- 
 fectually as a war protracted to the extremcst 
 inch of our ability to bear it. I do not tliink 
 it ju.st that the French should plunder us and 
 be paid fordoing it ; nor does it appear to me 
 that there was absolute necessity for such 
 tameness on our part as wc discover in the 
 present treaty. We give away all that is 
 demanded, and receive nothing but what was 
 our own before. So far as this stain upon 
 cur national honor, and this diminution of 
 our national property, are a judgment upon 
 our iniquities, I submit, and have no doubt 
 but that ultimately it will be found to be 
 judgment mixed witli mercy. But so Car as 
 I see it to be the effect of French knavery 
 and British despondency, I feel it as a dis- 
 grace, and grumble at it as a wrong. I dis- 
 like it the more, because the peacemaker has 
 been so immoderately praised for his per- 
 formance, which is, in my opinion, a con- 
 temptible one enough. Had he made the 
 French smart for their baseness, I would have 
 praised him too ; a minister should have 
 shown his wisdom by securing some points, 
 at least for the benefit of his country. A 
 schoolboy might have made concessions. 
 After all perhaps the worse consequence of 
 tiiis awkward business will be dissension in 
 the two Houses, and dissatisfaction through- 
 out the kingdom. They that love their 
 country will be grieved to see her trampled 
 upon ; and they that love mischief will have 
 a fair opportunity of making it. Were I a 
 member of the Commons, even with the 
 same religious sentiments as impress me 
 now, I should think it my duty to condemn it. 
 
 You will su})poso me a politician; but in 
 truth I am nothing less. These are the 
 thoughts that occur to me while I read the 
 newspaper ; and, when I have laid it down, 
 I feel myself more interested in the success 
 of my early cucumbers than in any part of 
 this great and important subject.. If I see 
 them droop a little, I forget that we have 
 been many years at war ; that we have made 
 a huniiliating peace ; that we are deeply in 
 debt, and unable to pay. All these reflec- 
 tions are absorbed at once in the anxiety I 
 feel for a plant, the fruit of which I cannot 
 eat when I have procured it. How wise, 
 how consistent, how respectable a creature is 
 man ! 
 
 Mrs. Unwin thanks Mrs. Newton for her 
 kind letter, and for executing her commis- 
 
 lohcn the indepcmhnff of America shntUd be frranteil, the 
 sun of Britain would hove set ; and that the rccoirnition 
 of its independence deserved to be stained with the blood of 
 the minister who should sifrn it. It was in nllusiixi to 
 this circnmsiance tliiil Mr. Fox appliod to him the follow- 
 ing ludicrous distich : 
 
 Vou've done a noble deed, in Nsilurc's spite, 
 Tho' you tliinlv yo\i are wrong, yet I'm suro you are right. 
 IjOtA Shelburne's defence was, that he was compelled to 
 tho measure, and not so mvicli the autlior as the instru- 
 ment of it. See Parliamentary Debates of that time. • 
 
 sions. We truly love you both, think of you 
 often, and one of us prays for you ; — the 
 other will, when he can pray for himseJf. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 13, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — In writing to you I 
 never want a subject. Self is always at 
 hand, and self, with its concerns, is always 
 interesting to a friend. 
 
 You may think perhaps that, having com- 
 menced poet by profession, I am always writ- 
 ing verses. Not so ; I have written nothing, 
 at least finished nothing, since I published, 
 except a certain facetious history of John 
 Gilpin, which Mrs. Unwin wou-ld send to the 
 " Public x\dvertiser," perhaps you might read 
 it without suspecting the author. 
 
 My book procures me favors, which my 
 modesty will not permit me to specify, ex- 
 cept one, which, modest as I am, I cannot 
 suppress, a very handsome letter from Dr. 
 Franklin at Passy. These fruits it has 
 brought me. 
 
 I have been refreshing myself with a walk 
 in the garden, where I find that January (who 
 according to Ciiaucer was the husband of 
 ]\Iay) being dead, February has married the 
 widow. 
 
 Y^ours, &c.. W. C 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 20, 1783. 
 Suspecting that I should not have hinted 
 at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other 
 influence than that of vanity, I was several 
 times on the point of burning my letter for 
 that very reason. But, not having time to 
 write another by the same post, and believing 
 that you would have the grace to pardon a 
 little self-complacency in an author on so 
 trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin nat- 
 urally leads to another and a greater, and thus 
 it happens now, for I have no way to gratify 
 your curiosity, but by transcribing the letter 
 in question. It is addressed, by the way, not 
 to me, Imt to an acquaintance of mine, who 
 had transmitted the volume to him without 
 my knowledge. 
 
 "Passy,* iMayS, 1782. 
 
 " Sir, I received the letter you did me the 
 honor of writing to me, and am much obliged 
 by your kind present of a book. The relish 
 for reading of poetry had long since left me, 
 but there is somethino- so new in the man- 
 ner, so easy, and yet so correct in the lan- 
 guage, so clear in the expression, yet concise, 
 
 * A beautiful villf^e near Paris, on the road to Ver« 
 sailles.
 
 148 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and so just in the sentiments, that I have read 
 the wliole with great pleasure, and some of 
 the pieces more than once. I beg you to ac- 
 cept my thankful acknowledgments, and to 
 present my respects to the author. 
 
 " Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 " B. Fkanklin." 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Great revolutions happen 
 in this ants' nest of ours. One emmet of il- 
 lustrious character and great abilities pushes 
 out another ; parties are formed, they range 
 themselves in formidable opposition, they 
 threaten each other's ruin, they cross over and 
 are mingled together,* and like the corusca^ 
 tions of the Northern Aurora amuse the spec- 
 tator, at the same time that by some they are 
 supposed to be forerunners of a general dis- 
 solution. 
 
 There are political earthquakes as well as 
 natural ones, the former less shocking to the 
 eye, but not always less fatal in their influ- 
 ence than the latter. The image which Ne- 
 buchadnezzar saw in his dream was made 
 up of heterogeneous and incompatible ma- 
 terials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is 
 so formed must expect a like catastrophe. 
 
 I have an etching of the late Chancellor 
 hanging over the parlor chimney. I often 
 contemplate it, and call to mind the day when 
 I was intimate with the original. It is very 
 like him, but he is disguised by his hat, 
 which, though fashionable, is awkward ; by 
 his great wig, the tie of which is hardly dis- 
 cernible in profile, and by his band and gown, 
 which give him an appearance clumsily sacer- 
 dotal. Our friendship is dead and buried ; 
 yours is the only surviving one of all with 
 which I was once honored. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 The sarcasm conveyed in the close of this 
 letter, and evidently pointed at Lord Thur- 
 low, is severe, and yet seems to be merited. 
 It will be remembered, that Lord Thurlow 
 and Cowper were on terms of great intimacy 
 when at Westminster school, though separ- 
 ated in after life ; that Cowper subsequently 
 presented him with a copy of his poems, ac- 
 companied by a letter, reminding him of their 
 former friendship ; and that his lordship 
 treated him with forgetfulness and neglect. 
 It is due, however, to the memory of Lord 
 Thurlow, to state that instances are not want- 
 ing to prove the benevolence of his character. 
 When the south of Europe was recommended 
 to Dr. Johnson, to renovate his declining 
 strength, he generously offered to advance the 
 sum of five hundred pounds for that purpose.f 
 
 * This expression, as well as the allusion to Nebuchad- 
 nezzar's image, refers to the famous coalition ministry, 
 under Lord North and Mr. Fox. 
 
 t See Murphy's Life of Johnson. 
 
 Nor ought we to forgot Lord Thurlow'a 
 treatment of the poet Crabbe. The latter 
 presented to him one of his poems. " I have 
 no time," said Lord Thurlow, " to read verses , 
 my avocations do not permit it." " There was 
 a time," retorted the poet, " when the encour 
 agement of literature was considered to be a 
 duty appertaining to the illustrious station 
 which your lordship holds." Lord Thurlow 
 frankly acknowledged his error, and nobly 
 redeemed it. " I ought," he observed, " t'o 
 have noticed your po«ra, and I heartily for- 
 give your rebuke :" and in proof of his sin- 
 cerity he generously transmitted the sum of 
 one hundred pounds, and subsequently gave 
 him preferment in the church. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN SEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 24, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — A weakness in one of 
 my eyes may possibly shorten my letter, but 
 I mean to make it as long as my present 
 materials, and my ability to write, can suffice 
 for. 
 
 I am almost sorry to say that I am recon- 
 ciled to the peace, being reconciled to it not 
 upon principles of approbation but necessity. 
 The deplorable condition of the country, in- 
 sisted on by the friends of administration, 
 and not denied by their adversaries, convinces 
 me that our only refuge under Heaven was 
 in the treaty with which I quarrelled. The 
 treaty itself I find less objectionable than I 
 did. Lord Shelburne having given a color to 
 some of the articles that makes them less 
 painful in the contemplation. But my opinion 
 upon the whole affair is, that now is the time 
 (if indeed there is salvation for the country) 
 for Providence to interpose to save it. A 
 peace with the greatest political advantages 
 would not have healed us ; a peace with none 
 may procrastinate our ruin for a season, but 
 cannot ultimately prevent it. The prospect 
 may make all tremble who have no trust in 
 God, and even they that trust may tremble. 
 The peace will probably be of short duration ; 
 and in the ordinary course of things another 
 war must end us. A great country in ruins 
 will not be beheld with eyes of indifference, 
 even by those who have a better country to 
 look to. But with them all will be well at 
 last. 
 
 As to the Americans, perhaps I do not 
 forgive them as I ought; perhaps I shall 
 always think of them with some resentment, 
 as the destroyers, intentionally the destroyers, 
 of this country. They have pushed that point 
 farther than the house of Bourbon could have 
 carried it in half a century. I may be preju- 
 diced against them, but I do not think them 
 equal to the task of establishing an empire 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 149 
 
 Great men are necessary for such a purpose : 
 and their great men, I believe, are yet un- 
 born.* They have hnd passion and obstinacy 
 enough to do us much mischief; but whether 
 the event will be salutary to themselves or 
 not, must wait for proof I agree with you 
 that it is possible America may become a land 
 of extraordinary evangelical light,f but at the 
 same time, I cannot discover anytliing in their 
 new situation peculiarly favorable to such a 
 supposition. They cannot have more liberty 
 of conscience than they had ; at least, if that 
 liberty was under any restraint, it was a re- 
 siniint of their own making. Perhaps a new 
 settlement in church and state may leave 
 them less. — Well — all will be over soon. The 
 time is at hand when an empire will be es- 
 tablished that shall fill the earth. Neither 
 statesmen nor generals will lay the founda- 
 tion of it, but it sliall rise at tiie sound of the 
 trumpet. 
 
 I am well in body, but with a mind tJiat 
 would wear out a frame of adamant ; yet, 
 upon mi] frame, which is not very robust, its 
 effects are not discernable. Mrs. Unwin is in 
 health. Accept our unalienable love to you 
 both. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, truly, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIA;\r BULL.f 
 
 Olney, March 7, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^\^len will you come and 
 tell us what you tiiink of the peace ? Is it a 
 good peace in itself, or a good peace only in 
 reference to the ruinous condition of our 
 country ? I quarrelled most bitterly with it at 
 first, finding nothing in the terms of it but 
 disgrace and destruction to Great Britain. 
 Uut, having learned since that we are already 
 destroyed and disgraced, as much as we can 
 be, I like it better, and think myself deeply 
 indebted to the Kinsr of France for treatinof 
 us with so much lenity. The olive-brancli 
 in.deed has neither leaf nor fruit, but it is still 
 
 * This aiilicipatinii has not been fulfilled. America 
 has proihiceil iiiatorinN lor nalioiial !;roaliies.s, that have 
 l:ii(l llii' fuuiulalicm ol' a mi','lU_v empire ; and both Geii- 
 i^ral Washin'itoM and Franklin were '^Te-.xi men. 
 
 t There is a reniarkahle pas.^iiije in llerhert's Sacred 
 Poems expres.<ive of this expectation, and indicating the 
 prolxible period of its fiillUment. 
 
 "Religion stands on tiptoe in onr land. 
 Ready to pass to the American strand. 
 Wlien height of nialicc. and prodii;ious lusts, 
 Impudent sinning', wilchcrafls. and distrusts. 
 The marks of future hane, shall lill our cup 
 Unto the brim, and make onr niea.sme up ; 
 When Seine shall swallow Tiljer, and the Thames, 
 Ry lettim; in them boih. pollute her streams; 
 W'heii Italy of us shall have her will. 
 And all her calrmlar of sins fullil ; 
 Then sliall RelIj;i(Ui to America lice; 
 They have their times of Gospel cv'n as we." 
 
 Herbert concludes by predictintf that Ctiristianity shall 
 Jlien coinplele its circuit by returninc once more to the 
 r.;tst, the ori^'inal soe.rce of Empire, of the Arts, and of 
 Religion, and so prepare the way for the final consumma- 
 lion of all thin'.is. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 an olive-branch. Mr. Newton and I have ex- 
 changed several letters on the subject ; some- 
 times considering, like grave politicians as we 
 are, the st;ite of Europe at large; sometimes 
 the state of England in particular; sometimes 
 the conduct of the house of Bourbon ; some- 
 times that of the Dutch ; but most especially 
 that of the Americans. We have not differed 
 perhaps very widely, nor even so widely as 
 we seemed to do ; but still we have differed. 
 We have however managed our dispute with 
 temper, and brought it to a peaceable conclu- 
 sion. So far at least we have given proof of 
 a wisdom which abler politicians than myself 
 would do well to imitate. 
 
 How do you like your northern mountain- 
 eers 1* Can a man be a good Christian that 
 goes without breeches 1 You are better quali- 
 fied to solve me this question than any man T 
 know, having, as I am informed, preached to 
 many of them, and conversed, no doubt, with 
 some. You must know I love a Highlander, 
 and think I can see in them what Englishmen 
 once were, but never will be again. Such havo 
 been the effects of In.xury ! 
 
 You know that I kept two hares. I have 
 written nothing since I saw you but an epi- 
 taph on one of them, which died last week. 
 I send you i\\Q first impression of it. 
 
 Here lies, (fccf 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, aflfectionately 
 yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 
 
 Olney, March 7, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Were my letters com- 
 posed of materials worthy of your acceptance, 
 they should be longer. There is a subject 
 upon wiiicli tliey wiio knowtiiemselves inter- 
 ested in it are never weary of writing. That 
 subject is not within my reach ; and there are 
 few others that do not soon fotigue me. 
 Upon these, however, I might possibly be 
 more ditfusc, could I forget tiiat I am writing 
 to 7/ow, to whom I think it just as improper 
 and absurd to send a sheet full of trifles, as 
 it would be to allow myself tliat liberty, were 
 I writing to one of the four evangelists. But, 
 since you measure me with so much exact- 
 ness, give me leave to requite you in your own 
 way. Your mami.script indeed is close, and 
 I do not reckon rnine very la.x. You make 
 no margin, it is true ; if you did, you would 
 have need of their Lilliputian art, who can 
 onclo.se the creed within the circle of a shil- 
 ling; for, upon the nicest comjiarison, I find 
 your paper an inch smaller every way than 
 mine. Were my writing therefore as com- 
 pact as yours, my letters with a margin would 
 
 * Scotch Highlanders, quartered at Newport Pagnel, 
 where Mr. Rull lived. 
 t Vide Cowper's Poems. 
 X Private correspondence.
 
 150 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 be as long as yours without one. Let this 
 consideration, added to that of their futility, 
 prevail with you to think them, if not long, 
 yet long enough. 
 
 Yesterday a body of Highlanders passed 
 through Olney. Tliey are part of that regi- 
 ment which lately mutinied at Portsmouth. 
 
 Convinced to a man that General had 
 
 sold them to the East India Company, they 
 breathe nothing but vengeance, and swear 
 they will pull down his house in Scotland, 
 as soon as they arrive here. The rest of 
 them are quartered at Dunstable, Woburn, 
 and Newport; in all eleven hundred. A 
 party of them, it is said, are to continue 
 some days at Olney. None of their principal 
 officers are with them ; either conscious of 
 guilt, or at least knowing themselves to be 
 suspected as privy to and partners in the in- 
 iquitous bargain, they fear the resentment of 
 the corps. The design of government seems 
 to be to brealv them into small divisions, that 
 they may find themselves, when they reach 
 Scotland, too weak to do much mischief — 
 Forty of them attended Mr. Bull, who found 
 himself singularly happy in an opportunity to 
 address himself to a Hock bred upon the 
 Caledonian mountains. He told them he 
 would walk to John O'Groat's house to hear 
 a soldier pray. They are in general so far 
 religious that they will hear none but evan- 
 gelical preaching ; and many of them are said 
 
 to be truly so. Nevertheless, General 's 
 
 skull was in some danger among them ; for 
 he was twiced felled to the ground with the 
 butt end of a musket. The sergeant-major 
 rescued him, or he would have been forever 
 rendered incapable of selling Highlanders to 
 the India Company. I am obliged to you 
 for your extract from Mr. Bowman's letter. 
 I feel myself sensibly jjleased by the appro- 
 bation of men of taste and learning ; but that 
 my vanity may not get too much to windward, 
 my spirits are kept under by a total inability 
 to renew my enterprises in the poetical way. 
 
 We are tolerably well, and love you both. 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, April 5, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^When one has a letter 
 to write, there is nothing more useful than 
 to make a beginning. In the first place, be- 
 cause unless it be begun, there is no good 
 reason to hope it will ever be ended ; and 
 secondly, because the beginning is half the 
 business, it being much more ditlicult to put 
 the pen in motion at first, than to continue 
 the progress of it when once moved. 
 
 Mrs C 's illness, likely to prove mortal, 
 
 and seizing her at such a time, has excited 
 much compassion irl my breast, and in Mrs. 
 Unwin's, both for her and her daughter. To 
 
 have parted with a child she loves so much; 
 intending soon to follow her; to find herself 
 arrested before she could set out, and at so 
 great a distance from her most valued rela- 
 tions ; her daughter's life too threatened by 
 a disorder not often curable, are circumstan- 
 ces truly affecting. She has indeed much 
 natural fortitude, and, to make her condition 
 still more tolerable, a good Christian hope 
 for her support. But so it is, that the dis- 
 tresses of those who least need our pity ex- 
 cite it most ; the amiableness of the cliaracter 
 engages our sympathy, and we mourn for 
 persons for whom perhaps we might more 
 reasonably rejoice. There is still however a 
 possibility tliat she may recover ; an event 
 we must wish for, though for her to depart 
 would be far better. Thus we would always 
 withhold from tlie skies those who alone can 
 reach them, at least till we are ready to bear 
 them company. 
 
 Present our love, if you please, to Miss 
 C .* I saw in the " Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine," for last month, an account of a physi- 
 cian who has discovered a new method of 
 treating consumptive cases, which has suc- 
 ceeded wonderfully in the trial. He finds 
 the seat of the distemper in the stomach, 
 and cures it principally by emetics. The 
 old method of encountering the disorder has 
 proved so unequal to the task, that 1 should 
 be much inclined to any new practice that 
 comes well recommended. He is spoken of 
 as a sensible and judicious man, but his name 
 I have forgot. 
 
 Our love to all under your roof, and in 
 particular to Miss Catlett, if she is with you. 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, April 21, 1783. 
 My dear Friend, — My device was intended 
 to represent, not my own heart, but the 
 heart of a Christian, mourning and yet re- 
 joicing, pierced with thorns, yet wreathed 
 about with roses. I have the thorn without 
 the rose. My briar is a wintry one ; the 
 flowers are withered, but the thorn remains. 
 My days are spent in vanity, and it is impossi- 
 ble for me to spend them otherwise. No 
 man upon earth is more sensible of the un- 
 profitableness of a life like mine than I am, 
 or groans more heavily under the burden. 
 The time when I seem to be most rationally 
 employed is when I am reading. My studies 
 however are very much confined, and of little 
 use, because I have no books but what I bor- 
 row, and nobody will lend me a memory. 
 My own is almost worn out. I read the Bi- 
 ographia and the Review. If all the readers 
 of the former had memories hke mine, the 
 
 * Miss Cunningham. 
 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 15, 
 
 compilers of that work would in vain have 
 labored to rescue the great names of past 
 ages from obHvion, for wijat I read to day I 
 forget to-morrow. A by-stander might say, 
 This is rather an advantage, the book is 
 always new ; — but T beg the by-stander's par- 
 don ; I can recollect, though I cannot remem- 
 ber, and with the book in my h;md I recog- 
 nize those passages wliich, witiiout the book, 
 I should never have thouglit of more. The 
 Review pleases me most, because, if the con- 
 tents escape me, I regret them less, being 
 a very supercilious reader of most modern 
 writers. Either I dislike the subject, or the 
 manner of treating it ; the style is affected, or 
 the matter is disgusting. 
 
 I see (though he was a learned man, and 
 
 sometimes wrote like a wise one,) laboring 
 under invincible prejudices against the truth 
 and its professors; heterodox in his opinions 
 upon some religious subjects, and reasoning 
 most weakly in support of them. How has 
 he toiled to prove that tlie perdition of the 
 wicked is not eternal, that there may be re- 
 pentance in hell, and tiiat the devils may be 
 saved at last : thus establisiiing, as far as in 
 him lies, tJie belief of a purgatory. When I 
 think of him, I think too of some who shall 
 say hereafter, " Have we not prophesied in 
 thy name, and in thy name done many won- 
 drous works ? Then sliall he say unto them, 
 Depart from me, for I never knew you." 
 But perhaps he might be enlightened in his 
 last moments, and saved in the very article 
 of dissolution. It is much to be wished, and 
 indeed iioped, that he was. Sucli a man 
 reprobated in the great day would be the 
 most melancholy spectacle of all that shall 
 stand at the left hand hereafter. But I do 
 »jot think that many, or indeed any, will be 
 found there, wlio in their lives werQ, sober, 
 virtuous, and sincere, truly pious in the use 
 of their little liglit, and, though ignorant of 
 God, in comparison with some others, yet, suf- 
 ficiently informed to know that He is to be 
 feared, loved, and trusted. An operation is 
 often performed within the curtains of a dy- 
 ing bed, in behalf of such men, that the nurse 
 and the doctor (I mean the doctor and the 
 nurse) liave no suspicion of The soul 
 makes but one step out of darkness into 
 ligiit, and makes that step witiiout a witness. 
 My brother's case has made me very charita- 
 ble in my opinion about the future state of 
 such men. 
 
 Yours, ray dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olnoy, May 5, 1783. 
 
 You may suppose that I did not hear JMr. 
 preach, but- I heard of him. How dif- 
 ferent is that plainness of speech which a 
 
 s])iritual theme requires, from that vulgar di- 
 alect wliich tliis gentleman has mistaken for 
 it ! Affectation of every sort is odious, es- 
 pecially in a minister, and more especially an 
 affectation that betrays him into expressions 
 fit only for the mouths of the illiterate. 
 Truth indeed needs no ornament, neither 
 does a beautiful person; but to clothe it 
 tiierefore in rags, when a decent habit was at 
 hand, would be esteemed preposterous and 
 absurd. The best-proportioned figure may 
 be made offensive by beggary and filth, and 
 even truths, which came down from heaven, 
 though they cannot forego their nature, may 
 be disguised and disgraced by unsuitable kn- 
 gnage. It is strange that a pupil of yours 
 should blunder thus. You may be consoled 
 however by reflecting, that he could not have 
 erred so grossly if he had not totally and 
 wilfully departed both from your instruction 
 and example. Were I to describe your style 
 in two words, I sliould call it plain and neat, 
 simpUcem mundiiiis, and I do not know how 
 I could give it juster praise, or pay it a greater 
 compliment. He that speaks to be under- 
 stood by a congregation of rustics, and yet 
 in terms that would not offend academical 
 ears, has found the happy medium. This is 
 certainly practicable to men of taste and 
 judgment, and the practice of a few proves 
 it. Hactenus de concionando. 
 
 We are truly glad to hear that Miss Cat- 
 lett is better, and heartily wish you more 
 promising accounts from Scotland. Debe- 
 7nur morli nos nostraque. We all acknowl- 
 edge the debt, but are seldom pleased when 
 those we love are required to pay it. The 
 demand will find you prepared for it. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. W^LLLAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, May 10, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — A letter written from 
 such a place as this is a creation; and crea- 
 tion is a v/ork for which mere mortal man is 
 very indilferently qualified. Ex nihilo nihil 
 Jit, is a maxim that applies itself in every 
 case, where Deity is not concerned. With 
 tliis view of tiie matter, I should charge my- 
 self with extreme folly for pretending to 
 work without materials, did I not know that 
 although nothing could be the result, even 
 that nothing will be welcome. If I can tell 
 you no news, I can tell you at least that I 
 esteem you highly ; that my friendship with 
 you and yours is the only balm of my life; a 
 comfort sullicient to reconcile me to an ex- 
 istence destitute of any other. This is not 
 the language of to-day, only the effect of a 
 transient cloud suddenly brought over me, 
 and suddenly to be removed, but punctually 
 expressive of my liabitual frame of mind, 
 such as it has been these ten years.
 
 152 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 In the " Review" of last month, I met with 
 an account of a sermon preached by Mr. 
 Piiley, at the consecration of his friend, 
 Bisiiop L.* The critic admires and extols the 
 preacher, and devoutly prays the Lord of the 
 harvest to send forth more such laborers 
 into his vineyard. I rather differ from him 
 in opinion, not being able to conjecture in 
 what respect the vineyard will be benefited 
 by such a measure. He is certainly in- 
 genious, and has stretched his ingenuity to 
 the uttermost, in order to exhibit the chureli 
 established, consisting of bishops, priests, and 
 deacons, in the most favorable point of view. 
 I lay it down for a rule that when much in- 
 genuity is necessary to gain an argument 
 credit, that argument is unsound at bottom. 
 So is his, and so are all the petty devices by 
 which he seeks to enforce it. He says first, 
 " that the appointment of various orders in 
 the church is attended with this good con- 
 sequence, that each class of people is sup- 
 plied with a clergy of their own level and 
 description, with whom they may live and 
 associate on terms of equality." But, in 
 order to effect this good purpose, there 
 ought to be at least three parsons in every 
 parish, one for the gentry, one for traders 
 and mechanics, and one for the lowest of the 
 vulgar. Neither is it easy to find many par- 
 ishes, where the laity at large have any so- 
 ciety with their minister at all. This there- 
 fore is fanciful, and a mere invention : in the 
 next place he says it gives a dignity to the 
 ministry itself, and the clergy share in the 
 respect paid to their superiors. Much good 
 may such participation do them! They 
 themselves know how little it amounts to. 
 The dignity a parson derives from the lawn 
 sleeves and square cap of his diocesan will 
 never endanger his humility. 
 
 Pope says truly — 
 
 Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, 
 The rest is all but leather or prunella. 
 
 Again — " Rich and splendid situations in 
 the church have been justly regarded as 
 prizes, held out to invite persons of good 
 hopes and ingenuous attainments." Agreed. 
 But the prize held out in the Scripture is of 
 a very different kind ; and our ecclesiastical 
 baits are too often snapped by the worthless, 
 and persons of no attainments at all. They 
 are indeed incentives to avarice and ambition, 
 but not to those acquirements, by which only 
 the ministerial function can be adorned — zeal 
 for the salvation of men, humility, and self- 
 denial. Mr. Paley and I therefore cannot 
 agree. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C 
 
 We think Cowper has treated Paley, as 
 Well as his subject, with no small portion of 
 * Dr. Law, Bishop of Carlisle. 
 
 severity. What Paley's arguments may have 
 been, in establishing his first position, we 
 know not, but we should have expected that 
 the poet \\ ould have admitted the principle, 
 however he might have disapproved of the 
 comment. There was a time when the proper 
 constitution of a Christian Church furnished 
 a subject of inquiry that engaged the coun- 
 cils of princes, convulsed this empire to its 
 basis, and left the traces of an awful desola- 
 tion behind. We allude to the times of 
 Charles the First, and to the momentous 
 events that characterized that period. In the 
 present age, the matters in dispute are greatly 
 changed. The important question now agita- 
 ted is the lawfulness of the union of church 
 and state, so far as that lawfulness is decided 
 by an appeal to the authority of Scripture. 
 Upon this subject it is not our intention to 
 enter. For able and masterly argument, in 
 defence of establishments, we beg to refer to 
 the work of Dr. Chalmers,* and to the two 
 last Visitation Charges of Chancellor Dealtry. 
 We trust, however, that we may be allowed 
 to express our deep conviction that the timely 
 removal of abuses is not only essential to 
 the efficiency and preservation of the church 
 of England, but also imperatively due to our 
 own honor and credit, to the glory of God, 
 and to the advancement of true religion. 
 
 In the meantime we would appeal to every 
 intelligent observer, whether there has ever 
 been a period in the annals of our church, 
 more characterized by an acknowledged in- 
 crease of true piety than in the era in which 
 we are now writing? — whether there is not a 
 perceptible revival of sound doctrine in our 
 pulpits, and of dcvotedness and zeal in the 
 lives of the clergy ? Appealing then to these 
 facts, which he that runneth may read, may 
 we not, though in the spirit of profound hu- 
 miliation, exclaim with the wife of Manoah, 
 " If the Lord were pleased to kill us, he would 
 not have received a burnt-offering and a meat- 
 offering at our hands ; neither would he have 
 showed us all these things; nor would, as at 
 this time, have told us such things as these."f 
 
 Let, then, the sacred edifice be suffered to 
 remain, built as it is on the foundation of the 
 apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself 
 being the chief corner-stone; but let what 
 time hath impaired, or infirmity hath dis- 
 figured, be restored and amended. And let 
 this be the language of her friends, as well as 
 of every honorable and conscentious oppo- 
 nent, which was once expressed by the cele- 
 brated Beza : " If now the reformed churches 
 of England, administered by the authority of 
 bishops and archbishops, do hold on, as this 
 hath happened to that church in our memory, 
 that she hath had men of that calling, not 
 only most notable martyrs of God, but also 
 
 * See Dr. Chalmers on Establishments 
 t Judges xiii. 23.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 153 
 
 excellent pastors and doctors; let her, in 
 God's name, enjoy this singular bounty of 
 God, which I wish she may hold forever."* 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, May 2G, 1783. 
 I feel for my uncle, and do not wonder 
 that his loss alliicts him. A connexion that 
 has subsisted so many years, could not be 
 rent asunder without great pain to the sur- 
 vivor. I hope, liowever, and doubt not, but 
 when he has had a little more time for recol- 
 lection, he will find that consolation in his 
 own family, which it is not the lot of every 
 fatiier to be blessed with. It seldom happens 
 that married persons live together so long, or 
 so happily ; but this, which one feels one's 
 self ready to suggest as matter of alleviation, 
 is the very circumstance that aggravates his 
 distress ; therefore he misses her the more 
 and feels that he can but ill spare her. It is, 
 however, a necessary tax, which all who live 
 long must pay for their longevity, to lose 
 many whom they would be £;lad to detain 
 (perhaps those in whom all their happiness 
 is centred), and to see them step into the 
 grave before them. In one respect, at least, 
 this is a merciful appointment. When life 
 has lost that to which it owed its principal 
 relish, we may ourselves the more cheerfully 
 resign it. I beg you would present him with 
 my most affectionate remembrance, and tell 
 hiin, if you think fit, how much I wish that 
 the evening of his long day may be serene 
 and happy. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, May 31, 17f3. 
 
 We rather rejoice than mourn with you on 
 
 the occasion of Mrs C 's death. In the 
 
 case of believers, death has lost his sting, not 
 only with respect to those he takes away, but 
 with respect to survivors also. Nature in- 
 deed will always suggest some causes of sor- 
 row, when an amiahle and Christian friend 
 departs, but the Scripture so many more and 
 so much more important reasons to rejoice, 
 that, on such occasions, perhaps more re- 
 murkably than on any other, sorrow is turned 
 into joy. The law of our laud is atTronted if 
 we say the king dies, and insists on it that he 
 only demises. This, which is a fiction where 
 a monarch only is in question, iu the case of 
 a Christian is reality and truth. lie only lays 
 aside a body which it is his privilege to be 
 encumbered with no longer; and instead of 
 dyintr, in that moment he begins to live. 
 But this the world does not understand, there- 
 fore the kings of it must go on demising to 
 the end of the chapter. W. C. 
 
 * "Fniatiir sane isiA sint'ulari Dei benoflccntia, quae 
 atinam illi «iit periH'tua."— B'li, limp, ad Sarav. p. 111. 
 t Ashley Cowper, Esq., wlio had recently lost his wife. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 
 
 Olney, June 3, 1783. 
 My dear Friend, — My greenhouse fronted 
 with myrtles, and where 1 hear nothing but 
 the pattering of a fine shower and the sound 
 of distant thunder, wants only the fumes of 
 3 our pipe to make it perfectly delightful. 
 Tobacco was not known in tlie golden age. 
 So much the worse for the golden age. This 
 age of iron or lead would be insupportable 
 without it ; and, therefore, we may leasonably 
 suppose, that the happiness of those better 
 days would have been much improved by the 
 use of it. We hope that you and your son 
 are perfectly recovered. The season has 
 been most unfavorable to animal life ; and I, 
 who am merely animal, have suffered much 
 by it. 
 
 Though I should be glad to write, I write 
 little or nothing. The time for such fruit is 
 not yet come ; but I expect it, and I wish for 
 it. I want amusement, and, deprived of that, 
 have nothing to supply the place of it. I 
 send you, however, according to my promise 
 to send you everything, two stanzas, com- 
 posed at the request of Lady Austen. She 
 wanted words to a tune she much admired, 
 and 1 wrote her the following, — 
 
 ON PEACE. 
 
 No longer I follow a sound, &c.-f 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN\VIN. 
 
 Olney, June 8, 17S3. 
 
 ]My dear William, — Our severest winter, 
 commonly called the spring, is now over, and 
 I lind myself seated in my favorite recess, the 
 greenhouse. In such a situation, so silent, 
 so shady, where no human foot is heard, and 
 where only my myrtles presume to peep in 
 at the window, you may suppose I have no 
 interruption to complain of, and that my 
 thoughts are perfectly at iny command. But 
 the beauties of the spot are themselves an 
 interruption, my attention being called upon 
 by those very myrtles, by a double row of 
 grass pinks, just begiiniing to blossom, and 
 by a bed of beans already in bloom ; and you 
 are to consider it, if you please, as no small 
 proof of iny regard, that, though you have so 
 many powerful rivals, I disengage myself 
 from them all, and devote this hour entirely 
 to you. 
 
 You are not acquainted with the Rev. Mr. 
 Bull of Newport — perhaps it is as well for 
 you that you are not. You would regret 
 still more than you do, that there are so 
 many miles interposed between us. Ho 
 spends part of the day with us to-morroW. 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 t Vide Poems.
 
 154 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 A dissenter, but a liberal one ; a man of let- 
 ters, and of genius ; master of a fine imagi- 
 nation, or ratlier not master of it — an imagi- 
 nation which, when he finds himself in the 
 company he loves, and can confide in, runs 
 away with him into such fields of speculation, 
 as amuse and enliven every other imagination 
 that has the happiness to be of the party ! 
 at other times he has a tender and delicate 
 sort of melanclioly in his disposition, not less 
 agreeable in its way. No men are better 
 qualified for companions in such a world as 
 this than men of such a temperament. Every 
 scene of life has two sides, a dark and a 
 bright one, and the mind that has an equal 
 mixture of melancholy and vivacity is best of 
 all qualified for the contemplation of either. 
 He can be lively without levity, and pensive 
 without dejection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. 
 But — he smokes tobacco — nothing is per- 
 fect 
 
 Nihil est ab omni 
 Parte beatum. 
 
 On the other side I send you a something, 
 a song if you please, composed last Thurs- 
 day : the incident happened the day before.* 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, June 13, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for your 
 Dutch communications. The suffrage of 
 such respectable men must have given you 
 much pleasure, a pleasure only to be ex- 
 ceeded by the consciousness you had before 
 of having published truth, and of having 
 served a good master by doing so. 
 
 I have always regTetted that your ecclesi- 
 astical history went no further: I never saw 
 a work that I thought more likely to serve 
 the cause of truth, nor history applied to so 
 good a purpose.f The facts incontestable, 
 the grand observation upon them all irrefra- 
 gable, and the style, in my judgment, incom- 
 parably better than that of Robertson or 
 Gibbon. I would give you my reasons for 
 thinking so, if I had not a very urgent one 
 for declining it. You have no ear for such 
 music, whoever may be the performer. What 
 you added, but never printed, is quite equal 
 to what has appeared, which I think might 
 have encouraged you to proceed, though you 
 
 » Here followed his song of " The Rose." 
 t Newton's " Review of Ecclesiastical History," so far 
 as it proceeded, was much esteemed ,but was incomplete. 
 It had the merit, however, of suggesting to the Rev. 
 Joseph Milner the first idea of his own more enlarged 
 and valuable undertaking, on the same subject. In this 
 work the excellent author pmsued the design executed 
 in part by Newton. Instead of exhibiting the history of 
 Christianity as a mere I'ccord of facts and events, he 
 traced the rise and progress of true religion, and its pre- 
 servation through successive ages ; and thus afforded an 
 incontestable evidence of the superintending power and 
 faitlifulness of God. 
 
 missed that freedom in writing which you 
 found before. While you were at Olney, 
 this was at least possible ; in a state of re. 
 tirement you had leisure, without which I 
 suppose Paul himself could not have written 
 his epistles. But those days are fled, and 
 every hope of a continuation is fled with 
 them. 
 
 The day of judgment is spoken of not 
 only as a surprise, but a snare, a snare upon 
 all the inhabitants of the earth. A differ- 
 ence indeed will obtain in favor of the godly, 
 which is, that though a snare, a sudden, in 
 some sense an unexpected, and in every sense 
 an awful, event, yet it will find tliem prepared 
 to meet it. But, the day being thus charac- 
 terized, a wide field is consequently open to 
 conjecture ; some will look for it at one pe- 
 riod, and some at another ; we shall most of 
 us prove at last to have been mistaken, and 
 if any should prove to have guessed aright, 
 they will reap no advantage, the felicity of 
 their conjecture being incapable of proof, till 
 the day itself shall prove it. My own senti- 
 ments upon the subject appear to me per- 
 fectly scriptural, though I have no doubt that 
 they differ totally from those of all who have 
 ever thought about it, being however so sin- 
 gular, and of no importance to the happiness 
 of mankind, and being moreover difficult to 
 swallow just in proportion as they are pecu- 
 liar, I keep them to myself. 
 
 I am and always have been a great ob- 
 server of natural appearances, but I think not 
 a superstitious one. The fallibility of those 
 speculations which lead men of fanciful minds 
 to interpret scripture by the contingencies of 
 the day, is evident from this consideration, 
 that what the God of the scriptures has seen 
 fit to conceal he will not as the God of nature 
 publish. He is one and the same in both ca- 
 pacities, and consistent with himself and his 
 purpose, if he designs a secret impenetrable 
 in whatever way we attempt to open it. It 
 is impossible hov^^ever for an observer of nat- 
 ural phenomena not to be struck with the 
 singularity of the present season. The fogs 
 I mentioned in my last still continue, though 
 till yesterday the earth was as dry as intense 
 heat could make it. The sun continues to 
 rise and set without his rays, and hardly 
 shines at noon, even in a cloudless sky. At 
 eleven last night the moon was a dull red; 
 she was nearly at her highest elevation, and 
 had the color of heated brick. She would 
 naturally, I know, have such an appearance 
 looking through a misty atmosphere, but that 
 such an atmosphere should obtain for so long 
 a time, in a country where it has not hap- 
 pened in my remembrance, even in winter, 
 is rather remarkable. We have had more 
 thunder-storms than have consisted well with 
 the peace of the fearful maidens in Olney, 
 though not so many as have happened in
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 155 
 
 places at no great distance, nor so violent. 
 Yesterday morning however, at seven o'clock, 
 two fire-balls burst either on the steeple or 
 close to it. William Andrews saw them 
 meet at that point, and immediately after saw 
 such a smoke issue from liie apertures in the 
 steeple, as soon rendered it invisible ; the 
 noise of the explosion surpassed all the 
 noises I ever heard ; you would have thought 
 that a thousand sledge-hanuners were batter- 
 ing great stones to powder, all in the same 
 instant. The weather is still as hot, and the 
 air is full of vapor, as if tliere had been 
 neither rain nor thunder all the summer. 
 
 There was once a periodical paper pub- 
 lished, called Mist's Journal: a name well 
 adapted to the slicet before you. Misty how- 
 ever as I am, I do not mean to be mystical, 
 but to be understood, like an almanac-maker, 
 according to the letter. As a poet nevertlie- 
 less, I claim, if any wonderful event should 
 follow, a right to apply all and every such 
 post-prognostic to the purposes of the tragic 
 muse. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 It is worthy of being recorded tliat these 
 singular appearances presented by the atmo- 
 sphere and heavens, with accompanying thun- 
 der-storms, were prevalent in many parts of 
 England. At Dover, the fog was of sucli 
 long continuance, that the opposite shore 
 could not be discerned for three weeks. In 
 otlier places the storms of thunder and light- 
 ning were awful, and destructive both to life 
 and property. But this phenomenon was 
 not confined to England only ; it extended to 
 France, Italy, Germany, Hungary, Spain, and 
 even to some parts of Africa. In Paris, tlie 
 appearances were so portentous, and the 
 alarm so considerable, that the great astron- 
 omer Lalande addressed a letter to one of 
 the journals, m order to compose the public 
 mind. We subjoin it in a note for the grati- 
 fication of the reader, and as illustrating Ids 
 views on the subject.* In the preceding Feb- 
 
 • " It is known to you that for some days prist people 
 have IjL'en incessantly in(juiiiiij what is tlic occasion of 
 the thick dry fo? whicli almost constantly covers tlie 
 heavens? And, as this question is particularly put to 
 astronomers, I think myself oblijjced to say a few words 
 on the sul)ject, more especially since a kind of terror 
 beffins to spread in society. It is said by some, that the 
 disiL-iters in Calabria Were preceded by similar weather ; 
 and by others, that a danj,'erous comet rei'^ns at present. 
 In 1773 I expcriencfMl how fast conjectures of this kind, 
 which begin amon;;st tlie itcnorant, even in the most en- 
 liijlitened ages, proceed from mouth to mouth, till they 
 reach the best societies, and find their way even to the 
 public prints. The multitude, therefore, may easily be 
 supposed to draw strange conclusions, when they see the 
 Sim 3f a blood color, shed a melancholy light, and cause 
 a most sultry heat. 
 
 "This, however, is nothing more than a very natural 
 effect from a hot sim, after a long succession of liea. y 
 rain. The first impressioti of heat has necessarily and 
 suddenly rarefied a superabundance of watery particles 
 with which the earth was deeply impregnated, and given 
 them, as they rose, a dimness and rarefaction not usual 
 to common fogs. . "Dk La Lande." 
 
 Th" f'anger to which men of pliilosophical minds seem 
 
 ruary occurred the calamitous earthquakes in 
 Calabria and Sicily ;* by which solemn catas- 
 trophe the city of Messina was overthrown, 
 and the greater portion of its population, 
 consisting of thirty thousand souls, wholly 
 destroyed. This awful event was preceded 
 by an horizon full of black intense fog, the 
 earthquake next followed, with two succesive 
 shocks, and subsequently a whirlpool of fire 
 issued from the earth, which completed the 
 entire destruction of tlie noble and great ed- 
 ifices that still remained. We refer the 
 reader for the terrible details of this afflicting 
 calamity to the narrative of Sir William 
 Hamilton, which cannot be read without 
 alarm and terror. Nor can we omit the fol- 
 lowing just and impressive moral from the 
 pen of Cowper. 
 
 What then ! were they the wicked above all, 
 And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isle 
 Mov'd not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light 
 
 skiff, 
 The sport of every wave "? No : none are clear, 
 And none than we more guihy. But, where all 
 Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts 
 Of wrath obnoxious. God may choose his mark; 
 May punish, if he please, the less, to warn 
 The more malignant. If he spar'd not them, 
 Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, 
 Par guiltier England, lest he spare not thee. 
 
 Taek, book ii. 
 
 to be peculiarly exposed is the habit of accounting for 
 the phenomena of nature too exclusively by the opera- 
 tion of mere secondary causes ; while ttie supreme 
 agency of a first Creat Cause is too much overlooked. 
 The \iniversality of these appearances occurring at the 
 same time in England, France, Italy, and so many other 
 coinitries, awakens rellections of a more solemn cast, in a 
 mind imbued with Christian principles. He who reads 
 Professor Barruel's work, and the concurring testimony 
 adduced by Robinson, as to the extent of infidelity and 
 even atheism, gathering at that time in the different 
 states of Europe, might, we think, see in the.se signs in 
 the moon, and in the stars, and in the heavens, soine in- 
 timations of impending judgments, which followed so 
 shortly after; and evidences of the power and existence 
 of that God, which many so impiously questioned and 
 defied. 
 
 * Cowper has selected this awful catastrophe for the 
 exercise of his poetic powers. His mind seems to have 
 been impregnated with the grandeur of the theme, 
 which he hM presented to the imagination of the reader 
 with all the accuracy of historic detail. We quote tha 
 following extracts. 
 
 " Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 
 I-ie scatter'd, where the shapely column stood. 
 Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
 The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
 Are silent. .... 
 
 The rocks fall headlong, and the ralleys rise — 
 The svlvan scene 
 Migrates uplifted ; and with all its "soil 
 Aliijhting in far distant fields, finds out 
 A new possessor, and survives the change. 
 Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, \ii)wrought 
 To an enormous and o'erbearing height, 
 Not by a mighty wind, but by ttiat voice 
 Which winds and waves obey, inrades the shore 
 Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 
 Upridg'd so high, .and sent on such a charge, 
 Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng 
 That press'd the be.ach, and, hastv to depart, 
 I..ook d to the sea for safety ?— They are gone, 
 Gone with the refluent wave into the deep— 
 A prince with half his people !" 
 
 Taskt book ii
 
 156 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, June 17, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend,— Your letter readied Mr. 
 
 S while Mr. was with him ; whether 
 
 it wrought any change in his opinion of thst 
 gentleman, as a preacher, I know not ; but for 
 my own part I give you full credit for the 
 soundness and rectitude of yours. No man 
 was ever scolded out of his sins. The heart, 
 corrupt as it is, and because it is so, grows 
 angry if it be not treated with some manage- 
 ment and good manners, and scolds again. 
 A surly mastiff will bear perhaps to be 
 stroked, though he will growl even under 
 that operation, but, if you touch him rough- 
 ly, he will bite. There is no grace that the 
 spirit of self can counterfeit with more suc- 
 cess than a religious zeal. A man thinks he 
 is fighting for Christ, and he is fighting for 
 his own notions. He thinks that he is skil- 
 fully searching the hearts of others, when he 
 is only gratifying the malignity of his own, 
 and charitably supposes his hearers destitute 
 of all grace, that he may shine the more in 
 his own eyes by comparison. Wlien he has 
 performed this notable task, he wonders 
 that they are not converted, " he has given it 
 them soundly," and if tliey do not tremble 
 and confess that God is in him of a truth, he 
 gives them up as reprobate, incorrigible, and 
 lost forever. But a man that loves mCj if he 
 sees me in an error, will pity me, and endeav- 
 or calmly to convince me of it, and persuade 
 me to forsake it. If he has great and good 
 news to tell me, he will not do it angrily, and 
 in much heat and discomposure of spirit. It 
 is not therefore easy to conceive on what 
 ground a minister can justify a conduct which 
 only proves that he does not understand his 
 errand. The absurdity of it would cer- 
 tainly strike him, if he were not himself de- 
 luded. 
 
 A people will always love a minister, if a 
 minister seems to love his people. The old 
 maxim. Simile agit in simile, is in no case 
 more exactly verified; therefore you were 
 beloved at Olney, and, if you preached to 
 the Chicksaws and Chactaws, would be 
 equally beloved by them. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Tenderness in a minister is a very impor- 
 tant qualification, and indispensable to his 
 success. The duty of it is enjoined in an 
 apostolical precept, and the wisdom of it in- 
 culcated in another passage of scripture. 
 "Speaking the truth in love." "He that 
 winneth souls is wise." We have often 
 thought that one reason why a larger portion 
 of divine blessing fails to accompany the 
 ministrations of the sanctuary, is tl: s want 
 of more affectionate expostulation, more 
 earnest entreaty, and more tenderness and 
 sympathy in the preacher. The heart that is 
 
 unmoved by our reproof may perhaps yield 
 to the persuasiveness of our appeal. We 
 fully admit that it is divine grace alone that 
 can subdue the power of sin in the soul ; but 
 in the whole economy of grace, as well as of 
 Providence, there is always perceptible a wise 
 adaptation of means to the end. Who is 
 not impressed by the tenderness and earnest 
 solicitations of St. Paul ? Who can contem- 
 plate the Saviour weeping over Jerusalem, 
 without emotions of the profoundest admi- 
 ration ? And who does not know that the 
 spectacle of man's misery and guilt first sug- 
 gested the great plan of redemption, and that 
 the scheme of mercy which divine love de- 
 vised in heaven dying love accomplished on 
 earth? 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 , Olney, June 19, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The translation of your 
 letters* into Dutch was news that pleased me 
 much. I intended plain prose, but a rhyme 
 obtruded itself, and I became poetical when 
 I least expected it. When you wrote those 
 letters, you did not dream that you were de- 
 signed for an apostle to the Dutch. Yet, so 
 it proves, and such among many others are 
 the advantages we derive from the art of 
 printing — an art in which indisputably maij 
 was instructed by the same great Teacher, 
 who taught him to embroider for the service 
 of the sanctuary, and which amounts almost 
 to as great a blessing as the gift of tongues. 
 
 The summer is passing away, and hitherto 
 has hardly been either seen or felt. Perpetual 
 clouds intercept the influence of the sun, and 
 for the most part there is an autumnal cold- 
 ness in the weather, though we are almost 
 upon the eve of the longest day. 
 
 We are well, and always mindful of you : 
 be mindful of us, and assured that we love 
 you. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, July 27, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend. — You cannot have more 
 pleasure in receiving a letter from me than I 
 should find in writing it, were it not almost 
 impossible in such a place to find a subject. 
 
 I live in a world abounding with incidents, 
 upon which many grave and perhaps some 
 profitable observations might be made ; but, 
 those incidents never reaching my unfortu- 
 nate ears, botli the entertaining narrative, and 
 the reflection it might suggest, are to me an- 
 nihilated and lost. I look back to the past 
 week and say, what did it produce ? I ask 
 
 * Newton's " Cardiphonia," a work of great merit and 
 interest, and full of ediflcation.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 15T 
 
 the same question of tlie week preceding, 
 and duly receive the same answer from both 
 — nothing ! A situation hke tliis, in which 1 
 am as unknown to the world as I am igno- 
 rant of all that passes in it, in which I have 
 notlungto do but to think, would exactly suit 
 me, were my subject of meditation as agree- 
 able as my leisure is uninterrupted : my pas- 
 sion for retirement is not at all abated, after 
 so many years spent in the most sequestered 
 state, but rather increased. A circumstance 
 I should esteem wonderful to a degree not to 
 be accounted for, considering the condition of 
 my mind, did I not know tii:it wc think as we 
 are made to think, and of course approve and 
 prefer as Providence, wiio appoints the bounds 
 of our habitation, chooses for us. Thus I 
 am both free and a prisoner at the same time. 
 The world is before me ; I am not shut up 
 in the Bastile ; there are no moats about my 
 castle, no locks upon my gates, of which I 
 have not tlie key — but an invisible, uncon- 
 trollable agency, a local attachment, an incli- 
 nation more forcible than 1 ever felt, even to 
 the place of my birth, serves me for prison- 
 walls, and for bounds which I cannot pass. 
 In former years I have known sorrow, and 
 before I had ever tasted of spiritual trouble. 
 Tlie effect was an abhorrence of tiie scene in 
 which 1 had sulfered so niucli, and a weari- 
 ness of those objects wiiich I had so long 
 looked at with an eye of despondency and 
 dejection. But it is otherwise with me now. 
 The same cause subsisting, and in a much 
 more powerful degree, fails to produce its 
 natural effect. Tlie very stones in the gar- 
 den-walls are my intimate acquaintance. I 
 sliould miss almost the minutest object, and 
 be disagreeably ailected by its removal, and 
 am persuaded that, were it possible I could 
 leave this incommodious nook for a twelve- 
 month, I sliould return to it again with rap- 
 ture, and be transported with tiie sight of ob- 
 jects, which to all the world beside would be 
 at least indifferent ; some of them, periiaps, 
 such as tlie ragged thatch and tiie tottering 
 walls of the neighboring cottages, disgusting. 
 But so it is, and it is so, because here is to be 
 ray abode, and because such is the appoint- 
 ment of Him that placed me in it. 
 
 Iste terrarum mihi proeter o;nncs 
 Angulus ridc't. 
 
 It is the place of all the world I love the 
 most, not for any iiappiness it atlbrds me, but 
 because here I can be miserable witli most 
 convenience to myself, and with the least dis- 
 turbance to others. 
 
 You wonder, and (I dare say) unfeignedly, 
 because you do not think yourself entitled 
 to such praise, that I prefer your style, as an 
 historian, to that of the two most renowned 
 writers of liistory the present day has seen. 
 That you may not suspect me of having said 
 
 more than my real opinion will warrant, I 
 will tell you why. In your style I see no 
 affectation, in every line of tlieirs I see noth- 
 ing else. They disgust me always ; Robert- 
 son with his pomp and his strut, and Gibbon 
 witii his finical and French manners. You 
 are as correct as they. You express your- 
 self with as much precision. Your words 
 are ranged with as much propriety, but you 
 do not set your periods to a tune. Tiiey dis- 
 cover a perpetual desire to exhibit themselves 
 to advantage, whereas your subject engrosses 
 you. They sing, and you say ; which, as his- 
 tory is a thing to be said and not sung, is in 
 my judgment very much to your advantage. 
 A writer that despises their tricks, and is yet 
 neither inelegant nor inharmonious, proves 
 Iiimself, by that single circumstance, a man 
 of superior judgment and abihty to them 
 both. You have my reasons. I honor a 
 manly character, in which good sense and a 
 desire of doing good are the predominant 
 features — but affectation is an emetic. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 It is impossible to read the former part of 
 the preceding letter without emotion. Who 
 has not felt the force of local associations, 
 and their power of presenting affecting recol- 
 leclions to the mind ? 
 
 " I could not bear," says Pope, in one of his 
 letters, "to have even an old post removed 
 out of the way with which my eyes had been 
 familiar from my youth." 
 
 Among the Swiss, the force of association 
 is so strong, that it is known by the appella- 
 tion of the " maladie du pays;" and it is re- 
 corded that on hearing one of their national 
 airs in a foreign land, so overpowering was 
 the effect tha*, though engaged in warfare at 
 the time, tiiey threw down their arms and re- 
 turned to their own country. The emotions 
 awakened by some of the Swiss airs, such as 
 the " Rantz des Vaches," and the affecting 
 pathos of " La Suissesse au bord du lac," 
 when heard on their native lakes, are always 
 remembered by the traveller with delight. 
 The feelings of a still higher kind connected 
 with local associations are expressed with 
 so much grace and eloquence in Dr. Jolin- 
 son's celebrated allusion to this subject, that 
 we close our remarks by inserting the pas- 
 sage, — 
 
 '■ We were now treading that illustrious 
 island, which was once the luminary of the 
 Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and 
 roving barbarians derived the benefits of 
 knowledge and the blessings of religion. To 
 abstract the mind from all local emotion 
 would be impossible, if it were endeavored, 
 and would be foolish if it were possible. 
 Whatever witlidraws us from the power of 
 our senses, whatever makes the past, the 
 distant, or the future, predominate over the
 
 168 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 present, advances us in the dignity of think- 
 ing beings. Far from me and far from my 
 friends be such frigid philosophy, as may 
 conduct us indifferent and unmoved over 
 any ground which has been dignified by wis- 
 donC bravery, or virtue. That man is little 
 to be envied, whose patriotism would not 
 gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or 
 whose piety would not grow warmer among 
 the ruins of lona."* 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 4, 1783. 
 
 My dear William, — I feel myself sensibly 
 obliged by the interest you take in the suc- 
 cess of my productions. Your feelings upon 
 the subject arc such as I should have my- 
 self, had I an opportunity of calling Johnson 
 aside to make the inquiry you propose. But 
 I am pretty well prepared for the worst, and 
 so long as I have the opinion of a few capa- 
 ble judges in my favor, and am thereby con- 
 vinced that I have neither disgraced myself 
 nor my subject, shall not feel myself dis- 
 posed to any extreme anxiety about the sale. 
 To aim, with success, at the spiritual good 
 of mankind, and to become popular by writ- 
 ing on scriptural subjects, were an unreason- 
 able ambition, even for a poet to entertain in 
 days like these. Verse may have many 
 charms, but has none powerful enough to con- 
 quer the aversion of a dissipated age to such 
 instruction. Ask the question therefore bold- 
 ly, and be not mortified, even though he 
 should shake his head, and drop his chin; 
 for it is no more than we have reason to ex- 
 pect. We will lay the fiiult upon the vice 
 of the times, and we will acquit tlie poet. 
 
 I am glad you were pleased with my Latin 
 ode, and indeed with my English dirge as 
 much as I was myself .The tune laid me 
 under a disadvantage, obliging me to write 
 in Alexandrines; which, I suppose, would 
 suit no ear but a Freneh one ; neither did I 
 intend anything more than that the subject 
 and the words should be sufficiently accom- 
 modated to the music. The ballad is a spe- 
 cies of poetry, I believe, peculiar to this 
 country, equally adapted to the drollest and 
 the most tragical subjects. Simplicity and 
 ease are its proper characteristics. Our fore- 
 fathers excelled in it ; but we moderns have 
 lost the art. It is observed, that we have 
 few good English odes. But, to make amends, 
 we have many excellent ballads, not inferior, 
 perhaps, in true poetical merit to some of 
 the very best odes that the Greek or Latin 
 languages have to boast of. It is a sort of 
 composition I was ever fond of, and, if graver 
 matters had not called me another way,- 
 Bhould have addicted myself to it more than 
 to any other. I inherit a taste for it from 
 * See his journey to the Western Islands. 
 
 my father, who succeeded well in it himself, 
 and who lived at a time when the best pieces 
 in that way were produced. What can be 
 prettier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, 
 Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What 
 do ye call it — "'Twas when the seas were 
 roaring." I have been well informed that 
 they all contributed, and that the most cele- 
 brated association of clever fellows this coun- 
 try ever saw, did not think it beneath them 
 to unite their strength and abilities in the 
 composition of a song. The success, how- 
 ever, answered their wishts. The ballads 
 that Bourne has translated, beautiful in them- 
 selves, are still more beautiful in his version 
 of them, infinitely surpassing in my judg- 
 ment all that Ovid or Tibullus have left be- 
 hind them. They are quite as elegant, and 
 far more touching and pathetic, than the 
 tenderest strokes of either. 
 
 So much for ballads and ballad-writers. — 
 "A worthy subject," you will say, "for a 
 man whose head might be filled with better 
 things ;" — and it is filled with better things, 
 but to so ill a purpose, that I thrust into it 
 all manner of topics that may prove more 
 amusing ; as, for instance, I have two gold- 
 finches, which in the summer occupy the 
 greenhouse. A few days since, being em- 
 ployed in cleaning out their cages, I placed 
 that which I had in hand upon the table, 
 while the other hung against the wall : the 
 windows and the doors stood wide open. I 
 went to fill the fountain at the pump, and, 
 on my return, was not a little surprised to 
 find a goldfinch sitting on the top of the 
 cage I had been cleaning, and singing to and 
 kissing the goldfinch within. I approached 
 him, and he discovered no fear ; still nearer, 
 and he discovered none. I advanced my 
 hand towards him, and he took no notice of 
 it. I seized him, and supposed I had caught 
 a new bird, but, casting my eye upon the 
 other cage, perceived my mistake. Its in- 
 habitant, during my absence, had contrived 
 to find an opening, where the wire had been 
 a little bent, and made no other use of the 
 escape it afforded him than to salute his 
 friend, and to converse with him more inti- 
 mately than he had done before. I returned 
 him to Ills proper mansion, but in vain. In 
 less than a minute, he had thrust his little 
 person through the aperture again, and again 
 perched upon his neighbor's cage, kissing 
 him, as at the first, and singing, as if trans- 
 ported with the fortunate adventure. I could 
 not but respect such friendship, as for the 
 sake of its gratification, had twice declined 
 an opportunity to be free, and consenting to 
 their union, resolved that for the future one 
 cage should hold them both. I am glad of 
 such incidents. For at a pinch, and when I 
 need entertainment, the versification of them 
 serves to divert me.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 159 
 
 I transcribe for you a piece of Madam I 
 Guion, not as the best, but as being shorter j 
 than many, and as good as most of them. 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 Tiic following letter contains a judicious 
 and excellent critique on the writings of 
 Madame Guion, and on the sciiool of mys- 
 tics to which she belonged. The defect at- 
 tributed to th.at school is too much famil- 
 iarity of address, and a warmth of devotional 
 fervor in their approach to tlie Deity, ex- 
 ceeding the bounds of just propriety. There 
 is, liowever, much to quicken piety, and to 
 elevate tiie affections of tlie lieart. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM L'NWIN. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 7, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — So long a silence needs 
 an apology. I have been hindered by a 
 three-weeks' visit from our Iloxton friends,* 
 and by a cold and feverish complaint which 
 are but just removed. 
 
 The French poetess is certainly cli;n-ge- 
 able with the fault you mention, though I 
 thought it not so glaring in tlie piece I sent 
 yoii. I have endeavored indeed, in all the 
 translations I have made, to cure her of that 
 evil, either by the suppression of passages 
 exceptionable upon that account, or by a 
 more sober and respectful manner of expres- 
 sion. Still, however, she will be found to 
 have conversed familiarly with God, but I 
 hope not fulsomely, nor so as to give rea- 
 soniible disgust to a religious reader. That 
 God should deal fimiliarly with man, or, 
 wiiich is the same thing, that he should per- 
 mit man to deal familiarly with him, seems 
 not very difficult to conceive, or presump- 
 tuous to suppose, when some things are 
 taken into consideration. Woe to the sin- 
 ner. Ihrit shall dare to take a liberty with 
 him that is not warranted by his word, or to 
 which he himself has not encouraged him. 
 Wiien he assumed man's nature, he revealed 
 himself as the friend of man, as the brother 
 of every soul that loves him. He conversed 
 freely with man while lie was on earth, and 
 as freely with him after iiis resurrection. I 
 doubt not, therefore, that it is possible to 
 enjoy an access to him even now, unincum- 
 bered with ceremonious awe, easy, delightful, 
 and without constraint. This, however, can 
 only be the lot of those who make it the 
 business of their lives to please him, and to 
 cultivate eomuniniou with him. And then I 
 presume there can be no danger of offence, 
 because such a habit of the soul is of his 
 own cr^.ation, and, near as we come, we 
 come no nearer to him than he is pleased to 
 draw us. If we address him as children, it is 
 because he tells us he is our father. If we 
 
 * Mr. and Mrs. Newton. 
 
 unbosom ourselves to him as to a friend, it is 
 because he calls us friends, and if we speak to 
 him in the language of love, it is because he 
 first Used it, thereby teaching us that it is the 
 language he delights to hear from his peo- 
 ple. But I confess that, through the weak- 
 ness, the folly, and corruption of human 
 nature, this privilege, like all other Christian 
 privileges, is liable to abuse. There is a 
 mixture of evil in everything we do ; indul- 
 gence encourages us to encroach ; and, while 
 we exercise the rights of children, we be- 
 come childish. Here I think is the point in 
 which my authoress failed, and here it is that 
 I have particularly guarded my translation, 
 not afraid of representing her as dealing Avith 
 God familiarly, but foolishly, irreverently, 
 and without due attention to his majesty, of 
 which she is somewhat guilty. A wonderful 
 fault for such a woman to fall into, who 
 spent her life in the contemplation of his 
 glory, who seems to have been alway im- 
 pressed with a sense of it, and sometimes 
 quite absorbed by the views she had of it. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Oliiey, Sept. 8, 1783. 
 
 JMy dear Friend, — Mrs. Unwin would have 
 answered your kind note from Bedford, had 
 not a pain in her side prevented her. I, 
 who am her secretary upon such occasions, 
 should certainly have answered it for her, 
 but was hindered by illness, having been 
 myself seized with a "fever immediately after 
 your departure. The account of your re- 
 covery gave us great pleasure, and I am per- 
 suaded that you will feel yourself repaid by 
 the information that I give you of mine. 
 The reveries your head was filled with, while 
 your disorder was most prevalent, though 
 they were but reveries, and the offspring of 
 a heated imagination, afforded you yet a 
 comfortable evidence of the predominant bias 
 of your heart and mind to the best subjects. 
 I had none such — indeed I was in no degree 
 delirious, nor has anything less than a fever 
 really dangerous ever made me so. In this 
 respect, if in no other, I may be said to have 
 a strong head, and, perhaps, for tlie same 
 reason that wine would never make me 
 drunk, an ordinary degree of fever has no 
 effect upon my understanding. The epi- 
 demic begins to be more mortal as the au- 
 tumn comes on, and in Bedfordshire it is 
 reported, how truly I cannot say, to be 
 nearly as fatal as the plague. I heard lately 
 of a clerk in a public olfice, whose chief em- 
 ployment it was for many years to admin- 
 ister oaths, who being light-headed in a 
 fever, of which he died, spent the last week 
 of his life, in crying day and night — " So 
 help you God — kiss the book — give me a
 
 IbU 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 shilling." What :i wretch in comparison 
 with you ! 
 
 Mr. Scott has been ill almost ever since 
 you left us, and last Saturday, as on many 
 foregoing Saturdays, was obliged to clap on 
 a blister by way of preparation for his Sun- 
 day labors. He cannot draw breath upon any 
 other terms. If holy orders were always 
 conferred upon sucli conditions, I question 
 but even bishoprics themselves would want 
 an occupant. But he is easy and cheerful. 
 
 I beg you will mention me kindly to JMr. 
 Bacon, and make him sensible that if I did not 
 w-rite the p;u'agraph he wished for, it was not 
 owing to any want of respect for the desire he 
 expressed, but to mere inability. If, in a 
 state of mind that almost disqualifies me for 
 society, I could possibly wish to form a new 
 connexion, I should v/ish to know him ; but I 
 never shall, and, things being as they are, I 
 do not regret it. You are my old friend, 
 tlierefore I do not spare you ; having known 
 you in better days, I make you pay for any 
 pleasure I migjit then afford you by a com- 
 munication of my present pains. But I have 
 no claims of this sort upon Mr. Bacon. 
 
 Be pleased to remember us both, with 
 much affection, to Mrs. Newton, and to her 
 
 and your Eliza: to Miss C ,* likewise, if 
 
 she is with you. Poor Eliza droops and lan- 
 guishes ; but in the land to which she is go- 
 ing, she will hold up her head and droop no 
 more. A sickness that leads the way to ev- 
 erlasting life is better than the hea-lth of an 
 antediluvian. Accept our united love. 
 My dear friend, sincerely yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, Sept. 15, 1783. 
 My dear Friend, — I have been lately more 
 dejected and more distressed than usual ; 
 more harassed by dreams in the night, and 
 more deeply poisoned by them in the follow- 
 ing day. I know not wiiat is portended by 
 an alteration for the worse after eleven years 
 of misery; but firmly believe that it is not 
 designed as the introduction of a change for 
 the better. You know not what I suffered 
 w'hile you were here, nor was there any need 
 you should. Your friendship for me would 
 have made you in some degree a partaker of 
 my woes; and your share in them would 
 have been increased by your inability to help 
 me. Perhaps, indeed, they took a keener 
 edge from the consideration of your presence. 
 The friend of my heart, the person with 
 whom I had formerly taken sweet counsel, 
 no longer useful to me as a minister, no lon- 
 ger pleasant to me as a Christian, was a spec- 
 
 * The young lady here alluded to is Miss Eliza Cun- 
 ningham, a niece of Mr. Newton's. 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 tacle tbat must necessarily add the bitterness 
 of mortification to the sadness of despair. 1 
 now see a long winter before me, and am to 
 get through it as I can. I know the ground 
 before I tread upon it. It is liollovv ; it is 
 agitated ; it suffers shocks in every direction ; 
 it is like the soil of Calabria — all whirlpool 
 and undulation. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 23, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We are glad that, having 
 been attacked by a fever, wliich has often 
 proved fatal, and almost always leaves the 
 sufferer debilitated to the last degree, you 
 find yourself so soon restored to health, and 
 your strength recovered. Your health and 
 strength are useful to others, and, in that 
 view, important in his account who dispenses 
 both, and by your means a more precious gift 
 than either. For my own part, though I have 
 not been laid up, I have never been perfectly 
 well since you left us. A smart fever, which 
 lasted indeed but a few hours, succeeded by 
 lassitude and want of spirits that seemed still 
 to indicate a feverish habit, has made for some 
 time, and still makes me very unfit for my fa- 
 vorite occupations, writing and reading; so 
 that even a letter, and even a letter to you, is 
 not without its burden. 
 
 John has had the epidemic, and has it 
 
 still, but grows better. When he was first 
 seized with it, he gave notice that he should 
 die, but in this only instance of prophetic ex- 
 ertion he seems to have been mistaken : he 
 has, however, been very near it. I should 
 have told you that poor John has been very 
 ready to depart, and much comforted through 
 his whole illness. He, you know, though a 
 silent, has been a very steady professor. He 
 indeed fights battles and gains victories, but 
 makes no noise. Europe is not astonished at 
 ills feats, foreign academies do not seek him 
 for a member, he will never discover the art 
 of flying, or send a globe of taffeta up to 
 heaven. But he will go thither himself. 
 
 Since you went, we dined with Mr. . 
 
 I had sent him notice of our visit a week be- 
 fore, wiiich, like a contemplative studious 
 man as he is, he put in his pocket and forgot. 
 When we arrived, the parlor windows were 
 sliut, and the house had the appearance of be- 
 ing uninhabited. After waiting some time, 
 however, the maid opened the door, and the 
 master presented himself It is hardly worth 
 while to observe so repeatedly, that his gar- 
 den seems a spot contrived only for the 
 growth of melancholy, but being always af- 
 fected by it in the same way, I cannot help 
 it. He showed me a nook, in which he had 
 placed a bench, and where he said he found 
 it very refreshing to smoke his pipe and m^ 
 
 V^
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 161 
 
 ditate. Here he sits with his back against one 
 brick wall and his nose against anotlier, which 
 must, you know, be very refreshing, and 
 greatly assist meditation. lie rejoices the 
 more in this niche, because it is an acquisi- 
 tion made at some expense, and with no small 
 labor ; several loads of earth were removed in 
 order to make it, which loads of earth, liad 
 I the management of them, I should carry 
 thitlier again, and fill up a place more fit in 
 appearance to be a repository for the dead 
 than liie living. I wou-ld on no account put 
 any man out of conceit with his innocent en- 
 joyments, and therefore never tell him my 
 thoughts upon this subject; but he is not 
 seldom low-spirited, and I cannot but suspect 
 that his situation helps to make iiim so. 
 
 I shall be obliged to you for Hawkes- 
 wortli's Voyages wlien it can be sent conve- 
 niently. The long evenings are beginning, 
 and nothing shortens them so effectually as 
 reading aloud. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 29, 1783. 
 
 My dear William, — We are sorry that you 
 and vour household partake so largely of the 
 ill effects of this uniiealthy season. You are 
 happy, however, in having hitherto escaped 
 the epidemic fever which has ])revailed much 
 in this part of the kingdom, and carried many 
 off. Your mother and I are well. After 
 more than a fortnight's indisposition, which 
 slight appellation is quite inadeciuate to the 
 description of all I suffered, I am at length 
 restored by a grain or two of emetic tartar. 
 It is a tax I generally pay in autumn. By 
 this time, I hope, a purer ether than we have 
 seen for months, and these brighter suns than 
 the summer had to boast, have cheered your 
 spirits, and made your existence more com- 
 fortable. We are I'ational : but we are animal 
 too ; and therefore subject to tiie intluences 
 of the weather. The cattle in the fields show 
 evident symptoms of lassitude and disgust in 
 an unpleas;iut season ; and we, their lords 
 and masters, are constrained to sympathize 
 with them: the only difference between us is, 
 that they know not the cause of their dejec- 
 tion, and we do, but, for our humiliation, are 
 equally at a loss to cure it. Upon tliis ac- 
 count I have sometimes wished myself a phi- 
 losopher. IIov,' happy, in comparison with 
 myself, does the sagacious investigator of 
 nature seem, whose fancy is ever employed 
 in the invention of hjpolhef!es, and his reason 
 in the support of them I While he is account- 
 ing for the origin of the winds, he has no 
 leisure to attend to their influence upon him- 
 self; and, wiiile he considers what the sun is 
 made of, forgets that he has not shone for a 
 
 month. One project, indeed, supplants an- 
 other. The vortices of Descartes gave way 
 to the gravitation of Newton, and this again 
 is threatened by the electrical fluid of a mod- 
 ern.* One generation blows bubbles, and 
 the next breaks them. But in the meantime 
 your philosopher is a happy man. He es- 
 capes a thousand inquietudes to which the in- 
 dolent are subject, and finds his occupation, 
 whether it be the pursuit of a buttertiy or a 
 demonstration, the wholesomest exercise in 
 the world. As he proceeds, he applauds him- 
 self. His discoveries, though eventually per- 
 haps they prove but dreams, are to him real- 
 ities. The world gaze at him as he does at 
 new phenomena in the heavens, and perhaps 
 understand him as little. But this does not 
 prevent their praises, nor at all disturb him in 
 the enjoyment of that self-complacence, to 
 which his imaginary success entitles him. 
 He wears his honors while he lives, and, if 
 another strips them off when he has been dead 
 a century, it is no great matter; he can then 
 make shift without them. 
 
 I have said a great deal upon this subject, 
 and know not wiiat it all amounts to. I did 
 not intend a syllable of it when I began. 
 But, currenle calamo, I stumbled upon it. 
 My end is to amuse myself and you. The 
 former of these two points is secured. I shall 
 be happy if I do not miss the latter. 
 
 By the way, what is your opinion of these 
 air balloons 1 I am quite charmed with the 
 discovery. Is it not possible (do you sup- 
 pose ?) to convey such a quantity of infiam- 
 mable air into the stomach and abdomen, that 
 the philosopher, no longer gravitating to a 
 centre, shall ascend by his own comparative 
 levity, and never stop till he has reached the 
 medium exactly in equilihrio with himself? 
 May he not, by the help of a pasteboard rud- 
 der attached to Jiis posteriors, steer himself 
 in that purer element with ease, and again by 
 a slow and gradual discharge of his aerial 
 contents, recover his former tendency to the 
 earth, and descend without the smallest dan- 
 ger or inconvenience ? These things are 
 worth inquiry, and (I dare say) they will be 
 inquired after as they deserve : the penrue 
 mm homini Jalcc are likely to be less regret- 
 ted than they were ; and perhaps a flight of 
 academicians and a covey of fine ladies may 
 be no uncommon spectacle in the next gen- 
 eration. A letter which appeared in tiie pub- 
 lic prints last week convinces me that the 
 learned are not M'ithout hopes of some such 
 improvement upon this discovery. The au- 
 thor is a sensible and ingenious man, and, 
 under a reasonable apprehension that the ig- 
 norant may feel themselves inclined to laugh 
 upon a subject that affects himself with the 
 utmost seriousness, with much good manners 
 and management bespeaks their patience, 
 
 * Dr. Fratiklin. 
 11
 
 162 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 suggesting many good consequences that 
 may result from a course of experiments 
 upon this machine, and amongst others, that 
 it maybe of use in ascertaining the shape of 
 continents and islands, and the face of wide- 
 extended and far distant countries, an end 
 not to be hoped for, unless by these means 
 of extraordinary elevation, the human pros- 
 pect may be immensely enlarged, and the 
 philosopher, exalted to the skies, attain a view 
 of the whole hemisphere at once. But whe- 
 ther he is to ascend by the mere inflation of 
 his person, as hinted above, or whether in a 
 sort of band-box, supported upon balloons, is 
 not yet apparent, nor (I suppose) even in his 
 own idea perfectly decided. 
 
 Yours, my dear William, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 6, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It is indeed a melancholy 
 ronsideration, that the gospel, whose direct 
 tendency is to promote the happiness of man- 
 kind, in the present as well as in the life to 
 come, and which so effectually answers the 
 design of its author, whenever it is well under- 
 stood and sincerely believed, should, through 
 the ignorance, the bigotry, tlie superstition of 
 its professors, and the ambition of popes, and 
 princes, the tools of popes, have produced in- 
 cidentally so much mischief; only furnishing 
 the world witii a plausible excuse to worry 
 each other, while they sanctified the worst 
 cause with the specious pretext of zeal for 
 the furtherance of the best. 
 
 Angels descend from heaven to publish 
 peace between man and his Maker — the Prince 
 of Peace himself comes to confirm and estab- 
 lish it, and war, hatred, and desolation, are 
 the consequence. Thousands quarrel about 
 the interpretation of a book which none of 
 them understand. He that is slain dies firmly 
 persuaded that the crown of martyrdom ex- 
 pects him, and he that slew him is equally 
 convinced that he has done God service.* In 
 reality, they are both mistaken, and equally 
 unentitled to the honor they arrogate to 
 themselves. If a multitude of blind mi3n 
 should set out for a certain city, and dispute 
 about the right road till a battle ensued be- 
 tween them, the probable effect would be, 
 that none of tliem would ever reach it ; and 
 such a fray, preposterous and shocking in the 
 
 * The bitter dissensions of professing Cliristians liave 
 always afforded giouiid for the ridicule and scoff of the 
 infidel. Voltaire parodied those well-ltnowii words, " See 
 how these Christians love one another," in the followiner 
 sarcastic manner, — '' See how these Christians katc one 
 another." It is related of Charles the Fifth, that, after 
 his voluntary abdication of the throne, he amused him 
 se'f by the occupation of mailing watches ; and, finding 
 that he never could, Ijy any contrivance, make two 
 watches to agree together, he exclaimed against his own 
 folly, in having spent so large a portion of his life in en- 
 deavoring to make men agree on the subject of religion. 
 
 extreme, would exhibit a picture in some de- 
 gree resembling the original of whicli we have 
 been speaking. And why is not the world 
 thus occupied at present ? even because they 
 have exchanged a zeal that was no better than 
 madness for an indifference equally pitiable 
 and absurd. The Holy Sepulchre has lost 
 its importance in the eyes of nations called 
 Christian, not because the light_of true wis- 
 dom has delivered them from a superstitious 
 attachment to the spot, but because he that 
 was buried in it is no longer regarded by them 
 as the Savior of the world. The exercise of 
 reason, enlightened by pliilosophy, has cured 
 them indeed of the misery of an abused under- 
 standing ; but, together with the delusion, they 
 have lost the substance, and, for the sake of 
 the lies that were grafted upon it, have quar- 
 relled with the truth itself. Here then wo 
 see the ne plus ultra of human wisdom, at least, 
 in affairs of religion. It enlightens the mind 
 with respect to non-essentials, but, with re- 
 spect to that in which the essence of Chris- 
 tianity consists, leaves it perfectly in the dark. 
 It can discover many errors that in different 
 ages have disgraced the faith, but it is only to 
 make way for the admission of one more fatal 
 than them all, which represents that faith it- 
 self as a delusion. Why those evils have 
 been permitted sliall be known hereafter. 
 One tiling in the mean time is certain ; that 
 tlie folly and frenzy of the professed disciples 
 of the gospel have been more dangerous to 
 its interests than all the avowed hostilities of 
 its adversaries, and perhaps for this cause 
 these mischiefs might be suffered to prevail 
 for a season, that its divine original and na- 
 ture might be the more illustrated, when it 
 should appear that it was able to stand its 
 ground for ages against that most formidable 
 of all attacks, the indiscretion of its friends. 
 The outrages that have followed this perver- 
 sion of the truth have proved indeed a stum- 
 bling-block to individuals; the wise of this 
 world, with all their wisdom, have not been 
 able to distinguish between the blessing and 
 abuse of it. Voltaire was offended, and Gib- 
 bon has turned his back; but the flock of 
 Christ is still nourished and still increases, 
 notwithstanding the unbelief of a philosopher 
 is able to convert bread into a stone and a 
 fish into a serpent. 
 
 I am much obliged to you for the Voyages, 
 which I received* and began to read last 
 night. My imagination is so captivated upon 
 these occasions, that I seem to partake with 
 the navigators in all the dangers they encoun- 
 tered.f I lose my anchor; my main-sail ia 
 
 * Hawkesworth's. 
 
 t "He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
 
 Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 
 Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
 Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; 
 While fancy, like the finger of a clock. 
 Runs the great circuit, and is still at home." 
 
 Taskf book iy.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 163 
 
 rent into shreds ; I kill a sliark, and by signs 
 converse with a Patagonian, and all this with- 
 out moving from the'' fireside. The principal 
 fruits of these circuits that have been made 
 round the globe seem likely to be the amuse- 
 ment of those that stayed at home. Discov- 
 eries have been m:ide, but such discoveries as 
 will hardly satisfy the expense of such under- 
 takings. We brouglit away an Indian, and, 
 having debauched him, we sent him home 
 again°to communicate the infection to his 
 coiuitry — fine sport to be sure, but such as 
 will not defray the cost. Nations that live 
 upon bread-fruit, and have no mines to make 
 them worthy of our acquaintance, will be but 
 little visited for the future. So much the 
 better for them ; their poverty is indeed their 
 mercy. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Oct. 10, 1783. 
 My dear Friend, — I have nothing to say on 
 political subjects, for two reasons ; first, be- 
 cause I know none that at present would 
 prove very amusing, especially to you, who 
 love your country; and, secondly, because 
 there are none that I have the vanity to think 
 myself qualified to discuss. I must beg leave, 
 however, to rejoice a little at the ftiilure of 
 the Caisse d'Escomptes, because I think the 
 French have well deserved it ; and to mourn 
 equally that the Royal George cannot be 
 weighed; the rather, because I wrote two 
 poems, one Latin and one English, to encour- 
 age the attempt. t Tiie former of tliese only 
 having beeu published, which the sailors 
 would understand but little of, may be the 
 reason, perhaps, why they have not succeeded. 
 Believe me, my friend, 
 
 Afiectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 * Piivato correspoiulonce. 
 
 t All (•li';,'iiiit inoiiuinent, erected abovo the priive of 
 tliirtv-iiiiic siiiloM, wliiiso bodies were subseq\ionlly 
 roiiciil, wiw erecli'<l in Iho chiirrhviird of I'oi-tscM, tu coui- 
 mcmonite the influnclioly loss of the Royal Ccorirc Wo 
 pulijoiu the inleresliui; epilapli, which is inscribed on 
 black marble, ia gold loiters. 
 
 "readkr, 
 
 WITH SOLEMN THOlnUT 
 
 SURVEY THIS ORA.VE, 
 
 AND REFLECT 
 
 ON TIIE I'NTIMELY DEATH 
 
 OK THY FELLOW MORTALS ; 
 
 AND WHILST 
 
 AS A MAN, A nniTOX, AND A PATRIOT, 
 
 TllOir READEST 
 
 THE MELANCHOLY NARRATIVE, 
 
 DROP A TEAR 
 
 FOR THY country's 
 
 LOSS." 
 
 At the bottom of the inoiiuineMt, in a coinpnrlmeiit by 
 Itsi'lf, lire Uie followiii'^ lines, in allusion to the brave 
 Admiral Keinpcnfelt: 
 
 ""Pis not (his stone, ro:;rptted ohief. thy name. 
 Thy wordi and merit shall extend to fame : 
 Brilliant achievements have thy name imprest, 
 In lasting characters, on Albion's breast." 
 
 TO THE REV. JOtIN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 13, 1783. 
 
 ]\Iy dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
 you for your American anecdotes, and feel 
 the obligation perhaps more sensibly, the la- 
 bor of transcribing being in particular that to 
 which I myself have the greatest aversion. 
 The loyalists are much to be pitied: driven 
 from all the comforts that depend upon, and 
 are intimately connected with, a residence in 
 their native land, and sent to cultivate a dis- 
 tant one, without the means of doing it, 
 abandoned too through a deplorable neces- 
 sity, by the government to which they sacri- 
 ficed all,* they exhibit a spectacle of distress, 
 whicli one cannot view, even at tiiis distance, 
 witliout participating in what they feel. Why 
 could not some of our useless wastes and 
 forests have been allotted to their support ? 
 To have built them houses indeed, and fur- 
 nished them with implements of husbandry, 
 would have put us to no small expense ; but 
 I suppose the increase of population and the 
 improvement of the soil, would soon have 
 been felt as a national advantage, and have 
 indemnified the state if not enriched it. We 
 are bountiful to foreigners, and neglect those 
 of our own household. I remember that, 
 compassionating the miseries of the Portu- 
 guese, at the time of the Lisbon earthquake,! 
 we sent them a ship-load of tools to clear 
 away the rubbish with, and to assist them in 
 rebuilding the city. I remember too it was 
 reported at the time that the court of Portu- 
 gal accepted our wheelbarrows and spades 
 with a very ill grace, and treated our bounty 
 with contempt. An act like this in behalf of 
 our bretliren, carried only a little farther, 
 miglit possibly have redeemed them from ruin, 
 have resulted in emolument to ourselves, have 
 been received with joy and repaid with grati- 
 tude. Such are my speculations upon the 
 subject, who, not being a politician by profes- 
 sion, and very seldom giving my attentien for 
 a moment to such a matter, may not be aware 
 of ditficulties and objections, which they of 
 the cabinet can discern with half an eye. 
 Perhaps to have taken under our protection 
 a race of men proscribed by tlie Congress, 
 miglit be thougiit dangerous to the interests 
 we hope to have hereafler in tiieir high and 
 mighty regards and alfections. It is ever the 
 way of those who rule the earth, to leave out 
 of their reckoning Him who rules the uni- 
 verse. They forget that the poor have a 
 friend more" powerful to avenge than they 
 can be to oppress, and that treacliery and 
 perfidy must therefore prove bad policy in the 
 end. Tiie Americans themselves appear to 
 
 * In the terms of peace concluded with America, the 
 loyalists, who adhered in their alli^pjiance to (jreat Brit- 
 ain, were not snfllcieiilly remembered, considerin;; the 
 sacrilices they had made," and thus had the misfortune of 
 beini: perseciited by America, and neprlected by England. 
 
 t This event occurred in the year 1756.
 
 164 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 "1 
 
 me to be in a situation litle less pitiable than 
 that of the deserted loyalists. Their fears 
 of arbitrary imposition were certainly well 
 founded. A struijg-le therefore miiilit be iie- 
 cessary, in order to prevent it, and this end 
 might surely have been answered without a 
 renunciation of dependence. But the pas- 
 sions of a whole people, once put in motion, 
 are not soon quieted. Contests beget aver- 
 sion, a little success inspires more ambitious 
 hopes, and thus a slight qu irrel terminates at 
 last in a breach never to be healed, and per- 
 haps in the ruin of both parties. It does not 
 soem likely tliat a country so distinguished 
 by tiie Creator with everything that can make 
 it desirable should be given up to desolation 
 forever : and they possibly iuive reason on 
 their side, who suppose that in time it will 
 have the pre-eminence over all others ; but 
 the day of such prosperity seems far distant 
 — Omnipotence indeed can hasten it, and it 
 may dawn when it is least expected. But 
 we govern ourselves in all our reasonings 
 by present appearances. Persons at least 
 no better informed than myself are con- 
 strained to do so. 
 
 I intended to have taken another subject 
 when I began, and I wish I had. No man 
 living is less qualified to settle nations tlian I 
 am ; but when I write to you, I talk, that is I 
 write as fast as my pen can run, and on this 
 occasion it ran away with me. I acknowledge 
 myself in your debt for your last ftivor, but 
 cannot pay you now, unless you will accept 
 as payment, what I know you value more 
 than all I can say beside, the most unfeigned 
 assurances of my affection for you and yours. 
 Yours, &c., W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Oct. 20, 178.3. 
 My dear Friend, — I hare made a point of 
 saying no fine things to Mr. Bacon,f upon an 
 occasion that would well have justified them; 
 deterred by a caveat he entered in his letter. 
 Nothing can be more handsome than the pres- 
 ent, nor more obliging than tlie manner in 
 which he has made it. I take it for granted 
 that the plate is, line for line, and stroke for 
 stroke, an exact representation of his per- 
 formance, as nearly, at least, as light and 
 shade can exhibit, upon a flat surface, the ef- 
 fect of a piece of statuary. I may be allowed 
 therefore to say that I admire it". My situa- 
 tion atfords me no opportunity to cultivate 
 the science of connoisseurship ; neither would 
 there be much propriety in my speaking the 
 language of one to you, who disclaim the 
 character. But we both know when we are 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The celebrated staUiary who executed the noble 
 monument to the memory of Lord Chatham, in West- 
 minster Abbey. 
 
 pleased. It occurs to me, however, that I 
 ought to say what it is that pleases me, for a 
 general commendation, where there are so 
 many particular beauties, would be insipid 
 and unjust. 
 
 I thinlc the figure of Lord Chatham singu- 
 larly graceful, and his countenance full of the 
 character that belongs to him. It speaks not 
 only great ability and consummate skill, but 
 a tender and heartfelt interest in the welfare 
 of the charge committed to him. In the figure 
 of the City, there is all that empressement, 
 (pardon a French term, it expresses my idea 
 better than any English one that occurs,) that 
 the importance of her errand calls for; and it 
 is noble in its air, though in a posture of sup- 
 plication. But the figure of Commerce is in- 
 deed a perfect beauty. It is a literal truth, 
 that I felt the tears flush into my eyes while 
 I looked at her. The idea of so much elegance 
 and grace having found so powerful a protec- 
 tion, was irresistible. There is a complacency 
 and serenity in the air and countenance of 
 Britannia, more suited to her dignity than 
 that exultation and triumph which a less ju- 
 dicious hand might have dressed her in. She 
 seems happy to sit at the feet of her deliverer. 
 I have most of the monuments in the Abbey 
 by heart, but I recollect none that ever gave 
 me so much pleasure. The faces are all ex- 
 pressive, and the figures are all graceful. If 
 you think the opinion of so unlearned a spec- 
 tator worth communicating, and that I have 
 not said more than Mr. Bacon's modesty can 
 bear without offence, you are welcome to 
 make him privy to my sentiments. I know 
 not why he should be hurt by just praise; 
 his fine talent is a gift, and all the "merit of it 
 is His property who gave it. 
 Believe me, my dear friend. 
 
 Sincerely and affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 I am out of your debt. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 30, 1783. 
 
 I should not have been thus long silent, 
 had I known with certainty where a letter of 
 mine might find you. Your summer excur- 
 sions however are now at an end, and, ad- 
 dressing a line to you in the centre of the 
 busy scene, in which you spend your winter, 
 I am pretty sure of my mark. 
 
 I see the winter approaching without much 
 concern, though a passionate lover of fine 
 weather, and the pleasant scenes of summer; 
 but the long evenings have their comforts too, 
 and there is hardly to be found upon earth, I 
 suppose, so snug a creature as an Englishman 
 by his fire-side in the winter. I mean, how- 
 ever, an Englishman that lives in the country, 
 for in London it is not very easy to avoid in- 
 trusion. I have two ladies to read to, some.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 165 
 
 times more, but never less — at present we 
 ar(! circumnavigating tlie globe, and I find the 
 old story with which I amused myself some 
 years since, through the great felicity of a 
 memory not very retentive, almost new. I 
 am however sadly at a loss for Cook's Voy- 
 age — can you send it? I shall be glad of 
 Foster's too. These together will make the 
 winter pass merrily, and you will much oblige 
 me. . VV. C. 
 
 The last letter contains a slight sketch of 
 those happy winter evenings, which the poet 
 has -painted so exquisitely in verse.* The two 
 ladies wiiom he mentions as liis constant 
 a\iditors, were ]Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. 
 The public, already indebted to the friendly 
 and cheerful spirit of the latter, for the 
 pleasant ballad of John Gilpin, had soon to 
 thank her inspiring benevolence for a work 
 of superior dignity, the masterpiece of Cow- 
 per's rich and fertile imagination. 
 
 This lady happened, as an admirer of Mil- 
 ton, to be partial to blank verse, and often 
 solicited her poetical friend to try his powers 
 in that species of composition. After re- 
 peated solicitation, he promised her, if she 
 would furnish the suhject, to comply with 
 her request. "Oh!" she replied, "you can 
 never be in want of a subject: — you can 
 write upon any : write upon this sofa !" The 
 poet obeyed her command, and from the 
 lively repartee of familiar conversation arose 
 a poem of many thousand verses, unexampled 
 perhaps both in its origin and excellence — 
 a poem of such infinite variety, that it seems 
 to include every subject and every style with- 
 out any violation of harmony and order ; 
 which delineates nature, under her most at- 
 tractive <brms, and breathes a spirit of the 
 purest and most exalted morality. 
 
 A great part of the " Task" appears to have 
 been composed in the winter — a circumstance 
 the more remarkable, as the wintry months 
 were generally unfavorable to the health of 
 the poet. In the commencement of the poem, 
 he murks both the season and the year, in the 
 tender address to his companion. 
 
 '■ ^Vhose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
 Fast lock'd in luiiic." 
 
 Any circumstances which tend to illustrate 
 the origin and progress of this poem deserve 
 to be recorded with minute attention. We 
 select a series of passages from Cowper's 
 Letters to IMr. Bull, as affording this interest- 
 ing information. 
 
 August 8, 1783. — " Your sea-side situation, 
 vour beautiful prospects, your fine rides, and 
 the sight of the palaces which yon have seen, 
 we have not envied you : but we are glad that 
 yo<i have enjoyed them. Why should we envy 
 any man. Is not our greenhouse a cabinet 
 
 * See Task, book iv. 
 
 of perfumes? It is at this moment fronted 
 with carnations and balsams, with mignonette 
 and roses, with jessamine and woodbine, and 
 wants nothing but your pipe to make it truly 
 Arabian ; — a wilderness of sweets ! The ' Sof;i' 
 is ended, but not finished; a paradox, which 
 your natural acumen, sharpened by nabits of 
 logical attention, will enable you to reconcile 
 in a moment. Do not imagine however that 
 I lounge over it — on the contrary I find it 
 severe exercise to mould and fashion it to my 
 mind !" 
 
 February 22, 1784. — " I congratulate you on 
 the thaw : I suppose it is an universal bles- 
 sing, and probably felt all over Europe. I 
 myself am the better for it who wanted noth- 
 ing that might make the frost supportable : 
 what reason, therefore, have they to rejoice, 
 who, being in want of all things, were e.x- 
 posed to its utmost rigor? The ice in my 
 ink however is not yet dissolved. It was 
 long before the frost seized it, but it at last 
 prevailed. The ' Sofa' has consequently re- 
 ceived little or no addition since. It consists 
 at present of four books and 2)art of a fifth: 
 when the sixth is finished, the work is accom- 
 plished; but, if I may judge by my present 
 inability, that period is at a considerable dis- 
 tance." 
 
 The following extract, not only mentions 
 the completion of his great work, but gives 
 a particular account of his next production. 
 
 November 8, 1784.— "'The Task,' as you 
 know, is gone to the press ; since it went I 
 have been employed in writing another poem, 
 which I am now transcribing, and which in a 
 short time I design shall follow. It is enti- 
 tled ' Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools ;' 
 the business and purpose of it are to censure 
 the want of discipline, and the scandalous 
 inattention to morals, that obtain in them, es- 
 pecially in the largest; and to recommend 
 private tuition as a mode of education prefer- 
 able on all accounts ; to call upon fathers to 
 become tutors to their own sons, where that 
 is practicable ; to take home a domestic tu- 
 tor, where it is not ; and, if neither can be 
 done, to place them under the care of such 
 a man as he "o whom I am writing; some 
 rural parson, whose attention is limited to a 
 few." 
 
 The reader will find the poet himself relat- 
 ing, in more than one letter of the next year 
 some particulars of the time in which his 
 great work, " The Task," was composed. 
 Writing to Mr. Newton, on the 20th of Oc- 
 tober, ^1784, Cowper says of his "Task," 
 then in the press, " I began it about this time 
 twelvemonth." These words of hasty and 
 imperfect recollection might give rise to a 
 persuasion, that this extensive and admirable 
 production was completed in a year. But, 
 as it is proved by the first extract from the 
 poet's etters to Mr. Bull, that the first book
 
 166 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 (entitled the " Sofa") was ended on the 3rd 
 of Aui^nist, 1783, we may reasonably conclude 
 that this interesting poem was begun in June 
 or July. It was not imparted, as it advanced, 
 to any of the poet's confidential friends, ex- 
 cept to the two ladies with whom he lived at 
 the time of its commencement, and to his 
 kind and sympathizing neighbor, Mr. Bull, 
 who had shown his benevolent zeal in en- 
 couraging the spirit of Cowper to cheer and 
 amuse itself in poetical studies. The final 
 verses of " The Task" were probably written 
 in September, 1784, as Cowper sent a tran- 
 script of tlie poem for the press to his favor- 
 ite young friend, Mr. Unwin, early in October. 
 His modest reserve appears very remarkable 
 in his not having communicated this compo- 
 sition even to Mr. Unwin, till it was abso- 
 lutely finished, and his tender delicacy of re- 
 gard and attention to that young friend was 
 amiably displayed in assigning to him the 
 honorable otKce of revising and consigning 
 to the press a work so important. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 3, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My time is short, and 
 my opportunity not the most favorable. My 
 letter will consequently be short likewise, 
 and perhaps not very intelligible. I find it 
 no very easy matter to bring my mind into 
 that degree of composure, which is necessary 
 to the arrangement either of words or matter. 
 You will naturally expect to receive some 
 account of this confusion that I describe, 
 some reason given for it. On Saturday night, 
 at eleven o'clock, when I had not been in bed 
 five minutes, I was alarmed by a cry of fire, 
 announced by two or three shrill screams upon 
 our staircase. Our servants, who were going 
 to bed, saw it from their wiudows; and, in 
 appearance, so near, that they thought our 
 house in danger. I immediately rose, and 
 putting by the curtain, saw sheets of fire 
 rising above the ridge of Mr. Palmer's house, 
 opposite to ours. The deception was such 
 that I had no doubt it had begun with }iim, 
 but soon found that it was rather farther off. 
 In fact, it was at three places. Having broke 
 out in three different parts, it is supposed to 
 have been maliciously kindled. A tar-barrel 
 and a quantity of tallow made- a most tre- 
 mendous blaze; and the buildings it had 
 seized upon being all thatched, the appear- 
 ance became every moment more formidable. 
 Providentially the night was perfectly calm, 
 so calm that candles, without lanterns, of 
 which there were multitudes in the street, 
 burnt as steadily as in the house. By four 
 in the morning it was so far reduced that all 
 danger seemed to be over ; but the confusion 
 it had occasioned was almost infinite. Every 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 man who supposed his dwelling-house in 
 jeopardy, emj)tied it as fast as he could, and 
 conveyed his moveables to the house of some 
 neighbor, supposed to be more secure. Ours, 
 in the space of two hours, was so filled with 
 all sorts of lumber, that we had not even 
 room for a chair by the fire-side. George 
 is the principal sufferer. He gave«igh' 
 
 teen guineas, or nearly that sum, to a woman, 
 whom, in his hurry, he mistook for his wife; 
 but the supposed wife walked off' with the 
 money, and he will probably never recover it. 
 He has likewise lost forty pounds' worth of 
 wool. London never exhibited a scene of 
 greater depredation, drunkenness and riot. 
 Everything was stolen that could be got at, 
 and every drop of liquor drunk that was not 
 guarded. Only one thief has yet been de- 
 tected; a woman of tlie name of J , who 
 
 was stopped by yonng Handscomb with an 
 apron full of plunder. He was forced to 
 strike her down, before he could wrest it 
 from her. Could you visit the place, you 
 would see a most striking proof of a Provi 
 dence interposing to stop the progress of the 
 flames. They had almost reached, that is to 
 say, within six yards of Daniel Rabau's wood- 
 pile, in which were fifty pounds' worth of 
 faggots and furze ; and exactly there they 
 were extinguished; otherwise, especially if 
 a breath of air had happened to move, all that 
 side of the town must probably have been 
 consumed. After all this dreadful conflagi-a- 
 tion, we find nothing burnt but the out- 
 houses; and tlie dwellings to which they be- 
 longed have suffered only the damage of 
 being unroofed on that side next the fire. 
 No lives were lost, nor any limbs broken. 
 Mrs. Unwin, whose spirits served her while 
 the hubbub lasted, and the day after, begins 
 to feel the effect of it now. But I nope she 
 will be relieved from it soon, being better this 
 evening than I expected. As for me, I am 
 impregnable to all such assaults. I have 
 nothing, however, but this subject in my 
 mind, and it is in vain that I invite any other 
 into it. Having, therefore, exhausted this, I 
 finish, assuring you of our united love, and 
 hoping to find myself in a frame of mind 
 more suited to my employment when I write 
 next. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 10, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I have lost an(f wasted 
 almost all my writing time, in making an al 
 teration in the verses I either enclose or sub- 
 join, for I know not which will be the case 
 at present. If prose comes readily, I shall 
 transcribe them on another sheet, otherwise 
 on this. You will understand before you
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 16-7 
 
 have read many of them, that they are not for 
 the press. I lay you under no other injunc- 
 tions. The unkind behavior of our acquaint- 
 ance, thought it is possible that in some in- 
 stances it may not much affect our happiness, 
 nor engage many of our thoughts, will some- 
 times obtrude itself upon us with a degree 
 of importunity not easily resisted, and then, 
 perhaps, though almost insensible of it be- 
 fore, we feel more than the occasion will 
 justify. In sucii a moment it was that I con- 
 ceived this poem, and gave loose to a degree 
 of resentment whicli, perhaps, I ought not to 
 have indulged, but which in a cooler hour I 
 cannot altogetlier condemn. My former in- 
 timacy with the two characters was such, that 
 I could not but feel myself provoked by the 
 neglect with which they botii treated me on 
 a late occasion.* So much by way of pre- 
 face. 
 
 You ought not to have supposed that, if 
 you had visited us last summer, the pleasure 
 of tlie interview would have been all your 
 own. By sucii an imagination you wrong 
 both yourself and us. Do you suppose we 
 do not love you ? You cannot suspect your 
 mother of coldness, and as to me, assure 
 yourself I have no friend in the world with 
 whom I communicate without the least re- 
 serve, yourself excepted. Take heart then, 
 and when you find a favorable opportunity 
 to come, assure yourself of sucii a welcome 
 from us both as you have a right to look for. 
 But I have observed in your two last letters 
 somewhat of a dejection and melancholy, that 
 I am afraid you do not sulficiently strive 
 against. I suspect you of being too seden- 
 tary. " You cannot walk." Why you can- 
 not is best known to yourself I am sure 
 your legs are long enougli, and your person 
 does not overload them. But I beseech you 
 ride, and ride often. I think I have heard 
 you say you cannot even do that without an 
 object. Is not health an object? Is not a 
 new prospect, whicii in most countries is 
 gained at the end of every mile, an object? 
 Assure yourself that easy chairs are no 
 friends to cheerfulness, and that a long win- 
 ter spent by the fireside is a prelude to an 
 unhealthy spring. Everything I see in the 
 fields is to me an object ; and I can look at 
 tlie same ri /ulet, or at a handsome tree, every 
 day of my life with new pleasure. This in- 
 deed is partly the effect of a natural taste for 
 rural beauty, and partly tiic effect of habit, 
 for I never in all my lifo have let slip the op- 
 portunity of breatiiing fresli .-lir, and convers- 
 ing with nature, when I could fairly catch it. 
 I earnestly recommend a cultivation of the 
 same taste to you, suspecting that you have 
 neglected it, and suffer for doing so. 
 
 Last Saturday se'nnight, the moment I had 
 
 * Lord Tlmrlow and Colmnn, to wliom he presented 
 his lir&t volumo, u[id rucuivcd no acknowledgment. 
 
 composed myself in my bed, your mothe- 
 too having just got into hers, we were 
 alarmed by a cry of fire, on the staircase. I 
 immediately rose, and saw sheets of flame 
 above the roof of Mr. Palmer s house, our 
 opposite neiglibor. The mischief, however 
 \vas not so near to him as it seemed to be, 
 having begun at a butcher's yard, at a little 
 distance. We made all haste down stairs, 
 and soon threw open the street door, for the 
 reception of as much lumber, of all sorts, as 
 our house would hold, brought into it by 
 several who thought it necessary to move 
 their furniture. In two hours' time we had 
 so much that we could hold no more, even 
 the uninhabited part of our building being 
 filled. Not that we ourselves were entirely 
 secure — an adjoining thatch, on which fell 
 showers of sparks, being rather a dangerous 
 neighbor. Providentially, however, the night 
 was perfectly calm, and we escaped. By four 
 in the morning it was extinguished, having 
 consumed many outr-buildings, but no dwell- 
 ing-house. Your mother suffered a little in 
 her health, from the fatigue and bustle of 
 the night, but soon recovered ; as for me, it 
 hurt me not. The slightest wind would have 
 carried the fire to the very extremity of the 
 town, there being multitudes of thatched 
 buildings, and faggot-piles so near to each 
 other, that they must have proved infallible 
 conductors. 
 
 The balloons prosper ; I congratulate you 
 upon it. Thanks to Montgolfier, we shall fly 
 at last. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 17, 1783. 
 My dear Friend, — The country around us 
 is much alarmed with apprehensions of fire, 
 two have happened since that of Olney. One 
 at Hitchin, where the damage is said to 
 amount to eleven thousand pounds, and an- 
 other at a place not fiir from Hitchin, of 
 which I have not learned the name. Letters 
 have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to 
 burn the town; and the inhabitants liave 
 been so intimidated as to have placed a guard 
 in many parts of it, several nights past. 
 Since our conflagration here, we have sent 
 two women and a boy to the justice for dep- 
 redation ; S R , for stealing a piece 
 
 of beef, which, in her excuse she said she in- 
 tended to take care of. This lady, whom 
 you well remember, escaped for want of evi- 
 dence ; not that evidence was indeed w^ant- 
 ing, but our men of Gotham judge^ it 
 unnecessary to send it. With her went the 
 woman whom I mentioned before, who, it 
 seems, has made some sort of profession, but 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 168 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude 
 of conduct rather inconsistent with it, having 
 filled her apron with wearing apparel, which 
 slie likewise intended to take care of She 
 would have gone to the county gaol, had 
 William Raban, the baker's son, who ])rosecu- 
 ted, insisted upon it ; but he good-naturedly, 
 though, I think, weakly, interposed in her 
 favor, and begged her off. Tiie young gen- 
 tleman who accompanied these fair ones is 
 the junior son of Molly Boswell. lie had 
 stolen some iron-work, the property of 
 Griggs, the butcher. Being convicted, he was 
 ordered to be whipped, which operation he 
 underwent at the cart's tail, from the stone- 
 house to the high arch and back again. He 
 seemed to show great fortitude, but it was 
 all an imposition upon the public. The bea- 
 dle, who performed it, had filled his left hand 
 with red ochre, through which after every 
 stroke he drew the lash of his whip, leaving 
 the appearance of a wound upon the skin, 
 but in reality not hurting him at all. This 
 
 being perceived by Mr. Constable H , 
 
 who followed the beadle, he applied his 
 cane, without any such management or pre- 
 caution, to the shoulders of the too merciful 
 executioner. The scene immediately became 
 more interesting. The beadle could by no 
 means be prevailed upon to strike hard, 
 which provoked the constable to strike 
 harder ; and this double flogging continued, 
 till a lass of Silver-end, pitying the pitiful 
 beadle thus suffering under the hands of the 
 pitiless constable, joined the procession, and 
 placing herself immediately behind the latter 
 seized him by his capillary club, and pulling 
 him backwards by tlie same, slapped his face 
 with a most Amazonian fury. This concate- 
 nation of events has taken up more of my 
 paper than I intended it should, but I could 
 not forbear to inform you how the beadle 
 thraslied the thief, the constable the beadle, 
 and the lady the constable, and how the thief 
 was the only person concerned who suffered 
 nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is 
 gone again. He came to thank me for some 
 left-off clothes. In answer to our inquiries 
 after his health, he replied that he had a slow 
 fever, which made him take all possible care 
 not to inflame his blood. 1 admitted his pru- 
 dence, but in his particular instance could not 
 very clearly discern the need of it. Pump 
 water will not heat him much ; and, to speak 
 a little in his own style, more inebriating 
 fluids are to him, I fancy, not very attainable. 
 He brought us news, the truth of which, 
 however, I do not vouch for, that the town 
 of Bedford was actually on fire yesterday, 
 and 'the flames not extinguished when the 
 bearer of the tidinfirs left it.* 
 
 * A considerable fire occurred at this time in the town 
 of Uedford, and thirty-nine houses were consumed, but 
 It is said from accidental causes, 
 
 Swift observes, when he is giving his rea- 
 sons wliy the preacher is elevated always 
 above his hearers, that, let the crowd be as 
 great as it will below, there is always room 
 enough overhead. If the French philoso- 
 phers can carry their art of flying to the per- 
 fection they desire, the observation may be 
 reversed, the crowd will be overhead, and 
 they will have most room who stay below. 
 I can assure you, however, upon my own ex- 
 perience, that this way of travelling is very 
 delightful. I dreamt a night or two since, 
 that I drove myself through the upper re- 
 gions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest 
 ease and security. Having finished the tour 
 I intended, I made a short turn, and with one 
 flourish of my whip descended; my horses 
 prancing and curvetting with an infinite share 
 of spirit, and without the least danger either 
 to me or my vehicle. The time, we may sup- 
 pose, is at hand, and seems to be prognosti- 
 cated by my dream, when these airy excur- 
 sions will be universal, when judges will fly 
 the circuit and bishops their visitations; and 
 when the tour of Europe will be performed 
 with much greater speed, and with equal ad- 
 vantage, by all who travel merely for the 
 sake of having it to say, that they have made 
 t.* 
 
 I beg you will accept for yourself and 
 yours our unfeigned love, and remember me 
 affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see 
 him. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 Olney, Nov. 23, 1T83. 
 My dear Friend, — Your opinion of voyages 
 and travels would spoil an appetite less keen 
 than mine ; but being pretty much, perhaps 
 more than any man who can be said to enjoy 
 his liberty, confined to a spot,, and being very 
 desirous of knowing all that can be known 
 of this same planet of ours while I have the 
 honor to belong to it — and having, besides, 
 no other means of information at my com- 
 mand — I am constrained to be satisfied with 
 narratives, not always, indeed, to be implicitly 
 depended upon, but which, being subjected 
 to the exercise of a little consideration, can- 
 not materially deceive us. Swinburn's is a 
 book I had fixed upon, and determined if 
 possible to procure, being pleased with some 
 extracts from it which I found in the Review. 
 I need hardly add, that I shall be much ob- 
 liged to Mrs. Hill for a sight of it. I ac- 
 count myself truly and much indebted to 
 that lady for the trouble she is so kind as to 
 take upon my account, and shall esteem my- 
 
 * The discovery of balloons had attracted the attention 
 of the public at this period, and various speculationa 
 were induli^ed as to the probable result. 
 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 169 
 
 self her debtor for all the amusement I meet 
 with in the southern hemisphere, should 1 be 
 so fortunate as to get there. My reading is 
 pretty much circumscribed both by want of 
 books and the influence of particular reasons. 
 Politics are my abhorrence, being almost al- 
 ways hypothetical, fluctuating, and impractica- 
 ble. Philosophy — I should have said natural 
 philosophy, mathematically studied, does not 
 suit me ; and such exhibitions of that subject 
 as are calculated <br less learned reader.s, I 
 have read in form t days and remember in 
 the present. Poetr) English poetry, I never 
 touch, being pretty much addicted to the 
 writing of it, and knowing that much inter- 
 course with those gentlemen betrays us una- 
 voidably into a habit of imitation, which I 
 hate and despise most cordially. 
 
 If he be the happiest man who has least 
 money in the funds, there are few upon 
 CMrth whom I have any occasion to envy. I 
 would consent, however, to have my pounds 
 multiplied into thousands, even at the hazard 
 of all 1 might feel from that tormenting pas- 
 sion. I send nothing to the papers myself, 
 but Unwin sometimes sends for me. His re- 
 ceptacle of my squibs is the Public Adver- 
 tiser ; but they are very few, and my present 
 occupations are of a kind that will still have 
 a tendency to make them fewer. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 The neglect which Covvper had experienced 
 from a high quarter seems deeply to have 
 wounded his sensitive spirit, and to have dic- 
 tated some of the remarks to be found in the 
 following letter. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olnoy, Nov. 24, 178:5. 
 
 IMy dear Friend, — An evening nnexpect- 
 edly retired, and which your mother and I 
 spend without company (an occurrence far 
 from fre(iuent), affords me a favorable op- 
 porl unity to write by to-morrow's post, 
 which el-e I coidd not have found. You are 
 very good to consider my literary necessities 
 wit!) so much attention, and I feel propor- 
 tionably grateful. Blair's Lectures (though 
 I suppose they must make a part of my pri- 
 vate studies, not h^mg ad caphmificminarum) 
 will be perfectly welcome. You say you felt 
 my verses;^! assure you that in this you fol- 
 lowed my example, for I felt them first. A 
 man's lordship is nothing to me, any farther 
 than in connexion with qualities that entitle 
 him to my respect. If he thinks himself 
 privileged by it to treat me with neglect, I 
 am his hinnble servant, and shall never be at 
 a loss to render him an equivalent. I will 
 not however belie my knowledge of mankind 
 so mueli as to seem surprised at a treatment 
 U'hich I had abundant reason to e.xpect. To 
 
 these men, with whom I was once intimate, 
 and for many years, I am no longer neces- 
 sary, no longer convenient, or in any respect 
 an object. They think of me as of the man 
 in the moon, and, whether I have a lantern, 
 or a dog and faggot, or whether I have nei- 
 ther of these desirable accommodations, is to 
 them a matter of perfect indifference : upon 
 that point we are agreed ; our indifference is 
 mutual ; and, were I to publish again, which 
 is not possible, I should give them a proof 
 of it. 
 
 L'Estrange's Josephus has lately furnished 
 us with evening lectures. But the historian 
 is so tediously circumstantial, and the trans- 
 lator so insupportably coarse and vulgar, that 
 we are all three weary of him. How would 
 Tacitus have shone upon such a subject, 
 great master as he was of the art of descrip- 
 tion, concise without obscurity, and afl'ecting 
 without being poetical. But so it was or- 
 dered, and for wise reasons no doubt, that 
 the greatest calamities any people ever suf 
 fered, and an accomplishment of one of the 
 most signal prophecies in the scripture, 
 should be recorded by one of the worst wri- 
 ters. The man was a temporizer too, and 
 courted the favor of his Roman masters at 
 the expense of his own creed, or else an in- 
 fidel and absolutely disbelieved it. You will 
 think me very difhcult to please ; I quarrel 
 with Josephus for the want of elegance, and 
 with some of our modern historians for hav- 
 ing too much — with him for running right 
 forward like a gazette, without stopping to 
 make a single observation by the way, and 
 with them for pretending to delineate char- 
 acters that existed two thousand years ago, 
 and to discover the motives by which they 
 were influenced, with the same precision as if 
 they had been their contemporaries. Sim- 
 plicity is become a very rare quality in a wri- 
 ter. In the decline of great kingdoms, and 
 where refinement in all the arts is carried to 
 an excess, I suppose it is always rare. Tli£ 
 latter Roman writers are remarkable for false 
 ornament, they were yet no doubt admired 
 by the readers of their own day; and with 
 respect to authors of the present era, the 
 most popular among them appear to me 
 equally censurable on the same account. 
 Swift and Addison were simple. 
 
 Your mother wants room lor a postscript, 
 so my lecture must conclude abruptly. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 OIney, Nov. 30, 17S3. 
 
 ^ly dear Friend, — I have neither long visits 
 to pay nor to receive, nor ladies to spend 
 hours in telling me that which might be told 
 
 * Private corresipondonce.
 
 in five minutes, yet often find myself obliged 
 to be an economist of time, and to make the 
 most of a short opportunity. Let our sta- 
 tion be as retired as it may, there is no want 
 of playthings and avocations, nor much need 
 to seek them, in this world of ours. Busi- 
 ness, or what presents itself to us under 
 that imposing character, will find us out, 
 even in the stillest retreat, and plead its im- 
 portance, however trivial in reality, as a just 
 demand upon our attention. It is wonder- 
 ful how, by means of such real or seeming 
 necessities, my time is stolen away. I have 
 just time to observe that time is short, and, 
 by the time I have made the observation, 
 time is gone. I have wondered in former 
 days at tiie patience of the antediluvian 
 world, that they could endure a life almost 
 millenary, with so little variety as seems to 
 have fallen to their share. It is probable 
 that they had much fewer employments than 
 we. Their affairs lay in a narrower com- 
 pass ; their libraries were indifferently fur- 
 nished ; philosophical researches were carried 
 on with much less industry and acuteness 
 of penetration, and fiddles, perhaps, were not 
 even invented. How then could seven or 
 eight hundred years of life be supportable ? 
 I have asked this question formerly, and 
 been at a loss to resolve it; but I think I 
 can answer it now. I will suppose myself 
 born a thousand years before Noah was 
 born or thought of. I rise with the sun ; I 
 worship ; I prepare my breakfast ; I swallow 
 a bucket of goats' milk, and a dozen good 
 sizeable cakes. I fasten a new string to my 
 bow, and my youngest boy, a lad of about 
 thirty years of age, having played with my 
 arrows till he has stripped otF all the feath- 
 ers, I find myself obliged to repair them. 
 The morning is thus spent in preparing for 
 the chase, and it is become necessary that I 
 should dine. I dig up my roots ; I wash 
 them ; I boil them ; I find them not done 
 enough, 1 boil them again; my wife is an- 
 gry ; we dispute ; we settle the point ; but 
 in the meantime the fire goes out, and must 
 be kindled again. All this is very amusing. 
 I hunt ; I bring home the prey ; with the 
 skin of it I mend an old coat, or I make a 
 new one. By this time the day is far spent ; 
 I feel myself fatigued, and retire to rest. 
 Thus, what with tilling the ground, and eat- 
 ing the fruit of it, hunting, and walking, and 
 running, and mending old clothes, and sleep- 
 ing and rising again, I can suppose an in- 
 habitant of the primseval world so much 
 occupied as to sigh over the shortness of 
 life, and to find, at the end of many centu- 
 ries, that they had all slipped through his 
 fingers, and were passed away like a shadow. 
 What wonder then that I, who live in a day 
 of so much greater refinement, when there 
 is so much more to be wanted, and wished. 
 
 and to be enjoyed, should feel myself now 
 and then pinched in point of opportunity, 
 and at some loss for leisure to fill four sides 
 of a sheet like this 1 Thus, however, it is, 
 and, if the ancient gentlemen to whom I 
 have referred, and their complaints of the 
 disproportion of time to the occasions they 
 had for it, will not serve me as an excuse, I 
 must even plead guilty, and confess that I 
 am often in haste, when I have no good rea- 
 son for being so. 
 
 This by way of introduction ; now for my 
 letter. Mr. Scott is desired by IMr. De Coet- 
 loffon to contribute to the " Theoloifical 
 Review," of whicli I suppose that gentleman 
 is a manager. He says he has ensured your 
 assistance, and at the same time desires 
 mine, either in prose or verse. He did well 
 to apply to you, because you can afford him 
 substantial help; but as for me, had he 
 known me better, he would never have sus- 
 pected me for a theologian, either in rhyme 
 or otherwise. 
 
 Lord Dartmouth's Mr. Wright spent near 
 two hours with me this morning ; a respect- 
 able old man, whom I always see with 
 pleasure, both for his master's sake and for 
 his own. I was glad to learn from him that 
 his lordship has better health than he has 
 enjoyed for some years. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend. 
 
 Your affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 15, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^I know not how it fjires 
 with you, at a time when philosophy has 
 just brought forth her most extradordinary 
 production, not excepting, perhaps, that prod- 
 igy, a ship, in all respects complete, and 
 equal to the task of circumnavigating the 
 globe. My mind, however, is frequently 
 getting into these balloons, and is busy in 
 multiplying speculations as airy as the re- 
 gions through which they pass. The last 
 account from France, which seems so well 
 authenticated, has changed my jocularity 
 upon this occasion into serious expectation. 
 The invention of these new vehicles is yet 
 in its infancy, yet already they seem to have 
 attained a degree of perfection which navi- 
 gation did not reach, till ages of experience 
 had matured it, and science had exhausted 
 both her industry and her skill* in its im- 
 provement. I am aware, indeed, that the 
 first boat or canoe that was ever formed, 
 though rude in its construction — perhaps 
 not constructed at all, being only a hollow 
 tree that had fallen casually into the water, 
 and whicii, though fariiislied with neither 
 sails nor oars, might yet be guided by_ a 
 pole — was a more perfect creature in its 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 171 
 
 kind than a balloon at present; the single 
 circumstance of its m:ui;ige;ible nature giv- 
 ing it a clear superiority L)oth in respect of 
 safety and convenience. But the atmosphere, 
 though a mucli tiiinner medium, we well 
 know, resists the impression made upon it 
 by the tail of a bird, as ellectually as the 
 water that of a sliip's rudder. Pope, when 
 inculcating one of his few useful lessons, 
 and directing mankind to the providence of 
 God, as the true source of all their wisdom, 
 8ays beautifully — 
 
 Learn of the little Nautilus to sail, 
 
 Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. 
 
 It is easy to parody these lines, so as to 
 give them an accommodation and suitable- 
 ness to the present purpose. 
 
 Learn of the circle-making kite to fly, 
 Spread the fan-tail, and wheel about the sky. 
 
 It is certain at least that nothing within 
 the reach of human ingenuity will be left 
 unattempted to accomplish and add all tiiat 
 is wanting to this last effort of philosophical 
 contrivance.* The approximating powers of 
 the telescope, and the powers by which tlie 
 thunder-storm is delivered of its contents 
 peaceably and without mischief, were once 
 perhaps in appearance more remote from 
 discovery, and seemed less practicable, than 
 we may now suppose it to give direction to 
 that which is already buoyant; especially 
 possessed as we are of such consummate 
 mechanical skill, already masters of prin- 
 ciples which we have nothing to do but to 
 apply, of which we have already availed our- 
 selves in the similar case of navigation, and 
 having in every fowl of the air a pattern, 
 which now at length it may be sufficient to 
 imitate. Wings and a tail indeed were of 
 little use, while the body, so much heavier 
 than the space of air it occupied, was sure 
 to sink by its own weight, and could never 
 be held in equipoise by any implements of 
 the kind which human strength could man- 
 age. But now we lloat; at random indeed, 
 pretty much, and as the wind drives us; for 
 want of nothing, however, but that steerage 
 wliich invention, the conqueror of many 
 equal, if not superior, diliiculties may be ex- 
 pected to supply. .Should the point be car- 
 ried, and man at last hecome as familiar with 
 the air as he has long been with the ocean, 
 will it in its consiM|ueiices prove a mercy or a 
 judgment .' I think, a judgment. First, he- 
 cause, if a power to convey liimself from place 
 to place, like a bird, would have been good for 
 hiiu, his Maker would have formed him with 
 such a capacity. But he lias been a grovel- 
 
 * Wliat would Cowp<'r li.ive tlioii:,'ht, if tie li.icl lived lo 
 neetlie iiiDdi'iii ijivoiilioiiufrailroiul.-*, and the possibility 
 of travolliui; tliiity miles in one hour and twenty min- 
 utes, by moans of tljo operuiiou of steam ? 
 
 ler upon the earth for six thousand years, 
 and now at last, when the close of this pres- 
 ent state of things approaches, begins to 
 exalt himself above it. So much the worse 
 for /ti?«. Like a truant school-boy, he breaks* 
 his bounds, and will have reason to repent 
 of his presumption. Secondly, I think it 
 will prove a judgment, because with the ex- 
 ercise of a very little foresight, it is easy to 
 prognosticate a thousand evils, which the 
 project must necessarily bring after it; 
 amounting at last to the confusion of all or- 
 der, the annihilation of all authority, with 
 dangers both to property and person, and 
 impunity to the offenders. Were I an aijso- 
 lute legislator, I would therefore make it 
 death for a man to be convicted of Hying, 
 the moment he could be caugiit; and to 
 bring him down from his altitude by a bullet 
 sent through his head or his carriage should 
 be no murder. Philsophers would call me a 
 Vandal ; the -scholar would say that, had it 
 not been for me, the fable of Dasdalus would 
 have been realized ; and historians would 
 load my memory with reproaches of phlegm, 
 and stupidity, and oppression ; but in the 
 meantime the world would go on quietly, 
 and, if it enjoyed less liberty, would at least 
 be more secure. 
 
 1 know not what are your sentiments 
 upon the subject of the East India bill.* 
 This, too, has frequently afforded me matter 
 of speculation. I can easily see that it is 
 not without its blemishes ; but its beauties, 
 in my eye, are much predominant. What- 
 ever may be its author's views, if he delivers 
 so large a portion of mankind from such 
 horrible tyranny as the East has so long 
 suffered, he deserves a statue much more 
 than Montgoltier,f who, it seems, is to re- 
 
 * As repeated allusion is made to the affairs of the East 
 India Company, by Cowper, in the following,' letters, for 
 the information of those wlio may not be conversant 
 with this subject, we add the following information. 
 
 The i;reat abuses that were imputed to the system of 
 fTovernment established in lliat country, where a com- 
 pany of merchants exercised the supreme sway, led Mr. 
 I'ox, in 1783, (the period in which he was a member 
 of administration,) to introduce his ce!el)rate(l East 
 India Hill, in which he j)roposed to annihilate the char- 
 ter of the Company, and to dispossess them of tliiMr 
 power. The measure passed in the Commons, but was 
 thrown out by the Lords ; and royal inlliience was s;iid 
 to have been exerted to procure i"ts rejection. The fail- 
 iire of this bill led to the dissolution of that administra- 
 tion, in the December of the same vcar. in llic sueceed- 
 iiii,' .January of 1784, Mr. Pitt iritrodnced his no less cele- 
 brated bill. Instead of going the lenu'tb of violating the 
 charter, granted in the time of William Ifl., (Uie great 
 defect attributed to Mr. l-'ox's precetting bill,) liig object 
 W!is to preserve it inviolate, but with certain modiiica- 
 tions. The main feature in his plan was to separate the 
 commercial from the territorial concerns of the Com- 
 pany, and to vest the latter in a board, nominated l)y 
 g'wernment; llnis withdrawing from tlie East India 
 Company the exercise of powers belonging onlv to the 
 supreme authority. This bill, though inoro Jiist and 
 popular than the preceding, was nevertheless rejected 
 by a majority of eight; but it was subsequently renewed, 
 and carried, and is the origin of that Board of Control 
 which is now so well known, as superintending and 
 regulating the concerns of our Indian empire. 
 
 t The inventor of balloons.
 
 172 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ceive that honor. Perhaps he may bring his 
 own freedom into jeopardy ; but to do this 
 for the sake of emancipating nations so 
 much more numerous than ourselves is at 
 least generous, and a design that should 
 have my encouragement, if I had any en- 
 couragement to afford it. 
 
 We are well, and love you. Remember us, 
 as I doubt not you do, with the same affec- 
 tion, and be content with my sentiments upon 
 subjects such as these, till 1 can send you, if 
 that day should ever come, a letter more 
 worthy of your reception. 
 
 Nous sommes les votres, 
 
 GUILLAUME EX MaRIE. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 27, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Thanks to the patriotic 
 'unto whose efforts have staved off the ex- 
 pected dissolution, franks have not yet lost 
 their currency. Ignorant as they were that 
 my writing by this post depended upon the 
 existence of the present parliament, they have 
 conducted their deliberations with a sturdi- 
 ness and magnanimity that would almost 
 tempt one to suppose that they had known 
 it. So true it is that the actions of men are 
 connected with consequences they are little 
 aware of; and that events, comparatively tri- 
 vial in themselves, may give birth to the most 
 important. 
 
 My thoughts of ministers and men in pow- 
 er are nearly akin to yours. It is well for the 
 public, when the rulers of a state are actuated 
 by principles that may happen to coincide 
 with its interests. The ambition of an indi- 
 vidual has often been made subservient to 
 the general good; and many a man has served 
 his country merely for the sake of immortal- 
 izing himself by doing it. So f:n-, it seems 
 to me, the natural man is to be trusted, and 
 no further. Self it is at the bottom of all his 
 conduct. If self can be pleased, flattered, 
 enriched, exalted by his exertions, and his 
 talents are such as qualify him for great use- 
 fulness, his country shall be the better for him. 
 And this, perhaps, is all the patriotism we 
 have a right to look for. In the meantime, 
 however, I cannot but think such a man in 
 some degree a respectable character, and am 
 willing at least to do him honor so far as I 
 feel myself benefited by him. Ambition and 
 the love of fame are certainly no Christian 
 principles, but they are such as commonly 
 belong to men of superior minds, and the 
 fruits they produce may often plead their 
 apology. The great men of the world are of 
 a piece with the world to which they belong ; 
 they are raised up to govern it, and in the 
 government of it are prompted by worldly 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 motives : but it prospers perhaps under their 
 management ; and, when it does, the Chris- 
 tian world, which is totally a distinct creation, 
 partaking of the advantage, has cause to be 
 thankful. The sun is a glorious creature ; he 
 does much good, but without intending it. 
 I, however, who am conscious of the good he 
 does, though I know not what religion he is 
 of, or whether he has any or none, rejoice in 
 his effects, admire him, and am sensible that 
 it is every man's duty to be thankful for him. 
 In this sentiment I know you agree with me, 
 for I believe he has not a warmer votary than 
 yourself. 
 
 We say the king can do no wrong; and 
 it is well for poor George the Third that 
 he cannot. In my opinion, however, he has 
 lately been within a hair's-breadth of that pre- 
 dicament.* His advisers, indeed, are guilty, 
 and not he : but he will probably find, how- 
 ever hard it may seem, that if he can do no 
 wrong, he may yet suffer the consequences of 
 tlie wrong he cannot do. He has dismissed 
 his servants, but not disgraced them; they 
 triumph in their degradation, and no man is 
 willing to supply their places. Must their 
 offices remain unoccupied, or must they be 
 courted to resume them ? Never was such a 
 distracted state of things within my remem- 
 brance ; and I much fear that this is but the 
 beginning of sorrows. It is not a time of day 
 for a king to take liberties with the people : 
 there is a spirit in the Commons that will not 
 endure it : and his Majesty's advisers must be 
 less acquainted with the temper of the times 
 than it is possible to suppose them, if they 
 imagine that such strides of prerogative will 
 not be resented. The address will gall him. 
 I am sorry that he has exposed himself to 
 such a reprehension, but I think it warranted 
 by the occasion. I pity him ; but, king as he 
 is, and much as I have always honored him, 
 had I been a member, I should have voted 
 for it. 
 
 I am obliged to Mr. Bacon for thinking of 
 me. That expression, however, does not do 
 justice to my feelings. Even with the little 
 knowledge I have of him, I should love him, 
 had I no reason to suppose myseif at any 
 time an object of his attention ; but, knowing 
 that I am so happy as to have a share in his 
 remembrance, I certainly love him the more. 
 Truly, I am not in his debt : I cannot say 
 wherefore it is so, but certainly few days pass 
 in which I do not remember him. The print, 
 indeed, with which he favored me, and which 
 is always in my view, must often suggest the 
 recollection of him ; but thougli I greatly val- 
 ue it, I do not believe it is my only prompter. 
 
 * This alludes to the influence supposed to have been 
 exercised by the kins against the passing of Mr. Fox'a 
 celebrated East India Bill ; and to his having commis- 
 sioned Lord Temple, afterwards Lord Buckingham, to 
 make known his sentiments on that subject. This event 
 led to the dissolution of the famous coalition ministry.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 173 
 
 I finish with what I wish may make you 
 hiugh, as it did me. Mr. Scott, exhorting the 
 people to frequent prayer, closed Ids address 
 thus: — " You have nothing to do but to ask 
 and you will ever find iiini ready to he- 
 stow. Open your wide mouths, and he will 
 fill them." 
 
 Mrs. Unwin is well. Accept an old but a 
 true conclusion — our united love to you and 
 yours, and believe me, my dear friend, 
 
 Your ever affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 No date. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It is iiard upon us strip- 
 lings, who have uncles still living (N. B. I 
 myself have an uncle still alive) that those 
 venerable gentlemen should stand in our way, 
 even when the ladies are in question ; that I, 
 for instance, should find in one page of your 
 letter a hope that Miss Shuttleworth would 
 be of your party, and be told in the next that 
 she is engaged to your uncle. Well, we may 
 perhaps never be uncles, but we may reason- 
 ably hope that the time is coming, when 
 others, as young as we are now, siiall envy 
 us the privilege of old age, and see us engross 
 that share in the attention of the ladies, to 
 which their youth must aspire in vain. Make 
 our compliments, if you please, to your sister 
 Eliza, and tell her tliat we are both mortified 
 at having missed the pleasure of seeing her. 
 
 Balloons are so much the mode, that even 
 ni tins country we have attempted a balloon. 
 You may possibly remember that at a place 
 called Weston, a little more than a mile from 
 Olney, there lives a family whose name is 
 TJH'ockmorton. Tlie present possessor is a 
 young man, whom I remember a boy. He has 
 a wife, who is young, genteel, and handsome. 
 They are Papists, but much more amiable 
 than many Protestants. We never had any 
 intercourse with the family, though ever since 
 we lived here, we have enjoyed the range of 
 tiieir pleasure grounds, having been favored 
 with a key, winch admits us into all. When 
 tliis man succeeded to tJK" estate, on the death 
 of his elder brother, and came to settle at 
 Weston, I sent him a complimentary card, 
 requesting tiie continuance of that privilege, 
 having till tlien enjoyed it by favor of his 
 mother, who on lliat occasion went to finish 
 her days at Bath. You may conclude that he 
 granted it, and for about two years nothing 
 more passed between us. A fortnight ago, I 
 received an invitation, in the civilest terras, in 
 which he told me that the next day he should 
 attempt to fill a balloon, and if it would be 
 any pleasure to me to be present, should be 
 happy to see me. Your mother and I went. 
 The whole country were there, but the bal- 
 loon could not be filled. The endeavor was, 
 
 I believe, very philosophically made, but sucli 
 a process depends, for its success, upon such 
 niceties as make it very precarious. Our re- 
 ception was, however, Hattering to a great 
 degree, insomuch that more notice seemed to 
 be taken of us than we could possibly have 
 expected, indeed rather more than of any of 
 his other guests. They even seemed anxious 
 to recommend themselves to our regards. 
 We drank chocolate, and were asked to dine, 
 but were engaged. A day or two afterwards 
 Mrs. Unwin and I walked that way, and were 
 overtaken in a shower. I found a tree that I 
 thought would shelter us both, a large elm, in 
 a grove that fronts the mansion. Mrs. T. ob- 
 served us, and, runinng towards us in the rain, 
 insisted on our walking in. He was gone out. 
 We sat chatting with her till the weather 
 cleared up, and then at her instance took a 
 wallc with her in the garden. The garden is 
 almost their only walk, and is certainly their 
 only retreat in which they are not liable to 
 interruption. She offered us a key of it, in 
 a manner that made it impossible not to ac 
 cept it, and said slie would send us one. A 
 few days afterwards, in the cool of the even 
 ing, we walked that way again. We saw 
 them going towards the house, and exchanged 
 bows and courtesies at a distance, but did nol 
 join them. In a few minutes, when we hao 
 passed tlie house, and had almost reached the 
 gate that opens out of the park into the ad- 
 joinino- field, I heard the iron ijate belono-ina 
 to the court-yard ring, and saw Mr. T. ad. 
 vancing hastily towards us. We made equal 
 haste to meet him; he presented to us thfi 
 key, which I told him I esteemed a singular 
 favor ; and, after a few such speeches as are 
 made on such occasions, we parted. This 
 happened about a week ago. I concluded 
 notlnng less than that all this civility and at- 
 tention was designed, on their part, as a pre- 
 lude to a nearer acquaintance ; but here at 
 present the matter rests. I should like ex- 
 ceedingly to be on an easy footing there, to 
 give a morning call now and then, and to re- 
 ceive one, but nothing more. For, though 
 he is one of the most agreeable men I ever 
 saw, I could not wish to visit him in any 
 other way; neither our house, furniture, ser- 
 vants, nor income, being such as qualify us 
 to make entertainments; neither would I on 
 any account be introduced to the neighboring 
 gentry. Mr. T. is altogether a man of fashion, 
 and respectable on every account.* 
 
 I have told you a long story. Farewell 
 We number the days as they pass, and are 
 glad that we shall see you and your sister 
 soon. 
 
 Yours, &c., W. C. 
 
 The year 1784 was a memorable period in 
 
 * Ho afterwards succeeded to the title of Sir John 
 Throckmorton.
 
 174 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 the life of the poet, not only as it witnessed 
 the completion of one extensive performance, 
 and the commencement of another (his trans- 
 lation of Homer,) but as it terminated his in- 
 tercourse with that highly pleasing and valu- 
 able friend, whose unremitting attention and 
 seasonable advice had induced him to engage 
 in both. 
 
 Delightful and advantageous as his friend- 
 ship with Lady Austen had proved, he now 
 began to feel that it grew impossible to pre- 
 serve that triple cord which his own pure 
 heart had led him to suppose not speedily to 
 be broken. Mrs. Unwin, though by no means 
 destitute of mental accomplishments, was 
 eclipsed by the brilliancy of the poet's new 
 friend, and naturally became apprehensive of 
 losing that influence which slie had so long 
 experienced over a man of genius and virtue, 
 and that honorable share in his affections 
 which she had previously enjoyed without the 
 fear of witnessing its diminution. 
 
 Cowper perceived the painful necessity of 
 sacrificing a great portion of his present grati- 
 fications. He felt that he must relinquish 
 that long-established friendship which had 
 formed the delight and happiness of his past 
 life, or the new associate, whom he cherished 
 as a sister, and whose heart and mind were so 
 peculiarly congenial with his own. His grati- 
 tude for past services of unexampled magni- 
 tude and weight would not allow him to hesi- 
 tate ; with a resolution and delicacy that do 
 the highest honor to his feelings, he wrote a 
 farewell letter to Lady Austen, explaining 
 and lamenting the circumstances that forced 
 him to renounce the society of a friend, whose 
 enchanting talents and kindness had proved 
 so agreeably instrumental to the revival of 
 his spirits and to the exercise of his fancy. 
 
 As Hayley's further account of this event 
 is minute and particular, we shall present it 
 to the reader in his own words. 
 
 "In those very interesting conversations 
 with which I was honored by Lady Austen, I 
 was irresistibly led to express an anxious de- 
 sire for the sight of a letter written by Cow- 
 per in a situation that must have called forth 
 all the finest powers of his eloquence as a 
 monitor and a friend. The lady confirmed 
 me in my opinion that a more admirable let- 
 ter could not be written ; and, had it existed 
 at that time, I am persuaded from her noble 
 frankness and zeal for the honor of the de- 
 parted poet, she would have given me a copy ; 
 but she ingenuously confessed that in a mo- 
 ment of natural mortification she burnt this 
 very tender yet resolute letter. I mention 
 the circumstance, because a literary corres- 
 pondent whom I have great reason to esteem, 
 has recently expressed to me a wish (which 
 may perhaps be general) that I could intro- 
 duce into this compilation the letter in ques- 
 tion. Had it been confided to my care, I am 
 
 persuaded I should have thought it very 
 proper for publication, as it displayed both 
 the tenderness and the magnanimity of Cow- 
 per ; nor could I have deemed it a want of 
 delicacy towards the memory of Lady Austen, 
 to exhibit a proof that, animated by the warm- 
 est admiration of the great poet, whose fancy 
 she could so successfully call forth, she was 
 willing to devote her life and fortune to his 
 service and protection. The sentiment is to 
 be regarded as honorable to the lady ; it is 
 still more honorable to the poet, that with 
 such feelings as rendered him perfectly sen- 
 sible of all Lady Austen's fascinating powers, 
 he could return her tenderness with innocent 
 regard, and yet resolutely preclude himself 
 from her society when he could no longer 
 enjoy it without compromising what he owed 
 to the compassionate and generous guardian 
 of his sequestered life. No person can justly 
 blame Mrs. Unwin for feeling apprehensive 
 that Cowper's intimacy with a lady of such 
 extraordinary talents might lead him into per- 
 plexities of which he was by no means aware. 
 This remark was suggested by a few ele- 
 gant and tender verses, addressed by the 
 poet to Lady Austen, and shown to me by 
 that lady. 
 
 " Those who were acquainted with the un- 
 suspecting innocence and sportive gayety of 
 Cowper would readily allow, if they had seer 
 the verses to which I allude, that they are 
 such as he might have addressed to a real 
 sister ; but a lady only called by that endear- 
 ing name may be easily pardoned if she was 
 induced by them to hope that they might pos- 
 sibly be a prelude to a still dearer alliance. 
 To me they appeared expressive of that pe- 
 culiarity in his character, a gay and tender 
 gallantry, perfectly distinct from the attach- 
 ment of love. If the lady who was the sub- 
 ject of the verses, had given them to me with 
 a permission to print them, I should have 
 thought the poet himself might have approved 
 of their appearance, accompanied with such a 
 commentary. 
 
 " In the whole course of this work I have 
 endeavored to recollect, on every doubtful 
 occasion, the feelings of Cowper, and made it 
 a rule to reject whatever my perfect intimacy 
 with those feelings could lead me to suppose 
 the spirit of the departed poet might wish me 
 to lay aside as unfit for publication. I con- 
 sider an editor as guilty of the basest injury 
 to the dead who admits into the posthumous 
 volumes of an author, whom he professes to 
 love and admire, any composition which his 
 own conscience informs him that author, if he 
 could speak from the tomb, would direct him 
 to suppress. On this principle I have declined 
 to print some letters which entered, more 
 than I think the public ought to enter, into 
 the history of a trifling feminine discord that 
 disturbed the perfect harmony of the happy
 
 LIFE OF COWPER, 
 
 175 
 
 [f'O :it Olney, when Lady Austen and i\Irs. 
 Qnwiu were the united hispirers of the poet. 
 Yet as the brief and true account which I gave 
 of their separation has ])een thouirht to cast a 
 shade of censure on the temper of Mrs. Unvvin, 
 wliich I was far from intending, in justice to 
 the memory of that exemphiry and subUme 
 female friend, I here introduce a passage from 
 a letter of Cowper to the Rev. William Un- 
 win, honorable to both the ladies in question, 
 as it describes them in a moment of generous 
 reconciliation. 
 
 "'I enclose a letter from Lady Austen, 
 which I beg you to return me in your next. — 
 We are reconciled. She seized the first op- 
 portunity to embrace your mother with tears 
 of the tenderest affection, and I of course am 
 satisfied. We were all a little awkward at 
 first, but now are as easy as ever.' 
 
 " This letter happens to have no d;>te, but 
 the expressions I have cited from it are suf- 
 ficient to prove that Mrs. Unwin, instead of 
 having shown an envious infirmity of temper 
 on this occasion, must have conducted herself 
 with a delicate liberality of mind." 
 
 We now enter upon the correspondence of 
 the year. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 3, 1784. 
 
 My dear William, — Your silence began to 
 be distressing to both your mother and me, 
 and had I not received a letter from you 
 last night, I should have written by "this 
 post to inquire after your health. How can 
 it be that you, who are not stationary like 
 me, but often change your situation, and mix 
 with a variety of company, should suppose 
 me f'u-uished with such abund:int materials 
 and yourself destitute? I assure you faith- 
 fully that I do not find the soil of Olney pro- 
 lific in the growth of such articles as make 
 letter-writing a desirable employment. No 
 place contributes less to the catalogue of in- 
 cidents, or is more scantily snpi)li('d with an- 
 ecdotes worth notice. 
 
 We have 
 
 Onn parson, one poet, one hcllrnan. one cryer, 
 And tlie poor poet is our onl}' 'squire. 
 
 Guess then if I have not more reason to ex- 
 pect two letters from you than you one from 
 me. The principal occurrence, and that which 
 alle.'ts me most at present, came to pass this 
 moment. The stair-foot door being swelled 
 by (he thaw would do anything better than it 
 would open. An attempt to force it upon 
 that office has l>een attended with such a hor- 
 rible dissolution of its parts that we were im- 
 mediately obliged to introduce a chirurgeon, 
 commonly called a carpenter, whose applica- 
 tions we have some hope will cure it of a 
 locked jaw, and heal its numerous fractures. 
 
 His medicines are powerful chalybeates and 
 a certain glutinous salve, which he tells me 
 is made of the tails and ears of animals. 
 The consequences however are rather unfii- 
 vorable to my present employment, which 
 does not well brook noise, bustle, and inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 This being the case, I shall not perhaps be 
 either so perspicuous or so diffuse on the 
 subject of which you desire my sentiments as 
 I should be, but I will do my best. Know 
 then that I have learned long since, of Abbe 
 Raynal, to hate all monopolies as injurious, 
 howsoever managed, to tlie interests of com- 
 merce at large ; consequently the charter in 
 question would not at any rate be a favorite 
 of mine. This however is of itself I confess 
 no suificient reason to justify the resumption 
 of it. But such reasons I think are not want- 
 ing. A grant of that kind, it is well known, 
 is always forfeited by the non-performance of 
 the conditions. And why not equally for- 
 feited if tho-se conditions are exceeded ; if the 
 design of it be perverted, and its operation 
 extended to objects which were never in the 
 contemplation of the donor ? Tiiis appears 
 to me to be no misrepresentation of their 
 case, whose charter is supposed to be in dan- 
 ger. It constitutes them a trading company, 
 and gives them an exclusive right to tralfic in 
 the East Indies. But it does no more. It in- 
 vests them with no sovereignty; it does not 
 convey to them the royal prerogative of 
 making war and peace, which the king can- 
 not alienate if he would. But this preroga- 
 tive they have exercised, and, forgetting the 
 terms of their institution, have possessed 
 themselves of an immense territory, which 
 they have ruled with a rod of iron, to which 
 it is impossible they should even have a right, 
 unless such a one as it is a disgrace to plead — 
 the right of conquest. The potentates of this 
 country they dash in pieces like a potter's ves- 
 sel, as often as they please, mfiking the hap- 
 piness of thirty millions of mankind a con- 
 sideration subordinate to that of tlieir own 
 emolument, oppressing them as often as it 
 may serve a lucrative purpose, and in no in- 
 stance, that I have ever heard, consulting their 
 interest or advantage. That government 
 therefore is bound to interfere and to unking 
 these tyrants is to me self-evident. And if, 
 having subjugated so much of this miserable 
 world, it is therefore necessary that we must 
 keep possession of it, it appears to me a duty 
 so binding on the legislature to resume it from 
 the hands of those usurpers, that I should 
 think a curse, and a bitter one, must follow 
 the neglect of it. But, suppose this were 
 done, can they be legally deprived of their 
 charter? In truth I lliink so. If the abuse 
 and perversion of a charter can amount to a 
 defeasance of it, never were they so grossly 
 palpable as in this instance ; never was char-
 
 176 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ter so justly forfeited. Neither am I at all 
 afraid that such a measure should be drawn 
 into precedent, unless it could be alleged, as 
 a sufficient reason for not hanging a rogue, 
 that perhaps magistracy might grow wanton 
 in the exercise of such a power, and now and 
 then hang up an honest man for its amuse- 
 ment. When the Governors of the Bank 
 shall have deserved the same severity, I hope 
 they will meet with it. In the meantime I 
 do not think them a whit more in jeopardy 
 because a corporation of plunderers have been 
 brought to justice. 
 
 We are well and love you all. I never 
 wrote in such a hurry, nor in such disturb- 
 ance. Pardon the elfects, and believe me 
 yours aiFectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. HILL.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 5, 1784. 
 
 Dear Madam, — You will readily pardon the 
 trouble I give you by this line, when I plead 
 my attention to your husband's convenience 
 in my excuse. I know him to be so busy a 
 man, that I cannot in conscience trouble him 
 with a commission, which I know it is im- 
 possible lie should have leisure to execute. 
 After all, the labor would devolve upon you, 
 and therefore I may as well address you in 
 the first instance. 
 
 I have read and return the books you were 
 so kind as to procure for me. Mr. Hill gave 
 me hopes, in his last, that from the library, to 
 which 1 have subscribed, I might still be sup- 
 plied with more. I have not many more to 
 wish for, nor do I mean to make any un- 
 reasonable use of your kindness. In about 
 a fortnight I shall be favored, by a friend in 
 Essex, with as many as will serve me during 
 the rest of the winter. In summer I read but 
 little. In the meantime, I shall be much 
 obliged to yoiwfor Forsters NarratiAe of the 
 same voyage, if your librarian has it; and 
 likewise for '' Swinburn's Travels" which Mr. 
 Hill mentioned. If they can be sent at once, 
 which perhaps the terms of subscription may 
 not allow, I shall be glad to receive them so. 
 If not, then Forster's first, and Swinburn 
 afterwards : and Swinburn, at any rate, if 
 Forster is not to be procured. 
 
 Reading over what I have written, I find it 
 perfectly free and easy ; so much indeed in 
 that style, that had I not had repeated proofs 
 of your good-nature in other instances, I 
 should have modesty enough to suppress it, 
 and attempt something more civil, and becom- 
 ing a person who has never had the hap- 
 piness of seeing you. But I have always ob- 
 served that sensible people are best pleased 
 with w^Iiat is natural and unaffected. Nor 
 can I tell you a plainer truth, than that I am, 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 without the leas'; dissimulation, and witli a 
 warm remembrance of past favors, 
 My dear Madam, 
 Your aflfectionate humble servant, 
 
 w. c. 
 
 I beg to be remembered to Mr. Hill. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 8, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I wish you had more 
 leisure, that you might oftener fevor me with 
 a page of politics. The authority of a news- 
 paper is not of sufficient weight to determine 
 my opinions, and I have no other documents 
 to be set down by. I therefcu-e on tiiis sub- 
 ject am suspended in a .sta '. of constant 
 scepticism, the most uneasj condition in 
 which the judgment can find itself. But your 
 politics have weight with me, because I know 
 your independent spirit, the justness of your 
 reasonings, and the opportunities you have 
 of information. But I know likewise the 
 urgency and the multiplicity of your con- 
 cerns; and therefore, like a neglected clock, 
 must be contented to go wrong, except when 
 perhaps twice in the year you shall come to 
 set me right. 
 
 Public credit is indeed shaken, and the 
 funds at a low ebb. How can they be other- 
 wise when our western wing is already clip- 
 ped to the stumps, and the shears at this 
 moment threaten our eastern. Low however 
 as our public stock is, it is not lower than my 
 private one; and this being the article that 
 touches me most nearly at present, I shall be 
 obliged to you if you will have recourse to 
 such ways and means for the replenishment 
 of my exchequer as your wisdom may sug- 
 gest and your best ability suffice to execute. 
 The experience I have had of your readiness 
 upon all similar occasions has been very 
 agreeable to me ; and I doubt not but upon 
 the present I shall find you equally prompt to 
 serve me. So, 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 18, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — I too have taken leave of 
 the old year, and parted with it just when you 
 did, but with very different sentiments and 
 feelings upon the occasion. I looked back 
 upon all the passages and occurrences of it 
 as a traveller looks back upon a wilderness, 
 through which he has passed with weariness 
 and sorrow of heart, reaping no other fruit of 
 his labor than the poor consolation that, 
 dreary as the desert was, he has left it all be- 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 in 
 
 hind him. The traveller would find even this 
 comfort considerably lessened, if, as soon as 
 he had passed one wilderness, another of 
 equal length and equally desolate should ex. 
 pect him. In this particular, his experience 
 and mine would exactly tally. I should re- 
 joice indeed tiiat tlie old year is over and 
 gone, if I had not every reason to prophesy 
 a new one similar to it. 
 
 I am glad you have found so mucli hidden 
 treasure ; and Mrs. Unwin desires me to tell 
 you, that you did her no more than justice in 
 believing that she would rejoice in it. It is 
 not easy to surmise the reason why the 
 Reverend Doctor, your predecessor, concealed 
 it. Being a subject of a free government, 
 and I suppose fnll of the divinity most in 
 fashion, he could not fear lest his great riches 
 should expose him to persecution. Nor can 
 I suppose liiat he held it any disgrace for a 
 dignitary of the church to be wealthy, at a 
 time when churchmen in general spare no 
 pams to become so. But the wisdom of 
 some men has a droll sort of knavis-hness in 
 it, much like that of the magpie, who hides 
 what he finds with a deal of contrivance, 
 merely for tJie pleasure of doing it. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jan., 1784. 
 
 My dear William, — When I first resolved 
 to write an answer to vour last this evening, 
 I had no thought ot anything more sublime 
 than prose. But before I began it occured 
 to me that perhaps you would not be dis- 
 pleased with an attempt to give a poetical 
 translation of the lines you sent me. They 
 are so beautiful, that I felt the temptation ir- 
 resistible. At least, as the French say, it was 
 plus forte que moi ; and I accordingly com- 
 pMed. By this means I have lost an hour; 
 and wliether I shall be able to fill my sheet 
 before supper is as yet doubtful. But I will 
 do my best. 
 
 For your remarks, I think them perfectly 
 just. You have no reason to distrust your 
 taste, or to submit the trial of it to me. You 
 understand the use and the force of language 
 as well as any man. You have quick feel- 
 ings and you are fond of poetry. How is it 
 possible then that you should not be a judge 
 of it ? I venture to hazard on\y one alter- 
 ation, which, as it appears to me, would 
 amount to a little improvement. The seventh 
 and eighth lines I think I should like better 
 thus — 
 
 Aspirante levi zephyro et redeunte serena 
 Anni temperie foecundo e cespite surgunt. 
 
 My reason is, that the word cum is re- 
 peated too soon. At least my ear does not 
 like it, and when it can be done without in- 
 
 jury to the sense, there seems to be an ele. 
 gance in diversifying the expression, as much 
 as possible, upon similar occasions. It dis- 
 covers a command of phrase, and gives a 
 more masterly air to the piece. If extincta 
 stood unconnected with telis, T should prefer 
 your word micant, to the doctor's vigent. 
 But the latter seems to stand more in direct 
 opposition to that sort of extinction which 
 is etFected by a shaft or arrow. In tiie 
 daytime the stars may be said to die, and in 
 the night to recover their strength. Perhaps 
 the doctor had in his eye that noble line of 
 Gray's, 
 
 Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts 
 of war ! 
 
 But it is a beautiful composition. It is ten- 
 der, touching and elegant. It is not easy to 
 do it justice in Enghsh, as for example.* 
 
 Many thanks for the books, which being 
 most admirably packed came safe. They 
 will furnish us with many a winter evening's 
 amusement. We are glad that you intend to 
 be the carrier back. 
 
 We rejoice too that your cousin has re- 
 membered you in her will. The money she 
 left to tliose who attended her hearse, would 
 have been better bestowed upon you : and by 
 this time perhaps she thinks so. Alas ! what 
 an inquiry does that thought suggest, and 
 how impossible to make it to any purpose ! 
 What are the employments of the departed 
 spirit? and Vhere does it subsist? Has it 
 any cognizance of earthly things ? Is it trans- 
 ported to an immeasurable distance ; or is it 
 still, though imperceptible to us, conversant 
 with the same scene, and interested in what 
 passes here ? How little we know of a state 
 to which we are all destined; and how does the 
 obscurity that hangs over that undiscovered 
 country increase the anxiety we sometimes 
 feel as we are journeying towards it ! It is 
 sufficient however for such as you and a few 
 more of my aquaintance to know that in your 
 separate state you will be happy. Provision 
 is made for your reception; and you will 
 have no cause to regret aught that you have 
 left behind. 
 
 I have written to Mr. . My letter 
 
 went this morning. How I love and lionor 
 that man ! For many reasons I dare not tell 
 him how much. But I hate the frigidity of 
 the style in which I am forced to address him. 
 That line of Horace, 
 
 Dii tibi divitias dederunt artemque fruendi, 
 
 was never so applicable to the poet's friend, 
 as to ilr. . My bosom burns to immor- 
 talize him. But prudence says, " Forbear !" 
 and, though a poet, I pay respect to her injunc- 
 tions.! 
 
 * The versea appearing again with the original In the 
 next letter, are omitted. 
 
 t John Thornton, Esq., is the person here alluded to. 
 
 12
 
 178 
 
 COWPER'S WORKW. 
 
 I sincerely give you joy of the good you 
 have unconsciously done by your example 
 and conversation. Tliat you seem to your- 
 self not to deserve the acknowledgment 
 your friend makes of it, is a proof that you 
 do. Grace is blind to its ov/n beauty, where- 
 as such virtues as men may reach without 
 it are remarkable self-admirers. May you 
 make such impressions upon many of your 
 order! I know none that need them more. 
 
 You do not want my praises of your con- 
 duct towards Mr. . It is well for him 
 
 however, and still better for yourself, that 
 you are capable of such a part. It was said 
 of some good man (my memory does not 
 serve me with his name) " do liim an ill turn 
 and you make him your friend forever." 
 But it is Christianity only that forms such 
 friends. I wish his father may be duly af- 
 fected by this instance and proof of your 
 superiority to those ideas of you which he 
 has so unreasonably harbored. He is not in 
 my favor now, nor will be upon any other 
 terras. 
 
 I laughed at tlie comments you make on 
 your own feelings, when the subject of them 
 was a newspaper eulogium. But it was a 
 laugh of pleasure, and approbation : such in- 
 deed is the heart, and so is it made up. 
 There are few that can do good, and keep 
 their own secret, none perhaps without a 
 
 struggle. Yourself and your friend are 
 
 no very common instances of. the fortitude 
 that is necessary in such a conflict. In for- 
 mer days I have felt my heart beat and every 
 vein throb upon such an occasion. To pub- 
 lish my own deed was wrong. I knew it to 
 be so. But to conceal it seemed like a vol- 
 untary injury to myself. Sometimes I could 
 and sometimes I could not succeed. My oc- 
 casions for such conflicts indeed were not 
 very numerous. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 25, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — This contention about 
 East Indian patron.nge seems not unlikely to 
 avenge upon us by its consequences the mis- 
 chiefs we have done there. The matter in 
 dispute is too precious to be relinquished by 
 either party ; and each is jealous of the influ- 
 ence the other would derive from the posses- 
 sion of it. In a country whose politics have so 
 long rolled upon the wheels of corruption, an 
 afi'air of such value must prove a weight in 
 either scale, absolutely destructive of the very 
 idea of a balance. Every*man has his senti- 
 ments upon this subject, and I have mine. 
 Were t constituted umpire of this strife, with 
 full powers to decide it, I would tie a talent 
 of lead about the neck of this patronage, and 
 
 plunge it into the depths of the sea. To 
 speak less figuratively, I would abandon all 
 territorial interest in a country to which we 
 can have no right, and which we cannot gov- 
 ern with any security to the happiness of the 
 inhabitants, or without the danger of incur- 
 ring either perpetual broils, or the most in- 
 supportable tyranny at home. That sort of 
 tyranny I mean, which flatters and tantalizes 
 the subject with a show of freedom, and in 
 reality allows him nothing more, bribing to 
 tlie right and left, rich enough to afford the 
 purchase of a thousand consciences, and 
 consequently strong enough, if it happen to 
 meet with an incorruptible one, to render all 
 the efforts of that man, or of twenty such 
 men, if they could be found, romantic and 
 of no effect. I am the king's most loyal sub- 
 ject, and most obedient humble servant. But, 
 by his majesty's leave, I must acknowledge I 
 am not altogether convinced of the rectitude 
 even of his own measures, or of the simplic- 
 ity of his views ; and, if I were satisfied that 
 he himself is to be trusted, it is nevertheless 
 palpable that he cannot answer for his suc- 
 cessors. At the same time he is my king, 
 and I reverence him as such. I account his 
 prerogative sacred, and shall never wish pros- 
 perity to a party that invades it, and under 
 that pretence of patriotism, would annihilate 
 all the consequence of a character essential 
 to the very being of the constitution. For 
 these reasons I am sorry that we have any 
 dominion in the East ; that we have any such 
 emoluments to contend about. Their im- 
 mense value will probably prolong the dis- 
 pute, and such struggles having been already 
 made in the conduct of it as have shaken our 
 very foundations, it seems not unreasonable 
 to suppose that still greater efforts and more 
 fatal are beliind ; and, after all, the decision 
 in favor of either side may be ruinous to the 
 whole. In the meantime, that the Company 
 themselves are but indifferently qualified for 
 the kingship is most deplorabl}^ evident. 
 What shall I say therefore ? I distrust the 
 court, I suspect the patriots ; I put the Com- 
 pany entirely aside, as having forfeited all 
 claim to confidence in such a basinsss, and 
 see no remedy of course, but in the annihi- 
 lation, if that could be accomplished, of the 
 very existence of our authority in the East 
 Indies. 
 
 Yovirs, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 It was natural for Cowper to indulge in 
 such a reflection, if we consider, that in his 
 time India presented a melancholy scene of 
 rapine and corruption. It used to be said by 
 Mr. Burke, that every man became unbaptized 
 in going to India, and that, should it please 
 Providence, by some unforeseen dispensation, 
 to deprive Great Britain of her Indian empire, 
 she would leave behind no memorial but the
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 17ft 
 
 evidences of her ambition, and the traces of 
 her desolating wars. 
 
 Happily we have lived to see a great moral 
 revolution, and England has at length re- 
 deemed her character. She has ennobled the 
 triumplis of her arms, by making them sub- 
 servient to the introduction of the Gospel ; 
 and seems evidently destined by Providence 
 to be the honored instrument of evangelizing 
 the nations of the East. Already the sacred 
 Scriptures have been translated, in whole or 
 in part, into nearly forty of the Oriental lan- 
 guages or dialects. Schools have been es- 
 tablished, and are rapidly multiplying in the 
 three presidencies. Tlie apparently insur- 
 mountable barrier of caste is giving way, and 
 the great fabric of Indian superstition is 
 crumbling into dust, whde on its ruins will 
 arise the everlasting empire of righteousness 
 and truth. 
 
 The following lines, written by Dr. Jortin, 
 to which we subjoin Cowper's translation, 
 were inclosed in the last letter. 
 
 IN BRKVITATEM VITJE SPATII, 
 CONCESSI. 
 
 UOMINIBUS 
 
 Hei mihi ! Lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 
 Lunaque mutatse reparat dispendia formfe, 
 Astraque, purpurei tells extincta diei, 
 Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles tclluris alumni, 
 Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago, 
 Q,uos cruJelis liyenis lethali tabe peredit, 
 Cum zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereni 
 Temperies amii, foecundo e cespite surgunt. 
 Nos domini rerum. nos, magna et pulchra minati, 
 Cum breve ver vitoe robustaque transiit aetas, 
 Defieimus; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras 
 Rtddit in astherias, tumuli neque claustra resolvit. 
 
 ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 S\ins that set, and moons that wane, 
 Rise, and are restored again. 
 Stars, that orient day subdues, 
 Night at lier return renews. 
 Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birtli 
 or tlie genial womb of earth, 
 SulTcr but a transient death 
 From the winter's cruel breath. 
 ZephjT speaks ; screner skies 
 Warai the glebe, and they arise. 
 We, alas! earth's hauirhty kings, 
 We, that promise niiglUy tilings. 
 Losing soon lil'e's liappy prime, 
 Droop, and lade, in little time. 
 Spring returns, but not our bloom, 
 Still 'tis winter in tlic tomb. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Oliiey, Feb., 1784. 
 l\Iy dear Friend, — I am glad that you have 
 finished a work, of which I well remember 
 the beginning, and which I was sorry you 
 thought it e.vpcdient to discontinue.* Your 
 reason for not proceedingwas, however, such 
 
 * Tbe " Review of Ecclesiastical History .'■ 
 
 as I was obliged to acquiesce in, being sug- 
 gested by a jealousy you felt, '• lest your 
 spirit should be betrayed into acrimony, in 
 writing upon such a subject." I doubt not 
 you have sufficiently guarded that point ; and 
 indeed, at the time I could not discover that 
 you had failed in it. I have busied myself 
 this morning in contriving a Greek title, and 
 in seeking a motto. The motto you mention 
 is certainly apposite. But I think it an ob- 
 jection that it has been so much in use ; al- 
 most every writer that has claimed a liberty 
 to think for Wmself, upon whatever subject, 
 having chosen it. I therefore send you one 
 which I never saw in that shape yet, and which 
 appears to me equally apt and proper. The 
 Greek word <5£a/^d;, which signifies literally a 
 shackle, may figuratively serve to express 
 those chains which bigotry and prejudice cast 
 upon the mind. It seems therefore, to speak 
 like a lawyer, no misnomer of your book to 
 call it — 
 
 Mio-o^£cr^Of. 
 
 The following pleases me most of all the 
 mottos I have thought of. But with respect 
 both to that and the title you will use your 
 pleasure. 
 
 Q,uerelis 
 Haud justis assurgis, et irrita jurgia jactas. 
 
 tEn. X. 94. 
 
 From the little I have seen, and the much 
 I have heard, of the manager of the Review 
 you mention, I cannot feel even the smallest 
 push of a desire to serve him in the capacity 
 of a poet. Indeed I dislike him so much, 
 that, had I a drawer full of pieces fit for his 
 purpose, I hardly think I should contribtite 
 to his collection. It is possible too that I 
 may live to be once more a publisher myself; 
 in which case, I should be glad to find myself 
 in possession of any such original pieces as 
 might decently make their appearance in a 
 volume of my own. At present, however, I 
 liave nothing that would be of use to him, 
 nor have I many opportunities of composing, 
 Sunday being the only day in the week which 
 we spend alone. 
 
 I am at this moment pinched for time, but 
 was desirous of proving to you with what 
 alacrity my Greek and Latin memory are al- 
 ways ready to obey you, and therefore, by 
 tiie first post, have to the best of my ability 
 complied with your request. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W, C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN KEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 10, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — The morning is my 
 vriting time, and in the morning 1 have no 
 spirits. So much the worse for my corre-
 
 180 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Bpondents. Sleep, that refreshes my body, 
 seems to cripple me in every other respect. 
 As the evening approaches, I grow more 
 alert, and when 1 am retiring to bed am more 
 fit for mental occupation tiian at any other 
 time. So it fares with us wliom they call 
 nervous. By a strange inversion of the ani- 
 mal economy, we are ready to sleep when 
 we have most need to be awake, and go to bed 
 just when we might sit up to some purpose. 
 The watch is irregularly wound up, it goes 
 in the night when it is not wanted, and in the 
 day stands still. In many respects we have 
 the advantage of our forefatJiers, the Picts. 
 We sleep in a whole skin, are not obliged to 
 submit to the painful operation of puncturing 
 ourselves from head to foot in order that we 
 may be decently dressed, and fit to appear 
 abroad. But, on the otlier hand, we have 
 reason enough to envy them their tone of 
 nerves, and that flow of spirits which effect- 
 ually secured them from all uncomfortable im- 
 pressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from 
 every shade of melancholy from every other 
 cause. They understood, I suppose, the use 
 of vulnerary herbs, having frequent occasion 
 for some skill in surgery, but physicians I pre- 
 sume they had none, liaving no need of any. 
 Is it possible that a creature like myself can 
 ^e descended from such progenitors, in whom 
 there appears not a single trace of family re- 
 semblance? What an alteration have a few 
 ages made ! They, without clothing, would 
 defy the severest season, and I, with all the 
 accommodations that art has since invented, 
 am hardly secure even in the mildest. If the 
 wind blows upon me when my pores are 
 open, I catch cold. A cough is the conse- 
 quence. I suppose, if such a disorder could 
 have seized a Pict, his friends would have 
 concluded that a bone had stuck in his 
 throat, and that he was in some danger of 
 choking. They would perhaps have ad- 
 dressed themseives to the cure of his cough 
 by thrusting their fingers into his gullet, 
 which would only have exasperated the case. 
 But they would never have thought of ad- 
 ministering laudanum, my only remedy. For 
 this difference however that has obtained be- 
 tween me and my ancestors, I am indebted 
 to the luxurious practices and enfeebling 
 self-indulgence of a long line of grandsires, 
 who from generation to generation have 
 been employed in deteriorating the breed, till 
 at last the collected effects of all their follies 
 have centred in my puny self — a man, in- 
 deed, but not in the image of those that 
 went before me — a man who sighs and 
 groans, who wears out life in dejection and 
 oppression of spirits, and who never thinks 
 of the aborigines of the country to which I 
 belong, without wishing that I had been born 
 among them. The evil is witiiout a remedy, 
 sinless the ages that are passed could be re- 
 
 called, my whole pedigree be permitted to 
 live again, and being properly admonished to 
 beware of enervating sloth and refinement, 
 would preserve their hardiness of nature un- 
 impaired, and transmit the desirable quality 
 to their posterity. I once saw Adam in a 
 dream. We sometimes say of a picture that 
 we doubt not its likeness to the original, 
 though we never saw him; a judgment we 
 have some reason to form, when the face is 
 strongly charactered, and the features full of 
 expression. So I think of my visionary 
 Adam, and for a similar reason. His figure 
 was awkward indeed in the extreme. It was 
 evident that he had never been taught by a 
 Frenchman to hold his head erect, or to turn 
 out his toes ; to dispose of his arms, or to 
 siniper without a meaning. But, if Mr. Ba- 
 con was called upon to produce a statue of 
 Hercules, he need not wish for a juster pat- 
 tern. He stood like a rock ; the size of his 
 limbs, the prominence of his muscles, and the 
 height of his stature, all conspired to bespeak 
 him a creature whose strength had suffered 
 no diminution, and who, being the first of his 
 race, did not come into the world under a 
 necessity of sustaining a load of infirmities, 
 derived to him from the intemperance of 
 others. He was as much stouter than a Pict, 
 as I suppose a Pict to be than I. Upon my 
 hypothesis, therefore, there has been a gradual 
 declension in point of bodily vigor, from 
 Adam down to me; at least, if my dream 
 were a just representation of that gentleman 
 and deserve the credit I cannot help giving 
 it, such must have been the case. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN KEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Feb., 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — ^I give you joy of a thaw 
 that has put an end to a frost of nine weeks' 
 continuance with very little interruption; the 
 longest that has happened since the year 
 1739. May I presume that you feel yourself 
 indebted to me for intelligence, which per- 
 haps no other of your correspondents will* 
 vouchsafe to communicate, though they are 
 as well apprised of it, and as much convinced 
 of the truth of it, as myself? It is I sup- 
 pose everywhere felt as a blessing, but no- 
 where more sensibly than at Olney ; though 
 even at Olney the severity of it has been al- 
 leviated in behalf of many. The same 
 benefactor, who befriended them last year, 
 has with equal liberahty administered a sup- 
 ply to their necessities in the present. Like 
 the subterraneous flue that warms my myr- 
 tles, he does good and is unseen. His in- 
 junctions of secrecy are still as rigorous as 
 ever, and must therefore be observed with 
 the same attention. He however is a happy 
 man, whose philanthropy is not lilie mine, an
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 18\ 
 
 impotent principle, spending itself in fruitless 
 wishes. At the same time I confess it is a 
 consolation, and I feel it an honor, to be em- 
 ployed as tiie conductor, and to be trusted as 
 the dispenser, of another man's bounty. 
 Some have been saved from perishing, and 
 all that could partake of it from the most 
 pitiable distress. 
 
 I will not apologize for my politics, or 
 suspect them of error, merely because they 
 are taken up from the newspapers. I take it 
 for granted tliat those reporters of the wis- 
 dom of our representatives are tolerably cor- 
 rect and faithful. Were they not, and were 
 they guilty of frequent and gross misrepre- 
 sentation, assuredly tliey would be chastised 
 by tiic rod of parliamentary criticism. Could 
 I be present at the debates, I should indeed 
 have a better opinion of my documents. But 
 if the House of Commons be the best sciiool 
 of British politics, which I think an undeni- 
 able assertion, then he that reads what passes 
 there has opportunities of information infe- 
 rior only to theirs who hear for themselves, 
 and can be present upon the spot. Thus 
 qualified, I take courage; and when a certain 
 reverend neighbor of ours curls his nose at 
 me, and holds my opinions cheap, merely be- 
 cause he has passed through London, I am 
 not altogether convinced that he has reason 
 on his side. I do not know that the air of 
 the metropolis has a power to brighten the 
 intellects, or that to sleep a night in the great 
 city is a necessary cause of wisdom. He tells 
 me that Mr. Fox is a rascal, and that Lord 
 North is a villain ; that every creature execrates 
 them both, and that I ought to do so too. 
 But I beg to be excused. Villain and rascal 
 are appellations which we, who do not converse 
 with great men, are rather sparing in the use 
 of. I can conceive them both to be most en- 
 tirely persuaded of the rectitude of their 
 conduct, and the rather because I feel myself 
 much inclined to believe that, being so, they 
 are not mistaken. I cannot think that secret 
 influence is a bugbear, a phantom conjured 
 up to serve a purpose, the mere sliibbo- 
 lelli of a party:* and being, and having al- 
 ways been, somewhat of an enthusiast on 
 the subject of British liberty, I am not able 
 to withhold my reverence and good wishes 
 from the man, whoever he be, that exerts 
 himself in a constitutional way to oppose it. 
 
 Caraccioli upon the subject of self-ac- 
 quaintance was never I believe translated. I 
 have sometimes thought that the Theological 
 Miscellany might be glad of a chapter of it 
 monthly. It is a work which I nmch admire. 
 
 * The secret influence, here mentioned, was at tliis 
 lime, and often .Tl'lerwards. said to l)e employed l)y the 
 Court ; and heiii-; liiu'lily uiicoiistilutional, was frequently 
 adverted to, in stroii'^ lan'^ua,'e of reprehension, in the 
 Ilouxe of Ciuamons. Mr. Powys, afterwards Lord Lil- 
 ford, called it " a fuurth estate in the realm ;" and Mr. 
 Burke denominated it " a power behind the t/irom greater 
 tiaii the throne itself." 
 
 You, who are master of their plan, can tell 
 me whether such a contribution would be 
 welcome. If you think it would, I would 
 be punctual in my remittances ; and a labor 
 of that sort would suit me better in my 
 present state of mind than original composi- 
 tion on religious subjects. 
 
 Remember us as those that love you, ana 
 are never unmindful of you. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 22, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I owe you thanks for 
 your kind remembrance of me in your letter 
 sent me on occasion of your departure, and 
 as many for that which I received last night. 
 I should have answered, had I known where 
 a line or two from me might find you ; but, 
 uncertain whether you were at home or 
 abroad, my diligence I confess wanted the 
 necessary spur. 
 
 It makes a capital figure among the com- 
 forts we enjoyed during the long severity of 
 the season, that the same incognito to all ex- 
 cept ourselves made us his almoners this 
 year likewise, as he did the last, and to the 
 same amount. Some we have been enabled 
 I suppose to save from perishing, and cer- 
 tainly many from the most pinching neces- 
 sity. Are you not afraid, Tory as you are, 
 to avow your principles to me, who am a 
 Whig? Know that I am in the opposition; 
 that, though I pity the king, I do not wish 
 him success in the present contest.f But 
 this is too long a battle to fight upon paper. 
 Make haste, that we may decide it face to 
 face. 
 
 Our respects wait upon Mrs. Bull, and our 
 love upon the young Hebreean.J I wish you 
 joy of his proficiency, and am glad that you 
 can say, with the old man in Terence, 
 
 Omnes continuo lautiare fortunas meas, 
 Qui natuiii habeam tali ingenio prasditum. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 29, 1784. 
 
 I\Iy dear Friend, — We are glad that you 
 have such a Lord Petre in your neighbor- 
 hood. He must be a man of a liberal turn to 
 employ a heretic in such a service. I wish 
 you a further acquaintance with him, not 
 doubting that the more he knows you, he will 
 find you the more agreeable. Y"ou despair 
 
 ♦ Private correspondence. 
 
 t This alludes to Mr. Tilt beini; retained in ofllce, 
 lbouj;h froqiiently outvoted in I'arliument. 
 
 X Mr. Bull's son, who afterwards succeeded his father, 
 both in the ministerial oflice, and also in the seminary 
 DStablished at Newport Pagnel, and with no less claim 
 to respect and esteem.
 
 182 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of becoming a prebendary, for want of cer- 
 tain rhytlimical talents, which you suppose 
 me possessed of. But what think you of a 
 cardinal's hat? Perhaps his lordship may 
 have interest at Rome, and that greater honor 
 may await you. Seriously, however, I re- 
 spect his character, and should not be sorry 
 if there were many such Papists in the land. 
 
 Mr. has given free scope to his gene- 
 rosity, and contributed as largely to the rehef 
 of Olney as he did last year. Soon after I 
 had given you notice of his iirst remittance, 
 we received a second to the same amount, ac- 
 companied indeed with an intimation that we 
 were to consider it as an anticipated supply, 
 which, but for the uncommon severity of the 
 present winter, he should have reserved for 
 the next. The inference is that next winter 
 we are to expect nothing. But the man, and 
 his beneficent turn of mind considered, there 
 is some reason to hope that, logical as the in- 
 ference seems, it may yet be disappointed. 
 
 Adverting to your letter again, I perceive 
 that you wish for my opinion of your answer 
 to his lordship. Had I forgot to tell you 
 that I approve of it, I know you well enough 
 to be aware of the misinterpretation you 
 would have put upon my silence. I am glad 
 therefore that I happened to east my eye upon 
 your appeal to my opinion, before it was too 
 late. A modest man, however able, has 
 always some reason to distrust himself upon 
 extraordinary occasions. Nothing is so apt 
 to betray us into absurdity as too great a 
 dread of it; and the application of more 
 strenofth than enouirh is sometimes as fatal as 
 too little : but you have escaped very well. 
 For my own part, when I write to a stranger, 
 I feel myself deprived of half my intellects. 
 I suspect that I shall write nonsense, and I 
 do so. I tremble at the thought of an inac- 
 curacy, and become absolutely ungraramati- 
 cal. I feel myself sweat. I have recourse to 
 the knife and the pounce. I correct half a 
 dozen blunders, which in a common case I 
 should not have committed, and have no 
 sooner despatched what I have written, than 
 I recollect how much better I could have 
 made it ; how easily and genteelly I could 
 have relaxed the stiffness of the phrase, and 
 have cured the insufferable awkwardness of 
 the whole, had they struck me a little earlier. 
 Thus we stand in awe of we know not what, 
 and miscarry through mere desire to excel. 
 
 I read Johnson's Prefiices every night, ex- 
 cept when the newspaper calls m j off. At a 
 time like the present, what author can stand 
 in competition with a newspaper; or who, 
 that has a spark of patriotism, does not point 
 jll his attention to the present crisis. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 I am so disgusted with 
 
 -, for allow- 
 
 ing himself to be silent, when so loudly called 
 
 upon to write to you, that I do not choose to 
 express my feelings. Woe to the man whom 
 kindness cannot soften ! 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 8, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for the two 
 first numbers of the Theological Miscellany. 
 I have not read them regularly through, but 
 sufiiciently to observe that they are much in- 
 debted to Omicron.* An essay, signed Par- 
 vulus, pleased me likewise ; and I shall be 
 glad if a neighbor of ours, to whom I have 
 lent them, should be able to apply to his own 
 use the lesson it inculcates. On farther con- 
 sideration, I have seen reason to forego my 
 purpose of translating Caraccioli. Though 
 I think no book more calculated to teach 
 the art of pious meditation, or to enforce a 
 conviction of the vanity of all pursuits that 
 have not the soul's interests for their object, 
 I can yet see a flaw in his manner of instruct- 
 ing, that in a country so enlightened as ours 
 would escape nobody's notice. Not enjoying 
 the advantage of evangelical ordinances and 
 Christian communion, he fiUls into a mistake, 
 natural in his situation, ascribing always the 
 pleasures he found in a holy life, to his own 
 industrious perseverance in a contemplative 
 course, and not to the immediate agency of 
 the great Comforter of his people, and direct- 
 ing the eye of his readers to a spiritual prin- 
 ciple within, which he supposes to subsist in 
 the soul of every man, as the source of all 
 divine enjoyment, and not to Christ, as he 
 would gladly have done, had he fallen under 
 Christian teachers. Allowing for these de- 
 fects, he is a charming writer, and by those 
 who know how to make such allowances 
 may be read with great delight and improve- 
 ment. But, with these defects in his man- 
 ner, though, I believe, no man ever had a heart 
 more devoted to God, he does not seem 
 dressed with sufiicient exactness to be fit for 
 the public eye, where man is known to be 
 nothing, and Jesus all in all. He must there- 
 fore be dismissed, as an unsuccessful candi- 
 date for a place in this Miscellany, and will 
 be less mortified at being rejected in the first 
 instance than if he had met with a refusal 
 from the publisher. I can only therefore re- 
 peat what I said before, that, when I find a 
 proper subject, and myself at liberty to pur- 
 sue it, I will endeavor to contribute my 
 quota. W. C. 
 
 o 
 
 TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 11, 1784. 
 I return you many thanks for your Apol- 
 ogy, which I have read with great pleasure. 
 You know of old that your style always 
 * The signature assumed by Mr. Newion.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 183 
 
 pleases me ; and having, in a former letter, 
 given you the reasons for which I like it, I 
 spare you now the pain of a repetition. The 
 spirit too in which you write pleases me as 
 much. But I perceive that in some cases it 
 is possible to be severe, and at the same time 
 perfectly good-teinpured ; in all cases, I sup- 
 pose, where we sutler by an injurious and un- 
 reasonable attaclv, and can justify our conduct 
 by a plain and simple narrative. On such oc- 
 casions truth itself seems a satire, because by 
 implication at least it convicts our adversaries 
 of the want of cliarity and candor. For this 
 reason perhaps you will find that you have 
 made many angry, thougli you are not so ; and 
 it is possible tliey may be the more angry upon 
 that very account. To assert and to prove 
 that an enhghtened minister of the gospel 
 may, witiiout any violation of his conscience, 
 and even upon the ground of prudence and 
 propriety, continue in the Establishment, and 
 to do this with tlie most absolute composure, 
 must be very provoking to the dignity of 
 some dissenting doctors; and, to nettle them 
 still more, you in a manner impose upon them 
 the necessity of being silent, by declaring that 
 you will be so yourself. Upon the whole, 
 however, I have no doubt that your Apology 
 will do good. If it should irritate some who 
 have more zeal than knowledge, and more of 
 bigotry than of either, it may serve to enlarge 
 the views of others, and to convince them 
 that there may be grace, truth, and elHcacy 
 in the ministry of a church of which they are 
 not members. I wish it success, and all that 
 attention to which, both from the nature of 
 the subject and the manner in which you 
 have treated it, it is so well entitled. 
 
 The patronage of the East Indies will be 
 a dangerous weapon, in whatever hands. 1 
 have uo prospect of deliverance for this 
 country, but the same that I have of a possi- 
 bility that we may one day be disencumbered 
 of our ruinous possessions in the East. 
 
 Our good neighbors,* who have so success- 
 fully knocked away our western crutch from 
 under us, seem to design us the same favor 
 on the opposite side, in which case we shall 
 be poor, but I tliink we shall stand a better 
 chance to be free; and I had rather drink 
 water gruel for breakfast, and be no man's 
 slave, than wear a chain, and drink tea. 
 
 I have just room to add that we love you 
 as usual, and are your very aifectionate 
 William and Mary. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Ohiey, March 15, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I converse, you say, upon 
 other subjects than that of despair, and may 
 
 * The French nation, who aided America in her strug- 
 «;Ie for independence. 
 
 + Private correspondence. 
 
 therefore write upon others. Indeed, m) 
 friend, I am a man of very little conversation 
 upon any subject. From that of despair I 
 abstain as much as possible, for the sake of 
 my company ; but I will venture to say that 
 it is never out of my mind one minute in the 
 whole day. I do not mean to say that I am 
 never cheerful. I am often so ; always in- 
 deed when my nights have been undisturbed 
 for a season. But the effect of such contin- 
 ual listening to the language of a heart hope- 
 less and deserted is that I can never give 
 much more than half my attention to what is 
 started by others, and very rarely start any- 
 thing myself. My silence, however, and my 
 absence of mind, make me sometimes as en- 
 tertaining as if I had wit. They furnish an 
 occasion for friendly and good-natured rail- 
 lery ; they raise a laugh, and I partake of it. 
 But you will easily perceive that a mind thus 
 occupied is but indifferently qualified for the 
 consideration of theological matters. The 
 most useful and the most delightful topics 
 of that kind are to me forbidden fruit ; — I 
 tremble if I approach them. It has happened 
 to me sometimes that I have found myself 
 imperceptibly drawn in, and made a party in 
 such discourse. The consequence has been, 
 dissatisfaction and self-reproach. You will 
 tell me, perhaps, that I have written upon 
 these subjects in verse, and may therefore, if 
 I please, in prose. But there is a difference. 
 The search after poetical expression, the 
 rhyme, and the numbers, are all affairs of 
 some difficulty ; they amuse, indeed, but are 
 not to be attained without study, and en- 
 gross, perhaps, a larger share of the attention 
 than the subject itself. Persons fond of 
 music will sometimes find pleasure in the 
 tune, when the words afford them none. 
 There are, however, subjects that do not 
 always terrify me by their importance; such 
 I mean as relate to Christian life and man- 
 ners ; and when such a one presents itself, 
 and finds me in a frame of mind that does not 
 absolutely forbid the employment, 1 shall 
 most readily give it my attention, for the 
 sake, however, of your request merely.^ 
 Verse is my favorite occupation, and what I 
 compose in that way I reserve for my own 
 use hereafter. 
 
 I have lately finished eight volumes of 
 Johnson's Prefaces, or Lives of the Poets 
 In all that number I observe but one man— 
 a poet of no great fame — of whom I did not 
 know that he existed till I found him there, 
 whose mind seems to have had the slightest 
 tincture of religion ; and he was hardly in 
 his senses. His name was Collins. He 
 sank into a state of melancholy, and died 
 young. Not long before his death he was 
 found at his lodgings in Islington, by his 
 biographer, witfi the New Testament in his 
 hand. He said to Johnson, "I have but one
 
 184 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 book, but it is the best." Of him, therefore, 
 there are some hopes. But from the lives 
 of all the rest there is but one inference to 
 be drawn — that poets are a very worthless, 
 wicked set of people. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, truly, 
 
 "W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 19, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I wish it were in my 
 power to give you any account of the Mar- 
 quis Caraccioli. Some years since I saw a 
 short history of him in the ' Review,' of 
 which I recollect no particulars, except that 
 he was (and for aught I know may be still) 
 an officer in the Prussian service. I have 
 two volumes of his works, lent me by Lady 
 Austen. One is upon the subject of self- 
 acquaintance, and the other treats of the art 
 of conversing with the same gentleman. 
 Had I pursued my purpose of translating 
 him, my design was to have furnished my- 
 self, if possible, with some authentic account 
 of him, which I suppose may be procured at 
 any bookseller's who deals in foreign publi- 
 cations. But for the reasons given in my 
 last I have laid aside the design. There is 
 something in his style that touches me ex- 
 ceedingly, and which I do not know how to 
 describe. I should call it pathetic, if it were 
 occasional only, and never occurred but when 
 his subject happened to be particularly affect- 
 ing. But it is universal ; he has not a sen- 
 tence that is not marked with it. Perhaps 
 therefore I may describe it better by saying 
 that his whole work has an air of pious and 
 tender melancholy, which to me at least is 
 extremely agreeable. This property of it, 
 which depends perhaps altogether upon the 
 arrangement of his words, and tiie modular 
 tion of his sentences, it would be very diffi- 
 cult to preserve in a translation. I do not 
 know that our language is capable of being 
 so managed, and rather suspect that it is 
 not, and that it is peculiar to the French, be- 
 cause it is not unfrequent among their writ- 
 ers, and I never saw anything similar to it in 
 our own. 
 
 My evenings are devoted to books. I 
 read aloud for the entertainment of the 
 party, thus making amends by a vociferation 
 of two hours for my silence at other times. 
 We are in good healtii, and waiting as pa- 
 tiently as we can for the end of this second 
 winter. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 The following letter will be read with in- 
 terest as expressing Cowper's sentiments on 
 Dr. Johnson's " Lives of the Poets." 
 
 TO THE REV. WM. UNWIN.* 
 
 Olney, March 21, 1784. 
 
 My dear William, — I thank you for the 
 entertainment you have afforded me. I often 
 wish for a library, often regret my folly in 
 selling a good collection, but I have one in 
 Essex. It is rather remote indeed, too dis- 
 tant for occasional reference; but it serves 
 the purpose of amusement, and a wagon be- 
 ing a very suitable vehicle for an author, I 
 find myself comniodiously supplied. Last 
 night I made an end of reading " Johnson's 
 Prefaces ;" but the number of poets whom 
 he has vouchsafed to chronicle being fifty- 
 six, there must be many with whose history 
 I am not yet acquainted. These, or some 
 of these, if it suits you to give them a part 
 of your chaise when you come, will be heart- 
 ily welcome. I am very much the biogra- 
 pher's humble admirer. His uncommon share 
 of good sense, and his forcible expression, 
 secure to him that tribute from all his read- 
 ers. He has a penetrating insight into char- 
 acter, and a happy talent of correcting the 
 popular opinoin upon all occasions where it 
 is erroneous ; and this he does with the 
 boldness of a man who will think for him- 
 self, but at the same time with a justness of 
 sentiment that convinces us he does not dif- 
 fer from others through affectation, but be- 
 cause he has a sounder judgment. This 
 remark, however, has his narrative for its 
 object rather than his critical performance. 
 In the latter I do not think him always just, 
 when he departs from the general opinion. 
 He finds no beauties in Milton's Lycidas. 
 He pours contempt upon Prior, to such a 
 degree, that, were he really as undeserving 
 of notice as he represents him, he ought no 
 longer to be numbered among the poets. 
 These indeed are the two capital instances 
 in which he has offended me. There are 
 others less important, which I have not room 
 to enumerate, and in which I am less con- 
 fident that he is wrong. What suggested to 
 him the thoutdit that the Alma was written 
 in imitation of Hudibras, I cannot conceive. 
 In former years, they were both favorites of 
 mine, and I often read them ; but never saw 
 in them the least resemblance to each other; 
 nor do I now, except that they are composed 
 in verse of the same measure. After all, it 
 is a melancholy observation, which it is 
 impossible not to make, after having run 
 through this series of poetical lives, that 
 where there were such shining talents there 
 should be so little virtue. These luminaries 
 of our country seem to have been kindled 
 into a brighter blaze than others only that 
 their spots migiit be more noticed ! So 
 much can nature do for our intellectual part, 
 and so little for our moral. What vanity, 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 I8b 
 
 what petulance in Pope ! How painfully 
 seiisihle of censure, and yet how restless in 
 provocation ! To what mean artifices could 
 Addison stoop, in hopes of injuring the repu- 
 tation of his friend ! Savage, how sordidly 
 vicious! and the more condemned for the 
 pains that are taken to palliate his vices. 
 Offensive as they appear through a veil, how 
 would they disgust without one! What a 
 sycophant to 'the public taste was Dryden ; 
 sinning against his feelings, lewd in his writ- 
 ings, though chaste in his conversation. I 
 know not but one might search these eight 
 volumes with a candle, as the prophet says, 
 to find a man, and not find one, unless j^er- 
 haps Arbuthnot were he. I shall begin 
 Beattie this evening, and propose to myself 
 much satisfaction in reading him. In hira at 
 least I shall find a man whose faculties have 
 now and then a glimpse from heaven upon 
 them ; a man, not indeed in possession of 
 much evangelical light, but faithful to what 
 he has, and never neglecting an opportuniry 
 to use it! How much more respectable 
 such a character than that of thousands who 
 would call him blind, and yet have not the 
 grace to practise half his virtues! He too is 
 a poet and wrote the Minstrel. The speci- 
 mens which I have seen of it pleased me 
 much. If yon have the whole, I should be 
 glad to read it. I may perhaps, since you 
 allow me the liberty, indulge myself here 
 and there with a marginal annotation, but 
 shall not use that allowance wantonly, so as 
 to deface the volumes. 
 
 Yours, my dear William, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, March 29, 17ai. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It being his majesty's 
 pleasure tiiat I should yet have another op- 
 portunity to write before he dissolves the 
 piirliamcnt, I avail myself of it with all pos- 
 si!)le alacrity. I thank you for your last, 
 wiiich was not the less welcome for coming, 
 like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when 
 it was not expected. 
 
 As, when the sea is uncommonly agitated, 
 the water finds its way into creeks and holes 
 of rocks, which in its calmer state it never 
 reaches, in like manner the effect of these 
 tm-bulent times is felt even at Orchard-side, 
 wiiere in general we live as undisturbed by 
 the political element as shrimps or cockles, 
 that have been accident^illy deposited in 
 some hollow beyond the water-mark, by the 
 usual dashing of the waves. We were sit- 
 ting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies 
 and myself, very composedly, and without 
 tiie least apprehension of any such intrusion 
 in our snug parlor, one ladv knitting, the 
 oth(!r netting, and the gentleman winding 
 woi sted, when, to our unspeakable surprise, 
 
 a mob appeared before the window ; a smart 
 rap was heard at the door, the boys hallooed, 
 
 and the maid announced Mr. G . Puss^f 
 
 was unfortunately let out of her box, so that 
 the candidate, with all his good friends at 
 his heels, was refu-^ed admittance at the 
 grand entry, and referred to the back-door, 
 as the only possible way of .-j-pproach. 
 
 Candidates are creatures not very suscep- 
 tible of affronts, and would rather, I sup- 
 pose, climb in at a window than be abso- 
 lutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the 
 kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr, 
 
 G , advancing toward me, shook me by 
 
 the hand with a degree of cordiality that was 
 extremely seducing. As soon as he and as 
 many more as could find chairs were seated, 
 he began to open the intent of his visit. I 
 told him I had no vote, for which he readily 
 gave me credit. I assured him I had no 
 infiuence, which he was not equally inclined 
 to believe, and the less, no doubt, because 
 
 Mr. A , addressing himself to me at that 
 
 moment, informed me that I had a great 
 deal. Supposing that I could not be pos- 
 sessed of such a treasure without knowing 
 it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion, by 
 saying that if I had any, I was utterly at a 
 loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein 
 it consisted. Thus ended the conference. 
 
 Mr. G ■ squeezed me by the hand again, 
 
 kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed 
 likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed 
 upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind- 
 hearted gentleman. He is very young, gen- 
 teel, and handsome. He has a pair of very 
 good eyes in his head, which not being suffi- 
 cient as it should seem for the many nice 
 and difficult purposes of a senator, he has a 
 third also, which he wore suspended by a 
 ribbon from his button-hole. The boys hal- 
 looed, the dogs barked. Puss scampered, the 
 hero, with his long train of obsequious fol- 
 lowers, withdrew. We made ourselves very 
 merry with the adventure, and in a short 
 time settled into our former tranquillity, 
 never probably to be thus interrupted more. 
 I thought myself however happy in being 
 able to affirm truly that I had not that infiu- 
 ence for vvhich lie sued, and for win'ch, had I 
 been possessed of it, with my present views 
 of the dispute between the Crown and the 
 Commons,! I must have refused him, for he 
 is on the side of the former. It is comfort- 
 able to be of no consequence in a world, 
 where one cannot exercise any without dis- 
 obliging somebody. The town however 
 seems to be nnich at his service, and, if he 
 be equally successful Ihrougiiout the county, 
 he will undoubtedly gain his election. 3Ir. 
 A , perhaps, was a little mortified, be- 
 
 * His t;imc linre. 
 
 t We liave already stated tliat Mr. Pitt was tVequently 
 outvoted at this time in tlie House of Commons, but, 
 being supported by the king, did uot rhoose to resigu.
 
 186 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 cause it was evident that I owed the honor 
 of this visit to his misrepresentation of my 
 importance. But had he thought proper to 
 
 assure Mr. G that I had three heads, I 
 
 should not I suppose have been bound to 
 produce them. 
 
 Mr. S , Avho you say was so much ad- 
 mired in your pulpit, would be equally ad- 
 mired in his own, at least by all capable 
 judges, were he not so apt to be angry with 
 his congregation. This hurts him, and, had 
 le the understanding and eloquence of Paul 
 himself, would still hurt him. He seldom, 
 hardly ever, indeed, preaches a gentle, well- 
 tempered sermon, but I hear it highly com- 
 mended: but warmth of temper, indulged to 
 a degree that may be called scolding, defeats 
 the end of preaching. It is a misapplication 
 of his powers, which it also cripples, and teases 
 away his hearers. But he is a good man, and 
 may perhaps outgrow it. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, April, 1784. 
 
 People that are but little acquainted with 
 the terrors of divine wrath, are not much 
 afraid of trifling with their Maker. But, for 
 my own part, I would sooner take Empedo- 
 cle's leap, and fling myself into Mount Jiltna 
 than I would do it in the slightest instance, 
 were I in circumstances to make an election. 
 In the scripture we find a broad and clear ex- 
 hibition of mercy; it is displayed in every 
 page. Wrath is, in comparison, but slightly 
 touched upon, because it is not so much a 
 discovery of wrath as of forgiveness. But, 
 had the displeasure of God been the principal 
 subject of the book, and had it circumstan- 
 tially set forth that measure of it only which 
 may be endured even in this life, the Chris- 
 tian world perhaps would have been less 
 comfortable ; but I believe presumptuous 
 meddlers with the gospel would have been 
 less frequently met with. The word is a 
 flaming sword ; and he that touches it with 
 unhallowed fingers, thinking to make a tool 
 of it, will find that he has burned them. 
 
 What havoc in Calabria ! Every house is 
 built upon the sand, whose inhabitants have 
 no God or only a false one. Solid and fluid 
 are such in respect to each other; but with 
 reference to the divine power they are equal- 
 ly fi.xed or equally unstable. The inhabi- 
 tants of a rock shall sink, while a cock-boat 
 shall save a man alive in the midst of the 
 fathomless ocean. The Pope grants dispen- 
 sations for folly and madness during the car- 
 nival. But it seems they are as offensive to 
 him, whose vicegerent he pretends himself, at 
 that season as at any other. Were I a Cala- 
 brian, I would not give my papa at Rome one 
 earthing for his amplest indulgence, from this 
 
 time forth forever. There is a word that 
 makes this world tremble; and the Pope 
 cannot countermand it. A fig for such a 
 conjurer! Pharaoh's conjurers had twice 
 his ability. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C, 
 
 We have already alluded to this awfu 
 catastrophe, which occurred Feb. 5, ^783, 
 though the shocks of earthquake continued 
 to be felt sensibly, but less violently, till 
 May 23rd. The motions of the earth are de- 
 scribed as having been various, either whirl- 
 ing like a vortex, horizontally, or by pulsa- 
 tions and beatings from the bottom upwards ; 
 the rains continual and violent, often accom- 
 panied with lightning and irregular and furi- 
 ous gusts of wind. The sum total of the 
 mortality in Calabria and Sicily, by the earth- 
 quakes alone, as returned to the Secretary of 
 State's office, in Naples, was 32,367 ; and, 
 including other casualties, was estimated at 
 40,000* 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, April 5, 1784. 
 
 My dear William, — I thanked you in my 
 last for Johnson ; I now thank you with more 
 emphasis for Beattie, the most agreeable and 
 amiable writer I ever met with — the only au- 
 thor I have seen whose critical and philo- 
 sophical researches are diversified and embel- 
 lished by a poetical imagination, that makes 
 even the driest subject and the leanest a feast 
 for an epicure in books. He is so much at 
 his ease, too, that his own character appears 
 in every page, and, which is very rare, we see 
 not only the writer but the man ; and that 
 man so gentle, so well-tempered, so happy in 
 his religion, and so humane in his philosophy, 
 that it is necessary to love him if one has any 
 sense of what is lovely. If you have not his 
 poem called the Minstrel, and cannot borrow 
 it, I must beg you to buy it for me; for, 
 though I cannot afford to deal largely in so 
 expensive a commodity as books, I must af- 
 ford to purchase at least the poetical works 
 of Beattie. I have read six of Blair's Lec- 
 tures, and what do I say of Blair 1 That he 
 is a sensible man, master of his subject, and, 
 excepting here and there a Scotticism, a good 
 writer, so far at least as perspicuity of expres- 
 sion and method contribute to make one. 
 But, O the sterility of that man's fancy ! if 
 indeed he has any such faculty belonging to 
 him. Perhaps philosophers, or men designed 
 for such, are sometimes born without one ; 
 or perhaps it withers for want of exercise. 
 However that may be, Dr. Blair has such a 
 brain as Shakspeare somewhere describes 
 
 * See Sir William Hamilton's account of this awfuj 
 event.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 187 
 
 « dry as thie remMnder biscuit after a voy- 
 
 age, 
 
 I take it for granted, that these good men 
 are philosophically correct (for they are both 
 agreed upon the subject) in their account of 
 the origin of language ; and, if the Scripture 
 had ?eft us in the dark upon that article, I 
 should very readily adopt their hypothesis for 
 want of better information. I should sup- 
 pose, for instance, that man mr.de his first ef- 
 fort in speech, in the way of an interjection, 
 and that ah! or oh! being uttered with won- 
 derful gesticulation, and variety of attitude, 
 must have left iiis powers of expression quite 
 exhausted: that in a course of time he would 
 invent many names for many things, but first 
 for the objects of his daily wants. An apple 
 would consequently be called an apple, and 
 perhaps not many years would elapse before 
 the appellation would receive the sanction of 
 general use. In this case, and upon this sup- 
 position, seeing one in the hand of another 
 man, he would exclaim, with a most moving 
 pathos, " Oh apple !" — well and good— oh ap- 
 ple ! is a very affecting speech, but in the 
 meantime it profits him nothing. The man 
 tliat holds it, cats it, and lie goes away with 
 Oh apple in his mouth, and with notliing bet- 
 ter. Rcfiecting on his disappointment, and 
 that perhaps it arose from his not being more 
 explicit, he contrives a term to denote his idea 
 of transfer or gratuitous communication, and, 
 the next occasion that offers of a similar kind, 
 performs his part accordingly. His speech 
 now stands thus, " Oil give apple !" The ap- 
 ple-holder perceives himself called on to part 
 with his fruit, and having satisfied his own 
 hunger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. 
 But unfortunately there is still room for a 
 mistake, and a third person being present he 
 gives the apple to Mm. Again disappointed, 
 and again perceiving that his language has 
 not all the precision that is requisite, the ora- 
 tor retires to his study, and there, after much 
 deep thinking, conceives that the insertion of 
 a pronoun, wiiose office shall be to signify 
 that he not only wants the apple to be given, 
 but given to himself, will remedy all defects, 
 he uses it the next opportunity, and succeeds 
 to a wonder, obtains the apple, and by his suc- 
 cess, sucli credit to his invention, that pro- 
 nouns continue to be in great repute ever after. 
 Now, as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie 
 and Blair, both agree that language was ori- 
 ginally inspired, and that the great variety of 
 languages we find upon earth at present took 
 its^rise from the confusion of tongues at 
 
 * Tills criticism on Ulair's LecHiros sccins lo be too 
 Bevore. Tlicro wiis a iiciiinl wln'ii his Sfiinoiis were 
 amoii,' the most iiamircd pnnluctioiis of the day; sixty 
 tliousaiul CDpit's, it was said, wuri; sold. They formed 
 the standard of divinity liftv vears a!,'o : hut they arc now 
 jiistly considered to be deficient, in not exhibilin;; Iho 
 great and fundamental truths of the Gospel, and to be 
 merely entitled lo the praise of being a beautiful system 
 of ethics. 
 
 Babel, I am not perfectly convinced that there 
 is any just occasion to invent this very inge- 
 nious solution of a difficulty which Scripture 
 has solved already. My opinion, however, is, 
 if I may presume to have an opinion of my 
 own, so different from theirs, who are so 
 much wiser than myself, that, if a man had 
 been his own teacher, and had acquired his 
 words and his phrases only as necessity or 
 convenience had prompted, his progress must 
 have been considerably slower than it was, 
 and in Homer's days the production of such 
 a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the con- 
 trary, I doubt not Adam, on the very day of 
 his creation, was able to express liimself in 
 terms both forcible and elegant, and that he 
 was at no loss for sublime diction and logical 
 combination, when he wanted to praise his 
 Maker. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, April 15, 1784. 
 My dear William, — I wish I had both burn- 
 ing words and bright thoughts. But I have 
 at present neither. My head is not itself. 
 Having had an unpleasant night and a melan- 
 choly day, and having already written a long 
 letter, I clo not find myself in point of spirits 
 at all qualified either to burn or shine. The 
 post sets out early on Tuesday. The morn- 
 ing is the only time of exercise with me. In 
 order therefore to keep it open for that pur- 
 pose, and to comply with your desire of an 
 immediate answer, I give you as much as 1 
 can spare of the present evening. 
 
 Since I despatched my last, Blair has crept 
 a little farther into my favor. As his subjects 
 improve, he improves with them ; but upon 
 the whole I account him a dry writer, useful 
 no doubt as an instructor, but as little enter- 
 taining as, with so much knowledge, it is pos- 
 sible to be. His language is (except Swift's) 
 the least figurative I remember to have seen, 
 and the few figures found in it are not always 
 happily employed. I take him to be a critic 
 very little animated by what he reads, who 
 rather reasons about the beauties of an au- 
 thor than really tastes them, and who finds 
 that a passage is praiseworthy, not because 
 it charms him, but because it is accommo- 
 dated to the laws of criticism in that case 
 made and provided. I have a little complied 
 with your desire of marginal annotations, 
 and should have dealt in them more largely 
 had I read the books to myself; but, being 
 reader to the ladies, I have not always time 
 to settle my own opinion of a doubtful ex- 
 pression, much less to suggest an emenda- 
 tion. I have not censured a particular ob- 
 servation in the book, though, when I met 
 with it, it displeased me. I this_ moment 
 recollect it, and may as well therefore note
 
 188 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 it here. He is commending, and deservedly, 
 that most noble description of a thunder- 
 storm in the first Georgic, which ends with 
 
 .... Ingeminant austri et densissimus imber. 
 
 Being in haste, I do not refer to the volume 
 for his very words, but my memory will serve 
 me with the matter. When poets describe, 
 he says, they should always select such cir- 
 cumstances of the subject as are least obvi- 
 ous, and therefore most striking. He there- 
 fore admires the effects of the thunderbolt, 
 splitting mountains, and filling a nation with 
 astonishment, but quarrels with the closing 
 member of the period, as containing particu- 
 lars of a storm not worthy of Virgil's notice, 
 because obvious to the notice of all. But 
 here I differ from him ; not being able to con- 
 ceive that wind and rain can be improper in 
 the description of a tempest, or how wind 
 and rain could possibly be more poetically 
 described. Virgil is indeed remarkable for 
 finishing his periods well, and never comes 
 to a stop but with the most consummate dig- 
 nity of numbers and expression, and in the 
 instance in question I think his skill in this 
 respect is remarkably displayed. The line is 
 perfectly majestic in its march. As to the 
 wind, it is such only as the word ingeminant 
 could describe and the words densissimus im- 
 ber give one an idea of a shower indeed, but 
 of such a shower as is not very common, and 
 such a one as only Virgil could have done 
 justice to by a single epithet. Far therefore 
 from agreeing with the Doctor in his stricture, 
 I do not think the iEneid contains a nobler 
 line, or a description more magnificently fin- 
 ished. 
 
 We are glad that Dr. C has singled 
 
 you out upon this occasion. Your perform- 
 ance we doubt not will justify his choice : 
 fear not, you have a heart that can feel upon 
 charitable occasions, and therefore will not 
 fail you upon this. The burning words will 
 come fast enough when the sensibility is 
 such as yours. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 The ingenuity and humor of the following 
 verses as well as their poetical merit, give 
 them a just claim to admiration. 
 
 TO THE REV, WILLIAM UNWIN.* 
 
 OIney, April 25, 1784. 
 
 My dear William, — Thanks for the fish, 
 with its companion, a lobster, which we mean 
 to eat to-morrow. 
 
 TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALYBUTT ON 
 WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 
 1784. 
 
 Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued 
 Thy pastime'? when wast thou an egg new- 
 spawn'd 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste 1 
 Roar as they might, the overbearing winds 
 That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe, 
 And in thy minikin and embryo state, 
 Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed. 
 Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd 
 The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, 
 And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. 
 Indebted to no magnet and no chart. 
 Nor under guidance of the polar fire, 
 Thou wast a voyager on many coasts. 
 Grazing at large in meadows submarine, 
 Where flat Batavia. just emerging, peeps 
 Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks 
 Beat back the surge — and where Hibernia shoots 
 Her wondrous causeway far into the main. 
 — Wherever thou hast led, thou little thought'st, 
 And I not more, that I should feed on thee. 
 Peace, therefore, and good health, and much 
 
 good fish. 
 To him who sent thee ! and success as ofl; 
 As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well I 
 
 To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee 
 Thy lot, thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd 
 Would envy, could they know that thou wast 
 To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, April 26, 1784. 
 
 We are glad that your book runs. It will 
 not indeed satisfy those whom nothing could 
 satisfy but your accession to their party ; but 
 the liberal will say you do well, and it is in 
 the opinion of such men only that you can 
 feel yourself interested. 
 
 I have lately been employed in reading 
 Beattie and Blair's Lectures. The latter 1 
 have not yet finished. I find the former the 
 most agreeable of the two, indeed the most 
 entertaining writer upon dry subjects I ever 
 met with. His imagination is highly poetical, 
 his language easy and elegant, and his man- 
 ner so familiar that we seem to be conversing 
 with an old friend upon terms of the most 
 sociable intercourse while we read him. 
 Blair is on the contrary rather stiff, not that 
 his style is pedantic, but his air is ft)rmal. He 
 is a sensible man, and understands his sub- 
 jects, but too conscious that he is addressing 
 the public, and too solicitous about his suc- 
 cess, to indulge himself for a moment in that 
 play of fancy which makes the other so 
 agreeable. In Blair we find a scholar, in 
 Beattie both a scholar and an amiable man, 
 indeed so amiable that I have wished for his 
 acquaintance ever since I read his book. 
 Having never in my life perused a page of 
 Aristotle, I am glad to have had an opportu- 
 nity of learning more than (I suppose) he 
 would have taught me, from the writings of 
 two modern critics. I felt myself too a little 
 disposed to compliment my own ncumen upon 
 the occasion. For, though the art of writing 
 and composing was never much my study, I 
 did not find that they had any great news to
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 ISa 
 
 tell me. They have assisted me in putting 
 my observations into some nielhod, but have 
 not suggested many of which I was not by 
 some means or other previously apprized. In 
 fact, critics did not originally beget authors, 
 but authors made critics. Common sense 
 dictated to writers the necessity of method, 
 connexion, and thoughts congruous to the 
 nature of their sul)ject ; genius prompted 
 tiiem with embellishments, and then came tiie 
 critics. Observing the good effects of an at- 
 tention to these items, they enacted laws for 
 the observance of tiiem in time to come, and, 
 having drawn tiieir rules for good writing 
 from wiiat was actually well written, boasted 
 themselves the inventors of an art which yet j 
 the authors of the day had already exempli- 
 fied. Tiiey are however useful in tlieir way, 
 giving us at one view a map of the bounda- j 
 ries which propriety sets to fancy, and serv- 
 ing as judges to whom the public may at 
 once appeal, when pestered witli the vagaries 
 of those who have had the hardiness to trans- 
 gress them. 
 
 The canditades for this county have set an 
 example of economy which other candidates : 
 would do well to follow, having come to an I 
 agreement on both sides to defray the ex- • 
 penses of their voters, but to open no houses i 
 for the entertainment of the rabble ; a reform 
 however, whicii the rabble did not at all ap- 
 prove of, and testified their dislike of it by a 
 riot. A stage was built, from which the ora- 
 tors had designed to harangue tlie electors. 
 Tins became the first victim of their fury. 
 Having very little curiosity to hear what 
 gentlemen could say who would give them 
 iiotliing better than words, they broke it in 
 pieces, and tlu'cvv the fragments upon the 
 hustings. The sheriff, the members, the 
 lawyers, the voters, were instantly put to 
 fligiit. Tiiey rallied, but were again routed 
 by a second assault like the former. Tiiey 
 tiien proceeded to break the windows of the 
 inn to which they had fled; and a fear pre- 
 vailing that at night tliey would fire tlie town, 
 a projjosal was made by the freeholders to 
 face about, and endeavor to secure them. At 
 that instant a rioter, dressed in a merry An- 
 drew's jacket, stepped forward and challenged 
 tlie best man among them. Olney sent the 
 hero to the field, who made hiin repent of iiis 
 
 presumption : Mr. A was he. Seizing 
 
 liim by the throat, he shook him — he threw 
 him to the earth, he made tiu^ liollowness of 
 his scull resound by the application of his 
 fist.s, and dragged him into cu.stody without 
 the least damage to his person. Animated 
 by this exami)le, the other freeholders fol- 
 lowed it, and in five minutes twenty-eight 
 out of thirty ragamufiins were safely lodged 
 in gaol. Adieu my dear friend. 
 
 We love you, and are yours, 
 
 W. & M. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, May 3, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The subject of fixce- 
 painting may be considered (I think) in two 
 points of view. First, there is room for dis- 
 pute with respect to the consistency of the 
 practice with good morals ; and, secondly, 
 whether it be on the whole convenient or not 
 may be a matter worthy of agitation. I set 
 out with all the formality of logical disquisi- 
 tion, but do not promise to observe the same 
 regularity any farther than it may comport 
 with my purpose of writing as fast as I can. 
 
 As to the immorality of the custom, were 
 I in France, I should see none. On the con- 
 trary, it seems in that country to be a symp- 
 tom of modest consciousness and a tacit con- 
 fession of what all know to be true, that 
 French faces have in fact neither red nor 
 wliite of their own. This humble acknowl- 
 edgment of a defect looks the more like a 
 virtue, being found among a people not re- 
 markable for humility. Again, before we 
 can prove the practice to be immoral, we 
 must prove immorality in the design of those 
 who use it; either, that they intend a decep- 
 tion or to kindle unlawful desires in the be- 
 holders. But the French ladies, as far as 
 their purpose comes in question, must be ac- 
 quitted of both these charges. Nobody sup- 
 poses their color to be natural for a moment, 
 any more than if it were blue or green : and 
 this unambiguous judgment of tiie matter 
 is owing to two causes; first, to the universal 
 knowledge we have that French women are 
 naturally brown or yellow, with very few 
 exceptions, and, secondly, to the inartificial 
 manner in which they paint: for they do not, 
 as I am satisfactorily informed, even attempt 
 an imitation of nature, but besmear them- 
 selves hastily and at a venture, anxious only 
 to lay on enough. Where, therefore, there 
 is no wanton intention nor a wish to deceive, 
 I can discover no immorality. But in Eng- 
 land (I am afraid) our p.ainted ladies are not 
 clearly entitled to the same apology. They 
 even imitate nature with such exactness that 
 the whole public is sometimes divided into 
 parties, who litigate with great warmth the 
 question, whether painted or not. Tiiis was 
 
 remarkably the case with a Miss B , 
 
 whom I well rcmembei". Her roses and lilies 
 were never discovered to be spurious till she 
 attained an age that made the supposition of 
 their being natural impossible. This anxiety 
 to be not merely red and white, which is all 
 tiiey aim at in France, but to be thought very 
 beautiful and much more beautiful than na- 
 ture has made them, is a symi)tom not very 
 favorable to the idea we would uisii to en- 
 tertain of the chastity, purity, and modesty of 
 our countrywomen. That they are guilty of 
 a design to deceive is certain ; otherwise, why 
 so much art? and if to deceive, wherefore
 
 190 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and with what purpose 1 Certainly either to 
 gratify vanity of the silhest liind, or, which 
 is still more criminal, to decoy and inveigle, 
 and carry on more successfully the business 
 of temptation. Here therefore my opinion 
 splits itself into two opposite sides upon the 
 same question. I can suppose a French wo- 
 man, iJiough painted an inch deep, to be a 
 virtuous, discreet, excellent character, and in 
 no instance should I think the worse of one 
 because she was painted. But an English 
 belle must pardon me if I have not the same 
 charity for her. She is at least an impostor, 
 whether she cheats me or not, because she 
 means to do so ; and it is well if that be all 
 the censure she deserves. 
 
 Tliis brings me to my second class of ideas 
 upon this topic : and here I feel that I should 
 be fearfully puzzled were I called upon to re- 
 commend tlie practice on the score of conve- 
 nience. If a husband chose that his wife 
 should paint, perhaps it might be her duty as 
 well as her interest to comply ; but I think he 
 would not much consult his own for reasons 
 that will follow. In the first place she would 
 admire herself the more, and, in the next, if 
 she managed the matter well, she might be 
 more admired by others ; an acquisition that 
 might bring her virtue under trials to which 
 otherwise it might never have been exposed. 
 In no other case, however, can I imagine the 
 practice in this country to be either expedient 
 or convenient. As a general one, it certainly 
 is not expedient, because in general English 
 women have no occasion for it. A swarthy 
 complexion is a rarity here, and the sex, es- 
 pecially since inoculation has been so much 
 in use, have very little cause to complain that 
 nature has not been kind to them in the article 
 of complexion. They may hide and spoil a 
 good one, but they cannot (at least they 
 hardly can) give themselves a better. But, 
 even if they could, there is yet a tragedy in 
 the sequel, which should make them tremble. 
 I understand that in France, though the use 
 of rouge be general, the use of white paint is 
 far from being so. In England, she that uses 
 one commonly uses both. Now all white 
 paints, or lotions, or whatever they be called, 
 are mercurial, consequently poisonous, con- 
 sequently ruinous in time to tlie constitution. 
 The Miss B above mentioned, was a mis- 
 erable witness of this truth, it being certain 
 that her flesh fell from her bones before she 
 died. Lady C was hardly a less melan- 
 choly proof of it ; and a London physician 
 perhaps, were he at liberty to blab, could 
 publish a bill of female mortality of a length 
 that would astonish us. 
 
 For these reasons I utterly condemn the 
 practice as it obtains in England ; and for a 
 reason superior to all these I must disapprove 
 it. I cannot indeed discover that Scripture 
 forbids it in so many words. But that anxious 
 
 solicitude about the person which such an ar- 
 tifice evidently betrays is, I am sure, contrary 
 to the tenor and spirit of it throughout. Show 
 me a woman with a painted face, and I will 
 show you a woman whose heart is set on 
 things of the earth, and not on things above. 
 But this observation of mine applies to it only 
 when it is an imitative art : for, in the use of 
 French women, I think it as innocent as in 
 the use of the wild Indian, who draws a cir- 
 cle round her face, and makes two spots, per- 
 haps blue, perhaps white, in the middle of it. 
 Such are my thoughts upon the matter. 
 Vive, valeque. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WaLLIAM UN WIN. 
 
 Ohiey, May 8, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You do well to make 
 your letters merry ones, though not very 
 merry yourself, and that both for my sake 
 and your own; for your own sake, because it 
 sometimes happens that, by assuming an air 
 of cheerfulness, we become cheerful in re- 
 ality; and for mine, because I have always 
 more need of a laugh than a cry, being some- 
 what disposed to melancholy by natural tem- 
 perament, as well as by other causes. 
 
 It was long since, and even in the infancy 
 of John Gilpin, recommended to me by a lady, 
 now at Bristol, to write a sequel. But, having 
 always observed that authors, elated with the 
 success of a first part, have fallen below them- 
 selves when they have attempted a second, I 
 had more prudence than to take her counsel. 
 I want you to read the history of that hero 
 published by Bladon, and to tell me what it 
 is made of. But buy it not. For, puffed as 
 it is in the papers, it can be but a bookseller's 
 job, and must be dear at the price of two 
 shillings. In the last packet but one that I 
 received from Johnson, he asked me if I had 
 any improvements of John Gilpin in hand, or 
 if I designed any ; for that to print only the 
 original again would be to publish what has 
 been hackneyed in every magazine, in every 
 newspaper, and in every street. I answered 
 that the copy which I sent him contained two 
 or three small variations from the first, ex- 
 cept which I had none to propose ; and if he 
 thought him now too trite to make a part of 
 my volume, I should willingly acquiesce in 
 his judgment. I take it for granted therefore 
 that he will not bring up the rear of my 
 Poems according to my first intention, and 
 shall not be sorry for the omission. It may 
 spring from a principle of pride ; but spring 
 from what it may, I feel and have long felt a 
 disinclination to a public avowal that he is 
 mine ; and since he became so popular, I have 
 felt it more than ever; not that I should ever 
 have expressed a scruple, if Johnson had not. 
 But a fear has suggested itself to me, that I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 191 
 
 miglit expose myself to a charge of vanity by 
 admitting him into ray bool<, and that some 
 people would impute it to me as a crime. 
 Consider what the world is made of, and you 
 will not lind my suspicions cliimerical. Add 
 to this, that when, on correcting the latter 
 part of tiie fifth book of " Tlie Task," I came 
 to consider the solemnity and sacred nature 
 of the subjects there liaiidied, it seemed to 
 me an incongruity at the least, not to call it 
 by a harsher name, to follow up such premi- 
 ses with such a conclusion. 1 am well con- 
 tent therefore with having lauglied, and made 
 others laugh ; and will build my hopes of suc- 
 cess as a poot upon more important matter. 
 
 In our printing business we now jog on 
 merrily enough. Tlie coming week will I 
 hope bring me to an end of " The Task," and 
 the next fortnight to an end of the whole. I 
 am glad to have Paley on my side in the 
 aft'air of education. He is certainly on all 
 subjects a sensible man, and, on such, a wise 
 one. But I am mistaken if "Tirocinium" do 
 not make some of my friends angry, and pro- 
 cure me enemies not a few. Tiiere is a stiiiir 
 in verse that prose neither has nor can have ; 
 and I do not know that schools in the gross, 
 and especially public schools, have ever been 
 so pointedly condemned before. But they 
 are become a nuisance, a pest, an abomina- 
 tion ; and it is fit that the eyes and noses of 
 mankind should if possible be opened to per- 
 ceive it. 
 
 This is indeed an author's letter ; but it is 
 an author's letter to his friend. If you will 
 be the friend of an author, you must expect 
 sucii letters. Come July, and come yourself, 
 with as many of your exterior selves as can 
 possibly come with you ! 
 
 Yours, my dear William, affectionately, and 
 with your mother's remembrances. Adieu, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Oliiey, May 10, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We rejoice in the ac- 
 count you give us of Dr. Johnson. His con- 
 version will indeed be a singular proof the 
 omnipotence of grace ; and tlie more singular, 
 the more decided. The world will set Jiis 
 age against his wisdom, and comfort itself 
 with the thought that he must be superannu- 
 ated. Perhaps therefore in order to refute the 
 slander, and do honor to the cause to which 
 he becomes a convert, he could not do better 
 tlian devote his great abilities, and a consid- 
 erable part of the remaiiuk-r of his years, to 
 the production of ^oine important work, not 
 immediately connected with tlie interests of 
 religion. He would thus give proof that a 
 man of profound learning and the best sense 
 may become a child witiiout being a fool; 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 and that to embrace the gospel is no evidence 
 eitiier of enthusiasm, infirmity, or insanity. 
 But He who calls him will direct him. 
 
 On Friday, by particular invitation, we at- 
 tended an attempt to throw off a balloon at 
 Mr. Throckmorton's, but it did not succeed. 
 We expect however to be summoned again 
 in the course of the ensuing week. Mrs. Un- 
 win and I were the party. We were enter- 
 tained with the utmost politeness. It is not 
 possible to conceive a more engaging and 
 agreeable character than the gentleman's, or a 
 more consummate assemblage of all that is 
 called good-nature, complaisance, and inno- 
 cent clieerfulness, than is to be seen in the 
 lady. They have lately received many gross 
 affronts from the people of this j^lace, on ac- 
 count of their religion. We thought it there- 
 fore the more necessary to treat them with 
 respect. 
 
 Best love and best wishes, W. C. 
 
 We think there must be an error of date 
 in this letter, because the period of time gen- 
 erally ascribed to the fact recorded in the 
 former part of it, occurred in the last illness 
 of Dr. Johnson, which was in December, 
 1784. A discussion has arisen respecting 
 the circumstances of this ease, but not as to 
 the fact itself. As regards this latter point, 
 it is satisfactorily established that Dr. John- 
 son, throughout a long life, had been pecu- 
 liarly harassed by fears of death, from which 
 he was at length happily delivered, and en- 
 abled to die in peace. This happy change of 
 mind is generally attributed to the Rev. Mr. 
 Latrobe having attended him on his dying 
 bed, and directed him to the only sure ground 
 of acceptance, viz., a reliance upon God's 
 promises of mercy in Christ Jesus. The 
 truth of this statement rests on the testimony 
 of tiie Rev. Christian Ignatius Latrobe, wno 
 received the account from his own father. 
 Some again assign the instrumentality to an- 
 other pious individual, Mr. Winstanley.* We 
 do not sec why the services of both may not 
 iiave been simultaneously employed, and 
 equally crowned with success. It is the fact 
 itself which most claims our own attention. 
 We here see a man of profound learning and 
 great moral attainments deficient in correct 
 views of the grand fundamental doctrine of 
 the gospel, the doctrine of the atonement; 
 and consequently unable to look forward to 
 eternity without alarm. We believe this 
 state of mind to be peculiar to many who are 
 distinguished by genius and learning. The 
 gospel, clearly understood in its design, as a 
 revelation of mercy to every penitent and 
 believing sinner, and cordially received into 
 the heart, dispels these fears, and by directing 
 the eye of faith to tlie Lamb of God that 
 taketh away the sins of the world, will in- 
 
 • See "ChrisUan Observer," Jan., 1835.
 
 192 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 fiillibly fill the mind with that blessed hope 
 which is full of life and immortality. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Oliiey, May 22, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend. — I am glad to have re- 
 ceived at last an account of Dr. Johnson's 
 favorable opinion of my book. I thought it 
 wanting, and had long since concluded that, 
 not having the happiness to please him, I 
 owed my ignorance of his sentiments to the 
 tenderness of my friends at Hoxton, who 
 would not mortify me with an account of his 
 disapprobation. It occurs to me that I owe 
 him thanks for interposing between me and 
 the resentment of the Reviewers, who sel- 
 dom show mercy to an advocate for evangel- 
 ical trutli, whether in prose or verse. I there- 
 fore enclose a short acknowledgment, which, 
 if you see no impropriety in the measure, 
 you can, I imagine, without much difficulty, 
 convey to him through the hands of Mr. 
 Latrobe. If on any account you judge it an 
 inexpedient step, you can very easily sup- 
 press the letter. 
 
 I pity Mr. Bull. What harder task can any 
 man undertake than the management of those 
 who have reached the age of manhood witii- 
 out having ever felt the force of authority, or 
 passed through any of the preparatory parts 
 of education ] I had either forgot, or never 
 adverted to the circumstance, that his disci- 
 ples were to be men. At present, however, 
 I am not surprised that, being such, they are 
 found disobedient, untractable, insolent, and 
 conceited ; qualities that generally prevail in 
 the minds of adults in exact proportion to 
 their ignorance. He dined with us since I 
 received your last. It was on Thursday that 
 he was here. He came dejected, burthened, 
 full of complaints. But we sent him away 
 cheerful. He is very sensible of the pru- 
 dence, delicacy, and attention to his charac- 
 ter, which the Society have discovered in 
 their conduct towards him upon this occasion ; 
 and indeed it does them honor ; for it were 
 past all enduring, if a charge of insufficiency 
 should obtain a moment's regard, when 
 brought by five such coxcombs against a 
 man of his erudition and ability.* Lady 
 Austen is gone to Bath. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, June 5, 1784. 
 
 When you told me that the critique upon 
 my volume was WTitten, though not by Doc- 
 tor Johnson himself, yet by a friend of his, 
 to whcm he recommended the book and the 
 business, I inferred from that expression that 
 
 * A spirit of insubo.-dmation had manifested itself at 
 the Theological t?emiuary at Ne irport, under the superin- 
 tendeace of Mr. BuiL 
 
 I was indebted to him for an active interpo- 
 sition in my favor, and consequcnlly that'he 
 had a right to thanks. But now I concur 
 entirely in sentiment with you, and heartily 
 second your vote for the suppression o'f 
 thanks which do not seem to be much called 
 for. Yet even now, were it possible that I 
 could fall into his company, I should not 
 think a slight acknowledgment misapplied. 
 I was no other way anxious about his opin- 
 ion, nor could be so, after you and some 
 others had given a favorable one, than it was 
 natural I should be, knowing as I did that 
 his opinion had been consulted. 
 
 I am affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Ohiey, June 21, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — ^We are much pleased 
 with your designed improvement of the late 
 preposterous celebration, and have no doubt 
 that in good hands the foolish occasion will 
 turn to good account. A religious service, 
 instituted in honor of a musician, and per- 
 formed in the house of God, is a subject that 
 calls loudly for the animadrersion of an en- 
 lightened minister; and would be no mean 
 one for a satirist, could a poet of that de- 
 scription be found spiritual enough to feel 
 and to resent the profanation. It is reason- 
 able to suppose that in the next year's alma- 
 nac we shall find the name of Handel among 
 the red-lettered worthies, for it would surely 
 puzzle the Pope to add anything to his can- 
 onization. 
 
 This unpleasant summer makes me wish 
 for winter. The gloominess of that season 
 is the less felt, both because it is expected, 
 and because the days are short. But such 
 weather, when the days are longest, makes a 
 double winter, and my spirits feel that it 
 does. We have now frosty mornings, and 
 so cold a wind that even at high noon we 
 have been obliged to break off our walk in 
 the southern side of the garden, and seek 
 shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Mrs. Unwin 
 by the fireside. Haymaking begins here to- 
 morrow, and would have begun sooner, had 
 the weather permitted it. 
 
 Mr. Wright called upon us last Sunday. 
 The old gentleman seems happy in being ex- 
 empted from the eflfects of time to such a 
 degree that, though we meet but once in the 
 year, I cannot perceive that the twelve months 
 that have elapsed have made any change in 
 him. It seems, however, that as much as he 
 loves his master, and as easy as I suppose he 
 has always found his service, he now and 
 then heaves a sigh for liberty, and wishes to 
 taste it before he dies. But his wife is not 
 so minded. She cannot leave a family, thfi 
 
 * Private correspondences
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 193 
 
 sons and daughters of which seem all to be 
 her own. Her brother died lately in the 
 East Indies, leaving twenty thousand pounds 
 behind him, and half of it to her; but the 
 ship that was bringing home this treasure is 
 supposed to be lost. Her husband appears 
 perfectly unaffected by the misfortune, and 
 «he periiaps may even be glad of it. Such 
 an acquisition would have forced her into a 
 state of independence, and made her her own 
 mistress, whether she would or not. I charged 
 him with a petition to Lord Dartmouth, to 
 send me Cook's last Voyage, which I have a 
 great curiosity to see, and no other means of 
 procuring. I dare say I shall obtain the 
 favor, and have great pleasure in taking my 
 last trip with a voyager whose memory I re- 
 spect so much. Farewell, my dear friend : 
 our affectionate remembrances are faifliful to 
 you and yours. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN.* 
 
 Olney, July 3, [probably 1"84.] 
 My dear Friend, — I am writing in the 
 greenhouse for retirement's sake, where I 
 shiver with cold on this present 3d of July. 
 Summer and winter therefore do not depend 
 on the position of the sun wiih respect to 
 the earth, but on His appointment who is 
 sovereign in all things. Last Saturday night 
 the cold was so severe that it pinched olT 
 many of the young shoots of our peach-trees. 
 The nurseryman we deal with informs me 
 that the wall-trees are almost everywhere 
 cut off"; and that a friend of his, near Lon- 
 don, has lost all the full-grown fruit-trees of 
 an extensive garden. The very walnuts, 
 which are now no bigger than small hazel- 
 nuts, drop to the ground, and the flowers, 
 though they blow, seem to have lost all their 
 odors. 1 walked with your motlicr yester- 
 day in the garden, wrapped up in a winter 
 surtout, and found myself not at all incum- 
 bered by It; not more indeed than I was in 
 January. Cucumbers contract that spot 
 wliich is seldom found upon them except late 
 in the autumn; and melons hardly grow. It 
 is a comfort however to reflect that, if we 
 cannot iiave these fruits in perfection, neither 
 do we want them. Our crops of wheat are 
 said to be very indifferent ; the -stalks of an 
 une(|ual height, so that some of the ears are 
 in danger of being smothered by the rest ; 
 and the ears, in general, lean and scanty. I 
 never knew a summer in which we had not 
 now and then a cold day to conflict with ; 
 but such a wintry fortnight as the last, at 
 this season of the year, I never remember. 
 I fear you have made the discovery of the 
 webs you mention a day too late. The ver- 
 min have probably by this time left them, 
 
 * Pri vnto correspondence. 
 
 and may laugh at all human attempts to de- 
 stroy them. For every web they have hung 
 upon the trees and bushes this year, you will 
 next year probably find fifty, perhaps a hun- 
 dred. Their increase is almost inhnite ; so 
 that, if Providence does not interfere, and 
 man see fit to neglect them, the laughers you 
 mention may live to be sensible of their mis- 
 take. Love to all. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, July 5, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — A dearth of materials, a 
 consciousness that my subjects are for the 
 most part, and must be, uninteresting and 
 unimjwrtant, but above all, a poverty of ani- 
 mal spirits, that makes writing much a great 
 fatigue to me, have occasioned my choice of 
 smaller paper. Acquiesce in the justice of 
 these reasons for the present ; and, if ever the 
 times should mend with me, I sincerely prom- 
 ise to amend with them. 
 
 Homer says, on a certain occasion, that Ju- 
 piter, when he was wanted at home, was gone 
 to partake of an entertainment provided for 
 him by the ^Ethiopians. If by Jupiter we 
 understand the weather, or the season, as the 
 ancients frequently did, we may say that our 
 English Jupiter has been absent on account 
 of some such invitation: during the whole 
 month of June he left us to experience al- 
 most the rigors of winter. This fine day, 
 however, affords us some hope that the feast 
 is ended, and that we shall enjoy his company 
 without the interference of his Jilthiopian 
 friends again. 
 
 Is it possible that the wise men of antiqui- 
 ty could entertain a real reverence for the 
 fabulous rubbish which they dignified with 
 the name of religion? We, who have been 
 favored from our infancy with so clear a light, 
 are perhaps hardly competent to decide the 
 question, and may strive in vain to imagine 
 the absurdities that even a good understand- 
 ing may receive as truths, when totally un- 
 aided by revelation. It seems, however, that 
 men, whose conceptions upon other subjects 
 were often sublime, whose reasoning powers 
 were undoubtedly equal to our own, and 
 whose management in matters of jurispru- 
 dence, that required a very industrious exam- 
 ination of evidence, was as acute and subtle 
 as that of a modern Attorney-general, could 
 not be the dupes of such imposture as a child 
 among us would detect and laugh at. Juve- 
 nal, I remember, introduces one of his Sat- 
 ires with an observation that there were 
 some in his day who had the hardiness to 
 laugh at the stories of Tartarus and StyXj 
 and Charon, and of the frogs that croak upon 
 the banks of the Lethe, giving his reader, at 
 the same time, cause to suspect that he was 
 13
 
 194 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 himself one of that profane number. Horace, 
 on the other hand, declares in sober sadness, 
 that he would not for all the world get into a 
 boat with a man who had divulged the Eleu- 
 einian mysteries. Yet we know that those 
 mysteries, whatever they might be, were al- 
 together as unworthy to be esteemed divine, 
 as the mythology of the vulgar. How, then, 
 must we determine ? If Horace were a good 
 and orthodox heathen, how came Juvenal to 
 be such an ungracious libertine in principle 
 as to ridicule the doctrines which the other 
 held as sacred? Their opportunities of in- 
 formation, and their mental advantages, were 
 equal. I feel myself rather inclined to believe 
 that Juvenal's avowed infidelity was sincere, 
 and that Horace was no better than a canting, 
 hypocritical professor.* 
 
 You must grant me a dispensation for say- 
 ing anything, whether it be sense or nonsense, 
 upon the subject of politics. It is truly a 
 matter in which I am so little interested, that, 
 were it not that it sometimes serves me for a 
 theme when I can find no other, I should nev- 
 er mention it. I would forfeit a large sum, 
 if, after advertising a month in the Gazette, 
 the minister of the day, whoever he may be, 
 could discover a man who cares about him or 
 his measures so little as I do. When I say 
 that I would forfeit a large sum, I mean to 
 have it understood that I would forfeit such a 
 sum if I had it. If Mr. Pitt be indeed a vir- 
 tuous man, as such I respect him. But, at tlie 
 best, I fear he will have to say at last with 
 -(Eneas, 
 
 Si Pergama dextra 
 Defendi possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent. 
 
 Be he what he may, I do not like his taxes. 
 At least, I am much disposed to quarrel with 
 some of them. The additional duty upon 
 candles, by which the poor will be much af- 
 fected, hurts me most. He says indeed tliat 
 they will but little feel it, because even now 
 they can hardly aflFord the use of them. He 
 had certainly put no compassion into his 
 budget, when he produced from it this tax, 
 and such an argument to support it. Justly 
 translated, it seems to amount to this — 
 " Make the necessaries of life too expensive 
 for the poor to reach them, and you will save 
 their money. If they buy but few candles, 
 they will pay but little tax; and if they buy 
 none, the tax, as to them, will be annihila- 
 ted." True. But in the meantime they 
 will break their shins against their furni- 
 ture, if they have any, and will be but little 
 the richer when the hours in which they 
 might work, if they could see, shall be de- 
 ducted. 
 
 I have bought a great dictionary, and want 
 
 * Some of the leai'ned have been inclined to believe 
 Ihat the Eleusinian mysteries inciUcated a rejt'ctiou of 
 the absurd m)-thology of those times, and a belief in one 
 Great Supreme Seing. 
 
 nothing but Latin authors to furnish me with 
 the use of it. Had I purchased them first, 
 I had begun at the right end; but I could 
 not afford it. I beseech you admire my 
 prudence. 
 
 Vivite, valete, et mementote nostrum 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN, 
 
 Olney, July 12, 1784, 
 My dear William, — I think with you that 
 Vinny's* line is not pure. If he knew any 
 authority that would have justified his sub- 
 stitution of a participle for a substantive, he 
 would have done well to have noted it in the 
 marsjin ; but I am much inclined to think that 
 lie did not. Poets are sometimes exposed to 
 difficulties insurmountable by lawful means, 
 whence I imagine was originally derived that 
 indulgence that allows them the use of what 
 is called the poetica liceniia. But that liber- 
 ty, I believe, contents itself with the abbre- 
 viation or protraction of a word, or an alter- 
 ation in the quantity of a syllable, and never 
 presumes to trespass upon grammatical pro- 
 priety. I have dared to attempt to correct 
 my master, but am not bold enough to say 
 that I have succeeded. Neither am I sure 
 that my memory serves me correctly with the 
 line that follows ; but when I recollect the 
 English, am persuaded •that it cannot differ 
 much from the true one. This therefore is 
 my edition of the passage — 
 
 Basia amatori tot turn permissa beato ; 
 
 Or, 
 
 Basia quae juveni indulsit Susanna beato 
 Navarcha optaret maximus esse sua. 
 
 The preceding lines I have utterly for- 
 gotten, and am consequently at a loss to 
 know whether the distich, thus managed, 
 will connect itself with them easily, and as 
 it ought. 
 
 We thank you for the drawing of your 
 house. I never knew my idea of what I had 
 never seen resemble the original so much. 
 At some time or other you have doubtless 
 given me an exact account of it, and I have 
 retained the faithful impression made by your 
 description. It is a comfortable abode, and 
 the time I hope will come wheni shall enjoy 
 more than the mere representation of it. 
 
 I have not yet read the last " Review," but, 
 dipping into it, I accidentally fell upon their 
 account of " Hume's Essay on Suicide." I am 
 glad that they have liberality enough to con- 
 demn the licentiousness of an author, whom 
 they so much admire. I say liberality, for 
 there is as much bigotry in the world to that 
 man's errors, as there is in the hearts of some 
 * Vincent Bourne.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 195 
 
 sectaries to their peculiar modes and tenets. 
 He is the Pope of thousands, as blind and 
 presumptuous as himself. God certainly in- 
 fatuates those who will not see. It were 
 otherwise impossible, that a man, naturally 
 shrewd and sensible, and whose understand- 
 ing' has had all tlie advantages of constant 
 exercise and cultivation, could have satisfied 
 himself, or have hoped to satisfy others, with 
 such palpable sopliistry as has not even the 
 grace of fallacy to recommend it. His silly 
 assertion, that, because it would be no sin to 
 divert the course of the Danube, therefore it 
 is none to let out a few ounces of blood from 
 an artery, would justify not suicide only, but 
 homicide also. For the lives of ten thousand 
 men are of less consequence to their country 
 than the course of tliat river to the retrions 
 through wiiich it flows. Population would 
 soon make society amends for the loss of her 
 ten thousand members, but the loss of the 
 Danube would be felt by all tiie millions that 
 dwell upon its banks, to all generations. 
 But the life of a man and the water of a river, 
 can never come into competition with each 
 other in point of value, unless in the estima- 
 tion of an unprincipled philosopher. 
 
 I tliank yoTi for your otfer of the classics. 
 When I want I will borrow. Horace is my 
 own. Homer, with a clavis, I have had pos- 
 session of for some years. They arc tlie prop- 
 erty of Mr. Jones. A Virgil, the property of 
 
 Mr. S , I have had as long. I am nobody 
 
 in the aifair of tenses, unless when you are 
 present. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 
 
 OIney, July 13, 1784. 
 
 Sly dear William, — We rejoice that you 
 had a safe journey, and, though we should 
 have rejoiced still more had you had no oc- 
 casion for a physician, we are glad that, hav- 
 ing had need of one, you had the good for- 
 tune to find him — let us hear soon that his 
 advice has proved effeclual, and that you are 
 delivered from all ill symptoms. 
 
 Tlianks for the care you have taken to fur- 
 nish me with a dictionary : it is rather strange 
 that, at my time of life, and after a youth 
 spent in classical pursuits,! sliould want one; 
 and stranger still that, being possessed at 
 present of only one Latin author in the world, 
 I should tliink it worth while to purcliase one. 
 I say that it is strange, and indeed I lliink it 
 so myself But I have a thought that, when 
 my present labors of the pen are ended, I 
 may go to school again, and refresh my spirits 
 by a little intercourse with the Mantuaii and 
 the Sabine bard, and perhaps by "a re-perusal 
 of some others, whose works we generally 
 lay by at that period of life when we are best 
 
 qualified to read them, when, the judgment 
 and the taste being formed, their beauties are 
 least likely to be overlooked. 
 
 This change of wind and weather comforts 
 me, and I sliould have enjoyed the first fine 
 morning I have seen this month with a pecu- 
 liar relish, if our new tax-maker had not put 
 me out of temper. I am angry with him, not 
 only for the matter, but for the manner of his 
 proposal. When he lays his impost upon 
 horses he is jocular, and laughs, though, con- 
 sidering that wheels, and miles, and grooms 
 were taxed before, a graver countenance upon 
 the occasion would have been more decent. 
 But he provoked me still more by reasoning 
 as he does on the justification of the tax upon 
 candles. Some flimilies he says will suffer 
 little by it. Why? because they are 'so poor 
 that they cannot afford themselves more than 
 ten pounds in the year. Excellent! They 
 can use but few, therefore they will pay but 
 little, and consequently will be bat little bur- 
 dened : an argument which for its cruelty and 
 etfrontery seems worthy of a hero ; but he does 
 not avail himself of the whole force of it, nor 
 with all his wisdom had sagacity enough to 
 see that it contains, when pushed to its ut- 
 most extent, a free discharge and acquittal of 
 the poor from the payment of any tax at all : 
 a commodity being once made too expensive 
 for their pockets, will cost them nothing, for 
 they will not buy it. Rejoice, therefore, O 
 ye penniless ! the minister will indeed send 
 you to bed in the dark, but your remaining 
 halfpenny will be safe ; instead of being spent 
 in the useless luxury of candle-light, it will 
 buy you a roll for breakfast, which you will 
 eat no doubt with gratitude to the man who 
 so kindly lessens the number of your dis- 
 bursements, and, while he seems to threaten 
 your money, saves it. I wish he would re- 
 member that the halfpenny which government 
 imposes, the shopkeeper will swell to two- 
 pence. I wish he would visit the miserable 
 huts of our laceraakers at Olney, and see 
 them working in the winter months, by the 
 light of a farthing caudle, from four in the 
 afternoon till midnight: I wish he had laid 
 iiis tax upon the ten thousand lamps that il- 
 hmiinate the Pantheon, upon the tlambeaux 
 that wait upon ten thousand chariots and se- 
 dans in an evening, and upon the wax candles 
 that give light to ten thousand card-tables. 
 I wish, in short, that he would consider the 
 pockets of the poor as sacr'ed, and that to tax 
 a peojile already so necessitous is but to dis- 
 courage the little industry that is left among 
 us, by driving the laborious to despair. 
 
 A neighbor of mine in Silver-end keeps an 
 ass ; the ass lives on the other side of the 
 garden-wail, and I am writing in the green- 
 house. It happens that he is this morning 
 most musically disposed, whether cheered by 
 the fine weather, or some new tune which he
 
 196 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 luis just acquired, or by finding his voice 
 more harmonious than usual. It would be 
 cruel to mortify so fine a singer, therefore I 
 do not tell him that, he interrupts and hinders 
 me; but I venture to tell you so, and to 
 plead his performance in excuse for my ab- 
 rupt conclusion. 
 
 I send you the goldfinches, with which 
 you will do as you see good. We have an 
 affectionate remembrance of your late visit, 
 and of all our friends at Stock. 
 
 Believe me ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, July 14, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — Notwithstanding the just- 
 ness of the comparison by which you illus- 
 trate the folly and wickedness of a congre- 
 gation assembled to pay divine honors to the 
 memory of Handel, I could not help laugh- 
 ing at the picture you have drawn of the 
 musical convicts. The subject indeed is 
 awful, and your manner of representing it is 
 perfectly just ; yet I laughed, and must have 
 laughed had I been one of your hearers. 
 But the ridicule lies in the preposterous con- 
 duct which you reprove, and not in your re- 
 proof of it. A people so musically mad as 
 to make not only their future trial the sub- 
 ject of a concert, but even the message of 
 mercy from their King, and the only one he 
 will ever send them, must excuse me if I am 
 merry where there is more cause to be sad ; 
 for, melancholy as their condition is, their 
 behavior under it is too ludicrous not to be 
 felt as such, and would conquer even a more 
 settled gravity than mine. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 The Commemoration of Handel, men- 
 tioned in the above letter, which was per- 
 formed with great pomp in a place of re- 
 ligious worship, and accompanied by his 
 celebrated oratorio of the Messiah, was con- 
 sidered by many pious minds to resemble an 
 act of canonization, and therefore censured 
 as profane. Mr. Newton, being at tliat time 
 rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, in the city, 
 preached a course of sermons on the occa- 
 sion, and delivered his sentiments on the 
 subject of oratorios generally, but with such 
 originality of thought in the following pas- 
 sage that we insert it for the benefit of those 
 to whom it may be unknown. It is intro- 
 duced in the beginning of his fourth sermon 
 from J\[alachi iii. 1 — 3. 
 
 "'Whereunto shall we liken the people 
 of this generation, and to what are they 
 like ?' I represent to myself a number of 
 persons, of various characters, involved in 
 one common charge of high treason. They 
 are already in a state of confinement, but 
 not yet broup-ht to their trial. The facts, 
 
 however, are so plain, and the evidence against 
 them so strong and pointed, that there is 
 not the least doubt of their guilt being fullj 
 proved, and that nothing but a pardon can 
 preserve them from punishment. In this 
 situation, it should seem their v/isdom to 
 avail themselves of every e.\pedient in their 
 power for obtaining mercy. But they are 
 entirely regardless of their danger, and wholly 
 taken up with contriving methods of amus- 
 ing themselves, that they may pass away 
 the term of their imprisonment with as much 
 cheerfulness as possible. Among other re- 
 sources, they call in the assistance of music. 
 And, amidst a great variety of subjects in 
 this way, they are particularly pleased with 
 one : they choose to make the solemnities 
 of their impending trial, the character of 
 their judge, the methods of his procedure, 
 and the awful sentence to which they are 
 exposed, the groundwork of a musical enter- 
 tainment ; and, as if they were quite uncon- 
 cerned in the event, their attention is chiefly 
 fixed upon the skill of the composer, in 
 adapting the style of his music to the very 
 solemn language and subject with which 
 they are trilling. The King, however, out 
 of his great clemency and compassion to- 
 wards those who have no pity for themselves, 
 presents them with his goodness : undesired 
 by them, he sends them a gracious message : 
 he assures them, that he is unwilling they 
 should suffer : he requires, yea, he entreats 
 them to submit : he points out a way in 
 which their confession and subinission shall 
 be certainly accepted : and, in tliis way, which 
 he condescends to prescribe, he offers them 
 a free and full pardon. But, instead of tak- 
 ing a single step towards a compliance with 
 his goodness, they set his message likewise 
 to music : and this, together with a descrip- 
 tion of their present state, and of the fearful 
 doom awaiting them if they continue obsti- 
 nate, is sung for their diversion: accom- 
 panied with the sound of cornet, flute, harp, 
 sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of 
 instruments. Surely, if such a case as I 
 have supposed could be found in real life, 
 though I might admire the musical taste of 
 these people, I should commiserate their 
 insensibility." 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, July 19, 1784. 
 In those days when Bedlam was open to 
 the cruel curiosity of holiday ramblers, I 
 have been a visitor there. Though a boy, I 
 was not altogether insensible of the misery 
 of the poor captives, nor destitue of feeling 
 for them. But the madness of some of 
 them had such a humorous air, and displayed 
 itself in so many whimsical freaks, that it 
 was impossible not to be entertained, at the
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 19T 
 
 same tune tliat I was angry with m)'self for 
 being so. A line of Bourne's is very ex- 
 pressive of the spectacle which this world 
 exhibits, tragi-comical as the incidents of it 
 are, absurd in tiiemselves, but terrible in 
 their consequences ; 
 
 Sunt res humanae flebile ludibrium. 
 
 An instance of this deplorable merriment 
 has occurred in the course of the last week 
 at Olney. A feast gave tlie occasion to a 
 catastrophe truly shocking.* 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, July S28, 1784. 
 IMy dear Friend, — I may perhaps be short, 
 but am not willing that you siiould go to 
 Lymington without first having had a line 
 from me. I know tiiat place well, having 
 spent six weeks tiiere above twenty years 
 ago. The town is neat and the country de- 
 lightful. You walk well, and will conse- 
 quently find a part of the coast, called Hall- 
 cliff, within the reach of your ten toes. It 
 was a favorite walk of mine ; to the best of 
 my remembrance about three miles distant 
 from Lymington. There you may stand 
 upon the bencii and contemplate the Needle- 
 rock ; at least, you might have done so 
 twenty years ago ; but since that time I 
 think it is fallen from its base and is drowned, 
 and is no longer a visible object of con- 
 templation. I wish you may pass your time 
 there happily, as in all probability you will, 
 perhaps usefully too to others, undoubtedly 
 so to yourself. 
 
 _ The manner in which you have been pre- 
 viously made acquainted witii Mr. Gilpin 
 gives a providential air to your journey, and 
 affords reason to hope tiiat you may be 
 charged with a message to him. I admire 
 him as a biographer. But, as Mrs. Unwin 
 and I were talking of him last night, we 
 could not but wonder that a man should see 
 so mucii excelifiice in the lives, and so 
 much glory and beauty in the death, of the 
 martyrs whom he has recorded, and at the 
 same time disapprove the prim-iplcs that 
 produced tlie very conduct lie admired. It 
 seems however a step towards tlie truth to 
 applaud the fruits of it; and one cannot 
 help thinking that one step more would put 
 him in possession of tlie truth itself By 
 your means may he be enabled to take it! 
 
 We are obliged to you for the preference 
 you would have given to Olney, had not 
 Providence determined your course another 
 way. But as, when we saw you last sum- 
 mer, you gave us no reason to expect you 
 
 * ^ye presume 'h^t this is the same circum«t!inco 
 of wliich more parlicular mention is made in the be^'in- 
 'Ung of the Idler to the Kev. Mr. Unwiu, Aug. 14, 17S4. 
 
 this, we are the less disappointed. At your 
 age and mine, biennial visits have such a 
 gap between them, that we cannot promise 
 ourselves upon those terms very numerous 
 futurt .nterviews. But, whether ours are 
 to be many or few, you will always be wel- 
 come to me for the sake of the comfortable 
 days that are past. In my present state of 
 mind, my friendship for you indeed is as 
 warm as ever : but I feel myself very indif- 
 ferently qualified to be your companion. 
 Other days than these inglorious and un- 
 profitable ones are promised me, and when I 
 see them I shall rejoice. 
 
 I saw the advertisement of your adversary's 
 book. He is happy at least in this, that, 
 whether he have brains or none, he strikes 
 without the danger of being stricken again. 
 He could not wish to engage in a contro- 
 versy upon easier terms. The other, whose 
 publication is postponed till Christmas, is re- 
 solved I suppose to do something. But, do 
 what he will, he cannot prove that you have 
 not been aspersed, or that you have not re- 
 futed the cliarge ; which, unless he can do, I 
 think he will do little to the purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin thinks of you, and always with 
 a grateful recollection of yours and Mrs. 
 Newton's kindness. She has had a nervous 
 fever lately ; but I hope she is better. The 
 weather forbids walking, a prohibition hurt- 
 ful to us both. 
 
 We heartily wish you a good journey, and 
 are affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. & M. U. 
 
 TO THE KEY. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, August 14, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I give you joy of a jour- 
 ney performed without trouble or danger. 
 You have travelled five hundred miles with- 
 out having encountered either. Some neigh- 
 bors of ours about a fortnight since, made 
 an excursion only to a neighboring village, 
 and brought home with them fractured sculls 
 and broken limbs, and one of them is dead. 
 For my own part, I seem pretty much ex- 
 empted from the dangers of the road. — 
 Thanks to that tender interest and concern 
 which the legislature takes in my security ! 
 Having, no doubt, their fears lest so precious 
 a life should determine too soon and by some 
 untimely stroke of misadventure, they have 
 made wheels and horses so expensive that I 
 am not likely to owe my death to either. 
 
 Your mother and I continue to visit Wes- 
 ton daily, and find in those agreeable bowers 
 such amusement as leaves us but little room 
 to regret that we can go no farther. Having 
 touched that theme, I cannot abstain from the 
 pleasure of telling you that our neighbors in 
 that place being about to leave it for some 
 time, and meeting us there but a few evenings
 
 198 
 
 COWPr.R'S WORKS, 
 
 before their departure, entreated us, during 
 their absence, to consider the garden and all 
 its contents as our own, and to gather what- 
 ever we liked without the least scruple. We 
 accordingly picked strawberries as often as 
 we went, and brought home as many bundles 
 of honeysuckles as served to perfume our 
 dwelling till they returned. 
 
 Once more, by the aid of Lord Dartmouth, 
 I find myself a voyager in the Pacific Ocean. 
 In our last night's lecture we made our ac- 
 quaintance with the island of Hapaee, where 
 we had never been before. The French and 
 Italians, it seems, have but little cause to 
 plume tliemselves on account of their achieve- 
 ments in the dancing way, and we may here- 
 after, witliout much repining at it, acknowl- 
 edge their superiority in that art. They 
 are equalled, perhaps excelled, by savages. 
 How wonderful that, without any intercourse 
 with a politer world, and having made no 
 proficiency, in any other accomplishment, 
 they should in this however have made them- 
 selves such adepts, that for regularity and 
 grace of motion they might even be our 
 masters ! How wonderful too that with a 
 tub and a stick they should be able to produce 
 such harmony, as persons accustomed to the 
 sweetest music cannot but hear with pleas- 
 ure ! It is not very difficult to account for 
 the striking difference of character that ob- 
 tains among the inhabitants of these islands ! 
 Many of them are near neighbors to each 
 other; their opportunities of improvement 
 much the same ; yet some of them are in a 
 degree polite, discover symptoms of taste, 
 and have a sense of elegance ; while others 
 are as rude as we naturally expect to find a 
 people who have never had any communica- 
 tion with the northern hemisphere. These 
 volumes furnish much matter of philosophi- 
 cal speculation, and often entertain me, even 
 while I am not employed in reading them. 
 
 I am sorry you have not been able to as- 
 certain tlie doubtful intelligence I have re- 
 ceived on the subject of cork shirts and 
 bosoms. I am now every day occupied in 
 giving all the grace I can to my new produc- 
 tion and in transcribing it; I shall soon 
 arrive at the passage that censures that folly, 
 which I shall be loath to expunge, but which 
 I must not spare unless the criminals can be 
 convicted. The world, however, is not so 
 unproductive of subjects of censure, but that 
 it may probably supply me with some other 
 that may serve as well. 
 
 If you know anybody that is writing, or 
 intends to write, an epic poem on the new 
 regulation of franks, you may give him my 
 compliments, and these two lines for a be- 
 ginning — 
 
 Heu quot amatires nunc torquet epistola rata ! 
 Vectigal certum perituraquc gratia Franki! 
 
 Yours faithfully, W. C. 
 
 We have elsewhere stated that the mode 
 originally used in franking, was for the mem- 
 ber to sign his name at tlie left corner of the 
 letter, with the word "free" attaciied to it, 
 leaving the writer of the letter to add the su- 
 perscription at his own convenience. But 
 instances of forgery having become frequent, 
 by persons erasing the word " free," and 
 using the name of the member for fraudulent 
 purposes, a new regulation was adopted at 
 this time to defeat so gross an abuse. In 
 August, 1784, under the act of the 24th of 
 George III., chap. 37, a new enactment passed, 
 prescribing the mode of franking for the 
 future as it is now practised. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, August IG, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Had you not expressed 
 a desire to hear from me before you take 
 leave of Lymington, I certainly should not 
 have answered you so soon. Knowing the 
 place and the amusements it affords, I should 
 have had more modesty than to suppose my- 
 self capable of adding anything to your 
 present entertainments worthy to rank with 
 them. I am not, however, totally destitute 
 of such pleasures as an inland country may 
 pretend to. If my windows do not command 
 a view of the ocean, at least they look out 
 upon a profusion of mignonette ; which, if it 
 be not so grand an object, is, however, quite 
 as fragrant ; and, if I have not an hermit in 
 a grotto, I have, nevertheless, myself in a 
 greenhouse, a less venerable figure perhaps, 
 but not at all less animated than he : nor are 
 we in this nook altogether unfurnished with 
 such means of philosophical experiment and 
 speculation as at present the world rings 
 with. On Thursday morning last, we sent 
 up a balloon from Emberton meadow. — 
 Thrice it rose and as oft descended, and in 
 the evening it performed another fliglit at 
 Newport, where it went up and came down 
 no more. Like the arrow discharged at the 
 pigeon in the Trojan games, it kindled in the 
 air and was consumed in a moment. I have 
 not heard what interpretation the soothsayers 
 have given to the omen, but shall wonder a 
 little if the Newton shepherd prognosticate 
 anything less from it than the most bloody 
 war that was ever waged in Europe. 
 
 I am reading Cook's last Voyage, and am 
 much pleased and amused with it. It seems 
 that in some of the Friendly Isles they exco. 
 so much in dancing, and perform that opera- 
 tion with such exquisite delicacy and grace, 
 that they are not surpassed even upon our 
 European stages. Oh ! that Vestris had been 
 in the ship, that he might have seen himself 
 outdone by a savage! The paper indeed 
 tells us, that the queen of France has clapped
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 199 
 
 this king of capers up in prison, for declin- 
 ing to dance before her on a pretence of 
 sickness, when, in fact, he was in perfect 
 health. If this be true, perhaps he may, by 
 this time, be prepared to second such a wish 
 as mine, and to think, that the durance he 
 suffers would be well exchanged for a dance 
 at Annamooka. I should, however, as little 
 have expected to hear that these islanders 
 had such consummate skill in an art that re- 
 quires so much taste in the conduct of the per- 
 son, as that they were good mathematicians 
 and astronomers. Defective as they are in 
 every branch of knowledge, and in every other 
 species of refinement, it seems wonderful 
 that they should arrive at such peri'eclion in 
 the diince, which some of our English gentle- 
 men, with all the assistance of French in- 
 struction, find it impossible to learn. We 
 must conclude, therefore, th-.t particular n;i- 
 tions have a genius for particular feats, and 
 that our neighbors in France, and our friends 
 in the South Sea, have minds very nearly 
 akin, thougli they inhabit countries so very 
 remote from each other. 
 
 Mrs. Uiiwin remembers to have been in 
 company with Mr. Gilpin at her brother's. 
 She thought him very sensible and polite, 
 and consequently very agreeable. 
 
 We are truly glad that ilrs. Newton and 
 yourself are so well, and that there is reason 
 to hope that Eliza is better. You will learn 
 from this letter that we are so, and that for 
 my own part I am not quite so low in spirits 
 as at some times. Learn too, what you knew 
 before, that we love you all, and that I am 
 your — 
 
 Affectionate friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM -UNWIN, 
 
 Olney, Sept. 11, 1784. 
 !My dear Friend, — You have my thanks for 
 the inquiries you have made. Despairing, 
 however, of meeting with such conlirmatioii 
 of that new mode as would warrant a general 
 stricture, I had, before the receipt of your 
 last, discarded the passage in which I h:id 
 censured it. I am proceeding in my tran- 
 script with all possible despatch, having 
 nearly finished the fourth book, and hoping, 
 by the end of the month, to have completed 
 the work. When finished, that no time may 
 be lost, I purpose taking the first opportu- 
 nity to transmit it to Leman Street, but must 
 beg that you will give me in your next an 
 exact direction, that it may proceed to the 
 mark without any hazard of a miscarriage. 
 A second transcript of it would be a labor 
 I should very reluctantly undertake ; for, 
 though I have kept copies of all the material 
 alterations, there ;ire many minutia^ of which 
 I have made none ; it is besides slavish work, 
 and of all occupations that which I dislike 
 
 the most. I know that you will lose no time 
 in reading it, but I must beg you likewise to 
 lose none in conveying it to Johnson, that 
 if he chooses to print it, it may go to the 
 press immediately ; if not, that it may be 
 offered directly to your friend Longman, or 
 any other. Not that I doubt Johnson's ac- 
 ceptance of it, for he will find it more ad 
 captum populi than the former. I have not 
 numbered the lines, except of the four first 
 books, which amount to three thousand two 
 hundred and seventy-six. I imagine, there- 
 fore, that the whole contains about five thou- 
 sand. I mention this circumstance now, be- 
 cause it may save him some trouble in casting 
 the size of the book, and I might possibly 
 forget it in another letter. 
 
 About a fortnight since, we had a visit from 
 
 Mr. , whom I had not seen many years. 
 
 He introduced himself to us very politely, 
 with many thanks on his own part, and on 
 the part of his family, for the amusement 
 which my book has afforded them. He said 
 he was sure that it must make its way, and 
 hoped that I had not laid down the pen. I 
 only told him, in general terms, that the use 
 of the pen was necessary to my well being, 
 but gave him no hint of this last production. 
 He said that one passage in particular had ab- 
 solutely electrified him, meaning the descrip- 
 tion of the Briton in Table Talk. He seemed, 
 indeed, to emit some sparks, when he men- 
 tioned it. I was glad to have that picture 
 noticed by a man of a cultivated mind, because 
 I had always thought well of it myself, and 
 had never heard it distinguished before. 
 Assure yourself, my William, that though I 
 would not write thus freely on the subject of 
 me or mine, to any but yourself, the pleasure 
 I have in doing it is a most innocent one, and 
 partakes not in the least degree, so far as my 
 conscience is to be credited, of that vanity 
 with which authors are in general so justly 
 chargeable. Whatever I do, I confess that I 
 most sincerely wish to do it well ; and when 
 I have reason to hope that I have succeeded, 
 am pleased indeed, but not proud; for He 
 who has placed everything out of the reach 
 of man, except what he freely gives him, has 
 made it impossible for a refiecting mind that 
 knows this, to indulge so silly a passion for 
 a moment. 
 
 Yours 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 11, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I have never seen Doc- 
 tor Cotton's book, concerning which your 
 sisters question me, nor did I know, till you 
 mentioned it, that he had written anything 
 newer than his Visions; I have no doubt that 
 it is so far worthy of him as to be pious and 
 sensible, and I believe no man living is better
 
 200 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 qualified to write on such subjects as his title 
 seems to announce. Some years have passed 
 since I heard from him, and considering iiis 
 great age it is probable that I shall iiear from 
 him no more; but I shall always respect him. 
 He is truly a philosopher, according to my 
 judgment of the chai-acter, every tittle of his 
 knowledge in natural subjects being con- 
 nected in his mind with the firm behef of an 
 Omnipotent agent. 
 
 Yours, &c., W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Sept. 18, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Following your good 
 example, I lay before me a sheet of my 
 largest paper. It was this moment fair and 
 unblemished, but I have begun to blot it, and 
 having begun, am not likely to cease till I 
 have spoiled it. I have sent you many a 
 sheet that, in my judgment of it, has been 
 very unworthy of your acceptance, but my 
 conscience was in some measure satisfied by 
 reflecting that, if it were good for nothing, at 
 the same time it cost you nothing, except the 
 trouble of reading it. But the case is altered 
 now.* You must pay a solid price for frothy 
 matter, and though I do not absolutely pick 
 your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, 
 as the saying is, are never the wiser. 
 
 My greenhouse is never so pleasant as 
 when we are just upon the point of being 
 turned out of it. The gentleness of the au- 
 tumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter 
 season, make it a much more agreeable re- 
 treat than we ever find it in the summer ; 
 when, the winds being generally brisk, we 
 cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quan- 
 tity of air, without being at the same time 
 incommoded by it. But now I sit with all 
 the windows and the door wide open, and 
 am regaled with the scent of every flower, in 
 a garden as full of flowers as I have known 
 how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I 
 lived in a hive, I should hardly hear more of 
 their music. All the bees in the neighbor- 
 hood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite 
 to the window, and pay me for the honey 
 they get out of it by a hum, which, though 
 rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear 
 as the whistling of my linnets. All the 
 sounds that nature utters are delightful, at 
 least in this country. I should not perhaps 
 find the roaring of lions in Africa or of bears 
 in Russia very pleasing, but I know no beast 
 in England whose voice I do not account 
 musical, save and except always the braying 
 of an ass. The notes of all our birds and 
 fowls please me without one exception. I 
 should not indeed think of keeping a goose 
 in a cage, that I might hang him up in the 
 
 * He alludes to the new mode of franking. 
 
 parlor for the sake of his melody, but a goose 
 upon a common or in a farmyard is no bad 
 performer: and as to insects, if the black 
 beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will 
 keep out of my way, I have no objection to 
 any of the rest ; on the contrary, in whatever 
 key they sing, from the gnat's fin" treble to 
 the bass of the humble bee, I admire ihem 
 all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a 
 very observable instance of providential kind- 
 ness to man, that such an exact accord has 
 been contrived between his ear and tlie 
 sounds with which, at least in a rural titua- 
 tion, it is almost every moment visited. All 
 the world is sensible of the uncomfortable 
 effect that certain sounds have upoji the 
 nerves, and consequently upon the spirits. 
 And if a sinful world had been filled with 
 such as would have curdled the blood, and 
 have made the sense of hearing a perpetual 
 inconvenience, I do not know that we should 
 have had a right to complain. But now the 
 fields, the woods, the gardens, have each 
 their concert, and the ear of man is forever 
 regaled by creatures who seem only to please 
 themselves. Even the ears that are deaf to 
 the Gospel are continually entertained, though 
 without knowing it, by sounds for which 
 they are solely indebted to its Author. Tliere 
 is somewhere in infinite space a world that 
 does not roll within the precincts of mercy, 
 and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, 
 to suppose that there is music in heaven, in 
 those dismal regions perhaps the reverse of 
 it is found; tones so dismal, as to make woe 
 itself more insupportable, and to acuminate: 
 even despair. But my paper admonishes mo 
 in good time to draw the reins, and to check 
 the descent of my fancy into deeps witli 
 which she is but loo fimiiliar. 
 
 Our best love attends you both. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 2, 1784. 
 My dear William, — A poet can but ill spare 
 time for prose. The truth is, I am in haste 
 to finish my transcript, that you may receive 
 it time enough to give it a leisurely reading 
 before you go to town ; which, whether I 
 shall be able to accomplish, is at present un- 
 certain. I have the whole punctuation to 
 settle, which in blank verse is of the last im- 
 portance, and of a species peculiar to that 
 composition ; for I know no use of points, 
 unless to direct the voice, the management 
 of which, in the reading of blank verse, being 
 more difficult than in the reading of any- 
 other poetry, requires perpetual hints and 
 notices to regulate the inflexions, cadences, 
 and pauses. This however is an affair that, 
 in spite of grammarians, must be left pretty 
 much ad libilum scriptoris. For, I supposCj
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 201 
 
 • ery author points according to his own 
 1 (idiug. It I can send the parcel to the 
 V Agon by one o'clock next Wednesday, you 
 Will have it on Saturday the ninth. But this 
 is more than I expect. Perhaps I shall not 
 be able to despatch it till the eleventh, in 
 v/liich case it will not reach you till the thir- 
 teenth. I the rather think that the latter of 
 these two periods will obtain, because, be- 
 sides the punctuation, I have the argument 
 of each book to transcribe. Add to this that, 
 in writing for the printer, I am forced to write 
 my best, wiiicli makes slow work. The motto 
 of the whole is — 
 
 Fit surculus arbor. 
 
 If you can put the author's name under it, do 
 so, if not, it "aiust go without one ; for 1 know 
 not to whom to ascribe it. It was a motto 
 taken by a certain prince of Orange, in the 
 year 1733, but not to a poem of his own 
 writing, or indeed to any poem at all, but, as 
 I think, to a medal. 
 
 Mr. is a Cornish member ; but for 
 
 what place in Cornwall I know not. All I 
 know of him is, that I saw him once clap his 
 two hands upon a rail, meaning to leap over 
 it. But he did not think the attempt a safe 
 one, and therefore took them otf again. He 
 was in company with Mr. Throckmorton. 
 With that gentleman we drank chocolate, 
 since I wrote last. The occasion of our visit 
 was, as usual, a balloon. Your mother in- 
 vited her, and I him, and they promised to 
 return the visit, but have not yet performed. 
 Tuul le mimde se trouvoit Id, as you may sup- 
 pose, among the rest Mrs. W . She was 
 
 driven to the door by her son, a boy of seven- 
 teen, in a phaeton, drawn by four horses from 
 Lilliput. This is an ambiguous expression, 
 and, should what I write now be legible a 
 thousand years hence, might puzzle connnen- 
 tators. Be it known therefore to the Alduses 
 and the Stevenses of ages yet to come, that 
 
 I do not mean to alHrm that i\Irs. W 
 
 herself came from Lilliput that nu)rning, or 
 indeed that she ever was there, but merely 
 to describe the horses, as being so diminu- 
 tive, that they might be with propriety said 
 to bo Lilliputian. 
 
 The privilege of franking having been so 
 I'ropped, I know not in what manner I and 
 my bookseller are to settle the conveyance 
 of proof sheets hither and back again. They 
 must travel I inuigine by coach, a large quan- 
 tity of them at a time ; for, like other authors, 
 I find myself under a poetical necessity of 
 being frug;il. 
 
 We love you all, jointly and separately, as 
 usual. W. C. 
 
 I have not seen, nor shall see, the Dissent- 
 er's answer to ^Ir. Newton, unless you can 
 furnish me with it. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olncy, Oct. 9, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The pains you have taken 
 to disengage our correspondence from the ex- 
 pense with which it was threatened, convinc- 
 ing me that my letters, trivial as they are, are 
 yet acceptable to you, encourage me to ob- 
 serve my usual punctuality. You complain 
 of unconnected thoughts. I believe there is 
 not a head in the world but might utter the 
 same complaint, and that all would do so, were 
 they all as attentive to their own vagaries and 
 as honest as yours. The description of your 
 meditations at least suits mine ; perhaps 1 can 
 go a step beyond you, upon the same ground, 
 and assert with the strictest truth that I not 
 only do not think with connexion, but that I 
 frequently do not think at all. I am much 
 mistaken if I do not often catch myself nap- 
 ping in this way ; for, when I ask myself, what 
 was the last idea (as the ushers at Westmin- 
 ster ask an idle boy what was the last word,) 
 I am not able to answer, but, like the boy in 
 question, am obliged to stare and say nothing. 
 This may be a very unphilosophical account 
 of myself, and may clash very much with the 
 general opinion of the learned, that, the soul, 
 being an active principle, and her activity con- 
 sisting in thought, she must consequently 
 always think. But pardon me, messieurs les 
 philosophes, there are moments when, if I 
 think at all, I am utterly unconscious of doing 
 so, and the thought and the consciousness of 
 it seem to rae at least, who am no philoso- 
 pher, to be inseparable from each other. Per- 
 haps, however, we may both be right ; and, if 
 you will grant me that I do not always think, 
 1 will in return concede to you the activity 
 you contend for, and will qualify the ditfer- 
 ence between us by supposing that, though 
 the soul be in herself an active principle, the 
 influence of her present union with a princi- 
 ple that is not such makes her often dormant, 
 suspends her operations, and affects her with 
 a sort of deliciuium, in which she suffers a 
 temporary loss of all her functions. I have 
 related to you my experience truly and with- 
 out disguise ; you must therefore either ad- 
 mit my assertion, that the soul does not ne- 
 cessarily always act, or deny that mine is a 
 human soul: a negative, that I am sure you 
 will not easily prove. So much for a dis- 
 pute which I little thought of being engaged 
 in to-day. 
 
 Last night I had a letter from Lord Dart- 
 mouth. It was to apprise me of the safe ar- 
 rival of Cook's last Voyage, which he was so 
 kind as to lend me, in Saint James's Square. 
 The reading of these volumes afforded me 
 much amusement, and I hope some instruc- 
 tion. No observation however forced itself 
 upon me with more violence than one, that 
 I could not help making on the death of Cap- 
 tain Cook. God is a jealous God, and at
 
 202 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Owhyhee the poor man was content to be 
 worshipped. From that moment, the remark- 
 able interposition of Providence in his favor 
 was converted into an opposition that thwart- 
 ed all his purposes. He left the scene of his 
 deification, but was driven back to it by a 
 most violent storm, in which he suffered more 
 than in any that had preceded it. When he 
 departed, he left his worshippers still infatu- 
 ated with an idea of his godship, consequently 
 well disposed to serve him. At his return, 
 he found them sullen, distrustful, and myste- 
 rious. A trifling theft was committed, which, 
 by a blunder of his own in pursuing the thief 
 after the property had been restored, was 
 magnified to an affair of the last importance. 
 One of their f:ivorite chiefs was killed too by 
 a blunder. Nothing in short but blunder and 
 mistake attended him, till he fell breathless 
 into the water, and then all was smooth again. 
 The world indeed will not take notice or see 
 that the dispensation bore evident marks of 
 divine displeasure ; but a mind, I think, in 
 any degree spiritual cannot overlook them. 
 We know from truth itself that the death of 
 Herod was for a similar offence. But Herod 
 was in no sense a believer in God, nor had 
 enjoyed half the opportuinties with which 
 our poor countryman had been favored. It 
 may be urged perhaps that he was in jest, 
 that he meant nothing but his own amuse- 
 ment, and that of his companions. I doubt 
 it. He knows little of the heart, who does 
 not know that even in a sensible man it is 
 flattered by every species of exaltation. But 
 be it so, that he was in sport — it was not 
 humane, to say no worse of it, to sport with 
 the ignorance of his friends, to mock their 
 simplicity, to humor and acquiesce in their 
 blind credulity. Besides, though a stock or 
 stone may be worshipped blameless, a bap- 
 tized man may not. He knows what he 
 does, and, by suffering such honors to be 
 paid him, incurs the guilt of sacrilege.* 
 
 We are glad that you are so happy in your 
 church, in your society, and in all your con- 
 nexions. I have not left myself room to say 
 anything of the love we feel for you. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 Several of the succeeding letters advert to 
 the poem of " The Task," and cannot fail to 
 inspire interest. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 10, 1784. 
 
 My dear William, — I send you four quires 
 of verse, which, having sent, I shall dismiss 
 from my thoughts, and think no more of till 
 
 * We subjoin the following note of Hayley on this sub- 
 ject: " Having enjoyed in the year 1772 the pleasure of 
 conversing with this illustrious seaman, on board his own 
 ship, the Resolution, I cannot pass the present letter 
 without observing, that I am persuaded my friend Cow- 
 per utterly misapprehended the behavior of Captain 
 
 I see them in print. I have not after all 
 found time or industry enougli to give the 
 last hand to the points. I believe however 
 they are not very erroneous, though, in so 
 long a work, and in a work that requires 
 nicety in this particular, some inaccuracies 
 will escape. Where you find any, you will 
 oblige me by correcting them. 
 
 In some passages, especially in the second 
 book, you will observe me very satirical. 
 Writing on such subjects I could not be 
 otherwise. I can write nothing without aim- 
 ing at least at usefulness. It were beneath 
 my years to do it, and still more dishonora- 
 ble to my religion. I know that a reforma- 
 tion of such abuses as I have censured is not 
 to be expected from the efforts of a poet; 
 but to contemplate the world, its follies, its 
 vices, its indifference to duty, and its strenu- 
 ous attachment to what is evil, and not to 
 reprehend, were to approve it. From this 
 charge at least I shall be clear, for I have 
 neither tacitly nor expressly flattered either 
 its characters or its customs. I have paid 
 one and only one compliment, which was so 
 justly due that I did not know how to with- 
 hold it, especially having so fair an occasion 
 (I forget myself, there is another in the first 
 book to Mr. Throckmorton,) but the compli- 
 ment I mean is to Mr. . It is however 
 
 so managed, that nobody but himself can 
 make the application, and you to whom I 
 disclose the secret ; a delicacy on my part, 
 which so much delicacy on his obliged me to 
 the observance of! 
 
 What there is of a religious cast in the 
 volume, I have thrown towards the end of it, 
 for two reasons — first, that I might not re- 
 volt the reader at his entrance — and, secondly, 
 that my best impressions might be made last. 
 Were I to write as many volumes as Lopez 
 de Vega, or Voltaire, not one of them would 
 be without this tincture. If the world like 
 it not, so much the worse for them. I make 
 all the concessions I can, that I may please 
 them, but I will not please them at the ex- 
 pense of my conscience. 
 
 My descriptions are all from nature ; not 
 one of them second-handed. My delineations 
 of the heart are from my own experience, 
 not one of them borrowed from books, or in 
 the least degree conjectural. In my num- 
 bers, which I varied as much as I could, (for 
 blank verse without variety of numbers is no 
 better than bladder and string,) I have imi- 
 tated nobody, though sometimes perhaps 
 there may be an apparent resemblance ; be- 
 cause, at the same time that I would not 
 imitate, I have not affectedly differed. 
 
 Cook in the affair alluded to. From the little personal 
 acquaintance which I had myself with this humane and 
 truly Christian navigator, and from Ihe whole tencr of 
 his life, I cannot beheve it possible for him to have acted, 
 under any circumstances, with such impious arrogance 
 as might appear offensive in the eyes of the Almighty."
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 205 
 
 If the woi-k cannot boast a regular plan, 
 (in which respect however I do not think it 
 altogether indefensible,) it may yet boast 
 that^the reflections are naturally suggested 
 always by the preceding passage, and that, 
 except the fifth book, which is rather of a 
 political aspect, the whole has one tendency; 
 to discountenance the modern enthusiasm 
 after a London life, and to recommend rural 
 ease and leisure, as friendly to tlic cause of 
 piety and virtue. 
 
 If it pleases yoii I shall be happy, and col- 
 lect from your pleasure in it an omen of its 
 general acceptance. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 20, 1784. 
 My dear William,— Your letter lias relieved 
 me from some anxiety, and given me a good 
 deal of positive pleasure. I have faith in 
 your judgment, and an iraphcit confidence in 
 the sincerity of your approbation. The writ- 
 inf of so long a poem is a serious business; 
 and the author must know little of his own 
 heart who does not in some degree suspect 
 himself of partiality to his own production ; 
 and who is he that would not be mortified 
 by the discovery that he had written five 
 thousand lines in vain? The poem, how- 
 ever, wliich you have in hand, will not of 
 itself make a volume so large as the last, or 
 as a bookseller would wish. I say this, be- 
 cause when I had sent Johnson five thousand 
 verses, he applied for a tliousand more. Two 
 years since I began a piece whicii grew to the 
 length of two hundred, and tliere stopped.* 
 I have lately resumed it, and (I believe) shall 
 finish it. But the subject is fruitful, and will 
 not be comprised in a smaller compass than 
 seven or cigiit liuiidred verses. It turns on 
 the question whetlier an education at school 
 or at liome be preferable, and I shall give the 
 preference to tiic latter. I mean that it shall 
 pursue the track of the former. Tliat is to 
 say, that it shall visit Stock in its way to 
 publication. My design also is to inscribe 
 it to you. But you must sec it first; and, 
 if, after seeing it, you should have any ob- 
 jection, though it s'hould be no bigger than 
 the tittle of an i, I will deny myself that 
 pleasure, and find no fault with your refusal. 
 I have not been witiiont thoughts of adding 
 John Gilpin at the tail of all. He has made 
 a good deal of noise in the world, and per- 
 haps it may not be amiss to show tluit though 
 I write (Tcnerally with a serious intention, I 
 know how to be occasionally merry. The 
 Critical Reviewers ciuirged me witli an at- 
 tempt at humor. Jolui, having been more 
 celebrated upon the score of humor than 
 * Tirocinium. Sec Poems. 
 
 most pieces that have appeared in modern 
 days, may serve to exonerate me from the 
 imputation : but in this article I am entirely 
 under your judgment, and mean to be set 
 down by it. All these together will make 
 an octavo like the last. I should have told 
 you, that the piece which now employs me 
 is in rhyme. I do not intend to write any 
 more blank. It is more difficult than rhyme, 
 and not so amusing in the composition. If, 
 when you make the offer of my book to 
 Johnson, he should stroke his chin, and look 
 up to the ceiling, and cry, " Humph !" anti- 
 cipate him, I beseech you, at once, by saying, 
 " that you know I should be sorry that he 
 should undertake for me to his own disad- 
 vantage, or that my volume should be in any 
 degree pressed upon him. I make him the 
 offer merely because I think he would have 
 reason to complain of me if I did not." But, 
 that punctilio once satisfied, it is a matter of 
 indifference to me what publisher sends me 
 forth. If Longman should have difficulties, 
 which is the more probable, as I understand 
 from you that he does not in these cases see 
 with his own eyes, but will consult a brother 
 poet, take no pains to conquer tliem. The 
 idea of being hawked about, and especially 
 of your being the hawker, is insupportable. 
 Nichols, I have heard, is the most learned 
 printer of the present day. He may be a 
 man of taste as well as learning; and I sup- 
 pose that you would not want a gentleman 
 usher to introduce you. He prints "The 
 Gentleman's Magazine," and may serve us, 
 if the others should decline; if not, give 
 yourself no farther trouble about the matter. 
 I may possibly envy authors who can afford 
 to publish at their own expense, and in that 
 case should write no more. But the mortifi- 
 cation should not break my heart. 
 
 I proceed to your corrections, for which I 
 most unaffectedly thank you, adverting to 
 them in their order. 
 
 Page 140. — 'J'ruth generally without the 
 article the, would not be sufficiently defined. 
 TiuM-e are many sorts of truth, philosophical, 
 mathematical, moral, &c., and a reader not 
 much accustomed to hear of religious or 
 scriptural truth, might possibly and indeed 
 easily doubt what truth was particularly in- 
 tended. I acknowledge that grace, in my use 
 of the word, does not often occur in poetry. 
 So neither does the subject which I luxndle. 
 Every subject has its own terms, and relig- 
 ious ones take theirs with most propriety 
 from the scripture. Thence I take the word 
 grace. The sarcastic use ofit in the mouths 
 of infidels I admit, but not their authority to 
 proscribe it, especially as God's favor in the 
 abstract has no other word in all our lan- 
 guage by which it can be expressed. 
 
 Page 150. — Impresf; the 7nvidfilnlly or nol 
 at all. — I prefer this line, because of the in«
 
 204 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 temipted run of it, having always observed 
 that a little unevenness of this sort, in a long 
 work, has a good effect, used, as I mean, 
 sparingly, and with discretion. 
 
 Page 127. — This sliould liave been noted 
 first, but was overlooked. Be pleased to al- 
 ter for me thus, with the difference of only 
 one word, from the alteration proposed by 
 you— 
 
 We too are friends to royalty. We love 
 
 The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, 
 
 And reigns content within them. 
 
 You observed probably, in your second 
 reading, that I allow the life of an animal to 
 be fairly taken away, when it interferes either 
 with the interest or convenience of man. 
 Consequently snails and all reptiles that 
 spoil our crops, either of fruit or grain, may 
 be destroyed, if we can catch them. It gives 
 me real pleasure that Mrs. Unwin so readily 
 understood me. Blank verse, by the un- 
 usual arrangement of the words, and by the 
 frequent infusion of one line into another, 
 not less than by the style, which requires a 
 kind of tragical magnificence, cannot be 
 chargeable with much obscurity, must rather 
 be singularly perspicuous, to be so easily 
 comprehended. It is my labor, and my prin- 
 cipal one, to be as clear as possible. You 
 do not mistake me, when you suppose that I 
 have great respect for the virtue that flies 
 temptation. It is that sort of prowess, which 
 the whole train of scripture calls upon us to 
 manifest, when assailed by sensual evil. In- 
 terior mischiefs must be grappled with. There 
 is no flight from them. But solicitations to 
 sin, that address themselves to our bodily 
 senses, are, I believe, seldom conquered in 
 any other way. 
 
 I can easily see that you may have very 
 reasonable objections to my dedicatory pro- 
 posal. You are a clergyman, and I have 
 banged your order. You are a child of alma 
 Tnater, and I have banged her too. Lay 
 yourself, therefore, under no constraints that 
 I do not lay you under, but consider your- 
 self as perfectly free. 
 
 With our best love to you all, I bid you 
 heartily farewell. I am tired of this endless 
 scribblement. Adieu ! 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Oct. 22, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — I am now reading a 
 book which you have never read, and will 
 probably never read — Knox's Essays. Per- 
 haps I should premise that I am driven to 
 Buch reading by the want of books that 
 would please me better, neither having any, 
 nor the means of procuring any. I am not 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 sorry, however, that I have met with him ; 
 though, when I have allowed him the praise 
 of being a sensible man, and in his way a 
 good one, I have allowed him all that I can 
 afford. Neither his style pleases me, which 
 is sometimes InsuflTerably dry and hard, and 
 sometimes ornamented even to an Harveian 
 tawdriness ; nor his manner, which is never 
 lively without being the worse for it; so 
 unhappy is he in his attempts at character 
 and narration. But, writing chiefly on the 
 manners, vices, and follies of the modern 
 day, to me he is at least so far useful, as 
 that he gives me information upon points 
 which I neither can nor would be informed 
 upon except by hearsay. Of such informa- 
 tion, however, I have need, being a writer 
 upon those subjects myself, and a satirical 
 writer too. It is fit, therefore, in order that 
 I may find fault in the right place, that I 
 should know where fault may properly be 
 found. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 30, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — I accede most readily to 
 the justice of your remarks, on the subject 
 of the truly Roman heroism of the Sandwich 
 islanders. Proofs of such prowess, I be- 
 lieve, are seldom exhibited by a people who 
 have attained to a high degree of civilization. 
 Refinement and profligacy are too nearly al- 
 lied to admit of anything so noble ; and I 
 question whether any instances of faithful 
 friendship, like that which so much affected 
 you in the behavior of the poor savage, were 
 produced even by the Romans themselves in 
 the latter days of the empire. They had 
 been a nation, whose virtues it is impossible 
 not to wonder at. But Greece, which was 
 to them what France is to us, a Pandora's 
 box of mischief, reduced them to her own 
 standard, and they naturally soon sunk still 
 lower. Religion in this case seems pretty 
 much out of the question. To the produc- 
 tion of sucli heroism undebauched nature 
 herself is equal. When Italy was a land of 
 heroes, she knew no more of the true God 
 than her cicisbeos and her fiddlers know 
 now ; and indeed it seems a matter of indif- 
 ference whether a man be born under a 
 truth, which does not influence him, or un- 
 der the actual influence of a lie ; or, if there 
 be any difference between the cases, it seems 
 to be rather in favor of the latter; for a 
 false persuasion, such as the Mahometan, for 
 instance, may animate the courage, and fur- 
 nish motives for the contempt of death, 
 while despisers of the true religion are pun- 
 ished for their folly, by being abandoned 
 to the last degrees of depravity. Accord- 
 ingly, we see a Sandwich islander sacrificing 
 I himself to his dead friend, and our Christian
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 205 
 
 seanen and mariners, inslead of being im- 
 pressed by a sense of iiis generosity, butch- 
 ering iiim witii a persevering cruelty that 
 will disgrace them forever; for he was a 
 defenceless, unresisting enemy, who meant 
 nothing more than to gratify his love for the 
 deceased. To slay him in such circum- 
 stances was to murder him, and with every 
 aggravation of the crime that can be ima- 
 gined. 
 
 I am again at Johnson's, in the shape of a 
 poem in blank verse, consisting of six books 
 and called " The Task." I began it about 
 this time twelvemonth, and writing some- 
 times an hour in a day, sometimes half a one, 
 and sometimes two hours, have lately hn- 
 ished it. I mentioned it not sooner, because 
 almost to the last I was doubtful whether I 
 should ever bring it to a conclusion, working 
 often in such distress of mind as, while it 
 spurred me to the work, at the same time 
 threatened to disqualify me for it. My book- 
 seller, I suppose, will be as tardy as before. 
 I do not e.\pect to be born into the world 
 till the month of M;irch, when I and the cro- 
 cuses shall peep together. You may assure 
 your.self that I shall take my first opportu- 
 nity to wait on you. I mean likewise to 
 gratify myself by obtruding my muse upon 
 Mr. Bacon. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend ! We are well, and 
 love you. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN\VIN. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 1, 1~84. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Were I to delay my an- 
 swer, I must yet write without a frank at 
 last, and may as well therefore write without 
 one now, especially feeling as I do a desire 
 to thank you for your friendly ollices so well 
 performed. I. am glad, for your sake as 
 well as for my own, that you succeeded in the 
 first instance, and that the first trouble proved 
 the last. I am willing too to consider John- 
 son's readiness to accept a second volume 
 of mine as an argument that at least he was 
 no loser by the former. I collect from it 
 some reasonable hope that the volume in 
 question may not wrong him either. My 
 imagination tolls me (for I know you inter- 
 est yourself in the success of my produc- 
 tions) that your heart fluttered when you 
 approached Jolmson's door, and that it "felt 
 itself discharged of a burden when you came 
 out again. You did well to mention it at 
 
 the T s; they will now know that you 
 
 do not pretend to a share in my confidence, 
 whatever be the value of it, greater than yon 
 actually possess. I wrote to ]\Ir. Newton 
 by the last post to tell him tlint I was gone 
 to the press again. He will be surprised 
 and perhaps not pleased. But I think he 
 
 cannot complain, for he keeps his own au- 
 thorly secrets without participating them 
 with me. I do not think myself in the least 
 injured by his reserve, neither should 1, if he 
 were to publish a whole library without fa. 
 voring me with any previous notice of his 
 intentions. In these cases it is no violation 
 of the laws of friendship not to commu- 
 nicate, though there must be a friendship 
 where tlie communication is made. But 
 many reasons may concur in disposing a 
 writer to keep his work secret, and none of 
 them injurious to his friends. The infiuence 
 of one I have felt myself, for which none of 
 them would blame me — I mean the desire 
 of surprising agreeably. And, if I have de- 
 nied myself this pleasure in your instance, it 
 was only to give myself a greater, by eradi- 
 cating from your mind any little weeds of 
 suspicion that might still remain in it, that 
 any man living is nearer to me than your- 
 self. Had not this consideration forced up 
 the lid of my strong-box like a lever, it 
 would have kept its contents with an invis- 
 ible closeness to the last : and tiie first news 
 that either you or any of my friends would 
 have heard of " The Task," they would have 
 received from the public papers. But you 
 know now that neither as a poet nor a man 
 do I give to any man a precedence in my 
 estimation at your expense. 
 
 I am j)roceeding with my new work (which 
 at present I feel myself much inclined to call 
 by the name of Tirocinium) as fast as the 
 muse permits. It has reached the length of 
 seven hundred lines,and will probably receive 
 an addition of two or three liundred more. 
 
 When you see Mr. perhaps you will not 
 
 find it difficult to procure from him half-a- 
 dozen franks, addressed to yourself, and dated 
 the fifteenth of December, in which case they 
 will all go to the post, filled with my lucubra- 
 tions, on the evening of that day. I do not 
 name an earlier, because I hate to be hurried ; 
 and Johnson cannot want it sooner than, thus 
 managed, it will reach him. 
 
 I am not sorry that " John Gilpin," though 
 hitherto he has been nobody's child, is likely 
 to be owned at last. Here and there I can 
 give him a touch that I think will mend him; 
 the language in some places not being quite 
 so quaint and old-fashioned as it should be ; 
 and in one of the stanzas there is a false 
 rhyme. When I have thus given the finish- 
 ing stroke to his figure, I mean to grace him 
 with two mottoes, a Greek and a Latin one, 
 which, wlien tiie world shall see that I have 
 only a little one of three words to the vol- 
 ume itself, and none to the books of which 
 it consists, they will perhaps understand as 
 a stricture upon that pompous display of lit- 
 erature, with win'ch some authors take occa- 
 sion to crowd their titles. Knox in particu- 
 lar, who is a sensible man too, has not I
 
 206 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 think fewer than half-a-dozen to his "Es- 
 says." 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 OIney, Nov., 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — To condole with you on 
 the death of a mother aged eighty-seven 
 would be absurd — ratlier therefore, as is rea- 
 sonable, I congratulate you on the almost 
 singular felicity of having enjoyed the com- 
 pany of so amiable and so near a relation so 
 long. Your lot and mine in tliis respect have 
 been very different, as indeed in almost every 
 other. Your mother lived to see you rise, at 
 least to see you comfortably established in 
 the world. Mine, dying when I was six years 
 old, did not live to see me sink in it. You 
 may remember with pleasure while you live 
 a blessing vouchsafed to you so long, and 
 I while I live must regret a comfort, of which 
 I was deprived so early. I can truly say that 
 not a week passes (perhaps I might with 
 equal veracity say a day) in which I do not 
 think of her. Such was tJie impression her 
 tenderness made upon me, though the oppor- 
 tunity she had for showing it was so short. 
 But the ways of God are equal — and, when 
 I reflect on the pangs she would have suf- 
 fered had slie been a witness of all mine, 
 I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn 
 that she was hidden in tiie grave so soon. 
 
 We have, as you say, lost a lively and sen- 
 sible neiglibor in Lady Austen, but we have 
 been long accustomed to a state of retirement 
 within one degree of solitude, and, being 
 naturally lovers of still life, can relapse into 
 our former duality without being unhappy at 
 the change. To me indeed a third is not 
 necessary, while I can have the companion I 
 have had these twenty years. 
 
 I am gone to the press again ; a volume of 
 mine will greet your hands some time either 
 in the course of the winter or early in the 
 spring. You will find it perhaps on the 
 whole more entertaining than the former, as 
 it treats a greater variety of subjects, and 
 those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. 
 It will consist of a poem in six books, called 
 " The Task." To which will be added an- 
 other, which I finished yesterday, called I 
 believe " Tirocinium," on the subject of edu- 
 cation. 
 
 You perceive that I have taken your advice, 
 ind given the pen no rest. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 27, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — All the interest that you 
 take in my new publication, and all the pleas 
 that you urge in behalf of your right to my 
 
 confidence, the moment I had read your let- 
 ter, struck me as so many proofs of your re- 
 gard ; of a friendship in which distance and 
 time make no abatement. But it is difficult 
 to adjust opposite claims to the satisfiiction 
 of all parties. I have done my best, and 
 must leave it to your candor to put a just in- 
 terpretation upon all that has passed, and to 
 give me credit for it as a certain truth that, 
 whatever seeming defects in point of atten- 
 tion and attachment to you my conduct on 
 this occasion may have appeared to have been 
 chargeable with, I am in reality as clear of 
 all real ones as you would wish to find me. 
 
 I send you enclosed, in the first place, a 
 copy of the advertisement to the reader, which 
 accounts for my title, not otherwise easily ac- 
 counted for; secondly, what is called an ar- 
 gument, or a summary of the contents of 
 each book, more circumstantial and diffuse by 
 far than that which I have sent to the press. 
 It will give you a pretty accurate acquaint- 
 ance with my matter, though the tenons and 
 mortices, by which the several passages are 
 connected, and let into each other, cannot be 
 explained in a syllabus : and lastly, an extract, 
 as you desired. The subject of it I am sure 
 will please you ; and, as I have admitted into 
 my description no images but what are scrip- 
 tural, and have aimed as exactly as I could 
 at the plain and simple swblimity of the scrip- 
 ture language, I have hopes the manner of 
 it may please you too. As far as the num- 
 bers and diction are concerned, it may serve 
 pretty well for a sample of the whole. But, 
 the subjects being so various, no single pas- 
 sage can in all respects be a specimen of the 
 book at large. 
 
 My principal purpose is to allure the read- 
 er, by character, by scenery, by imagery, and 
 such poetical embellishments, to the reading 
 of what inay profit him ; subordinately to 
 this, to combat that predilection in favor of a 
 metropolis that beggars arid exhausts the 
 country, by evacuating it of all its principal 
 inhabitants ; and collaterally, and, as far as 
 is consistent with this double intention, to 
 have a stroke at ^■ice, vanity and folly, wher- 
 ever I find them. I have not spared the 
 Universities. A letter which appeared in the 
 " General Evening Post" of Saturday, said 
 to have been received by a general officer, 
 and by him sent to the press as worthy of 
 public notice, and which has all the appear- 
 ance of authenticity, would alone justify the 
 severest censures of those bodies, if any such 
 justification were wanted. By way of sup- 
 plement to what I have written on this sub- 
 ject, I have added a poem, called " Tirocini- 
 um," which is in rhyme. It treats of the 
 scandalous relaxation of discipline that ob- 
 tains in almost all schools universally, but es- 
 pecially in the largest, which are so negligent 
 in the article of morals that boys are de- 

 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 20T 
 
 bauched in general the moment they are ca- 
 pable of being so. It recommends the oflico 
 of tutor to the fiither wliere there is no real 
 impediment, the expedient of a domestic tu- 
 tor where there is, and the disposal of boys 
 into the hands of a respectable country cler- 
 gyman, who limits his attention to two, in all 
 cases wliere they cannot be conveniently 
 educated at home. Mr. Unwin happily af- 
 fording me an instance in point, the poem is 
 inscribed to him. You will now I hope com- 
 mand your hunger to be patient, and be satis- 
 fied wiili the luncheon, that I send, till dinner 
 comes. That piecemeal perusal of the work 
 sheet by sheet, would be so disadvantageous 
 to the work itself, and therefore so uncom- 
 fortable to me, that (1 dare say) you will waive 
 your desire of it. A poem thus disjointed 
 cannot possibly be fit for anybody's inspec- 
 tion but tlie author's. 
 
 Tully's rule — Nulla dies sine lined — will 
 make a volume in less time than one would 
 suppose. I adhered to it so rigidly that, 
 though more than once I found tlu'ce lines as 
 many as I had time to compass, still I wrote ; 
 and, finding occasionally, and as it might 
 happen a more fluent vein, the abundance of 
 one day made me amends for the barrenness 
 of another. But I do not mean to write 
 blank verse again. Not having the music of 
 rhyme, it requires so close an attention to the 
 pause a'lid the cadence, and sucli a peculiar 
 mode of expression, as render it, to me at 
 least, tiie most difficult species of poetry that 
 I have ever meddled with. 
 
 I am obliged to you and to Mr. Bacon for 
 your kind remembrance of me when you 
 meet. No artist can excel, as he does, with- 
 out the finest feelings; and every man tiiat 
 iuis the finest feelings is and must be amiable. 
 Adieu, my dear friend ! 
 
 Aftectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WaLLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Oliiey, 1784. 
 My dear William, — The slice whicli (you 
 observe) has been taken from tiie top of the 
 sheet, it lost before I began to write ; but, 
 being a part of the paper which is seldom 
 used, I Ihougiit it would be pity to discard, 
 or to degrade to meaner purposes, the fair 
 and ample remnant, on account of so imma- 
 terial a defect. I tiierefore have destined it 
 to be the vehicle of a letter, which you will 
 accept as entire, though a lawyer perhaps 
 would, without much ditficulty, prove it to be 
 but a fragment. The best recompense I can 
 make you for writing witiiout a frank, is to 
 propose it to you to take your revenge by 
 returning an answer under the same predica- 
 ment; and the best reason I can give for do- 
 ing it is tiie occasion following. In my last 
 I recommended it to you to procure franks 
 
 for the conveyance of " Tirocinium," dated 
 on a day therein mentioned and the earliest 
 which at that time I could venture to appoint. 
 It has happened, however, that the poem is 
 finished a month sooner tiian I expected, and 
 two thirds of it are at this time fairly tran- 
 scribed ; an accident to which the riders of a 
 Parnassian steed are liable, who never know, 
 before they mount him, at what rate he will 
 choose to travel. If he be indisposed to de- 
 spatch, it is impossible to accelerate his pace ; 
 if otiierwise, equally impossible to stop him. 
 Therefore my errand to you at tiiis time is 
 to cancel the former assignation, and to in- 
 form you that by whatever means you please, 
 and as soon as you please, the piece in ques- 
 tion will be ready to attend you; for, with- 
 out exerting any extraordinary diligence, 
 I shall have completed tlie transcript in a 
 week. 
 
 The critics will never know that four lines 
 of it were composed while I had a dose of 
 ipecacuanha on my stomach ; in short, that T 
 v/as delivered of the emetic and the verses 
 at the same moment. Knew they this, they 
 would at least allow me to be a poet of sin- 
 gular industry, and confess that I lose no 
 time. I have heard of poets who have found 
 cathartics of sovereign use, when they had 
 occasion to be particularly brilliant. Dryden 
 always used them, and, in commemoration 
 of it, Baycs, in " The Rehearsal," is made to 
 inform the audience, that in a poetical emer- 
 gency he always had recourse to stewed 
 prunes. But I am the only poet who has 
 dared to reverse the prescription, and whose 
 enterprise, having succeeded to admiration, 
 warrants him to recommend an emetic to all 
 future bards, as tlie most infallible moans of 
 producing a fluent and easy versification. 
 
 My love to all your family. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 OIney, Nov. 29, 1784. 
 
 ]My dear Friend, — I am happy that you are 
 pleased, and accept it as an earnest that I 
 shall not at least disgust the public. For, 
 though I know your partiality to me, I know 
 at the same time with what laudable tender- 
 ness you feel for your own reputation, and 
 that, for the sake of that most delicate part 
 of your property, though you would not 
 criticise me with an unfriendly and undue 
 severity, you would however beware of being 
 satisfied too hastily, and with no Avarrant- 
 able cause of being so. I called you the tu- 
 tor of your two sons, in contemplation of 
 the certainty of that event : it is a fact in sus- 
 pense, not in fiction. 
 
 My principal errand to you now is to give 
 you information on tiie following snliject: — ■ 
 The moment Mr. Newton knew (and I took
 
 ao8 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 care tliat he should learn it first from me) 
 that I had communicated to you what I had 
 concealed from liim, and that you were my 
 autliorship's go-between with Johnson on 
 this occasion, he sent me a most friendly 
 letter indeed, but one in every line of which 
 I could hear the soft murmurs of something 
 like mortification, that could not be entirely 
 suppressed. It contained nothing however 
 that you yourself would have blamed, or 
 that I had not every reason to consider as 
 evidence of his regard to me. He concluded 
 the subject with desiring to know something 
 of my plan, to be favored with an extract, by 
 way of specimen, or (which he should like 
 better still) with wishing me to order Jolm- 
 son to send him a proof as tiist as they were 
 printed off. Determining not to accede to 
 this last request for m;iny reasons (but es- 
 pecially because I would no more show my 
 poem piecemeal than I would my iiouse if I 
 had one ; the merits of the structure in 
 either case being equally liable to suffer by 
 such a partial view of it), I have endeavored 
 to compromise the difference between us, 
 and to satisfy him without disgracing myself 
 The proof-sheets I have absolutely, though 
 civilly refused. But I have sent him a copy 
 of the arguments of each book, more dilated 
 and circumstantial than those inserted in the 
 work ; and to these I have added an extract, 
 as he desired; selecting, as most suited to 
 his taste, the view of tlie restoration of all 
 things — which you recollect to have seen 
 near the end of the last book. I hold it 
 necessary to tell you this, lest, if you should 
 call upon him, he should startle you by dis- 
 covering a degree of information upon the 
 subject which you could not otherwise know 
 how to reconcile or to account for. 
 
 You have executed your commissions « 
 merveille. We not only approve but admire. 
 No apology was wanting for the balance 
 struck at the bottom, which we accounted 
 rather a beauty than a deformity. Pardon a 
 poor poet, who cannot speak even of pounds, 
 shillings, and pence, but in his own way. 
 
 I have read Lunardi with pleasure. He is 
 a lively, sensible young fellow, and I sup- 
 pose a very tiivorable sample of the Italians. 
 When I look at his picture, I can fancy that 
 I can see in him that good sense and courage 
 that no doubt were legible in the face of a 
 young Roman two thousand years ago. 
 
 Your affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 4, 1784. 
 
 My de.ir Friend, — You have my hearty 
 
 thanks for a very good barrel of oysters; 
 
 which necessary acknowledgment once made, 
 
 I might perhaps show more kindness by cut- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 ting short an epistle than by continuing one, 
 in which you are not likely to find your ac- 
 count, either in the way of information or 
 amusement. The season of the year indeed 
 is not very friendly to such communications. 
 A damp atmosphere and a sunless sky will 
 have their effect upon the spirits ; and when 
 the spirits are checked, farewell to r.ll hope 
 of being good company, either by letter or 
 otherwise. I envy those happy voyagers, 
 who with so much ease ascend to regions 
 unsullied with a cloud, and date their epistles 
 from an extra-mundane situation. No won- 
 der if they outshine us, who poke about in 
 the dark below, in the vivacity of their sallies, 
 as much as they soar above us in their ex- 
 cursions. Not but that I should be very sorry 
 to go to the clouds for wit: on the contrary, 
 I am satisfied that I discover more by con- 
 tinuing where I am. Every man to his busi- 
 ness. Their vocation is to see fine pros- 
 pects, and to make pithy observations upon 
 the world below ; such as these, for instance : 
 that the earth, beheld from a height that one 
 trembles to think of, has the appearance of a 
 circular plain ; that England is a very rich 
 and cultivated country, in which every man's 
 property is ascertained by the hedges that 
 intersect the lands; and that London and 
 Westminster, seen from the neighborhood of 
 the moon, make but an insignificant figure. 
 I admit the utility of th§se remarks ; but, in 
 the meantime, I say cliacun a son gout ; and 
 miine is rather to creep than fly, and to carry 
 with me, if possible, an unbroken neck to the 
 grave. 
 
 I remain, as ever, 
 
 Your affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Dec. 13, 1784. 
 My dear Friend, — Having imitated no man, 
 I may reasonably hope that I shall not incur 
 the disadvantage of a comparison with my 
 betters. Milton's manner was peculiar. So 
 is Thomson's. He that should write like 
 either of them would in my judgment de- 
 serve the name of a copyist, but not a poet. 
 A judicious and sensible reader therefore, 
 like yourself, will not say that my manner is 
 not good, because it does not resemble theirs, 
 but will rather consider what it is in itself. 
 Blank verse is susceptible of a much greater 
 diversification of manner than verse in rhyme : 
 and, why the modern writers of it have all 
 thought proper to cast their numbers alike, I 
 know not. Certainly it was not necessity 
 that compelled them to it. I flatter myself 
 however that I have avoided that sameness 
 with others, which would entitle me to 
 nothing but a share in one common oblivion 
 with them all. It is possible that, as a re 
 viewer of mv former volume found cause to
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 209 
 
 say, that he knew not to what class of wrrt- 
 ers to refer me, the reviewer of this, who- 
 ever he shall be, may see occasion to remark 
 the same singularity. At any rate, though as 
 little apt to be sanguine as most men, and 
 more prone to fear and despond than to 
 overrate my own productions, I am per- 
 suaded that I shall not forfeit anything by 
 this volume that I gained by the last. As to 
 tlic title, 1 take it to be the best that is to be 
 had. It is not possible that a book including 
 such a variety of subjects, and in wiiicli no 
 particular one is predominant, sliould tind a 
 title adapted to them all. In such a case it 
 seemed almost necessary to accommodate 
 the name to the incident that gave birlh to 
 the poem ; nor does it appear to me that, be- 
 cause 1 performed more tiian my task, there- 
 fore "The Task" is not a suitable title. A 
 house would still be a house, though the 
 builder of it sliould make it ten times as big 
 as he at first intended. I miglit indeed, fol- 
 lowing the example of the Sunday news- 
 monger, call it the Olio. But I should do 
 myself wrong: for, tliongh it have much va- 
 riety, it has I trust no confusion. 
 
 For the same reason none of the inferior 
 titles apply themselves to the contents at 
 large of that book to which they belong. 
 They are, every one of them, taken either 
 from the leading (I should say tlie introduc- 
 tory) passage of that particular book, or 
 from that which makes the most conspicuous 
 figure in it. Had I set otf with a design to 
 write upon a gridiron, and had I actually 
 written near two hundred lines upon that 
 utensil, as I have upon the Sofa, the gridiron 
 should have been my title. But tlie Sofa 
 being, as I may say, the starting-post, from 
 which I ad(iressed myself to the long race 
 that I soon conceived a design to run, it ac- 
 quired a just pre-eminence in my account, 
 and was very worthily advanced to the titu- 
 lar honor it enjoys, its riglit being at least so 
 far a good one, that no word in the language 
 could pretend a better. 
 
 Tiie Time-piece appears to me (though by 
 some accident the import of that title has 
 escaped you) to have a degree of propriety 
 beyond the most of them. Tlie book to 
 which it belongs is intended to strike the 
 hour that gives notice of the approaching 
 judgment; and, dealing pretty largely in the 
 signs of the times, seems to be denominated, 
 as it is, with a sullicient degree of accommo- 
 dation to tiie sul)jeot. 
 
 As to the word ivorm, it is tlie very appel- 
 lation which Milton himself, in a certain pas- 
 sage of the Paradise Lost, giv(;s to the ser- 
 pent. Not having the book at hand, I cannot 
 now refer to it, but I am sure of the fiict. I 
 am mistaken, too, if Shakspeare's Cleopatra 
 do not call the asp by whicli siie thought fit 
 to destroy herself by the same name : but. 
 
 not having read the play these five-and- 
 twenty years, I will not affirm it. They 
 are however, without all doubt, convertible 
 terras. A worm is a small serpent, and a 
 serpent is a large worm. And when an epi- 
 thet significant of the most terrible species of 
 those creatures is adjoined, the idea is surely 
 sufficiently ascertained. No animal of the 
 vermicular or serpentine kind is crested but 
 the most formidable of all. 
 
 Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 The passages alluded to by Cowper are as 
 follows : 
 
 Eve, in evil hour thou didst give ear 
 To that false worm, of whomsoever taught 
 To counterfeit man's voice ; &c. 
 
 Paradise Lost, book 9. 
 
 Hast thou the pretty wovTn of Nilus there, 
 That kills and pains notl 
 
 Shakspeare's Anthony tf* Cleopatra, Act 5. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Dec. 18, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I condole with you that 
 you had the trouble to ascend St. Paul's in 
 vain, but at the same time congratulate you 
 that you escaped an ague. I should be very 
 well pleased to have a fair prospect of a bal- 
 loon under sail, with a philosopher or two on 
 board, but at the same time should be very 
 sorry to expose myself, for any length of 
 time, to the rigor of the upper regions at this 
 season for the sake of it. The travellers 
 themselves, I suppose, are secured from all 
 injuries of the weather by that fervency of 
 spirit and agitation of mind which must needs 
 accompany them in their flight ; advantages 
 which the more composed and phlegmatic 
 spectator is not equally possessed of 
 
 The inscription of the poem is more your 
 own affair than any other person's. You have 
 therefore an undoubted right to fashion it to 
 your mind, nor have I the least objection to 
 the slight alteration that you have made in it. 
 I inserted what you have erased for a reason 
 that was perhaps rather chimerical than solid. 
 I feared however that the reviewers, or some 
 of my sagacious readers not more merciful 
 than they, might suspect that there was a se- 
 cret design in the wind, and that author and 
 friend had consulted in what manner author 
 might introduce friend to public notice as a 
 clergyman every way qualified to entertain a 
 pupil or two, if peradvcnture any gentleman 
 of fortune were in want of a tutor for his 
 children: I therefore added the words "And 
 of his two sons only," byway of insinuating 
 that you are perfectly satisfied with your 
 present charge, and that you do not wish for 
 more ; thus meaning to obviate an illiberal 
 construction which we are both of us incapa. 
 M
 
 210 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ble of deserving. But, the same caution not 
 having appeared to you to be necessary, I 
 am very willing and ready to suppose that it 
 is not so. 
 
 I intended in my last to have given you my 
 reasons for the compliment that I paid Bishop 
 Bagot, lest, knowing that I have no personal 
 connexion with him, you should suspect me 
 of having done it rather too much at a ven- 
 ture.* In the first place, then, I wished the 
 world to know that I have no objection to a 
 bishop, quia bishop. In the second place, the 
 brothers were all five my schoolfellows, and 
 very amiable and valuable boys they were. 
 Thirdly, Lewis, the bishop, had been rudely 
 and coarsely treated in the Monthly Review, 
 on account of a sermon which appeared to 
 me, when I read their extract from it, to de- 
 serve the highest commendations, as exhibit- 
 ing explicit proof both of his good sense and 
 his unfeig]ied piety. For these causes, me 
 thereunto moving, I felt myself happy in an 
 opportunity to do public honor to a worthy 
 man who had been publicly traduced ; and 
 indeed the reviewers themselves have since 
 repented of their aspersions, and have travelled 
 not a little out of their way in order to retract 
 them, having taken occasion, by the sermon 
 preached at the bishop's visitation at Nor- 
 wich, to say everything handsome of his 
 lordship, who, whatever might be the merit 
 of the discourse, in that instance, at least, 
 could himself lay claim to no other than that 
 of being a hearer. 
 
 Since I wrote, I have had a letter from Mr. 
 Newton that did not please me, and returned 
 an answer to it that possibly may not have 
 pleased him. We shall come together again 
 soon (I suppose) upon as amicable terms as 
 usual : but at present he is in a state of mor- 
 tification. He would have been pleased had 
 the book passed out of his hands into yours, 
 or even out of yours into his, so that he 
 had previously had opportunity to advise a 
 measure which I pursued without his recom- 
 mendation, and had seen the poems in manu- 
 script. But my design was to pay you a 
 whole compliment, and I have done it. If he 
 says more on the subject, I shall speak free- 
 ly, and perhaps please him less than I have 
 done already. 
 
 Yours, with our love to you all, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 Olney, Christmas-eve, 1784. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am neither Mede nor 
 Persian, neither am I the son of any such, but 
 was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hert- 
 fordshire, and yet I can neither find a new 
 title for my book, nor please myself with 
 any addition to the old one. I am, however, 
 
 * TirociDium. 
 
 willing to hope, that when the volume shall 
 cast itself at your feet, you will be in some 
 measure reconciled to the name it bears, es- 
 pecially when you shall find it justified both 
 by the exordium of the poem and by the con- 
 clusion. But enough, as you say with great 
 truth, of a subject very unworthy of so much 
 consideration. 
 
 Had I heard any anecdotes of poor dying 
 
 , that would have bid fair to deserve your 
 
 attention, I should have sent them. The little 
 that he is reported to have uttered, of a spir- 
 itual import, was not very striking. That 
 little, however, I can give you upon good au- 
 thority. His brother, asking him how he 
 found himself, he replied, " I am composed, 
 and think that I may safely believe myself 
 entitled to a portion." The world has had 
 much to say in his praise, and both prose and 
 verse have been employed to celebrate him in 
 "The Northampton Mercury." But Chris- 
 tians, I suppose, have judged it best to be 
 silent. If he ever drank at the fountain of 
 life, he certainly drank also, and often too 
 freely, of certain other streams, which are not 
 to be bought without money and without 
 price. He had virtues that dazzled the nat- 
 ural eye, and failings that shocked the spirit- 
 ual one. But iste dies indicabit. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In reviewing the events in Cowper's Life, 
 recorded in the present volume, our remarks 
 must be brief His personal history contin- 
 ues to present the same afflicting spectacle of 
 a man always struggling under the pressure 
 of a load from which no effort, either on his 
 own part, or on that of others, is able to ex- 
 tricate him. We know nothing more touch- 
 ing than some of the letters in»the private 
 correspondence in reference to this subject; 
 and we consider them indispensable to a 
 clear elucidation of the state of his mind and 
 feelings. Their deep pathos, their ingenuous 
 disclosure of all that he feels, and !?till more, 
 of all that he dreads; the delusion under 
 which the mind evidently labors, and yet the 
 fixed and unalterable integrity of principle 
 that reigns within, form a sublime scene, 
 that awakens sympathy and commands ad- 
 miration. 
 
 That under circumstances of such deep 
 trial, the 'powers of his mind should remain 
 free and unimpaired ; that he should be able 
 to produce a work like " The Task," destined 
 to survive so long as taste, truth, and nature 
 shall exercise their empire over the heart, is 
 not only a phenomenon in the history of the 
 human mind, but serves to show that the 
 greatest calamities are not without their al- 
 leviation ; that God knows how to temper the 
 wind to the shorn lamb, and that the bush 
 may be on fire without being consumed. 
 
 It is by dispensations such as these that the 
 
 i
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 2li 
 
 Moral Governor of the world admonishes and 
 instructs us ; and that we learn to adore his 
 wisdom and overruling power and love. We 
 also see tiie value of mental resources, and 
 that literature, and art, and science, when 
 consecrated to the highest ends, not only en- 
 noble our existence, but are a solace under its 
 heaviest cares and disquietudes. It was this 
 divine philosophy, so richly poured over tiie 
 pages of the Task, that strengthened and 
 sustained the mind of Cowper. The Muse 
 was his delight and refuge, but it was the 
 Muse clad in tlie panojjly of heaven, and 
 soaring to the heiglits of Zion. He taught 
 the school of poets a sublime moral lesson, 
 not to debase a noble art by ministering to 
 the corrupt passions of our nature, but to 
 make it the vehicle of pure and elevated 
 thought, the honorable ally of virtue, and the 
 handmaid of true religion : that it is not suffi- 
 cient to captivate the taste, and to lead 
 through the regions of poetic foncy ; — 
 
 "The still small voice is wanted." 
 
 It is this characteristic feature that consti- 
 tutes the charm of Cowper's poetry, and his 
 title to immortality. He approached the 
 temple of forae tln-ough the vestibule of tlie 
 sanctuary, and snatched the live coal from the 
 burning altar. It is his object to reprove vice, 
 to vindicate truth from error, to endear home, 
 by making it the scene of our virtues, and the 
 source of our joys, to enlarge the bounds of 
 simple and harmless pleasure, to exhibit na- 
 ture in all its attractive forms, and to trace 
 God in the works of his Providence, and in 
 the mighty dispensation of his Grace. 
 
 The completion of the second volume of 
 Cowper's poems formed an important period 
 in his literary history. It was the era of the 
 establishment of liis poetical fame. His first 
 volume h.ad already laid the foundation; the 
 second raised the superstructure, wiiicli has 
 secured for him a reputation as lionorable as 
 it is likely to be lasting. He was more par- 
 ticularly indebted for this distinction to his 
 inimitable production, " The Task," a work 
 wliicli every succeeding year has increasingly 
 stamped with the seal of public approbation. 
 If we inquire into the causes of its celebrity, 
 they are to be found not merely in the multi- 
 tude of poetical beauties, scattered tiirough- 
 out thepoem; it is the faithful delineation of 
 nature, and of the scenes of real life ; it is the 
 vein of pure and elevated morality, the ex- 
 quisite sensibility of feeling, and the power- 
 ful appeals to the heart and conscience, which 
 sonstitute its great charm and interest. The 
 court, the town, and the country, all united 
 in its praise, because conscience and nature 
 never suffer their riglits to be extinguished, 
 
 except in minds the most perverted or de- 
 praved. These rights are coeval with our 
 birth : they grow with our growth, and yield 
 only to that universal decree, which levels 
 taste, perception, and every moral feeling 
 with the dust; and which will finally dissolve 
 tlie whole system of created nature, and 
 merge time itself into eternitj^. 
 
 Cowper's second volume, containing his 
 " Task," and " Tirocinium," to which some 
 smaller pieces were afterwards attached, was 
 ready for the press in November, 1784,* 
 though its publication was delayed till June, 
 1785. The close of a literary undertaking 
 is always contemplated as an event of great 
 interest to the feelings of an author. It is 
 the termination of his labors and the com- 
 mencement of his hopes and fears. Gibbon 
 the historian has thought proper to record 
 the precise hour and day, in which he con- 
 cluded his laborious work, of the " Decline 
 and Fall of the Roman Empire," with feelings 
 of a mingled and impressive character. 
 
 " I have presumed," he says, " to mark the 
 moment of conception : I shall now com- 
 memorate the hour of my final deliverance. 
 It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th 
 of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven 
 and twelve that I wrote the last lines of the 
 last page, in a summer-house in my garden. 
 After laying down my pen, I took several 
 turns in a berceau, or covered walk of aca^ 
 cias, which commands a prospect of the 
 country, the lake, and the mountains. The 
 air was temperate, the sky was serene, the 
 silver orb of the moon was reflected from the 
 waters, and all nature was silent. I will not 
 dissemble the first emotions of joy on the 
 recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the 
 establishment of my fame. But my pride 
 was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy 
 was spread over my mind, by the idea that I 
 had taken an everlasting leave of an old and 
 agreeable companion, and that, whatever 
 might be the future fate of my history, the 
 life of the historian might be short and pre- 
 carious."! 
 
 These chastened feelings are implanted by 
 a Divine Power, to check the pride and exul- 
 tation of genius, and to maintain the mind in 
 lowly humility. Nor is Pope's reflection less 
 just and affecting : " The morning after my 
 exit," he observes, " the sun will rise as 
 bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the 
 plants spring as green, the world will ]irocecd 
 in its old course, and people laugh and marry 
 as they were used to do."J 
 
 What then is the moral that is conveyed ? 
 If life be so evanescent, if its toils and labors, 
 its sorrows and joys, so quickly pass away, 
 it becomes us to leave some memorial behind, 
 
 * See p. 166. 
 
 t See Life and Writings of Edward Gibbon, p, 30, prft- 
 fixed to his " Decline and Fall," &c. 
 X See Pope's Letters. 
 
 I
 
 212 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 that we have not lived unprofitably either to 
 ethers or to ourselves; to keep the mind tree 
 from prejudice, the heart from passion, and 
 the life from error ; to enlighten the ignorant, 
 to raise the fallen, and to comfort the de- 
 pressed; to scatter around us the endear- 
 ments of kindness, and diffuse a spirit of 
 rigiiteousnessf of benevolence, and of truth ; 
 to enjoy the sunshine of an approving con- 
 science, and the blessedness of inward joy 
 and peace ; that thus, when the closing scene 
 shall at length arrive, the ebbings of the dis- 
 solving frame may be sustained by the 
 triumph of Christian hope, and death prove 
 the portal of immortality. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 5, 1785. 
 
 I have observed, and you must have had 
 occasion to observe it oftener than I, tliat 
 when a man who once seemed to be a Chris- 
 tian has put off that character and resumed 
 his old one, he loses, together with the grace 
 which he seemed to possess, the most amiable 
 part of the character that he resumes. The 
 best features of his natural face seem to be 
 struck out, that after having worn religion 
 only as a handsome mask he may make a 
 more disgusting appearance than he did be- 
 fore he assumed it. 
 
 According to your request, I subjoin my 
 epitaph on Dr. Johnson ; at least I mean to 
 do it, if a drum, which at this moment an- 
 nounces the arrival of a giant in the town, 
 will give me leave. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 EPITAPH ON Dr. JOHNSON. 
 
 Here Johnson lies — a sage, by all allow'd, 
 Whom to have bred may well make England 
 
 proud ; 
 Whose prose was eloquence by wisdom taught, 
 The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; 
 Whose verse may claim, grave, masculine, and 
 
 strong. 
 Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; 
 Who many a noble gift from Heaven possess'd. 
 And faith at last — alone worth all the rest. 
 O man immortal by a double prize, 
 By fame on earth, by glory in the skies ! 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 15, 1785. 
 My dear William, — Your letters are always 
 welcome. You can always either find some- 
 thing to say, or can amuse me and yourself 
 with a sociable and friendly way of saying no- 
 thing. I never found that a letter was the 
 more easily written, because the writing of it 
 had been long delayed. On the contrary, ex- 
 
 ferience has taught me to answer soon, that 
 may do it without difficulty. It is in vain 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 to wait for an accumulation of materials in a 
 situation such as yours and mine, productive 
 of few events. At the end of our expecta- 
 tions we shall find ourselves as poor as at the 
 beginning. 
 
 I can hardly tell you with any certainty of 
 information, upon what terms Mr. Newton 
 and I may be supposed to stand at present. 
 A month (I believe) has passed since I heard 
 from him. But my friseur, having been in 
 London in the course of this week, whence 
 he returned last night, and having called al 
 Hoxton, brought me his love and an excuse 
 for his silence, which, he said, had been oc- 
 casioned by the frequency of his preaching*; 
 at this season. He was not pleased that my 
 manuscript was not first transmitted to him, 
 and I have cause to suspect that he was even 
 mortified at being informed that a certain in- 
 scribed poem was not inscribed to himself, 
 But we shall jumble together again, as people 
 that have an afiection for each other at bot- 
 tom, notwithstanding now and then a slight 
 disagreement, always do. 
 
 I know not whether Mr. has acted in 
 
 consequence of your hint, or whether, not 
 needing one, he transmitted to us his bounty 
 before he had received it. He has however 
 send us a note for twenty pounds; with 
 which we have performed wonders in behalf 
 of the ragged and the starved. He is a most 
 extraordinary young man, and, though I shall 
 probably never see him, will always have a 
 niche in the museum of my reverential i-e- 
 membrance. 
 
 The death of Dr. Johnson has set a thou- 
 sand scribbers to work, and me among the 
 rest. While I lay in bed, waiting till I 
 could reasonably hope that the parlor might 
 be ready for me, I invoked the Muse and 
 composed the following epitaph.* 
 
 It is destined, I believe, to the " Gentle- 
 man's Magazine," which I consider as a re- 
 spectable repository for small matters, which, 
 when entrusted to a newspaper, can expect 
 but the duration of a day. But, Nichols hav- 
 ing at present a small piece of mine in his 
 hands, not yet printed, (it is called the 
 Poplar Field, and I suppose you have it,) I 
 wait till his obstetrical aid has brought that 
 to light, before I send him a new one. In 
 his last he published my epitaph upon 
 Tiney ;f which, I likewise imagine, has been 
 long in your collection. 
 
 Not a word yet from Johnson ; I am easy 
 however upon the subject, bein^ assured 
 that, so long as his own interest is at stake, 
 he will not want a monitor to remind him of 
 the proper time to publish. 
 
 * The same which has been inserted in the preceding 
 letter, 
 t One of Cowper's favorite hares : 
 
 " Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pvirsue. 
 Nor swifter greyhound follow," &;c. 
 
 See Poema. 
 
 liiil
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 213 
 
 You and your family have our sincere love. 
 Forget not to present rny respectful compli- 
 ments to Miss Unvvin, and, if you have not 
 done it already, thank iier on my part for the 
 very agreeahle narrative of Lunardi. He is a 
 young man, I presume, of great good sense 
 and spirit, (ids letters at least and his enter- 
 prising turn bespeal< him such,) a man quali- 
 fied to sliine not only among the stars,* but 
 in tlie more useful though humbler spliere of 
 terrestrial occupation. 
 
 I have been crossing the channel in a bal- 
 loon, ever since 1 read of tliat achievement 
 by Blancliard.f I liave an insatiable thirst to 
 know tlie philosophical reason wiiy his vehicle 
 had like to have fallen into the sea, when, for 
 augiit Iliat appears, tlie gas was not at all ex- 
 hausted. Did not the extreme cold condense 
 the inrtaramable air, and cause the globe to 
 collapse ? Tell me, and be my Apollo for- 
 evei". 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 The incident connected with the Poplar 
 Field, mentioned in the former part of the 
 above letter, is recorded in the verses. The 
 place where the poplars grew is called Laven- 
 don Mills, about a mile from Olney ; it was' 
 one of Cowper's favorite walks. After a 
 long absence, on revisiting the spot, he found 
 tiie greater part of his beloved trees lying 
 prostrate on the ground. Four only sur- 
 vived, and they have recently shared tiic 
 same fate. But poetry can dignify the mi- 
 nutest events, and convert the ardor of hope 
 or the pang of disappointment into an oc- 
 casion for pouring forth the sweet melody 
 of song. It is to the above incident that we 
 are indebted for the following verses, which 
 unite the charm of simple imagery with a 
 beautiful and affecting moral at the close. 
 
 THK POPLAR FIKLD. 
 
 The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade, 
 And the wiiispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
 The winds play no longer ami sinjr in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elapsed, since I last took a 
 
 view 
 Of my favorite field, and the bank where they 
 
 grew ; 
 And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
 And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a 
 
 shade. 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
 Where the hazels atl'ord him a screen from the 
 heat, 
 
 * I.imardi'a name is associated with the aeronauts of 
 that Uiiic. 
 
 t RlanclLird, siccompaiiicd by Dr. .Icffrics, took his de- 
 pnrturi" fur Calais rroiii Ilu'ca-^llc at Dover. When williiii 
 Jve or six miles of llio I'reiicli r.oiuxl, the balloon tell 
 fapiclly towards tlie sra, and. bad il not been liirblrncd 
 and a breeze sprimcj up, they must have perislied in the 
 waves. ' 
 
 And the scene where his melody charm'c. me 
 
 before, 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 
 
 My fugitive years are hasting away 
 And I must ere long lie as lowly as they. 
 With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
 
 The change both my heart and my fancy employs; 
 I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; 
 Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
 Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.'' 
 
 Olney, Jan. 22, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Tlie departure of the 
 long frost, by which we were pinched and 
 squeezed together for three weeks, is a most 
 agreeable circumstance. The weather is now 
 (to speak poetically) genial and jocund; and 
 the appearance of the sun, after an eclipse, 
 peculiarly welcome. For, were it not that I 
 have a gravel walk about sixty yards long, 
 where I take my daily exercise, I should be 
 obliged to look at a fine day through the 
 window, without any other enjoyment of it; 
 a country rendered impassable by frost, that 
 has been at last resolved into rottenness, 
 keeps me so close a prisoner. Long live the 
 inventors and improvers of balloons! It is 
 always clear overhead, and by and by we 
 shall use no other road. 
 
 How will the Parliament employ them- 
 selves when they meet? — to any purpose, or 
 to none, or only to a bad one 1 They are 
 utterly out of my favor. I despair of them 
 altogether. Will they pass an act for the 
 cultivation of the royal wilderness? Will 
 they make an effectual provision for a north- 
 ern fishery ? Will they establish a new sink- 
 ing fund that shall infallibly pay off the na^ 
 tional debt? I say nothing about a more 
 equal representation,! because, unless they 
 bestow upon private gentlemen of no prop- 
 erly the privilege of voting, I stand no 
 chance of ever being represented myself. 
 Will they achieve all these wonders or none 
 of them ? And shall I derive no other ad- 
 vantage from the great Wittena-Gemot of 
 the nation, than merely to read their debates, 
 for twenty folios of which I would not give 
 one farthing? 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C 
 
 TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 7, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We live in a state Oi 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t Mr. Pitt had introduced, at this time, his celebrated 
 liill for cflV-ctins^ a reform in the national representation ; 
 the U^adiuLC feature of vvliich was to transfer tlie elective 
 franchise from the smaller and decayed borouijhs to the 
 larucr towns. The propoeition was, howevei, rejected 
 by a considerable majoritj ,
 
 'J 14 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 sucli uninterrupted retirement, in which inci- 
 dents worthy to be recorded occur so seldom, 
 that I always sit down to write with a dis- 
 couraging conviction that I have nothing to 
 say. The event commonly justifies the pres- 
 age. For, when I have tilled my sheet, I 
 5nd that I have said nothing. Be it known 
 to you, however, that I may now at least com- 
 municate a piece of intelligence to which you 
 will not be altogether indifferent ; that I have 
 received and returned to Johnson the two 
 first proof-sheets of my new publication. 
 The business was despatched indeed a fort- 
 night ago, since when I have heard from him 
 no further. From such a beginning, how- 
 ever, I venture to prognosticate the progress, 
 and in due time the conclusion of the matter. 
 In the last Gentleman's Magazine my Pop- 
 lar Field appears. I have accordingly sent 
 up two pieces more, a Latin translation of it, 
 which you have never seen, and another on 
 a rose-bud, the neck of which I inadvertently 
 broke, which whether you have seen or not 
 I know not. As fast as Nichols prints off 
 the poems I send him, I send him new ones. 
 My remittance usually consists of two ; and 
 he publishes one of them at a time. I may 
 indeed furnish him at this rate, without put- 
 ting myself to any great inconvenience. For 
 my last supply was transmitted to him in 
 August, and is but now exhausted. 
 
 I communicate the following at your 
 mother's instance, who will suffer no part of 
 my praise to be sunk in oblivion. A certain 
 lord has hired a house at Clifton, in our 
 neighborhood, for a hunting seat.* There 
 he lives at present with his wife and daughter. 
 They are an exemplary fiimily in some re- 
 spects, and (I believe) an amiable one in all. 
 The Reverend Mr. Jones, the curate of that 
 parish, who often dines with them by invita- 
 tion on a Sunday, recommended my volume 
 to their reading; and his lordship, after having 
 perused a part of it, expressed an ardent de- 
 sire to be acquainted with the author, from 
 motives which my great modesty will not 
 suffer me to particularize. Mr. Jones, how- 
 ever, like a wise man, informed his lordship 
 that, for certain special reasons and causes, I 
 had declined going into company for many 
 years, and that therefore he must not hope 
 for ray acquaintance. His lordship most 
 civilly subjoined that he was sorry for it. 
 "And is that all ?" say you. Now were I to 
 hear you say so, I should look foolish and 
 say, " Yes." But, having you at a distance, I 
 snap my fingers at you and say, " No that is 
 
 not all." Mr. , who favors us now 
 
 and then with his company in an evening as 
 usual, was not long since discoursing with 
 that eloquence which is so peculiar to him- 
 self, on the many providential interpositions 
 that had taken place in his favor. " He had 
 * Lord Peterborough. 
 
 wished for many things," he said, " which, at 
 the time when he formed these wishes, seemed 
 distant and improbable, some of them indeed 
 impossible. Among other wishes that he 
 had indulged, one was that he might be con- 
 nected with men of genius and ability — and, 
 in my connexion with this worthy gentleman,'' 
 said he, turning to me, " that wish, I am sure, 
 is amply gratified." You may suppose that 
 I felt the sweat gush out upon my forehead 
 when I heard this speech ; and if you do, you 
 will not be at all mistaken. So much was I 
 delighted with the delicacy of that incense. 
 
 Thus far I proceeded easily enough ; and 
 here I laid down my pen, and spent some 
 minutes in recollection, endeavoring to find 
 some subject with which I might fill the little 
 blank that remains. But none presents itself 
 Farewell therefore, and remember those who 
 are mindful of you ! 
 
 Present our love to all your comfortable 
 fireside, and believe me ever most affection- 
 ately yours, W. C. 
 
 They that read Greek with tht accents, 
 would pronounce the £ in (pt\sM as an ti. But 
 I do not hold with that practice, though edu- 
 cated in it. I should therefore utter it just 
 as I do the Latin word Jilio, taking the quan- 
 tity for my guide. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 19, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am obliged to you for 
 apprising me of the various occasions of de- 
 lay to which your letters are liable. Fur- 
 nished with such a key, I shall be able to ac- 
 count for any accidental tardiness, without 
 supposing anything worse than that you 
 yourself have been interrupted, or that your 
 messenger has not been punctual. 
 
 Mr. Teedon has just left us.f He came to 
 exhibit to us a specimen of his kinsman's 
 skill in the art of book-binding. The book 
 on which he had exercised his ingenuity was 
 your life. You did not indeed make a very 
 splendid appearance; but, considering tliat 
 you were dressed by an untaught artificer, 
 and that it was his first attempt, you had no 
 cause to be dissatisfied. The young man has 
 evidently the possession of talents, by wliich 
 he might shine for the benefit of others and 
 for his own, did not his situation smother 
 him. He can make a dulcimer, tune it, play 
 upon it, and with common advantages would 
 undoubtedly have been able to make a harp- 
 sicord. But unfortunately he lives where 
 neither the one nor the other is at all in 
 vogue. He can convert the shell of a cocDa- 
 nut into a decent drinking-cup ; but, when ha 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t He was an intelligent schoolmaster at Olnev.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 2IA 
 
 has done, he must eitlier fill it at the pump, 
 or use it merely as an ornament of his own 
 mantel-tree. In like manner, he can bind a 
 book ; but, if he would have books to bind, 
 he must either make them or buy them, for 
 we have few or no literati at Olney. Some 
 men have talents with which they do mis- 
 chief; and others have talents with which if 
 they do no mischief to others, at least they 
 can do but little good to themselves. They 
 are however always a blessing, unless by our 
 own folly we make them a curse ; for. if we 
 cannot turn them to a lucrative account, they 
 may however furnish us, at many a dull sea- 
 son, with the means of innocent amusement. 
 Such is the use that Mr. Killingworth makes 
 of his ; and this evening we have, I think, 
 made him happy, having furnisiied him with 
 two octavo volumes, in which the principles 
 and practise of all ingenious arts are incul- 
 cated and explained. I make little doubt 
 that, by the help of them, he will in time be 
 able to perform many feats, for which he 
 will never be one farthing the ricJier, but by 
 which nevertheless himself and his kin will 
 be much diverted. 
 
 The winter returning upon us at tins late 
 season with redoubled severity is an event 
 unpleasant even to us who are well furnished 
 with fuel, and seldom feel much of it, unless 
 when we step into bed or get out of it ; but 
 how mucli more formidable to the poor! 
 When ministers talk of resources, that word 
 never fails to send my imagination into the 
 mud-wall cottages of our poor at Olney. 
 There I lind assembled in one individual the 
 miseries of age, sickness, and the extremest 
 penury. We have many such instances 
 around us. The parish perliaps allows such 
 a one a shilling a week ; but, being numbed 
 with cold and crippled by disease, she cannot 
 possibly earn herself another. Such persons 
 tiierefore suffer all that famine can inflict 
 upon them, only that they are not actually 
 starved ; a catastrophe which so many of 
 them I suppose would prove a happy release. 
 One cause of all this misery is the exorbitant 
 taxation with which the country is encum- 
 bered, so that to the poor the few pence they 
 are able to procure have almost lost their 
 value. Yet the budget will be opened soon, 
 and soon we shall hear of resources. But I 
 could conduct the statesman wiio rolls down 
 to the House in a chariot as splendid as that 
 of Pha3ton into scenes that, if he had any 
 sensibility for the woes of others, would 
 make him tremble at the mention of the 
 word. — This, however, is not, what I intended 
 when I began this paragraph. I was going 
 to observe that, of all the winters we have 
 passed at Olney, and this is the seventeenth, 
 the present has confined us most. Thrice, 
 and but thrice, since the middle of October, 
 have we escaped into the fields for a little 
 
 fresh air and a little change of motion. The 
 last time indeed it was at some peril that we 
 did it, ]\Irs. Unwin having slipped into a ditch, 
 and, thoug 1 I performed the part of an active 
 'squire upon the occasion, escaped out of it 
 upon her hands and knees. 
 
 If the town afibrd any other news than I 
 here send you, it has not reached me yet. I 
 am in perfect health, at least of body, and 
 Mrs. Unwin is tolerably well. Adieu ! We 
 remember you always, you and yours, with 
 as much affection as you can desire ; which 
 being said, and said truly, leaves me quite at 
 a loss for any other conclusion than that of 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 27, 1785 
 
 My dear Friend, — I write merely to in- 
 quire after your health, and with a sincere 
 desire to hear that you are better. Horace 
 somewhere advises his friend to give his 
 client the slip, and come and spend the even- 
 ing with him. I am not so inconsiderate as 
 to recommend the same measure to you, be- 
 cause we are not such very near neighbors 
 as a trip of that sort requires that we should 
 be. But I do verily wish that you would fa- 
 vor me with just five minutes of the time that 
 properly belongs to your clients, and placo 
 it to my account. Employ it, I mean, in 
 telling me that you are better at least, if not 
 recovered. 
 
 I have been pretty much indisposed myself 
 since I wrote last; but except in point of 
 strength am now as well as before. My dis- 
 order was what is commonly called and best 
 understood by the name of a thorough cold; 
 which being interpreted, no doubt you well 
 know, signifies shiverings, aches, burnings, 
 lassitude, together with many other ills that 
 flesh is heir to. James's powder is my nos- 
 trum on all such occasions, and never fails. 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 The next letter discovers the playful and 
 sportive wit of Cowper. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, March 19, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — You will wonder no 
 doubt when I tell you that I write upon a 
 card-table ; and will be still more surprised 
 when I add that we breakfast, dine, sup, 
 upon a card-table. In short, it serves all 
 purposes, except the only one for which it 
 was originally designed. The solution of 
 this mystery shall follow, lest it should run 
 in your head at a wrong time, and should 
 puzzle you perhaps when you are on the 
 point of ascending your pulpit: for I have 
 
 * Private correapondence.
 
 216 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 heard you say that at such seasons your 
 mind is often troubled with impertinent in- 
 trusions. The round table which we for- 
 merly had in use was unequal to the pressure 
 of my superincumbent breast and elbows. 
 When I wrote upon it, it creaked and tilted, 
 and by a variety of inconvenient tricks dis- 
 turbed the process. The ily-table was too 
 slight and too small ; the square dining-table 
 too heavy and too large, occupying, when its 
 leaves were spread, almost tlic whole parlor ; 
 and the sideboard-table, having its station at 
 too great a distance from the fire, and not 
 being«easily shifted out of its place and into 
 it again, by reason of its size, was equally 
 unfit for my purpose. The card-table, there- 
 fore, which had for sixteen years been ban- 
 ished as mere lumber ; the card-table, which 
 is covered with green baize, and is therefore 
 preferable to any other that has a slippery 
 surfjice ; the card-table, that stands firm and 
 never totters, — is advanced to the honor of 
 assisting me upon my scribbling occasions, 
 and, because we choose to avoid the trouble 
 of making frequent changes in the position 
 of our household furniture, proves equally 
 serviceable upon all others. It has cost us 
 now and then the downfall of a glass : for, 
 when covered with a table-cloth, the fish- 
 ponds are not easily discerned; and, not 
 beinof seen, are sometimes as little thouo-ht 
 of But, having numerous good qualities 
 which abundantly compensate that single in- 
 convenience, we spill upon it our coffee, our 
 wine, and our ale, without murmuring, and 
 resolve that it shall be our table still to the 
 exclusion of all others. Not to be tedious, I 
 will add but one more circumstance upon the 
 subject, and that only because it will impress 
 upon you, as much as anything that I iiave 
 said, a sense of the value we set upon its es- 
 critorial capacity. Parched and penetrated 
 on one side by the heat of the fire, it has 
 opened into a large fissure, which pervades 
 not the moulding of it only, but the very 
 substance of the plank. At the mouth of 
 this aperture a sharp splinter presents itself, 
 which, as sure as it comes in contact with a 
 gown or an apron, tears it. It happens un- 
 fortunately to be on that side of this excel- 
 lent and never-to-be-forgotton table which 
 Mrs. Unwin sweeps with her apparel, almost 
 as often as she rises from her chair. The 
 consequences need not, to use the fashionable 
 phrase, be given in detail : but the needle 
 sets all to rights ; and the card-table still 
 nolds possession of its functions without a 
 rival. 
 
 Clean roads and milder weather have once 
 more released us, opening a way for our es- 
 cape into our accustomed walks. We have 
 both I believe been sufferers by such a long 
 confinement. Mrs. Unwin has had a nervous 
 fever all the winter, and I a stomach that has 
 
 quarrelled with everything, and not seldom 
 even with its bread and butter. Her com- 
 plaint I hope is at length removed; but mine 
 seems more obstinate, giving way to nothing 
 that I can oppose to it, except just in the 
 moment when the opposition is made. ] 
 ascribe this malady — both our maladies, in 
 deed — in a great measure to our want of ex- 
 ercise. We have each of us practised more 
 in other days than lately we have been able 
 to take ; and, for my own part, till I was more 
 than thirty years old, it was almost essential 
 to my comfort to be perpetually in motion. 
 My constitution therefore misses, I doubt not, 
 its usual aids of this kind; and, unless foi 
 purposes which I cannot foresee, Providence 
 should interpose to prevent it, will probably 
 reach the moment of its dissolution the 
 sooner for being so little disturbed. A vitia- 
 ted digestion I believe always terminates, if 
 not cured, in the production of some chroni- 
 cal disorder. In several I have known it 
 produce a dropsy. But no matter. Death is 
 inevitable ; and whether we die to-day or to- 
 morrow, a watery death or a dry one, is of no 
 consequence. The state of our spiritual 
 health is all. Could 1 discover a few more 
 symptoms of convalescence there, this body 
 might moulder into its original dust, without 
 one sigh from me. Nothing of all this did I 
 mean to say ; but I have said it, and must now 
 seek another subject. 
 
 One of our most favorite walks is spoiled. 
 The spinney is cut down to the stumps — 
 even the lilacs and the syringas, to the stumps. 
 Little did I think, (though indeed I might have 
 thought it.) that tiie trees which screened me 
 from the sun last summer would this winter 
 be employed in roasting potatoes and boiling 
 tea-kettles for the poor of Olney. But so it 
 has proved : and we ourselves have at this 
 moment more than two wagon-loads of them 
 in our wood-loft. 
 
 Such various services, can trees perform ; 
 Whom once they screen'd from heat, in time they 
 warm. 
 
 A letter from Manchester reached our town 
 last Sunday, addressed to the mayor or other 
 chief magistrate of Olney. The purport of it 
 was to excite him and his neighbors to peti- 
 tion Parliament against the concessions to 
 Ireland that Government has in contempla- 
 tion. Mr. Maurice Smith, as constable, took 
 the letter. But whether that most respecta- 
 ble personage amongst us intends to comply 
 with the terms of it, or not, I am ignorant. 
 For myself, however, I can pretty well an- 
 swer, that I shall sign no petition of the sort; 
 both because I do not think myself compe- 
 tent to a right understanding of the question, 
 and because it appears to me that, whatever 
 be the event, no place in England can be less 
 concerned in it than Olney.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 an 
 
 We rt'joice that you are all well. Our love 
 attends Mrs. Newton and your^elf■, and the 
 young ladies. 
 
 I am yours, my dear friend, as usual, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olnoy, M;iich 20, 1785. 
 
 My dear William, — I thank you lor your 
 letter. It made me laugh, and there are not 
 many things capable of being contained 
 within the dimensions of a letter for which I 
 see cause to be more ihankful. I was pleased 
 too to see my opinion of his lordship's non- 
 chalance, upon a subject that you had so 
 much at heart, completely verified. I do not 
 know that liie eye of a nobleman was ever 
 dissected. I cannot help supposing, however, 
 that were that organ, as it exists in the head 
 of such a personage, to be accurately ex- 
 amined, it would be found to ditfer materi- 
 ally in its construction from the eye of a 
 commoner ; so very different is the view that 
 men in an elevated and in an humble station 
 ha\e of til': same object. W^luit appears 
 great, sublime, beautiful, and important to 
 you and to me, when submitted to my lord 
 or his grace, and submitted too with the ut^ 
 nujst humility, is either too minute to be visi- 
 ble at all, or, if seen, seems trivial and of no 
 account. My supposition therefore seems 
 not altogether chimerical. 
 
 In two months I have corrected proof- 
 slu^ets to the amount of ninety-three pages, 
 and no more. In other words, I have re- 
 ceived three packets. Nothing is quick 
 enough for impatience, and I suppose that 
 the impatience of an author has the quickest 
 of all possible movements. It appears to me, 
 however, that at this rate we shall not pub- 
 lish till next autumn. Should you happen 
 therefore to pass Jolinson's door, pop in your 
 head as you go, and just insinuate to him 
 that, were his remittances rather more fre- 
 quent, that frequency would be no inconve- 
 nience to me. 1 much expected one this 
 evening, a fortnight having now elapsed since 
 the arrival of the last. IJut none came, and 
 I felt myself a little mortified. I took up the 
 newspaper, however, and read it. There I 
 found that the emperor and the Dutch are, 
 after all their negotiatmns, going to war. 
 Such reflections as these struck me. A great 
 part of Europe is going to be involved in the 
 greatest of all calamities: troops are in mo- 
 tion — artillery is drav/n together — cabinets 
 are busied in contriving schemes of blood 
 and devastation — thousands will perish who 
 are incapable of understanding the dispute, 
 and thousands who, wiiatever the event may 
 be, are little more interested in it than my- 
 self, will suffer unspeakable hardships in the 
 course of the quarrel. — Well ! Mr. Poet, and 
 
 how then ? You have composed certain 
 verses, which you are desirous to see in 
 print, and, because the impression seems to 
 be delayed, you are displeased, not to say 
 dispirited. Be ashamed of yourself! you 
 live in a world in which your feelings may 
 find worthier subjects — be concerned for the 
 havoc of nations, and mourn over your re- 
 tarded volume when you find a dearth of 
 more important tragedies ! 
 
 You postpone certain topics of conference 
 to our next meeting. When shall it take 
 place? I do not wish for you just now, be- 
 cause the garden is a wilderness, and so is 
 all the country around us. In May we shall 
 have 'sparagus, and weather in which we 
 may stroll to Weston; at least we may hope 
 for it; therefore come in May: you will find 
 us happy to receive you and as much of your 
 fair houseiiold as you can bring with you. 
 
 We are very sorry for your uncle's indis- 
 position. The approach of summer seems 
 however to be in his favor, that season being 
 of all remedies for the rheumatism, I believe, 
 the most effectual. 
 
 I thank you for your intelligence concern- 
 ing the celebrity of John Gilpin. You may 
 be sure that it was agreeable; but your own 
 feelings, on occasion of that article, pleased 
 mo most of all. Well, my friend, be com- 
 forted! You had not an opportunity of say- 
 ing publicly, " I know the author." ' But the 
 author himself will say as much for you 
 soon, and perhaps will feel in doing so a 
 gratification equal to your own.* 
 
 In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely 
 of your opinion. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, April 9, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — In a letter to the printer 
 of tiie Northampton Mercury, we have the 
 following history: — An ecclesiastic of the 
 name of Ziehen, German superintendent or 
 Lutheran bishop of Zetterfeldt, in the year 
 1779 delivered to the courts of Hanover and 
 Brunswick a prediction to the following ])ur- 
 port: that an earthquake is at hand, the 
 greatest and most destructive ever known ; 
 that it will originate in the Alps and in their 
 neighborhood, especially at Mount St. Goth- 
 ard ; at the foot of which mountain it seems 
 four rivers have their source, of which the 
 Rhine is onef — the names of the rest I have 
 forgotten — they are all to be swallowed up ; 
 
 * Ilo alliules to Uie poem of "Tirocinium,"' whicli was 
 inscribed to Mr. Unwin. 
 
 t Private currespoiuli'nce. 
 
 X Tliis is ii Hfonnipliiciil error. The Rliiiie takes its 
 rise in Hie caiiloii ol' the Crisons. It is the Uhiiiie wliicli 
 derives its source troin tlie western Hank uf Mo\iiil .-^l. 
 (iotliaril, where there are three spring's, wlucii unilo 
 Iheh- waters to that torrent. Tile river Aar rises not l';u 
 distant, but there is no other river.— Ed.
 
 218 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 that the earth will open into an immense fis- 
 sure, which will divide all Europe, reaching 
 from the aforesaid mountain to the states of 
 Holland; that the Zuyder Sea will be ab- 
 sorbed in the gulf; that the Bristol Cliannel 
 will be no more ; in short, tliat the north of 
 Europe will be separated from the south, and 
 that seven thousand cities, towns, and vil- 
 lages will be destroyed. This prediction he 
 delivered at the aforesaid courts in the year 
 seventy-nine, asserting that in February fol- 
 lowing the commotion would begin, and that 
 by Easter 1786 the whole would be accom- 
 plished. Accordingly, between the 1 5th and 
 27th of February, in the year eighty, the pub- 
 lic gazettes and newspapers took notice of 
 several earthquakes in the Alps, and in the 
 regions at their foot; particularly about 
 Mount St. Gothard. From this partial ful- 
 filment, Mr. O argues the probability of 
 
 a complete one, and exhorts the world to 
 watch and be prepared. He adds moreover 
 that Mr. Ziehen was a pious man, a man of 
 science, and a man of sense ; and that when 
 he gave in his writing he offered to swear to 
 it — I suppose, as a revelation from above. 
 He is since dead. 
 
 Nothing in the whole aflfoir pleases me so 
 much as that he has named a short day for 
 the completion of his prophecy. It is tedious 
 work to hold the judgment in suspense for 
 many years ; but anybody methinks may wait 
 with patience till a twelvemonth shall pass 
 away, especially when an earthquake of such 
 magnitude is in question. I do not say that 
 Mr. Ziehen is deceived ; but, if he be not, I 
 will say that he is the first modern prophet 
 who has not both been a subject of deception 
 himself and a deceiver of others. A year 
 will show. 
 
 Our love attends all your family. Believe 
 me, my dear friend, affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, April 22, 178.5. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Wlien I received your 
 account of the great celebrity of John Gilpin, 
 I felt myself both flattered and grieved. 
 Being man, and having in my composition 
 all the ingredients of which other men are 
 made, and vanity among the rest, it pleased 
 me to reflect that I was on a sudden become 
 so famous, and that all the world was busy 
 inquiring after me : but the next moment, 
 recollecting my former self, and that thirteen 
 years ago, as harmless as John's history is, I 
 should not then have written it, my spirits 
 sank, and I was ashamed of my success. 
 Your letter was followed the next post by 
 one from Mr. Unwin. You tell me that I 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 am rivalled by Mrs. Bellamy ;* and he, that 
 I have a competitor for fame not less formid* 
 able in the Learned Pig. Alas ! what is an 
 author's popularity worth in a world that can 
 suffer a prostitute on one side, and a pig on 
 the other, to eclipse his brightest, glories 1 I 
 am therefore sufficiently humbled by these 
 considerations; and, unless I should here- 
 after be ordained to engross the public atten 
 tion by means more magnificent than a song, 
 am persuaded that I shall suffer no real de- 
 triment by their applause. I have produced 
 many things, under the influence of despair, 
 which hope would not have permitted to 
 spring. But if the soil of that melanclioly 
 in which I have walked so long, has thrown 
 up here and there an unprofitable fungus, it 
 is well at least that it is not chargeable with 
 having brought forth poison. Like you, I 
 see, or think I can see, that Gilpin may have 
 his use. Causes, in appearance trivial, pro- 
 duce often the most beneficial consequences ; 
 and perhaps my volumes may now travel to 
 a distance, whicJi, if they had not been ush- 
 ered into the world by that notable horse- 
 man, they would never have reached. Our 
 temper differs somewhat from that of the 
 ancient Jews. They would neither dance 
 nor weep. We indeed weep not, if a man 
 mourn unto us ; but I must needs say that, 
 if he pipe, we seem disposed to dance with 
 the greatest alacrity. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, April 30, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I return you thanks for 
 a letter so warm with the intelligence of the 
 celebrity of John Gilpin. I little thought, 
 when I mounted him upon my Pegasus, that 
 he would become so famous. I have learned 
 also from Mr. Newton that he is equally re- 
 nowned in Scotland, and that a lady there 
 had undertaken to write a second part, on 
 the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to Lon- 
 don ; but, not succeeding in it as she wislied, 
 she dropped it. He tells me likewise that 
 the head master of St. Paul's school (who 
 he \6 I know not) has conceived, in conse- 
 quence of the entertainment that John has af- 
 forded him, a vehement desire to write to n*e. 
 Let us hope he will alter his mind; for, 
 should we even exchange civilities on the 
 occasion. Tirocinium will spoil all. The 
 great estimation however in which this 
 knight of the stone-bottles is held may turn 
 out a circumstance propitious to the volume, 
 of which his history will make a part. Those 
 events that prove the prelude to our greatest 
 success are often apparently triv'k in them- 
 
 * A celebrated actress, who wrote her memoirs, which 
 "vere much read at that time .
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 219 
 
 selves, and such as seemed to promise no- 
 thing. The disappointment tliat Horace men- 
 tions is reversed — We design a mug, and it 
 proves a hogsliead. It is a little hard that I 
 alone should be unfurnished with a printed 
 copy of this facetious story. When you 
 visit London next, you must buy the most 
 elegant impression of it, and bring it with 
 you. I tiiank you also for writing to John- 
 son. I likewise wrote to him myself. Your 
 letter and mine together have operated to 
 admiration. Tiiere needs notiiing more but 
 that the effect be lasting, and the whole will 
 soon be printed. We now draw towards 
 ihe middle of tlie fifth book of "The Task." 
 Tiie man, Johnson, is like unto some vicious 
 horses that I have known. Tliey would not 
 budge till they were spurred, and when they 
 were spurred they would kick. So did he — 
 his temper was somewhat disconcerted; but 
 his pace was quickened, and I was con- 
 tented. * 
 
 I was very much pleased with the follow- 
 ing sentence in Mr. Newton's last — "I am 
 perfectly satisfied with the propriety of your 
 proceeding as to the publication." — Now, 
 therefore, we are friends again. Now he 
 once more inquires after the work, which, 
 till lie had disburdened himself of this ac- 
 knowledgment, neither he nor I in any of 
 our letters to each other ever mentioned. 
 iSome side-wind has wafted to him a report 
 of those reasons by wliich I justified my con- 
 duct. I never made a secret of them. Both 
 your mother and I have studiously deposited 
 them with those who we thought were most 
 likely to transmit them to him. They wanted 
 only a hearing, which once obtained, their 
 solidity and cogency were such that they 
 were sure to prevail. 
 
 You mention . I formerly knew the 
 
 man you mention, but Iiis elder brother much 
 better. We were scliool-fellows, and he was 
 one of a club of seven Westminster men, to 
 wliicli I belonged, who dined together every 
 Thursday. Should it please God to give me 
 ability to perform the poet's part to some 
 purpose, many whom I once called friends, 
 but who have since treated me witii a most 
 magnificent indifference, will be ready to 
 take me by the hand again, and some, whom 
 I never held in that estimation, will, like 
 , who was but a boy when I left Lon- 
 don, boast of a connexion with me whicli 
 they never had. Had I the virtues, and 
 gr.ices, and acconiplisiunents of St. Paul 
 liimself, I miglit have tliem at Olney, and 
 nobody would care a button about me, your- 
 self and one or two more excepted. Fame 
 begets favor, and one talent, if it be rubbed 
 a little bright by use and practice, will pro- 
 cure a man more friends tiian a thousand vir- 
 tues. Dr. Johnson (I believe), in the life of 
 one of our poets, says tluit lie retired from 
 
 the world flattering himself that he should 
 be regretted. But the world never missed 
 him. I think his observation upon it is, that 
 the vacancy made by the retreat of any indi- 
 vidual is soon filled up ; that a man may al- 
 ways be obscure, if he chooses to be so ; and 
 that he who neglects the world will be by the 
 world necflected. 
 
 Your mother and I walked yesterday in 
 the Wilderness. As we entered the gate, a 
 glimpse of something white, contained in a 
 little hole in the gate-post, caught my eye. 
 I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, 
 with two tiny eggs in it. By-and-by they 
 will be fledged, and tailed, and get wing- 
 feathers, and ily. My case is somewhat simi- 
 lar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in 
 a little nook. Here I brood and hatch, and 
 in due time my progeny takes wing and 
 whistles. 
 
 We wait for the time of your coming with 
 pleasant expectations. 
 
 Yours truly, W. C. 
 
 The following letter records an impressive 
 instance of the instability of human life ; and 
 also contains some references, of deep pathos, 
 to his own personal history and feelings. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, May, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I do not know that I 
 shall send you news; but, whether it be 
 news or not, it is necessary that I should re- 
 late the fact, lest I should omit an article of 
 intelligence important at least at Olney. TJie 
 event took place much nearer to you than to 
 us, and yet it is possible that no account of 
 it may yet have reached you. — Mr. Ash- 
 burner the elder went to London on Tues- 
 day se'nnight in perfect health and in high 
 spirits, so as to be remarkably cheerful ; and 
 was brought home in a hearse the Friday 
 following. Soon after his arrival in town, 
 he complained of an acute pain in his elbow, 
 then in his shoulder, then in both shoulders; 
 was blooded ; took two doses of such medi- 
 cine as an apothecary thought might do him 
 good ; and died on Thursday in the morning 
 at ten o'clock. When I first heard the ti- 
 dings I could hardly credit them: and yet 
 have lived long enough myself to have seen 
 manifold and most convincing proofs that 
 neither health, great strength, nor even youth 
 itself, afford the least security from the stroke 
 of death. It is not common, however, for 
 men at the age of thirty-six to die so sud- 
 denly. I saw him but a few days before, 
 with a bundle of gloves and hatbands under 
 his arm, at the door of Geary Ball, who lay 
 at that time a corpse. The following day I 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 220 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 saw him mjirch before the coffin, and lead 
 the procession that attended Geary to the 
 grave. He might be truly said to march, for 
 his step was heroic, his figure athletic, and 
 his countenance as firm and confident as if 
 he had been born only to bury others, and 
 was sure never to be buried iiimself. Such 
 he appeared to me, while 1 stood at the win- 
 dow and contemplated his deportment ; and 
 then he died. 
 
 I am sensible of the tenderness and affec- 
 tionate kindness with which you recollect our 
 past intercourse, and express your hopes of 
 my future restoration. I too, within the last 
 eight months have had my hopes, though 
 they have been of short duration, cut off like 
 the foam upon the waters. Some previous 
 adjustments indeed are necessary, before a 
 lasting expectation of comfort can have place 
 in me. Tiiere are those persuasions in my 
 mind which either entirely forbid the en- 
 trance of hope, or, if it enter, immediately 
 eject it. They are incompatible with any 
 such inmate, and must be turned out them- 
 selves before so desirable a guest can possi- 
 bly have secure possession. This, you say, 
 will be done. It may be, but it is not done 
 yet ; nor has a single step in the course of 
 God's dealings with me been taken towards 
 it. If I mend, no creature ever mended so 
 slowly that recovered at last. I am like a 
 slug or snail, that has fallen into a deep well: 
 slug as he is, he performs his descent with an 
 alacrity proportioned to his weight ; but he 
 does not crawl up again quite so fast. Mine 
 was a rapid plunge ; but my return to day- 
 light, if I am indeed returning, is leisurely 
 enough. I wish you a swift progress, and a 
 pleasant one, through the great subject that 
 you have in hand ;* and set that value upon 
 your letters to which they are in themselves 
 entitled, but which is certainly increased by 
 that peculiar attention which the writer of 
 them pays to me. Were I such as I once 
 Wiis, I should say that I have a claim upon 
 your particular notice which nothing ouglit 
 to supersede. Most of your other connex- 
 ions you may fairly be said to have formed 
 by your own act ; but your connexion with 
 me was the work of God. The kine that 
 went up with the ark from Bethshemish left 
 what they loved behind them, in obedience to 
 an impression which to them was perfectly 
 dark and unintelligible.! Your journey to 
 Huntingdon was not less wonderful. He 
 indeed who sent you knew well wherefore, 
 but you knew not. That dispensation there- 
 fore would furnish me, as long as we can 
 both remember it, with a plea for some dis- 
 tinction at your hands, had I occasion to use 
 
 * Mr. Newton was at this time preparing two volumes 
 Of Sermons for the press, on the subject of the Messiah, 
 preached on the occasion of the Commemoration of 
 Handel. 
 
 t See 1 Sam. vi. 7—10. 
 
 and urge it, which I have not. But I am al- 
 tered since that time ; and if your affection 
 for me has ceased, you might very reason- 
 ably justify youi change by mine. lean say 
 nothing for myself at present ; but this I can 
 venture to foretell, that, should the restora- 
 tion of which my friends assure me obtain, 1 
 shall undoubtedly love those who have con- 
 tinued to love me, even in a state of trans- 
 formation from my former self, much more 
 than ever. I doubt not that Nebuchadnezzar 
 had friends in his prosperity ; all kings have 
 many. But when his nails became like 
 eagles' claws, and he ate grass like an ox, " 
 suppose he had few to pity him. 
 
 VVe are going to pay Mr. Pomfret* a morn 
 ing visit. Our errand is to see a fine bed of 
 tulips, a sight that I never saw. Fine paint- 
 ing, and God the artist. Mrs. Uriwin has 
 something to say in the cover. I leave her 
 therefore to make her own courtesy, and 
 only add that I am yours and Mrs. Newton's 
 Affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Olney, June 4, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — Mr. Greatheed had your 
 letter the day after we received it. J; He is a 
 well-bred, agreeable young man, and one 
 whose eyes have been opened, I doubt not, 
 for the benefit of others, as well as for his 
 own. He preached at Olney a day or two 
 ago, and I have reason to think with accept- 
 ance and success. One persoij^, at least, who 
 had been in prison some weeks, received his 
 enlargement under him. I should have been 
 glad to have been a hearer, but that privilege 
 is not allowed me yet. 
 
 My book is at length printed, and I re- 
 turned the last proof to Johnson on Tuesday. 
 I have ordered a copy to Charles Square, and 
 have directed .Tohnson to enclose one with it, 
 addressed to John Bacon, Esq. I was obliged 
 to give you this trouble, not being sure of 
 the place of his abode. I have taken the 
 liberty to mention him, as an artist, in terms 
 that he well deserves. The passage was 
 written soon after I received the engraving 
 with which he favored me,^ and wliile the 
 ' impression that it made upon me was yet 
 1 warm. He will therefore excuse the liberty 
 ' that I have taken, and place it to the account 
 of those feelings which he himself excited. 
 
 * The rector at that time of Emberton, near Olney. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 t Tlie Ecv. Mr. Greatheed was a man of piety and 
 talent, and much respected in his day. He wrote a short 
 and interesting memoir of Cowper. 
 
 ^ The engraving of Bacon's celebrated monument of 
 Lord Chatham, in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 The passage alluded to is as follows :— 
 
 " Bacon there 
 
 Gives more than female beauty to a stone 
 
 And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips." 
 
 The Task, Book I.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 221 
 
 The walkincr season is returnod. We 
 visit the Wiklerness daily. Mr. 'J'hroekmor- 
 lon last summer presented me vvitii the key 
 of his garden. The family are all absent, 
 except the priest and a servant or two ; so 
 that the honeysuckles, lilacs, and syringas, 
 are all our own. 
 
 We are well, and our united love attends 
 yourselves and the young ladies. 
 Yours, my dear friend. 
 
 With much affection, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 OIney, June 25, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I write in a nook that I 
 call my boudoir. It is a summer-house not 
 much bi£r<rer than a sedan-chair, the door of 
 which opens into the garden, that is now 
 crowded with pinks, roses, and honeysuckles, 
 and the window into my neighbor's orchard. 
 It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, 
 as a smoking-room; and under iny feet is a 
 trap-door which once covered a hole in the 
 ground, where he kept his bottles ; at pres- 
 ent, however, it is dedicated to sublimer 
 uses. Having lined itwitli garden-mats, and 
 furnished it with a table and two cliairs, here 
 I write all that I write in summer time, 
 whether to my friends or to the public. It 
 is secure from all noise, and a refuge from 
 all intrusion ; for intruders sometimes trouble 
 me in the winter evenings at Olney : but 
 (tiianks to my boudoir .') I can now hide my- 
 self from them. A poet's retreat is sacred : 
 they acknowledge the truth of that proposi- 
 tion, and never presume to violate it.* 
 
 The last sentence puts me in mind to tell 
 you that I have ordered my volume to your 
 door. My bookseller is the most dilatory of 
 all his fraternity, or you would have re- 
 ceived it long since. It is more than a month 
 since I returned him the last proof, and con- 
 sequently, since the printing was finished. I 
 sent him the manuscript at the ])eginiiing of 
 last November, that he might publish while 
 the town was full, and he will hit the exact 
 moment when it is entirely empty. Patience 
 (you will perceive) is in no situation ex- 
 empted from the severest trials; a remark 
 that may serve to comfort you under tiie 
 numberless trials of your own. 
 
 w. c. 
 
 * Towpor's summor-lioiise is still in pxi'ttence. It is a 
 smiUl, hiinible biiildiiii;, sitii;ile lit tlie back of ttie prem- 
 ises which he occupied at dhiey, and coiiiinandinii a full 
 view of the church and of the vicarajce-house. Humble 
 however as it appi^ars, it is approached with those feel- 
 iriv'a of veneration which the scene of so many inlerest- 
 Ins recoiled ions cannot fail to inspire. There he wrote 
 "The Tiusk," and most of his Poems, except durini,' (he 
 ri(^or of the winter months. There too lie carri,>d on 
 that cpistolatory correspondence, which ia distiuituished 
 by so rmich wit, ease and grace fulness, and by the over- 
 Uowiiii^rs of a warm and atl'ectionale heart. No traveller 
 Beems to enter wilhout considering il to be the shrine of 
 the muses, and leaving behind a poetical tribute to 
 Uio memory of so distinguished an author. 
 
 Cowper again feelingly alludes in the let^ 
 ter which follows, to that absence of menta. 
 comfort under which he so habitually la- 
 bored. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, June 25, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — A note that we received 
 from Mr. Scott, by your desire, informing us 
 of the amendment of Mrs. Newton's health, 
 demands our thanks, having relieved us from 
 no little anxiety upon her account. The 
 welcome purport of it was soon after con- 
 firmed, so that at present we feel ourselves 
 at liberty to hope that by this time Mrs. 
 Newton's recovery is complete. Sally's looks 
 do credit to the air of Hoxton. She seems 
 to have lost nothing, either in complexion or 
 dimensions, by her removal hence ; and, 
 which is still more to the credit of your 
 great town, she seems in spiritual things 
 also to be the very same Sally whom we 
 knew once at Olney. Situation therefore is 
 nothing. They who have the means of grace 
 and an art to use them, will thrive anywhere; 
 others, nowhere. More than a few, who 
 were formerly ornaments of this garden 
 which you once watered, here flourished, and 
 here have seemed to wither. Others, trans- 
 planted into a soil apparently less favorable 
 to their growth, either find the exchange an 
 advantage, or at least are not impaired by it. 
 Of myself, who had once both leaves and 
 fruit, but who have now neither, I say noth- 
 ing, or only this — that when I am over- 
 whelmed with despair I repine at my barren- 
 ness, and think it hard to be thus blighted ; 
 but when a glimpse of hope breaks in upon 
 me, I am contented to be the sapless thing I 
 am, knowing that He who has commanded 
 me to wither can command me to flourish 
 again when He pleases. My experiences 
 however of this latter kind are rare and tran- 
 sient. The light thtit reaches me cannot be 
 compared either to that of the sun or of the 
 moon. It is a flash in a dark niirht, durinor 
 which the heavens seem opened only to shut 
 again. 
 
 We inquired, but could not learn, that 
 anything memorable passed in the last mo- 
 ments of poor Nathan. I listened in expec- 
 tation that he would at least acknowledge ■ 
 what all who knew him in his more lively 
 days had so long seen and lamented, his 
 neglect of the best things, and his eager pur- 
 suit of riches. But he was totally silent 
 upon that subject. Yet it was evident that 
 the cares of the world had choked in him 
 much of the good seed, and that he was no 
 longer the Nathan whom we have so often 
 heard at the old house, rich in spirit, though 
 poor in expression : whose desires were un- 
 utterable in every sense, both because they 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 222 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 were too big for language, and because Na^ 
 than had no language for them. I believe 
 with you however that he is safe at home. 
 He had a weak head and strong passions, 
 which He who made him well knew, and for 
 which He would undoubtedly make great 
 allowance. The forgiveness of God is large 
 aifd absolute ; so large, tliat though in gen- 
 eral He calls for confession of our sins, He 
 sometimes dispenses with that preliminary, 
 and will not suffer even the delinquent him- 
 self to mention his transgression. He has 
 so forgiven it, that He seems to have forgot- 
 ten it too, and will have tlie sinner to forget 
 it also. Such instances perhaps may not be 
 common, but I know that there have been 
 such, and it might be so with Nathan. 
 
 I know not what Johnson is about, neither 
 do I now inquire. It will be a montli to- 
 morrow since I returned him the last proof 
 He might, I suppose, have published by this 
 time without hurrying himself into a fever, 
 or breaking his neck through the violence of 
 his despatch. But having never seen the 
 book advertised, I conclude that he has not. 
 Had the Parliament risen at the usual time, 
 he would have been just too late, and though 
 it sits longer than usual, or is likely to do 
 so, I should not wonder if he were too late 
 at last. Dr. Johnson laughs at Savage for 
 charging the still-birth of a poem of his 
 upon the bookseller's delay ; yet, when Dr. 
 Johnson had a poem of his own to publish, 
 no man ever discovered more anxiety to 
 meet the market. But I have taken thought 
 about it till I am grown weary of the subject, 
 and at last have placed myself much at my 
 ease upon the cushion of this one resolution, 
 that, if ever I have dealings hereafter with 
 my present manager, we will proceed upon 
 other terms. 
 
 Mr. Wright called here last Sunday, by 
 whom Lord Dartmouth made obliging inqui- 
 ries after the volume, and was pleased to say 
 that he was impatient to see it. I told liim 
 that I had ordered a copy to his lordship, 
 which I hoped he would receive, if not soon, 
 at least before he should retire into the 
 country. I have also ordered one to Mr. 
 Barham. 
 
 We suffer in this country very much by 
 drought. The corn, I believe, is in most 
 places thin, and the hay harvest amounts in 
 some to not more than the fifth of a crop. 
 Heavy taxes, excessive levies for the poor, 
 and lean acres, have brought our farmers al- 
 most to their wits' end ; and many who are 
 not farmers are not very remote from the 
 same point of despondency. I do not de- 
 spond, because I was never much addicted to 
 anxious thoughts about the future in respect 
 of temporals. But I feel myself a little an- 
 gry with a minister who, when he imposed a 
 tax upon gloves, was not ashamed to call 
 
 them a luxury. Caps and boots lined with 
 fur are not accounted a luxury in Russia, 
 neither can gloves be reasonably deemed 
 such in a climate sometimes hardly less se- 
 vere than that. Nature indeed is content 
 with little, and luxury seems, in some re- 
 spect, rather relative than of any fixed con- 
 struction. Accordingly it may become in 
 time a luxury for an Englishman to wear 
 breeches, because it is possible to exist with- 
 out them, and because persons of a moderate 
 income may find them too expensive. I 
 hope however to be hid in the dust before 
 that day shall come ; for, having worn them 
 so many years, if they be indeed a luxury, 
 they are such a one as I could very ill spare ; 
 yet spare them I must, if I cannot afford to 
 wear them. 
 
 We are tolerably well in health, and as to 
 spirits, much as usual — seldom better, some- 
 times worse. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, 
 
 W. C 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, July 9, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You wrong your own 
 judgment when you represent it as not to be 
 trusted ; and mine, if you suppose that I 
 have that opinion of it. Had you disap- 
 proved, I should have been hurt and morti- 
 fied. No man's disapprobation would have 
 hurt me more. Your fiivorable sentiments 
 of my book must consequently give me 
 pleasure in the same proportion. By the 
 post, last Sunday, I had a letter from Lord 
 Dartmouth, in which he thanked me for my 
 volume, of which he had read only a part. 
 Of that part however he expresses himself in 
 terms with which my authorship has abun- 
 dant cause to be satisfied ; and adds that the 
 specimen has made him impatient for the 
 whole. I have likewise received a letter 
 from a judicious friend of mine in London, 
 and a man of fine taste, unknown to you, 
 who speaks of it in the same language. 
 Fortified by these cordials, I feel myself 
 qualified to face the world without much 
 anxiety, and delivered in a great measure 
 from those fears which I suppose all men 
 feel upon the like occasion. 
 
 My first volume I sent, as you may remem- 
 ber, to the Lord Chancellor, accompanied by 
 a friendly but respectful epistle. His Lord- 
 ship however thought it not worth his while 
 to return me any answer, or to take the least 
 notice of my present. I sent it also to Col- 
 man, with whom 1 once was intimate. He 
 likewise proved too great a man to recollect 
 me ; and, though he has published since, did 
 not account it necessary to return the com 
 pliment. I have allowed myself to be a little 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 223 
 
 pleased with an opportunity to show them 
 that I resent their treatment of nie, and iiave 
 Bent this book to neither of them. They in- 
 deed are tlie former friends to whom I par- 
 ticuhirly allude in my epistle to Mr. Hill ; 
 and it is possible that they may take to 
 themselves a censure that they so well de- 
 servo. If not, it matters not; for I shall 
 never have any communication witii them 
 hereafter. 
 
 If Mr. Bates has found it difficult to fur- 
 nish you with a motto to your volumes I 
 have no reason to imagine that I shall do it 
 easily. I shall not leave my books unran- 
 sacked ; but there is something so new and 
 peculiar in the occasion that suggested your 
 subject, tiiat I question whether in all the 
 classics can be found a sentence suited to it. 
 Our sins and follies, in this country, assume 
 a sh.'ipe that heathen writers had never any 
 opportunity to notice. They deified the 
 dead indeed, but not in the Temple of Ju- 
 piter.* Tiie new-made god had an altar of 
 his own ; and they conducted the ceremony 
 without sacrilege or confusion. It is pos- 
 sible however, and I think barely so, that 
 somewhat may occur susceptible of accom- 
 nodation to your purpose : and if it should, 
 
 shall be happy to serve you with it. 
 
 I told you, I believe, that the spinney has 
 been cut down; and, though it may seem 
 suflicient to have mentioned such an occur- 
 rence once, I cannot help recurring to the 
 melancholy theme. Last night, at near nine 
 o'clock, we entered it for the first time this 
 suunner. We had not walked many yards 
 in it, before we perceived that this pleasant 
 retreat is destined never to be a pleasnnt re- 
 treat again. In one more year, the whole 
 will be a thicket. That which was once the 
 serpentine walk is now in a state of trans- 
 fiirmntion, and is already become as woody 
 as the rest. Poplars and elms without num- 
 ber are springing in the turf. They are 
 now as high as the knee. Before the sum- 
 mer is ended they will be twice as high; 
 and the growth of another season will make 
 them trees. It will then be impossible for 
 any but a sportsman and his dog to penetrate 
 it. The desolation of the wliole scene is 
 such that it sank our spirits. The ponds are 
 dry. The circular one, in front of the her- 
 mitage, is filled with flags and rushes ; so 
 that if it contains any water, not a drop is 
 visible. The weeping willow at the side of 
 
 * Cownor alludes, in this passnjje, to the Comnipmora- 
 lidu of iliiiuli'l, in Wc'slmiiiskT Abbey, and its resem- 
 blance to an act of canonization. His censuro is doubly 
 lecorded ; in poetry, as well as in proso : — 
 Ton thousand sit 
 
 Patiently present at a sacred sonpf. 
 
 Commemoration mad ; content to hear 
 
 (() Wonderful efTect of Music's power !) 
 
 Messiah's eulosy for Handel's sake. 
 
 Uut less, mcthinKa, ttiou eacrilege mieht serve," ice. 
 
 The Task, Book VI. 
 
 it, the only ornamental plant that has es- 
 caped the axe, is dead. The ivy and the 
 moss, with which the hermitage was lined, 
 are torn away ; and the very mats that cov- 
 ered the benches have been stripped oft", 
 rent in tatters, and trodden under foot. So 
 farewell, spinney ; I have promised myself 
 that I will never enter it again. We have 
 both prayed in it : you for me, and I for you. 
 But it is desecrated from this time forth, and 
 the voice of prayer will be heard in it no 
 more. The fate of it in this respect, how- 
 ever deplorable, is not peculiar. The .spot 
 where Jacob anointed his pillar, and, which 
 is more apposite, the spot once honored 
 with the presence of Him who dwelt in the 
 bush, have long since suffered similar dis- 
 grace, and are become common ground. 
 
 There is great severity in the application 
 of the text you mention — I am their music. 
 But it is not the worse for that. We both 
 approve it highly. The other in Ezekiel 
 does not seem quite so pat. The prophet 
 complains that his word was to the people 
 like a pleasant song, heard with delight, but 
 soon forgotten. At the Commemoration, I 
 suppose that the word is nothing, but the 
 music all in all. The Bible however will 
 abundantly supply you with iipplicable pas- 
 sages. All passages, indeed, that animadvert 
 upon the profanation of God's house and 
 worship seem to present themselves upon 
 the occasion. 
 
 Accept our love and best wishes; and be- 
 lieve me, my dear friend, with warm and true 
 alfection, 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olnoy, July 07, 17P5. 
 
 I\Iy dear William, — You and your party 
 left me in a frame of mind that indisposed 
 me much to company. I comforted myself 
 with the hope that I should spend a silent 
 day, in which I should find abundant leisure 
 to indulge sensations, which, though of the 
 melancholy kind, I yet wished to nourish. 
 But that hope proved vain. In less than an 
 
 hour after your departure, Mr. made 
 
 his appearance at the greenhouse door. We 
 were obliged to ask him to dinner, and he 
 dined with us. He is an agreeable, sensible, 
 well-bred young man, but with all his recom- 
 mendations I felt that on that occasion 1 
 could have spared him. So much better are 
 the absent, whom we love much, than the 
 present whom we love a little. I have how- 
 ever made myself amends since, and, nothing 
 else having interfered, have sent many a 
 thought after you. 
 
 You had been gone two days, when a vio' 
 lent thunder-storm came over us. [ wai 
 passing out of the parlor into the hall, with
 
 224 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Mungo at my heels, when a flash seemed to 
 fill tlie room with fire. In the same instant 
 canie the chip, so that the explosion was, I 
 suppose, perpendicular to the roof. IMungo's 
 courage upon the tremendous occasion con- 
 strained me to smile, in spite of the solemn 
 impression that such an event never fails to 
 affect me witli — the moment that he heard 
 the thunder (which was like the hurst of a 
 great gun) with a wrinkled forehead, and 
 with eyes directed to the ceiling, whence the 
 sound seemed to proceed, he barked ; but he 
 barked exactly in concert with the thunder. 
 It thundered once, and he barked once, and 
 so precisely the very instant when the thun- 
 der happened, that both sounds seemed to 
 be^in and end together. Some dogs will 
 clap their tails close, and sneak into a corner 
 at such a time, but Mungo it seems is of a 
 more fearless family. A house at no great 
 distance from ours was the mark to which 
 the lightning was directed ; it knocked down 
 the chimney, split the building, and carried 
 away tho corner of the next house, in which 
 lay a fellow drunk and asleep upon his bed. 
 It roused and terrified him, and he promises 
 to get drunk no more ; but I have seen a 
 woeful end of many such conversions. I 
 remember but one such storm at Olney since 
 I have known the place, and I am glad that 
 it did not happen two days sooner for the 
 sake of the ladies, who would probably, one 
 of them at least, have been alarmed by it. I 
 have received, since you went, two very flat- 
 tering letters of thanks, one from Mr. Bacon, 
 and one from Mr. Barham, such as might 
 make a lean poet plump and an humble poet 
 proud. But, being myself neither lean nor 
 humble, I know of no other effect they had 
 than that they pleased me ; and I communi- 
 cate the intelligence to you, not without an 
 assured hope that you will be pleased also. 
 We are now going to walk, and thus far I 
 have written before I have received your 
 letter. 
 
 Friday. — I must now be as compact as 
 possible. When I began, I designed four 
 sides, but, my packet being tranformed into 
 two single epistles, I can consequently aflTord 
 you but three. I have filled a large sheet 
 with animadversions upon Pope. I am pro- 
 ceeding with my translation — 
 
 " Velis et remis, omnibus nervis," 
 
 as Hudibras has it ; and if God give me 
 health and ability, will put it into your hands 
 
 when I see you next. Mr. has just left 
 
 us. He has read my book, and, as if fearful 
 that I had overlooked some of them myself, 
 has pointed out to me all its beauties. I do 
 assure you the man has a very acute discern- 
 ment, and a taste that I have no fiiult to find 
 with. I hope that you are of the same opinion. 
 Be not Borry that your love of Christ was 
 
 excited in you by a picture. Could a dog o; 
 a cat suggest to me the thought that Christ 
 is precious, I would not despise that thought 
 because a dog or cat suggested it. The 
 meanness of the instrument cannot debase 
 the nobleness of the principle. He that 
 kneels before a picture of Christ is an idola- 
 ter. But he in whose heart the sight of a 
 picture kindles a warm remembrance of the 
 Saviour's sufferings, must be a Christian. 
 Suppose that I dream, as Gardiner did, that 
 Christ walks before me, that he turns and 
 smiles upon me, and fills my soul with inef- 
 fixble love and joy, will a man tell me that I 
 am deceived, that I ought not to love or re- 
 joice in him for such a reason, because a 
 dream is merely a picture drawn upon the 
 imagination ! I hold not with such divinity. 
 To love Ciu-ist is the greatest dignity of man, 
 be that affection wrought in him how it may. 
 Adieu ! May the blessing of God be upon 
 you all ! It is your mother's heart's wish 
 and mine. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 The humble and unostentatious spirit and 
 the fine tone of Christian feeling which per- 
 vade the following letter, impart to it a pe- 
 culiar interest. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Aug. 6, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — I found your account of 
 what you experienced in your state of 
 maiden authorship very entertaining, because 
 very natural. I suppose that no man ever 
 made his first sally from the press without a 
 conviction that all eyes and ears would be 
 engaged to attend him, at least, without a 
 thousand anxieties lest they should not. 
 But, however arduous and interesting such 
 an enterprise may be in the first instance, it 
 seems to me that our feelings on the occa- 
 sion soon become obtuse. I can answer at 
 least for one. Mine are by no means what 
 they were when I published my first volume. 
 I am even so indifferent to the matter, that I 
 can truly assert myself guiltless of the very 
 idea of my book, sometimes whole days to- 
 gether. God knows that, my mind having 
 been occupied more than twelve years in the 
 contemplation of the most distressing sub- 
 jects, the world, and its opinion of what I 
 write, is become as unimportant to me as the 
 whistling of a bird in a bush. Despair made 
 amusement necessary, and I found poetry the 
 most agreeable amusement. Had I not en- 
 deavored to perform my best, it would not 
 have amused me at all. The mere blotting 
 of so much paper would have been but indiS 
 ferent sport. God gave me grace also to 
 wish that I might not write in vain. Ac- 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 225 
 
 cordingly I have mingled much truth with 
 much trifle ; and such truths as deserved at 
 least to be clad as well and as handsomely as 
 I could clothe them. If the world approve 
 me not, so much the worse for them, but not 
 for me. I have only endeavored to serve 
 them, and the loss will be their own. And 
 as to their commendations, if I should chance 
 to win them, I feel myself equally invulner- 
 able there. The view that I have had of 
 myself, for many years, has been so truly 
 humihating, that 1 think the praises of all 
 mankind could not hurt me. God knows 
 that I speak my present sense of the matter 
 at least most truly, when I say that the ad- 
 miration of creatures like myself seems to 
 me a weapon the least dangerous that my 
 worst enemy could employ against me. I 
 am fortified against it by such solidity of real 
 self-ab;t8eraont, that I deceive myself most 
 egregiously if I do not heartily despise it. 
 Praise belongeth to God; and I seem to my- 
 self to covet it no more than I covet divine 
 honors. Could I assuredly hope that God 
 would at last deliver me, I should have rea- 
 son to thank him for all that I have suffered, 
 were it only for the sake of this single fruit 
 of my affliction — that it has taught me how 
 much more contemptible I am in myself than 
 I ever before suspected, and has reduced my 
 former share of self-knowledge (of which at 
 that time I had a tolerably good opinion) to 
 a mere nullity, in comparison wilii what I 
 have acquired since. Self is a subject of in- 
 scrutable misery and mischief, and can never 
 be studied to so much advantage as in the 
 dark ; for as the bright beams of the sun 
 seem to impart a beauty to the foulest ob- 
 jects, and can make even a dunghill smile, 
 so the light of God's countenance, vouch- 
 safed to a fallen creature, so sweetens him 
 and softens him for the time, that he seems, 
 both to others and to himself, to have noth- 
 ing savage or sordid about him. But the heart 
 is a nest of serpents, and icill he such ichilst 
 it continues to beat. If God cover the month 
 of that nest with his hand, they are hush and 
 snug ; but if he imthdraio his hand, the whole 
 family lift up their heads and hiss, and are as 
 active and venomous as ever. This I always 
 professed to believe from the time that I had 
 embraced the truth, but never knew it as I 
 know it now. To what end I have been 
 made to know it as I do, whether for the 
 benefit of others, or for my own, or for 
 both, or for neither, will appear hereafter. 
 
 What I have written leads me naturally to 
 the mention of a matter that I had forgot. I 
 should blame nobody, not even my intimate 
 friends, and those who have the most fovor- 
 ablc opinion of me, were they to charge the 
 publication of John Gilpin, at the end of so 
 much solemn and serious truth, to the score 
 of the author's vanity ; and to suspect that, 
 
 however sober I may be upon proper occa- 
 sions, I have yet that itch of popularity that 
 would not suffer me to sink my title to a jest 
 that had been so successful. But the case ia 
 not such. When I sent the copy of " ThA 
 Task" to Johnson, I desired, indeed, Mr. 
 Unwin to ask him the question wiiether or 
 not he would choose to make it a part of the 
 volume? This I did merely with a view to 
 promote the sale of it. Johnson answered, 
 " By all means." Some months afterwards 
 he enclosed a note to me in one of my pack- 
 ets, in which he expressed a change of mind, 
 alleging, that to print John Gilpin would 
 only be to print what had been hackneyed in 
 every magazine, in every shop, and at the 
 corner of every street. I answered that I 
 desired to be entirely governed by his opin- 
 ion ; and that if he chose to waive it, I 
 should be better pleased with the omission. 
 Nothing more passed between us upon the 
 subject, and I concluded that I should never 
 have the immortal honor of being generally 
 known as the author of John Gilpin. In the 
 last packet, however, down came John, very 
 fairly printed and equipped for public ap- 
 pearance. The business having taken this 
 turn, I concluded that Johnson had adopted 
 my original thought, that it might prove ad- 
 vantageous to the sale ; and as he had had 
 the trouble and expense of printing it, I cor- 
 rected the copy, and let it pass. Perhaps, 
 however, neither the book nor the writer 
 may be made much more famous by John's 
 good company than they would have been 
 without it; for the volume has never yet 
 been advertised, nor can I learn that Johnson 
 intends it. He fears the expense, and the 
 consequence must be prejudicial. Many who 
 would purchase will remain uninformed : but 
 I am perfectly content. 
 
 I have considered your motto, and like the 
 purport of it; but the best, because tlie most 
 laconic manner of it, seems to be this — 
 
 Cum talis sis, sis noster; 
 
 utinam being, in my account of it, unneces- 
 sary.* 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, most truly, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 OIney, Aug. 17, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — I did very warmly and 
 very sincerely thank Mr. Bacon for his most 
 friendly and obliging letter; but, having writ- 
 ten my acknowledgements in the cover, I 
 suppose that they escaped your notice. I 
 should not have contented myself with trans- 
 mitting them through your hands, but should 
 
 o Tlic original pa.ssnge is as follows : — 
 
 Cum talis sis, utinam noster esses. 
 
 rf intrndi'd, therefore, as a quotation, it should be quoted 
 williout alteration. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 15
 
 226 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 have addressed them immediately to himself, 
 but that I foresaw plainly this inconvenience : 
 that in writing to liim on such an occasion, I 
 must almost unavoidably make self and self's 
 book the subject. Therefore it was, as Mr. 
 Unwin can vouch for me, tliat I denied myself 
 that pleasure. I place tliis matter now in the 
 van of all that I have to say : first, that you 
 may not overlook it ; secondly, because it is 
 uppermost in my consideration ; and thirdly, 
 because I am impatient to be exculpated from 
 the seeming omission. 
 
 You told me, I think, that ycm seldom read 
 the papers. In our last we had an extract 
 from Johnson's Diary, or whatever else he 
 called it. It is certain that the publisher of 
 it is neither much a friend to the cause of re- 
 ligion, nor to the author's memory ; for, by 
 the specimen of it that has reached us, it 
 seems to contain only such stuff as has a direct 
 tendency to expose both to ridicule. His 
 prayers for the dead, and his minute account 
 of the rigor with which he observed church 
 ftists, whether he drank tea or coffee, whether 
 with sugar or without,' and whether one or 
 two dishes of either, are the most important 
 items to be found in this childish register of 
 the great Johnson, supreme dictator in the 
 chair of literature, and almost a driveller in 
 his closet ; a melancholy witness to testify 
 how much of the wisdom of this world may 
 consist with almost infantine ignorance of the 
 affairs of a better. I remember a good man 
 at Huntingdon, wlio, I doubt not, is now with 
 God, and he also kept a Diary. After his 
 death, through the neglect or foolish wanton- 
 ness of his executors, it came abroad for the 
 amusement of his neiglibors. All the town 
 saw it, and all the town found it highly di- 
 verting. It contained much more valuable 
 matter than the poor Doctor's journal seems 
 to do ; but it contained also a faithful record 
 of all his deliverances from wind, (for he was 
 much troubled with flatulence,) together with 
 pious acknowledgments of the mercy. There 
 is certainly a call for gratitude, whatsoever 
 benefit we receive ; and it is equally certain 
 that we ought to be humbled under the re- 
 collection of our least offences ; but it would 
 have been as well if neither my old friend 
 had recorded his eructations, nor the Doctor 
 his dishes of sugarless tea, or the dinner at 
 which he ate too much. I wonder, indeed, 
 that any man of such learned eminence as 
 Johnson, who knew that every word he ut- 
 tered was deemed oracular, and that every 
 scratch of his pen was accounted a treasure, 
 should leave behind him what he would have 
 blushed to exhibit while he lived. If Virgil 
 would have burnt his ^neid, how much more 
 reason had thest? good men to have burnt 
 their journals ! 
 
 Mr. Perry will leave none such behind him. 
 He is dying, as I suppose you have heard. 
 
 Dr. Kerr, who, I think, has visited him twice 
 or thrice, desired at his last visit to be no 
 more sent for. He pronounced his case hope- 
 less ; for that his thigh and leg must mortify. 
 He is however in a most comfortable frame 
 of mind. So long as he thought it possible 
 that he might recover, he was much occupied 
 with a review of his ministry ; and, under a 
 deep impression of his deficiencies in that 
 
 function, assured Mr. R that he intended, 
 
 when he should enter upon it again, to be 
 much more diligent than he had been. He 
 was conscious, he said, that many fine things 
 had been said of him ; but that, though he 
 trusted he had found grace so to walk as not 
 to dishonor his otfice, he was conscious at the 
 same time how little he deserved them. This, 
 with much more to the same purport, passed 
 
 on Sunday last. On Thursday, Mr. R 
 
 was with him again ; and at that time Mr. 
 Perry knew that he must die. The rules and 
 cautions that he had before prescribed to 
 himself, he then addressed directly to his 
 visitor. He exhorted him by all means to be 
 earnest and aftectionate in his applications to 
 the unconverted, and not less solicitous to 
 admonish the careless, with a head full of 
 light, and a heart alienated from the ways of 
 God ; and those, no less, who being wise in 
 their own conceit, wei'e much occupied with 
 matters above their reach, and very little with 
 subjects of immediate and necessary concern. 
 He added that he had received from God, 
 during his illness, other views of sin than he 
 had ever been fevered with before ; and ex- 
 horted him by all means to be watchful. 
 
 Mr. R being himself the reporter of these 
 
 conversations, it is to be supposed that they 
 impressed him. Admonitions from such lips, 
 and in a dying time too, must have their 
 weight ; and it is well witli the hearer, when 
 the instruction abides with him. But our 
 own view of these matters is, I believe, that 
 alone which can effectually serve us. The 
 representations of a dying man may strike us 
 at tJie time ; and, if they stir up in us a spirit 
 of self-examination and inquiry, so that we 
 rest not till we have made his views and ex- 
 perience our own, it is well ; otherwise, the 
 wind that passes us is hardly sooner gone 
 tlian the eftect of the most serious exhorta- 
 tions. 
 
 Farewell, my friend. My views of my 
 spiritual state are, as you say, altered; but 
 they are yet far from being such as they must 
 be, before I can be enduringly comforted. 
 Yours unfeignedly, W. C. 
 
 The Diary of Dr. Johnson, adverted to in 
 the last letter, created both surprise and dis- 
 appointment. The great moralist of the age 
 there appears in his real character, distinct 
 from that external splendor with which popu- 
 lar admiration always encircles the brow of
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 227 
 
 genius The portrait is drawn by his own 
 hand. We cannot withhold our praise from 
 the ingenuousness with which he discloses the 
 secret recesses of his heart, and the fidehty 
 with which conscience exercises its inquisito- 
 rial power over the life and actions. We are 
 also affected by the deep humility, the con- 
 fession of sin, and the earnest appeal for 
 mercy, discernible in many of the prayers 
 and meditations. But viewed as a whole, this 
 Diary creates painful feelings, and affords oc- 
 casion for much reflection. If therefore we 
 indulge in a few remarks, founded on some 
 of tiie extracts, it is not to detract from the 
 higli fame of so distinguished a scholar, whom 
 we consider to have enlarged the bounds of 
 British literature, and to have acquired a last- 
 ing title to public gratitude and esteem, but 
 to perform a solemn and conscientious duty.* 
 We are now arrived at a period when it is 
 high time to establisli certain great and mo- 
 mentous truths in the public mind; and, 
 among those that are of primary importance, 
 to prove that conversion is not a term, but a 
 principle ; not the designation of a party but 
 the enjoined precept of a Saviour; the evi- 
 dence of our claim to the title of Christian, 
 and indispensable to constitute our meetness 
 for the enjoyment of heaven. 
 
 We now extract the following passages 
 from the Diary of Dr. Johnson, with tlie in- 
 tention of adding a few comments. 
 
 Easter-day, 1765. — " Since the last Easter, 
 I have reformed no evil habit ; my time has 
 been unprofitably spent, and seems as a dream, 
 that has left nothing behind. My memory 
 grows confused, and I know not how the 
 days pass over me." 
 
 " I purpose to rise at eight, because, thougli 
 1 shall not yet rise early, it will be mucii 
 earlier than I now rise, for I often lie till two ; 
 and will gain me much time, and tend to a 
 conquest over idleness, and give time for 
 other duties." 
 
 Sept. 18, 1768. — " I have now begun the 
 sixtieth year of my life. How the last year 
 has past I am unwilling to terrify myself 
 with thinking." 
 
 Jan. 1, 1769. — "I am now about to begin 
 another year: how the last has passed it 
 would be, in my state of weakness, per- 
 haps not prudent too solicitously to recol- 
 iect." 
 
 1772. — " I resolved last Easter to read, 
 within the year, the whole Bible, a very great 
 part of which I had never looked upon. I 
 read the Greek Testament witliout constru- 
 
 * " If there is a regard due to the mcinon- of the dead, 
 there is yet more respect to be paid to knowledge, to vir- 
 tue, and to truth." 
 
 " It is the business of a bioa;rapher to pass lisihtly over 
 tliose perforinances and actions which produce vulvar 
 greatness; to lead the thoucj;lits into domestic privacies, 
 and display the minute details of daily life, where ex- 
 teric r appearances are laid aside." — Uamblcr, No. GO, 
 Vol. ii. 
 
 ing, and this day concluded the Apocalypse. 
 1 tiiink that no part was missed." 
 
 " My purpose of reading the rest of the 
 Bible was forgotten, till I took by chance the 
 resolutions of last Easter in my hand." 
 
 " I hope to read the whole Bible once a 
 year, as long as I hve." 
 
 April 26. — " It is a comfort to me, that at 
 last, in my sixty-third year, I have attained to 
 know, even thus hastily, confusedly, and im- 
 perfectly, what my Bible contains." 
 
 1775. — " Yesterday, I do not recollect that 
 to go to church came into my thoughts; but I 
 sat in my chamber preparing for preparation: 
 interrupted I know not how. I was near two 
 hours at dinner." 
 
 1777. — "I have this year omitted church 
 on most Sundays, intending to supply the 
 deficiency in the week. So that I owe twelve 
 attendances on ivorship." 
 
 " When I look back upon resolutions of 
 improvement and amendment wiiich have, 
 year after year, been made and broken, either 
 hy negligence, forgetfulness, vicious idleness, 
 casual interruption, or morbid infirmity ; when 
 I find that so much of my life has stolen un- 
 profitably away, and that I can descry, by re- 
 trospection, scarcely a few single days prop- 
 erly and vigorously employed, why do I yet 
 try to resolve again ? I try, because reforma- 
 tion is necessary, and despair criminal ; I try 
 in humble hope of the help of God."* 
 
 Our sole object, in the introduction of 
 these extracts, is to found upon them an ap- 
 peal to those who question the necessity of 
 conversion, in that higher sense and accepta- 
 tion which implies an inward principle ot 
 grace, changing and transforming the heart. 
 We would beg to ask whether it was not the 
 want of the vital power and energy of this 
 principle, that produced in Johnson the vacil- 
 lation of mind and purpose, which we have 
 just recorded ; the hours lost ; the resolu- 
 tions broken ; the Sabbaths violated ; and 
 the sacred volume not read, till the shades of 
 evening advanced upon him? What instance 
 can be adduced that more clearly demon- 
 strates the insuflicieney of the highest ac- 
 quirements of human learning, and that noth- 
 ing but a Divine power can illuminate the 
 mind, and convert the heart? Happily, 
 Johnson is known to have at length found 
 what he needed, and to have died with a full 
 hope of iminortality.f 
 
 But we would go further. We maintain 
 that all men, without respect of character or 
 person, need conversion ; for "all have sinned, 
 and come short of the glory of God;" all par- 
 take of the corruption and infirmities of a 
 fallen nature, and inherit the primeval curse. 
 Siiall reason, siiall philosophy effect the cure 1 
 Reason sees what is right; erring nature, 
 in despite of reason, follows what is wrong 
 
 * See Dian jf Dr. .Johnson. t Seo p. 191.
 
 228 
 
 COWPER'S WORKh. 
 
 Philosophy can panetrate into the abstrusest 
 mysteries, ascertain by wluit laws the uni- 
 verse is governed, and trace the heavenly 
 bodies in their courses, but cannot eradicate 
 one evil passion from the soul. Where then 
 lies the remedy ? The Gospel reveals it. 
 And what is the Gospel 1 The Gospel is a 
 dispensation of grace and mercy, for the re- 
 covery of fallen man, and the apjdicalmn of 
 this remedy to the heart and conscience effects 
 that conversion of u-hich tve are speaking. 
 But by whom or by what applied ? By Him 
 who holds "the keys of heaven and of hell," 
 who " openeth, and no man shutteth," and 
 whose prerogative it is to say, "Behold, I 
 make all tilings new."* And how ? By his 
 word, and by his Spirit. " He sent his word 
 and liealed them."t " Being born again, not 
 of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by 
 the ivord of God, wb'mh liveth and abideth for- 
 ever."! The word is the appointed instru- 
 ment, the Spirit, the mighty agent which 
 gives the quickening power ij not by any su- 
 pernatural revelation, but in the ordinary op- 
 erations of divine grace, and consistently wiih 
 the freedom and co-operation of man as a 
 moral agent ; speaking pardon and peace to 
 the conscience, and delivering from the 
 tyranny of sense and the slavery of fear, by 
 proclaiming " liberty to the 'captive, and 
 the opening of the prison to them that are 
 bound." 
 
 The last subject for reflection suggested 
 by the Diary of Dr. Johnson, is the frequent 
 neglect of the Sabbath, and his confession that 
 he had lived a stranger to the greater part of 
 the contents of Ids Bible till the sixty-third year 
 of his age. This is an afflicting record, and 
 we notice the fact, from a deep conviction 
 that piety can never retain its power and as- 
 cendancy in the heart, where the Bible is not 
 read, and the ordinances of God are frequent- 
 ly neglected. When will genius learn that 
 its noblest attribute is to light its tires at the 
 lamp of divine truth, and that the union of 
 piety and learning is the highest perfection 
 of our nature ? We beg to commend to the 
 earnest attention of the student the following 
 eloquent testimony to the sacred volume from 
 the pen of Sir William Jones. 
 
 "I have carefully and regularly perused 
 these Holy Scriptures, and am of opinion 
 that the Volume, independently of its divine 
 origin, contains more sublimity, purer moral- 
 ity, more important history, and finer strains 
 of eloquence, than can be collected from all 
 other books, in whatever language they may 
 have been written."|| 
 
 * Rev. xxi. 5. t Psalm cvii. 20. 
 
 % 1 Pet. i. 2J. See also Heb. i v. 12. 
 
 ^ " [t is thu spirit that quickeneth." John vi. G3. The 
 union of the Word and the Spirit in imparting spiritual 
 Hfe to the soul >s forcibly expressed in the same verse : 
 •'The words ths»; I speak imto you, they are spirit and 
 Ihey are life." 
 
 II See Lord Teignmouth's Life of Sir William Jones. 
 
 Having quoted Sir William Jones's testi- 
 mony, we conclude by urging his example. 
 
 " Before thy mystic altar, Heavenly Truth, 
 I kneel in manhood, as I knelt in youth: 
 Thus let me kneel till this dull form decay, 
 And life's last shade be brighten'd by thy ray. 
 Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below, 
 Soar without bound, without consuming glow."* 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. 
 
 Olney, August 27, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I was low in spirits yes- 
 terday, when your parcel came and raised 
 them. Every proof of attention and regard 
 to a man who lives in a vinegar-bottle is wel- 
 come from his friends on the outside of it ; 
 accordingly your books were welcome (you 
 must not forget, by the way, that I want the 
 original, of which you have sent me the trans- 
 lation only), and the ruffles from Miss Shut- 
 tleworth most welcome. I am covetous, if 
 ever man was, of living in the remembrance 
 of absentees, whom I highly value and es- 
 teem, and consequently felt myself much gral^ 
 ified by her very obliging present. I have 
 had more comfort, far more comfort, in the 
 connexions that I have formed within the last 
 twenty years, than in the more numerous 
 ones that I had before. 
 
 Memorandum. — The latter are almost all 
 Unwins or Unwinisras. 
 
 You are entitled to my thanks also for the 
 facetious engravings of John Gilpin. A se- 
 rious poem is like a swan : it flies heavily, and 
 never far ; but a jest has the wings of a swal- 
 low that never tire, and that carry it into 
 every nook and corner. I am perfectly a 
 stranger, however, to the reception that my 
 volume meets with, and, I believe, in respect 
 of my nonchalance upon that subject, if au- 
 thors would but copy so fair an example, am 
 a most exemplary character. I must tell you 
 nevertheless that, although the laurels that I 
 gain at Olney will never minister much to my 
 pride, I have acquired some. The Rev. Mr. 
 Scott is my admirer, and thinks my second 
 volume superior to my first. It ought to be 
 so. If we do not improve by practice, then 
 nothing can mend us; and a man has no more 
 cause to be mortified at being told that he has 
 excelled himself, than the elephant had, whose 
 praise it was that he was the greatest elephant 
 in the world, himself excepted. 
 
 If it be fair to judge of a book by an extract, 
 I do not wonder that you were so little edi- 
 fied by Johnson's Journal. It is even more 
 
 ridiculous than was poor 's, of flatulent 
 
 memory. The portion of it given to us in 
 this day's paper contains not one sentiment 
 worth one tixrthing except the last, in which 
 he resolves to bind himself with no more un- 
 
 *Ibid.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 22t 
 
 bidden obligations. Poor man! one would 
 think that to pray for his dead wife, and to 
 pinch himself with ehurch-fasts had been al- 
 most the whole of his religion. I am sorry 
 that he who was so manly an advocate for 
 the cause of virtue in all other places was so 
 childishly employed, and so superstitiously, 
 too, in his closet. Had he studied his Bible 
 more, to which, by his own confession, he 
 was in great part a stranger, lie had known 
 better what use to make of his retired hours, 
 and had trilled less. His lucubrations of this 
 sort have rather the appearance of religious 
 dotage than of any vigorous exertions to- 
 wards God. It will be well if tlie publication 
 prove not hurtful in its etfects, by exposing 
 tiie best cause, already too much despised, to 
 ridicule still more profane. On the other 
 side of the same paper, I find a long string 
 of aphorisms, and maxims, and rules lor the 
 conduct of life, which, though they appear 
 not with his name, are so much in his man- 
 ner, with the above-mentioned, that I suspect 
 them for his. I have not read them all, but 
 several of them I read that were trivial 
 enough : for the sake of one, however, I for- 
 give him the rest — he advises never to banish 
 hope entirely, because it is the cordial of life, 
 although it be the greatest flatterer in the 
 world. Such a measure of hope as may not 
 endanger ray peace by a disappointment I 
 would wish to cherish upon every subject in 
 which I am interested: but there lies the dif- 
 ficulty. A cure, however, and the only one, 
 for all the irregularities of hope and fear, 
 is found in submission to the will of God. 
 Happy they that have it. 
 
 This last sentence puts me in mind of your 
 reference to Blair in a former letter, whom 
 you there permitted to be your arbiter to ad- 
 just the respective claims of who or that. I 
 do not rashly differ from so great a gramma- 
 rian, nor do, at any rate, differ from him al- 
 together — upon solemn occasions, as in pray- 
 er or preaching, for instance, I would be 
 strictly correct, and upon stately ones ; for 
 instance, were I writing an epic poem, I 
 would be so likewise, but not upon familiar 
 occasions. God, who hearoth prayer, is right : 
 Hector, who saw Patroclus, is right : and the 
 man, that dresses me every day, is in my 
 mind, right also: because the contrary would 
 give an air of stiffness and pedantry to an ex- 
 pression that, in respect of the matter of it, 
 cannot be too negligently made up. 
 
 Adieu, my dear William ! I have scribbled 
 with all my might, whicii, breakfast-time ex- 
 cepted, has been my employment ever since 
 I rose, and it is now past one. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Sept. 34, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — I am sorry that an ex 
 cursion, which you would otherwise hava 
 found so agreeable, was attended with so 
 great a drawback upon its pleasures as Miss 
 Cunninfjham's illness must needs have been. 
 Had she been able to bathe in the sea, it 
 might have been of service to her, but I knew 
 her weakness and delicacy of habit to be such 
 as did not encourage any very sanguine hopes 
 that the regimen would suit her. I remem- 
 ber Southampton well, having spent much 
 time there; but, though I was young, and 
 had no objections, on the score of conscience, 
 either to dancing or cards, I never was in the 
 assembly-room in my life. I never was fond 
 of company, and especially disliked it in the 
 country. A walk to Netley Abbey, or to 
 Freemantle, or to Redbridge, or a book by 
 the fire-side, had always more charms for me 
 than any other amusement that the place af- 
 forded. I was also a sailor, and, being of 
 Sir Thomas Hesketh's party, who was him- 
 self born one, was often pressed into the 
 service. But, though I gave myself an air 
 and wore trowsers, I had no genuine right 
 to that honor, disliking much to be occupied 
 in great waters, unless in the finest weather. 
 How they continue to elude the wearisome- 
 ness that attends a sea life, who take long 
 voyages, you know better than I ; but, for 
 my own part, I seldom have sailed so fiir as 
 from Hampton river to Portsmouth without 
 feeling the confinement irksome, and some- 
 times to a degree that was almost insupport- 
 able. There is a certain perverseness, of 
 whicli I believe all men have a share, but of 
 which no man has a larger share than 1 — 1 
 mean that temper, or humor, or whatever it 
 is to be called, that indisposes us to a situa- 
 tion, though not unpleasant in itself, merely 
 because we cannot get out of it. I could 
 not endure the room in which I now write, 
 were I conscious that the door were locked. 
 In less than five minutes I should feel myself 
 a prisoner, though I can spend hours in it 
 under an assurance that I may leave it when 
 I please without experiencing any tedium at 
 all. It was for this reason, I suppose, that 
 the yacht was always disagreeable to me. 
 Could I have stepped out of it into a corn- 
 field or a garden, I should have liked it well 
 enough, but, being surrounded with water, I 
 was as much confined in it as if I had been 
 surrounded by fire, and did not find that it 
 made me any adequate compensation for such 
 an abridgment of my liberty. I make little 
 doubt but Noah was glad when he was en- 
 larged from the ark ; and we are sure that 
 Jonah was, when he came out of the fish ; and 
 so was I to escape from the good sloop the 
 Harriet. 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 23y 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 In my last, I wrote you word that Mr. Per- 
 ry was given over by his friends, and pro- 
 nounced a dead man by his physician. Just 
 when I had reached the end of the foregoing 
 paragraph, he came in. His errand hither 
 was to bring two letters, which I enclose; 
 one is to yourself, in which he will give you, 
 I doubfi not, such an account, botli of his body 
 and mind, as will make all that I might say 
 upon those subjects superfluous. The only 
 consequences of his illness seem to be that 
 he looks a little pale, and that, though al- 
 ways a most excellent man, he is still more 
 angelic than he was. Illness sanctified is 
 better than health. But I know a man who 
 has been a sufferer by u worse illness than 
 his, almost these fourteen years, and who, at 
 present, is only the worse for it. 
 
 Mr. Scott called upon us yesterday ; he is 
 much inclined to set up a Sunday School, if 
 he can raise a fund for the purpose. Mr. 
 Jones has had one some time at Clifton, and 
 Mr. Unwin writes me word, that he has been 
 thinking of nothing else day and night, for a 
 fortnight. It is a wholesome measure, that 
 seems to bid fair to be pretty generally adopt- 
 ed, and, for the good effects that it promises 
 deserves well to be so. I know not, indeed, 
 while the spread of the gospel continues so 
 limited as it is, how a reformation of manners 
 in the lower class of mankind can be brouglit 
 to pass ; or by what other means the utter 
 abolition of all principle among them, moral 
 as well as religious, can possibly be prevent- 
 ed. Heathenish parents can only bring up 
 heathenish children ; an assertion nowhere 
 oftener or more clearly illustrated than at 
 Olney ; where children, seven years of age, 
 infest the streets every evening with curses 
 and with songs, to which it would be un- 
 seemly to give their proper ' epithet. Such 
 urchins as these could not be so diabolically 
 accomplished, unless by the connivance of 
 their parents. It is well indeed if, in some 
 instances, their parents be not themselves 
 their instructors. Judging by their profi- 
 ciency, one can hardly suppose any other. 
 It is therefore, doubtless, an act of the great- 
 est charity, to snatch them out of such hands 
 before the inveteracy of the evil shall have 
 made it desperate. Mr. Teedon, I should 
 imagine, will be employed as a teacher, should 
 this expedient be carried into effect. I know 
 not at least that we have any other person 
 among us so well qualified for the service. 
 He is indisputably a Christian man, and mis- 
 erably poor, whose revenues need improve- 
 ment, as much as any children in the world 
 can possibly need instruction. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, ., 
 
 With true affection, yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The first establishment of Sunday schools 
 
 in England, which commenced about this 
 time, is too important an era to be passed 
 over in silence. The founder of this system, 
 so beneficial in its consequences to the rising 
 generation, was Robert Raikes, Esq., of 
 Gloucester, and from whose lips the writer 
 once received the history of their first insti- 
 tution. He had observed in going to divine 
 worsliip on the Sabbath, that the streets were 
 generally filled with groups of idle and rag- 
 ged children, playing and blaspheming in a 
 manner that showed their utter unconscious- 
 ness of the sacred obligations of that day. 
 Tlie thought suggested itself, that, if these 
 children could be collected together, and the 
 time so misapplied be devoted to instruction 
 and attendance at the house of God, a happy 
 change might be effected in their life and con- 
 duct. He consulted the clergyman of the 
 parish, who encouraged the attempt. A re- 
 spectable and pious female was immediately 
 selected, and twelve children, who were short- 
 ly afterwards decently clothed, were placed 
 under her care. Rules and regulations were 
 formed, and the scliool opened and closed 
 with prayer. The ignorant were taught to 
 read, the word of God was introduced, and 
 the children walked in orderly procession to 
 church. The visible improvement in their 
 moral habits, and their proficiency in learn- 
 ing, led to an extension of the plan. The 
 principal inhabitants of the town became in- 
 terested in its success, and in a short time 
 the former noisy inmates of the streets were 
 found uniting in the accents of prayer and 
 praise in the temple of Jehovah. The exam- 
 ple manifested by the city of Gloucester 
 soon attracted public attention. The queen 
 of George the Third requested to be furnished 
 with the history and particulars of the un- 
 dertaking, and was so impressed with its im- 
 portance as to distinguish it by her sanction. 
 The result is well known. Sunday schools 
 are now universally established, and have 
 been adopted in Europe, in America, and 
 wherever the traces of civilization are to be 
 discerned. Their sound has gone forth into 
 all lands, and, so long as knowledge is neces- 
 sary to piety, and both constitute the grace 
 and ornament of the young and the safeguard 
 of society, the venerable name of Raikea 
 will be enrolled with gratitude among the 
 friends and benefactors of mankind.* 
 
 * The editor, once conversing with the late Rev. An- 
 drew Fuller, the well-known secretary of the Seranipore 
 Missionai-y Society, on the subject of Sunday schools iu 
 connexion with that noble institution, the British and 
 Foreiirn Bible Society, the latter observed, " Yes ; if the 
 BibleSociety had commenced its operations earlier, its 
 usefulness would have been comparatively limited, be* 
 cause the faculty of reading would not have been so 
 generally acquired. Each institution is in the order of 
 Providence :— God first raised up Sunday schools, and 
 children were thereby taught to read ; afterwards, when 
 this faculty was obtained, in order tliat it might not be 
 perverted to wrong ends, God raised up the Bible So- 
 ciety, that the best of all possible books might be put 
 into their hands. Yes, sir," he added in his emphatic
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 23i 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Olney, Oct. 11, 1785. 
 My dear Sir, — You began your letter with 
 an apology for long silence, and it is now in- 
 cumbent upon me to do the same ; and the 
 rather, as your kind invitation to Wargrave 
 entitled you to a speedier answer. The 
 trutJi is that I am become, if not a man of 
 business, yet a busy man, and have been en- 
 gaged almost this twelvemonth in a work 
 that will allow of no long interruption. On 
 this account it was impossible for me to ac- 
 cept your obliging summons; and, having 
 only to tell you thafc I could not, it appeared 
 to me as a matter of no great moment whe- 
 ther you received that intelligence soon or 
 late. 
 
 You do me justice when you ascribe my 
 printed epistle to you to my friendship for 
 you ; though, in fact, it was equally owing 
 to the opinion tliat I have of yours tor me.f 
 Having, in one part or other of my two vol- 
 umes, distinguished by name the majority of 
 those few for whom I entertain a friendship, 
 it seemed tome that it would be unjustifiable 
 negligence to omit yourself; and, if I took 
 that step without communicating to you my 
 intention, it was only to gratify myself the 
 more with the hope of surprising you agree- 
 ably. Poets are dangerous persons to be 
 acquainted with, especially if a man have 
 that in his character that promises to shine 
 in verse. To that very circumstance it is 
 ovying that you are now figuring away in 
 mine. For, notwithstanding what you say 
 on the subject of honesty and friendship, 
 that they are not splendid enougli for pub- 
 lic celebration, I must still think of them 
 as I did before,— that there are no qualities 
 of the mind and heart tliat can deserve it 
 better. I can, at least for my own part, look 
 round about upon the generality, and, while 
 I see them deficient in those grand requi- 
 sites of a respectable character, am not able 
 to discover that they possess any other of 
 value enough to atone for the want of them. 
 I beg that you will present my respects to 
 Mrs. Hill, and believe me 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 The period at which we are now arrived 
 was marked by the renewal of an intimacy, 
 long suspended indeed, but which neither 
 time nor circumstances could efiace from the 
 
 manner, "the wisdom of Cod is visible in both ; they fit 
 each other like hand and slove." 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The epistle in which lie coraraemorates his friendship 
 for Mr. Hill begins as follows:— 
 
 " Dear .Joseph— Five-and-twenty years nsjo — 
 Alas, how time escapes! 'tis even so — " &c. &c. 
 
 We add the two concluding lines, as descriptive of his 
 Cerson and character. 
 
 "An honest man, close button'd to the chin, 
 Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within." 
 
 See Poems. 
 
 affectionate heart of Cowper. The person 
 to whom we allude is Lady Hesketh, a near 
 relative of the poet, and whose name has 
 already appeared in the early part of his his- 
 tory. 
 
 Their intercourse had been frequent, and 
 endeared by reciprocal esteem in their youth- 
 ful years; but the vicissitudes of life had 
 separated them far from each other. Durino- 
 Cowper's long retirement, his accomplished 
 cousin had passed some years with her hus- 
 band abroad, and others, after her return, in 
 a variety of mournful duties. Slie was at 
 this time a widow, and her indelible regard 
 for her poetical relation being agreeably stim- 
 ulated by the publication of his recent works, 
 she wrote to him, on that occasion, a very 
 affectionate letter. 
 
 It gave rise to many from him, which we 
 shall now introduce to the notice of the 
 reader, because they give a minute account 
 of their amiable author, at a very interestinor 
 period of his life ; and because they reflect 
 lustre on his character and genius in various 
 points of view, and cannot fail to inspire the 
 conviction that his letters are rivals to his 
 poems, in the rare excellence of representing 
 life and nature with graceful and endearing 
 fidelity. ° 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 12, 1785. 
 My dear Cousin, — It is no new thing with 
 you to give pleasure. But I will venture to 
 say that you do not often give more than you 
 gave me this morning. When I came down 
 to breakflxst, and found upon the table a let- 
 ter franked by my uncle,* and when opening 
 that frank I found that it contained a letter 
 from you, I said within myself— " This is 
 just as it should be. We are all grown 
 young again, and tlie days that I thought I 
 should see no more are actually returned." 
 You perceive, therefore, that you judged 
 well, wlien you conjectured that a line from 
 you would not be disagreeable to me. It 
 could not be otherwise than as in fact it 
 proved — a most agreeable surprise, for I can 
 truly boast of an affection for you, that nei- 
 tiicr years nor interrupted intercourse have 
 at all abated. I need only recollect how 
 much I valued you once, and with how much 
 cause, immediately to feel a revival of the 
 same value; if that can be said to revive, 
 which ;it the most has only-been dormant for 
 want of employment. But I slander it when 
 I say that it has slept. A thousand times 
 have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which 
 our two selves have formed the whole of the 
 drama, with the greatest pleasure ; at times 
 too when I had no reason to suppose that I 
 should ever hear from you again. I have 
 * Ashley C!owper, Esq.
 
 232 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 laughed with you at the Arabian Nights' En- 
 tertainments, which aiforded us, as you well 
 know, a fund of merriment that deserves 
 never to be forgot. I have walked with you 
 to Netley Abbey, and have scrambled with 
 vou over hedges in every direction, and many 
 other feats we have performed together upon 
 the field of my remembrance, and all within 
 these few years. Should I say within this 
 twelvemonth, I should not transgress the 
 truth. The hours that I have spent with 
 you were among the pleasantest of my for- 
 mer days, and are therefore chronicled in my 
 mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Nei- 
 ther do I forget my poor friend. Sir Thomas ; 
 I should remember him indeed at any rate, 
 on account of his personal kindness to my- 
 self, but the last testimony that he gave of 
 his regard for you endears him to me still 
 more. With his uncommon understanding 
 (for with many peculiarities he had more 
 sense than any of his acquaintance,) and with 
 his generous sensibilities, it was hardly pos- 
 sible that he should not distinguish you as 
 he has done. As it was the last, so it was 
 the best proof that he could give of a judg- 
 ment that never deceived him, when he would 
 allow himself leisure to consult it. 
 
 You say that you have often heard of me ; 
 that puzzles me. I cannot imagine from 
 what quarter, but it is no matter. I must 
 tell you, however, my cousin, that your in- 
 formation has been a little defective. That 
 I am happy in ray situation is true ; I live, 
 and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. 
 Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, 
 during the far greater part of that time, it is, 
 under Providence, owing that I live at all. 
 But I do not account myself happy in having 
 been, for tiiirteen of these years, in a state 
 of mind that has made all that care and at- 
 tention necessary; an attention and a care 
 that have injured her health, and which, had 
 she not been uncommonly supported, must 
 have brought her to the grave. But I will 
 pass to another subject ; it would be cruel 
 to particularize only to give pain, neither 
 would I by any means give a sable hue to 
 the first letter of a correspondence so unex- 
 pectedly renewed. 
 
 I am delighted with what you tell me of 
 my uncle's good health. To enjoy any meas- 
 ure of cheerfulness at so late a day is much. 
 But to h;ne that late day enlivened with the 
 vivacity of youth is much more, and in these 
 postdiluvian times a rarity indeed. Happy 
 for the most p.art are parents who have 
 daughters. Daughters are not apt to out- 
 live their natural affections, which a son has 
 generally survived, even before his boyish 
 years are expired. I rejoice particularly in 
 my uncle's felicity, who has three female de- 
 scendants from his little person, who leave 
 bim nothing to wish for upon that head. 
 
 My dear Cousin, dejection of spirits which 
 (I suppose) may have prevented many a man 
 from becoming an author, made me one. I 
 find constant employment necessary, and 
 therefore take care to be constantly em- 
 ployed. Manual occupations do not engage 
 the mind sufficiently, as I know by expe- 
 rience, having tried many. But composition, 
 especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I 
 write therefore generally three hours in a 
 morning, and in an evening I transcribe. I 
 read also, but less than I write, for I must 
 have bodily exercise, and therefore never 
 pass a day without it. 
 
 You ask me where I have been this sum- 
 mer. I answer, at Olney. Should you ask 
 me where I spent the last seventeen sum- 
 mers, I should still answer, at Olney. Ay, 
 and the winters also. I have seldom left it, 
 except when I attended my brother in his 
 last illness ; never I believe a fortnight to- 
 gether. 
 
 Adieu, my beloved Cousin, I shall not 
 always be thus nimble in reply, but shall 
 always have great pleasure in answering you 
 when I can. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend and Cousin, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The letters addressed to Mr. Newton by 
 Cowper are frequently characterized by a 
 plaintiveness of feeling that powerfully awak- 
 ens the emotions of the heart. The follow- 
 ing contains some incidental allusions of this 
 kind. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Oct. 16, 1785. 
 My dear Friend, — To have sent a child to 
 heaven is a great honor and a great blessing, 
 and your feelings on such an occasion may 
 well be such as render you rather an object 
 of congratulation than of condolence. And 
 were it otherwise, yet, having yourself free 
 access to all the sources of genuine consola- 
 tion, I feel that it would be little better than 
 impertinence in me to suggest any. An 
 escape from a life of suffering to a life of 
 happiness and glory is such a deliverance as 
 leaves no room for the sorrow of survivors, 
 unless they sorrow for themselves. We can- 
 not, indeed, lose what we love without re- 
 gretting it; but a Christian is in possession 
 of such alleviations of tiiat regret as the world 
 knows nothing of. Their beloveds, when 
 they die, go they know not whither ; and if 
 they suppose them, as they generally do, in 
 a state of happiness, they have yet but an 
 indifferent prospect of joining them in that 
 state hereafter. But it is not so with you. 
 You both know whither your beloved is gone, 
 and you know that you shall follow her; and 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 233 
 
 you know also that in the meantime she is 
 incomp-irably happier than yourself. So far, 
 therefore, as she is concerned, nothing has 
 come to pass but what was most fervently to 
 be wished. I do not know that I am singularly 
 selfish ; bnt one of the first tlioughts that your 
 account of Miss Cunningham's dying moments 
 and departure suggested to me iiad self for its 
 object. It struck me that she was not born 
 when I sank into darkness, and that she is 
 gone to lieaven before I have emerged again. 
 What a lot, said I to myself, is mine ! whose 
 helmet is fallen from my head, and whose 
 sword from my hand, in the midst of the 
 battle ; who was stricken down to the earth 
 wiien I least expected it; who had just be- 
 gun to cry victory ! when I was defeated my- 
 self; and who have been trampled upon so 
 long, that others have had time to conquer 
 and to receive their crown, before I have been 
 able to make one successful effort to escape 
 from under tiie feet of my enemies. It 
 seemed to me, therefore, that if you mourned 
 for .Miss Cunningham you gave those tears 
 to her to wliich I only had a right, and I was 
 almost ready to exclaim, " 1 am the dead, and 
 not she; you misplace your sorrows." I 
 have sent you the history of my mind on this 
 subject without any disguise ; if it does not 
 please you, pardon it at least, for it is the 
 truth. The unhappy, I believe, are always 
 selfish. I have, I confess, my comfortable 
 moments; but they are like the morning 
 dew, so suddenly do they pass away and are 
 gone. 
 
 It should seem a matter of small moment 
 to me, who never hear him, whether Mr. 
 Scott shall be removed from Olney to the 
 Lock, or no ; yet, in fact, I believe, that few 
 interest themselves more in that event than I. 
 He knows my manner of life, and has ceased 
 long since to wonder at it. A new minister 
 would need information, and I am not ambi- 
 tious of liaving my tale told to a stranger. 
 He would also perhaps tliink it necessary to 
 assail nie v/ith arguments, whicli would be 
 more profitably disposed of, if he should dis- 
 charge them against the walls of a tower. 
 I wish, therefore, for the continuance of Mr. 
 Scott. He iionored me so far as to consult 
 me twice upon the subject. At our first in- 
 terview, he seemed to discern but little in the 
 proposal that entitled it to his approbation. 
 But, when lie came the second time, w'e ob- 
 served that his views of it were considerably 
 altered. He was warm — he was animated; 
 difficulties had disappeared, and allurements 
 had started up in tiieir place. I could not 
 say to him, Sir, you are naturally of a san- 
 . guine temper; and he that is so cannot too 
 much distrust his own judgment: — but I am 
 glad that he will have the benefit of yours. 
 It seems to me, however, tiiat the minister 
 vho shall re-illumine the faded glories of the 
 
 Lock must not only practise great fii'.elity in 
 his preaching, to which task Mr. Scott is per- 
 fectly equal, but must do it with much ad- 
 dress; and it is hardly worth while to ob- 
 serve that his excellence does not lie that 
 way, because he is ever ready to acknowledge 
 it himself But I have nothing to suggest 
 upon this subject that will be new to you, 
 and therefore drop it ; the rather, indeed, be- 
 cause I may reasonably suppose that by this 
 time the point is decided. 
 
 I have reached that part of my paper 
 which I generally fill with intelligence, if I 
 can find any : but there is a great dearth of it 
 at present ; and Mr. Scott has probably anti- 
 cipated me in all tiie little that there is. Lord 
 
 P having dismissed Mr. Jones from his 
 
 service, the people of Turvey* have burnt him 
 [Mr. Jones] in efiigy, with a bundle of quick- 
 thornf under iiis arm. What, consequences 
 are to follow his dismission Is uncertain. 
 His lordship threatens him with a lawsuit; 
 and, unless their disputes can be settled by 
 arbitration, it is not unlikely that the profits 
 of poor Jones's stewardship will be melted 
 down at Westminster. He has labored hard, 
 and no doubt with great integrity, and has 
 been rewarded with hard words and scandal- 
 ous treatment. 
 
 Mr. Scott (which perhaps he may not have 
 told you, for he did not mention it here) has 
 met with similar treatment at a place in this 
 country called Hinksey, or by some such 
 name.|; But lie suffered in effigy for the Gos- 
 pel's sake ; — a cause in which I presume he 
 would not be unwilling, if need were, to be 
 burnt m propria persona. 
 
 I have nothing to add, but that we are well, 
 and remember you with much affection ; and 
 that I am, my dear friend. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 The following letters communicate various 
 interesting- particulars respecting Cowper's 
 laborious undertaking, the new version of 
 Homer's Iliad. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olnoy, Oct. 22, 1785. 
 
 My dear William, — You might well sup- 
 pose that your letter had miscarried, though 
 in fact it was duly received. I am not often 
 so long in arrear, and you may assure your- 
 self that when at any time it happens that I 
 
 * Tlic Potorboroiiffli family had formerly a mansion 
 ami larijo ustate in the parisli of Turvcy. It is mentioned 
 in Camden's Britannia, so far back iis in tlie time of 
 Henry VIII. There are some marble monuments in tho 
 parisii church, executed with sreat magnilicence, ind in 
 iii^'h iirescrvation, recordini; the heroes of foreign times 
 beloiisiiiu; to that ancient but now e.xtinct race. 
 
 t The dispute orierinated rcspectin?^ the enclosure of 
 the p;u-isli ; and, as this act was unpopular with the i)oor 
 the bundle of quick-thorn was intended to be exprussiTU 
 of their indiijnant feelincrs. 
 
 t The proper name of the place is Tiuge\rick.
 
 234 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 am so, neither neglect nor idleness is the 
 cause. I have, as you well know, a daily oc- 
 cupation, forty lines to translate, a task which 
 I never excuse myself, when it is possible to 
 perform it. Equally sedulous I am in the 
 matter of transcribing, so that between both 
 my morning and evening are most part com- 
 pletely engaged. Add to this that, though 
 my spirits are seldom so bad but I can write 
 verse, they are often at so low an ebb as to 
 make the production of a letter impossible. 
 So much for a trespass, which called for 
 some apology, but for which to apologize 
 further would be a greater trespass still. 
 
 I am now in the twentieth book of Homer, 
 and shall assuredly proceed, because the fur- 
 ther I go the more I find myself justified in 
 the undertaking ; and in due time, if I live, 
 shall assuredly publish. In the whole I shall 
 have composed about forty thousand verses, 
 about which forty thousand verses I shall 
 have taken great pains, on no occasion suf- 
 fering a slovenly line to escape me. I leave 
 you to guess therefore whether, such a labor 
 once achieved, I shall not determine to turn 
 it to some account, and to gain myself profit 
 if I can, if not at least some credit for my 
 reward. 
 
 I perfectly approve of your course with 
 John. The most entertaining books are best 
 to begin with, and none in the world, so far 
 as entertainment is concerned, deserves the 
 preference to Homer. Neither do I know 
 that there is anywhere to be found Greek of 
 easier construction — poetical Greek I mean ; 
 and as for prose, I should recommend Xeno- 
 phon's Cyropasdia. That also is a most amus- 
 ing narrative, and ten times easier to under- 
 stand than the crabbed epigrams and scrib- 
 blements of the minor poets that are gener- 
 ally put into the hands of boys. I took par- 
 ticular notice of the neatness of John's Greek 
 character, which (let me tell you) deserves 
 its share of commendation ; for to write the 
 language legibly is not the lot of every man 
 who can read it. Witness myself for one. 
 
 I like the little ode of Huntingford's that 
 you sent me. In such matters we do not ex- 
 pect much novelty, or much depth of thought. 
 The expression is all in all, which to me at 
 least appears to be faultless. 
 
 Adieu, my dear William ! We are well, 
 and you and yours are ever the objects of 
 our atfection. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Nov. 5, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Were it with me as in 
 days past, you should have no cause to com- 
 plain of my tardiness in writing. You sup- 
 posed that I would have accepted your packet 
 as an answer to my last; and so indeed I 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 did, and felt myself overpaid ; but, though 
 a debtor, and deeply indebted too, had not 
 wherewithal to discharge the arrear. You do 
 not know nor suspect what a conquest I 
 sometimes gain, when I only take up the pen 
 with a design to write. Many a time have I 
 resolved to say to all my few correspondents, 
 — I take my leave of you for the present ; if 
 I live to see better days, you shall hear from 
 me again. — I have been driven to the very 
 verge of this measure ; and even upon this 
 occasion was upon the point of desiring Mrs. 
 Unwin to become my substitute. She indeed 
 offered to write in my stead ; but, fearing that 
 you would understand me to be even worse 
 than I am, I rather chose to answer for my- 
 self. — So much for a subject with which I 
 could easily fill the sheet, but with which I 
 have occupied too great a part of it already. 
 It is time that I should thank you, and return 
 you Mrs. Unwin's thanks for your Narrative.* 
 I told you in my last in what manner I felt 
 myself affected by the abridgement of it con- 
 tained in your letter; and have therefore 
 only to ad.d, upon that point, that the im- 
 pression made upon me by the relation at 
 large was of a like kind. I envy all that live 
 in the enjoyment of a good hope, and much 
 more all who die to enjoy the fruit of it: but 
 I recollect myself in time ; I resolved not to 
 touch that chord again, and yet was just 
 going to trespass upon my resolution. As 
 to the rest, your history of your happy niece 
 is just what it should be, — clear, aflectionate, 
 and plain; worthy of her, and worthy of 
 yourself How much more beneficial to the 
 world might such a memori;d of an unknown, 
 but pious and believing child eventually 
 prove, would the supercillious learned con- 
 descend to read it, than the history of all the 
 kings and heroes that ever lived ! But the 
 world has its objects of admiration, and God 
 has objects of his love. Those make a noise 
 and perish; and these weep silently for a 
 short season, and live forever. I had rather 
 have been your neice, or the writer of her 
 story, than any Ca3sar that ever thundered. 
 
 The vanity of human attainments was 
 never so conspicuously exemplified as in the 
 present day. The sagacious moderns make 
 discoveries, which, how useful they may 
 prove to themselves I know not ; certainly 
 they do no honor to the ancients. Homer 
 and Virgil have enjoyed (if the dead have any 
 such enjoyments) an unrivalled reputation as 
 poets, through a long succession of ages; 
 but it is now shrewdly suspected that Homer 
 did not compose the poems for which he has 
 been so long applauded ;f and it is even as- 
 
 * The narrative of Miss Eliza Cunningham's last illness 
 and happy death. 
 
 t In the Prolegomena to ViUoisson's Iliad it is stated, 
 that Pisistratus, in collecting the works of Homer, was 
 imposed upon by spurious imitations of the Gre<;ian 
 bard's style ; and that not suspecting the fraud, he was
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 238 
 
 serted by a certain Robert Heron, Esq., that 
 Virgil never wrote a line worth reading. He 
 is a pitiful plagiary; he is a servile imitator, 
 a bungler in his plan, and has not a thought 
 in his whole work that will bear examina- 
 tion. In short, he is anything but what the 
 literati for two thousand years have taken 
 him to be — a man of genius and a fine writer. 
 I fear that Homer's case is desperate. After 
 the lapse of so many generations, it would 
 be a dithcult matter to elucidate a question 
 which time and modern ingenuity together 
 combine to puzzle. And I suppose that it 
 were in vain for an honest plain man to in- 
 quire, if Homer did not write the Iliad and 
 Odyssey, who did? The answer would un- 
 doubtedly be — it is no matter; he did not: 
 which is all that I undertook to prove. For 
 Virgil, however, there still remains some con- 
 solation. The very same Mr. Heron, who 
 finds no beauties in the ^neid, discovers not 
 a single instance of the sublime in Scrip- 
 ture. Particularly he says, speaking of the 
 prophets, that Ezekiel, although the filthiest 
 of all writers, is the best of them. He there- 
 fore, being the first of the learned who has 
 reprobated even the style of the Scriptures, 
 may possibly make the fewer proselytes to 
 his judgment of the Heathen writer. For 
 my own part at least, had I been accustomed 
 to doubt whether the iEneid were a noble 
 composition or not, this gentleman would at 
 once have decided the question for me ; and 
 I should have been immediately assured that 
 a work must necessarily abound in beauties 
 that had the happiness to displease a cen- 
 surer of the Word of God. What enter- 
 prises will not an inordinate passion for fame 
 suggest ? It prompted one man to tire the 
 Temple of Ephesus ; another, to fling himself 
 into a volcano ; and now has induced this 
 wicked and unfortunate Squire either to deny 
 his own feelings, or to publish to all the 
 world that he has no feelings at all.* 
 
 Mr. Scott is pestered with anonymous let- 
 ters, but he conducts himself wisely ; and 
 the question whether he shall go to the Lock 
 
 led to incorporate them as the genuine productions of 
 Homer. 
 
 Cowper Justly ridicules so extravaijiint a supposition. 
 
 * The playCul spirit in which the writer adverts to this 
 subject appears to have yielded afterwards to a feeliiit; 
 of indignation; the following lines in his own hand- 
 writing having been foiuid by Dr. Johnson amongst his 
 Bipers : — 
 
 ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON HTKRA'tJRE. 
 
 The Genius of th' Au!;ustan age 
 His he.'id ainonir lloine's ruins rear'd 
 » And, burstiii'^ willi heroic rai;e, 
 
 When literary Heron appear'iU 
 niou hasl, lif cried, !il;<' lilui of old 
 Who set th' Kphesian dome on tire. 
 By beint; scandalously bold, 
 Attain'd the marli of thy desire. 
 
 Anil for traducing Virgil's name 
 Shalt share his merited reward ; 
 A perpetuity of fame. 
 That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. 
 
 or not, seems hasting to a decision in the af- 
 firmative. 
 
 We are tolerably well ; and Mrs. Unwin 
 adds to mine her affectionate remembrances 
 of yourself and Mrs. Newton. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 The work of Mr. Heron is entitled, " Let- 
 ters on Literature," in which he spares neither 
 things sacred nor profane. The author seems 
 to be a man of talent, but it is talent pain- 
 fully misapplied. After calling Virgil a ser- 
 vile imitator of Homer, and indulmno- in 
 various critiques, he thus concludes his an- 
 imadversions. " Such is the ^neid, which 
 the author, with good reason, on his death- 
 bed, condemned to the flames ; and, had it 
 suffered that fate, real poetry would have lost 
 nothing by it. I have said that, notwith- 
 standing all, Virgil deserves his farae ; for 
 his fame is now confined to schools and 
 academies ; and his style (the pickle that has 
 preserved his mummy from corruption) is 
 pure and exquisite." 
 
 Wit, employed at the expense of taste and 
 sound judgment, can neither advance the 
 reputation of its author, nor promote the 
 cause of true literature. This supercilious 
 treatment of the noble productions of classic 
 genius too much resembles that period in the 
 literary history of France, when the question 
 was agitated (with Perrault at its head) as to 
 the relative superiority of the ancients or 
 moderns. It was at that time fashionable 
 with one of the contending parties to decry 
 the pretensions of the ancients. One of 
 their writers exclaims, 
 
 " Depouillons ces respects serviles 
 Que nous portons aux temps passes. 
 Les Homeres et les Virgiles 
 Peuvent encore etre effaces." — La Motte. 
 
 We trust that this corrupt spirit will never 
 infect the Lyceums of British literature ; but 
 that they will be reserved ever to be the 
 sanctuaries of high-taught genius, chastened 
 by a refined and discriminating taste, and 
 embellished with the graces of a simple and 
 noble eloquence, formed on the pure models 
 of classic antiquity. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 OIney, Nov. 7, 1785. 
 
 ]\Iy dear Friend, — Your time being so much 
 occupied as to leave you no opportunity for 
 a word more than the needful, I am the more 
 obliged to you that you have found leisure 
 even for that, and thank you for the note 
 above acknowledged. 
 
 1 know not at present what subject I 
 could enter upon, by which I should not put 
 you to an expense of moments that you can 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 236 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ill spare : I have often been displeased when 
 a neighbor of mine, being himself an idle 
 man, has delivered himself from the burden 
 of a vacant hour or two, by coming to repose 
 his idleness upon me. Not to incur there- 
 fore, and deservedly, the blame that I have 
 charged upon him, by interrupting you, who 
 are certainly a busy man, whatever may be 
 the case with myself, I shall only add that I 
 am, with my respects to Mrs. Hill, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 The tried stability of Cowper's friendship, 
 after a long interval of separation, and the 
 delicacy with which he accepts Lady Hes- 
 keth's offer of pecuniary aid, are here de- 
 picted in a manner that reflects honor on 
 both parties. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — Whose last most af- 
 fectionate letter has run in my head ever since 
 I received it, and which I now sit down to 
 answer, two days sooner than the post will 
 serve me. I thank you for it, and with a 
 warmth for which I am sure you will give 
 me credit, though I do not spend many words 
 in describing it. I do not seek neiv friends, 
 not being altogether sure that I should find 
 them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being 
 still beloved by an old one. I hope that now 
 our correspondence has suffered its last in- 
 terruption, and that we shall go down to- 
 gether to the grave, chatting and chirping as 
 merrily as such a scene of things as this will 
 permit. 
 
 I am happy that my poems have pleased 
 you. My volume has afforded me no such 
 pleasure at any time, either while I was writ- 
 ing it or since its publication, as I have de- 
 rived from yours and my uncle's opinion of 
 it. I make certain allowances for partiality, 
 and for that peculiar quickness of taste with 
 which you both relish what you like, and, 
 after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly 
 made, find myself rich in the measure of your 
 approbation that still remains. But, above 
 all, I honor John Gilpin, since it was he who 
 first encouraged you to write. I made him 
 on purpose to laugh at, and he served his 
 purpose well ; but I am now indebted to him 
 for a more valuable acquisition than all the 
 laughter in the world amounts to, the re- 
 covery of my intercourse with you, which is 
 to me inestimable. My benevolent and gen- 
 eroi'.s cousin, when I was once asked if I 
 wanted anything, and given delicately to 
 understand that the inquirer ;vas ready to 
 supply all my occasions, I thankfully and 
 civilly, but positively declined the favor. I 
 neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such in- 
 conveniences as I had not much rather en- 
 
 dure than come under obligations of that 
 sort to a person comparatively with yourself 
 a stranger to me. But to you I answer 
 otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the 
 liberality of your disposition, and have that 
 consummate confidence in the sincerity of 
 your wish to serve me, that delivers me from 
 all awkward constraint, and from all fear of 
 trespassing by acceptance. To you, there- 
 fore, I reply, yes. Whensoever and whatso- 
 ever, and in what manner soever you please ; 
 and add moreover that my affection for the 
 giver is such as will increase to me tenfold 
 the satisfaction that I shall have in receiving. 
 It is necessary, however, I should let you a 
 little into the state of my finances, that you 
 may not suppose them more narrowly cir- 
 cumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Un- 
 win and I have lived at Olney, we have had 
 but one purse, although during the whole 
 time, till lately, her income was nearly dou- 
 ble mine. Her revenues indeed are now in 
 some measure reduced, and not much ex- 
 ceed my own; the worst consequence of 
 this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves 
 some things which hitherto we have been 
 better able to afford, but they are such things 
 as neither life, nor the well-being of life, de- 
 pend upon. My own income has been bet- 
 ter than it is, but when it was best, it would 
 not have enabled me to live as my connex- 
 ions demanded that I should, had it not been 
 combined with a better than itself, at least at 
 this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full 
 proof during three months that I spent in 
 lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time, by 
 the help of good management and a clear 
 notion of economical matters, I contrived to 
 spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, 
 my beloved cousin, you are in possession of 
 the whole case as it stands. Strain no 
 points to your own inconvenience or hurt, 
 for there is no need of it, but indulge your- 
 self in communicating (no matter what) that 
 you can spare without missing it, since by 
 so doing, you will be sure to add to the com- 
 forts of my life one of the sweetest that I 
 can enjoy — a token and proof of your affec- 
 tion. 
 
 In the afRiir of my next publication,* to- 
 ward which you also offej me so kindly your 
 assistance, there will be no need that you 
 should help me in the manner that you pro- 
 pose. It will be a large work, consisting I 
 should imagine of six volumes at least. The 
 12th of this month I shall have spent a year 
 upon it, and it will cost me more thasn 
 another. I do not love the booksellers well 
 enough to make them a present of such a 
 labor, but intend to publish by subscription 
 Your vote and interest, my dear cousin, upon 
 the occasion, if you piease, but nothing more , 
 I will trouble you with some papers of pro- 
 * His translation of Homer's Iliad.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 237 
 
 posiils when the time sha" come, and am 
 sure that you will circulate as many for me 
 as you can. Now, my dear, I am going to 
 tell you a secret. It is a great secret, tliat 
 you must not whisper even to your cat. No 
 creature is at tiiis moment apprized of it but 
 Mrs. Unwin and her son. I am making a 
 new translation of Homer, and am on the 
 point of finishing the twenty-first book of the 
 Iliad. The reasons upon which I undertake 
 this Herculean labor, and by which I justify 
 an enterprise in which I seem so effectually 
 anticipated by Pope, although in fact he has 
 not anticipated me at all, I may possibly give 
 you, if you wish for them, when I can find 
 nothing more interesting to say. A period 
 wliich I do not conceive to be very near! I 
 have not answered many things in your letter, 
 nor can do it at present for want of room. I 
 cannot believe but that I should know you, 
 notwithstanding all that time may Iiave done. 
 There is not a feature of your face, could I 
 meet it upon the road by itself, that I should 
 not instantly recollect. I should say, that is 
 my consin's nose, or those are her lips and 
 her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim 
 them but herself. As for me, I am a very 
 smart youth of my years. I am not indeed 
 grown gray so mnch as I am grown bald. 
 No matter. There was more hair in the 
 world than ever iiad the honor to belong to 
 me. Accordingly having found just enough 
 to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix 
 with a little of my own tiiat still hangs be- 
 hind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, 
 to have a very decent head-dress, not easily 
 distinguished from my natural growth, which 
 being worn with a small bag, and a black 
 riband about my neck, continues to me the 
 charms of my youth even on the verge of 
 age. Away with the fear of writing too 
 often. W. C. 
 
 P. S. — That the view I give you of myself 
 may be complete I add the two following 
 items — Tiiat I am in debt to nobody, and 
 that I grow fat. 
 
 There is no date to the following letter, 
 but it evidently refers to this period of time. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETir. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — I am glad that T al- 
 ways loved you as I did. It releases me 
 from any occasion to suspoct that my pres- 
 ent affection for you is indebted for its ex- 
 istence to any selfish considerations. No, I 
 am sure I love you disinterestedly and for 
 your own sake, because I never tiio igiit of 
 you with any other sensations than those of 
 the truest affection, even wliile I was under 
 the persuasion that I should never hoar from 
 rou again. But, with my present feelings 
 luperadded to those that I always had for 
 
 you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to 
 my sensations. I perceive myself in a state 
 of mind similar to that of the traveller de- 
 scribed in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes 
 through a sandy desert, starts at the sudden 
 and unexpected souud of a waterfall.* You 
 have placed me in a situation new to me, 
 and in which I feel myself somewhat puzzled 
 how to behave. At the same time I would 
 not grieve you by putting a check upon your 
 bounty, I would be as careful not to abuse 
 it, as if I were a miser, and the question not 
 about your money but my own. 
 
 Although I do not suspect that a secret to 
 you, my cousin, is any burden, yet, having 
 maturely considered that point since I wrote 
 my last, I feel myself altogether disposed to 
 release you from the injunction to that effect 
 under which ] laid you. I have now made 
 such a progress in my translation that I need 
 neither fear that I shall stop short of the end, 
 nor that any other rider of Pegasus should 
 overtake me. Therefore, if at any time it 
 should fall fairly in your way, or you should 
 feel yourself invited to say I am so occupied, 
 you have my poetship's free permission. Dr. 
 Johnson read and recommended my first 
 volume. " W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT.f 
 
 Oliiey, Nov. 9, 1785, 
 
 My dear Friend, — You desired me to re- 
 turn your good brother the bishop's Charge,^ 
 as soon as I conveniently could, and the 
 weather having forbidden us to hope for the 
 pleasure of seeing you and Mrs. Bagot with 
 you this morning, I return it now, lest, as 
 you told me that your stay in this country 
 would be short, you should be gone before 
 it could reach you. 
 
 I wish as you do, that the Charge in ques- 
 tion could find its way into all the parsonages 
 in the nation. It is so generally applicable, 
 and yet so pointedly enforced, that it de- 
 serves the most extensive spread. I find in 
 it the iiappiest mixture of spiritual authority, 
 the meekness of a Christian, and the good 
 manners of a gentleman. It has convinced 
 me that the poet who, like myself, shall take 
 the liberty to pay the author of such valu- 
 able admonition a compliment, shall do at 
 least as much honor to himself as to Ins 
 subject. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 * Tlio following is the passage alluded lo :— 
 " The svv.iii) in biirien deserts willi surprise 
 Sees lilies spriiii,', and sudden verdure rise; 
 And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hoar 
 New falls of water murin'riMtt in his ear." 
 
 Papers jVcssinh, line 67, &c. 
 t Cowper was at Westminster school with five brothers 
 of this name. II(! retained through life the friendship of 
 the esliinable cliaraeter to whom this letter is addressed. 
 
 } Lewis Bagot, D.D. He was formerly Dean of Christ 
 ("liurch, Oxford; aHerwards Bishop of Norwich, and 
 Ihially liishoj) of St. Asaph.
 
 238 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 3, 1785. 
 My dear Friend,— I am glad to hear that 
 there is sv.jh a demand for your last Narra- 
 tive. If I may judge of their general utility 
 by the eifect that they have heretofore had 
 upon me, there are few things more edifying 
 than death-bed memoirs. They interest every 
 reader, because they speak of a period at 
 which all must arrive, and afford a solid 
 ground of encouragement to survivors to 
 expect the same, or similar, support and 
 comfort, when it shall be their turn to die. 
 
 I also am employed in writing narrative, 
 but not so useful. Employment, however, 
 and with the pen, is through habit become 
 essential to my well-being; and to produce 
 always original poems, especially of consid- 
 erable length, is not so easy. For some 
 weeks after I had finished " The Task," and 
 sent away the last sheet corrected, I was 
 through necessity idle, and suffered not a 
 little m my spirits for being so. One day, 
 being in such distress of mind as was hardly 
 supportable, I took up the Iliad ; and, merely 
 to divert attention, and with no more pre- 
 conception of what I was then entering upon 
 than I have at this moment of what I shall 
 be doing this day twenty years hence, trans- 
 lated the twelve first lines of it. The same 
 necessity pressing me again, I had recourse 
 to the same expedient and translated more. 
 Every day bringing its occasion for employ- 
 ment with it, every day consequently added 
 something to the work ; till at last I began 
 to reflect thus :— The Iliad and the Odyssey 
 together consist of about forty thousand 
 verses. To translate these forty thousand 
 verses will furnish me with occupation for a 
 considerable time. I have already made 
 some progress, and I find it a most agree- 
 able amusement. Homer, in point of purity 
 is a most blameless writer ; and thougrh he 
 was not an enlightened man, has inter- 
 spersed many great and valuable truths 
 throughout both his poems. In short, he is 
 in all respects a most venerable old gentle- 
 man, by an acquaintance with whom no man 
 can disgrace himself. The literati are all 
 agreed to a man that, although Pope has 
 given us two pretty poems under Homer's 
 titles, there is not to be found in them the 
 least portion of Homer's spirit, nor the least 
 resemblance of his manner. I will try there- 
 fore whether I cannot copy him somewhat 
 more happily myself. I have at least the 
 advantage of Pope's faults and failings, 
 which, like so many buoys upon a dangerous 
 coast, will serve me to steer by, and will 
 make my chance for success more probable. 
 These and many other considerations, but 
 especially a mind that abhorred a vacuum as 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 its chief bane, impelled me so effectually to 
 the work, that ere long I mean to publish 
 proposals for a subscription to it, having ad- 
 vanced so far as to be warranted in doing 
 so. I have connexions, and no few such, by 
 means of which I have the utmost reason to 
 expect that a brisk circulation may be pro- 
 cured; and if it should prove a profitable 
 enterprise, the profit will not accrue to a 
 man who may be said not to want it. It is 
 a business such as it will not indeed lie 
 much in your way to promote ; but among 
 your numerous connexions it is possible 
 that you may know some who would suffi- 
 ciently interest themselves in such a work to 
 be not unwilling to subscribe to it. I do not 
 mean — far be it from me — to put you upon 
 making hazardous applications, where you 
 might possibly incur a refusal, that would 
 give you though but a moment's pain. You 
 know best your own opportunities and pow- 
 ers in such a cause. If you can do but little, 
 I shall esteem it much ; and if you can do 
 nothing, I am sure that it will not be for 
 want of a will. 
 
 I have lately had three visits from my old 
 schoolfellow Mr. Bagot, a brother of Lord 
 Bagot, and of Mr. Chester of Chicheley. At 
 
 his last visit he brought his wife with him, a 
 most amiable woman, to see Mrs. Unwin. 
 I told him my purpose and my progress.. 
 He received the news with great pleasure; 
 immediately subscribed a draft of twenty 
 pounds ; and promised me his whole heart, 
 and his whole interest, which lies principally 
 among people of the first fashion. 
 
 My correspondence has lately also been 
 renewed with my dear cousin, Lady Hes- 
 keth, whom I ever loved as a sister, (for we 
 were in a manner brought up together,) and 
 who writes to me as affectionately as if she 
 were so. She also enters into my views 
 and interests upon this occasion with a 
 warmth tliat gives me great encouragement. 
 The circle of her acquaintance is likewise 
 very extensive; and I have no doubt that 
 she will exert her influence to its utmost pos- 
 sibilities among them. I have other strings 
 to my bow, (perhaps, as a translator of Ho- 
 mer, I should say, to my lyre,) which I can- 
 not here enumerate; but, upon the whole, 
 prospect seems promising enough. I 
 
 the 
 
 my 
 
 have not' yet consulted Johnson upon 
 
 occasion, but intend to do it soon. 
 
 My spirits are somewliat better than they 
 were. In the course of the last month, I 
 have perceived a very sensible amendment. 
 The hope of better days seems again to 
 dawn upon me ; and I have now and then an 
 intimation, though slight and transient, that 
 God has not abandoned me forever. 
 
 Having been for some years troubled with 
 an inconvenient stomach ; and lately with a 
 stomach that will digest nothing without 
 
 J
 
 help ; and we having reached the bottom of 
 our own medical sivill into which we have 
 dived to little or no purpose ; I have at 
 length consented to consult Dr. Kerr, and 
 expect to see him in a day or two. En- 
 gaged as I am and am likely to be, so long 
 as I am capable of it, in writing for the 
 press, I cannot well afford to entertain a 
 malady that is such an enemy to all mental 
 operations. 
 
 This morning is beautiful, and tempts me 
 forth into tlie garden. It is all the walk 
 that I can have at this season, but not all 
 the exercise. I ring a peal every day upon 
 the dumbbells. 
 
 I am, my dear friend, most truly. 
 Yours and Mrs. Newton's, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Dec. 10, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend. — What you say of my 
 last volume gives me the sincerest pleasure. 
 I iiave beard a like favorable report of it 
 from several different quarters, but never 
 any (for obvious reasons) that has gratified 
 me more than yours. I have a relish for 
 moderate praise, because it bids fair to be 
 judicious ; but praise excessive, siicli as our 
 
 poor friend 's, (I have an uncle also 
 
 who celebrates me exactly in the same lan- 
 guage,) — such praise is rather too big for an 
 ordinary swallow. I set down nine-tenths 
 of it to the account. of family partiality. I 
 know no more than you what kind of a mar- 
 ket my book has found ; but this I believe, 
 that had not Henderson died,f and had it 
 been worth my while to have given him a 
 hundred pounds to have read it in public, it 
 would have been more popular than it is. I 
 am at least very unwilling to esteem John 
 Gilpin as better worth than all the rest that I 
 have written, and he lias been popular enough. 
 
 Your sentiments of Pope's Homer agree 
 perfectly with those of every competent judge 
 with whom I have at any time conversed 
 about it. I never saw a copy so unlike the 
 origiuaJ. There is not I believe in all the 
 world to be found an uninspired poem so 
 simple as those of Homer, nor in all the 
 world a poem more bedizened witli orna- 
 ments than Pope's translation of them. Ac- 
 cordingly, the sublime of Homer in the hands 
 of Pope becomes bloated and tumid, and his 
 description tawdry. Neitlier had Pope the 
 faintest conception of those exquisite dis- 
 criminations of character for which Homer 
 is so remarkable. All his persons, and 
 equally upon all occasions, speak in an in- 
 flated and strutting phraseology as Pope has 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t A pulilic reciter, well kiiciwri in his d;iy, who de- 
 livered his recitutioiis wiUi uU the effect of tone, cinpha- 
 Bis, and graceful elocution. 
 
 managed them ; although in the original the 
 dignity of their utterance, even when they 
 are most majestic, consists principally in the 
 simplicity of their sentiments and of their 
 language. Another censure I must needs 
 pass upon our Anglo-Grecian, out of many 
 that obtrude themselves upon me, but for 
 whicli I have neither time to spare, nor room, 
 which is, that with all his great abilities he 
 was defective in his feelings to a degree that 
 some passages in his own poems make it dif- 
 ficult to account for. No writer more pa- 
 thetic than Homer, because none more nat- 
 ural ; and because none less natural than 
 Pope in his version of Homer, therefore than 
 he none less pathetic. But I shall tire you 
 with a theme with which I would not wish to 
 cloy you beforehand. 
 
 If the great change in my experience, of 
 which you express so lively an expectation, 
 should take place, and whenever it shall take 
 place, you may securely depend upon receiv- 
 ing the first notice of it. But, whether you 
 come with congratulations, or whether with- 
 out them, I need not say that you and yours 
 will always be most welcome here. Mrs. 
 Unwin's love both to yourself and to Mrs. 
 Newton joins itself as usual, and as warmly 
 as usual, to that of 
 
 Yours, my dear friend. 
 Affectionately and faithfully, W. C. 
 
 The following this moment occurs to me 
 as a possible motto for the Messiah, if you 
 do not think it too sharp : — 
 
 -Nunquaminducunt animumcantare,roo■a<^; 
 
 7nJ^^ssi, nunquam desistunt. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Dec. 24, 1785. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You would have found a 
 
 letter from me at Mr. 's, according to 
 
 your assignation, had not the post, setting 
 out two hours sooner tluin tlie usual time, 
 prevented me. Tlie Odyssey tliat you sent 
 has but one fault, at least but one that I have 
 discovered, which is that I cannot read it. 
 The very attempt, if persevered in, would 
 soon make me as blind as Homer was iiini- 
 self I am now in the last book of the Iliad, 
 shall be obliged to you therefore for a more 
 legible one by tiie first opportunity. 
 
 I wrote to Johnson lately, desiring him to 
 give me advice and information on the subject 
 of proposals for a subscription, and he desired 
 me in his answer not to use that mode of 
 publication, but to treat with him, adding tjiat 
 lie could make me such offers as (he believed) 
 I should approve. I have replied to his let- 
 ter, but abide by my first purpose. 
 
 Having occasion to write to Mr. * con. 
 
 * John Thornton, Eeq.
 
 240 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 cerning his princely benevolence, extended 
 tiiis year also to the poor of Ohiey, I put in 
 'a good word for my poor self likewise, and 
 have received a very obliging and encourag- 
 ing answer. He promises me six names in 
 particular, that (he says) will do me no dis- 
 sredit, and expresses a wish to be served 
 with papers as soon as they shall be printed. 
 
 I meet with encouragement from all quar- 
 ters, such as I find need of indeed in an en- 
 terprise of such length and moment, but such 
 as at the same time I find eflfectual. Homer 
 is not a poet to be translated under the dis- 
 advantage of doubts and dejection. 
 
 Let me sing the praises of the desk which 
 
 ■ has sent me. In general it is as elegant 
 
 as possible. In particular it is of cedar beau- 
 tifully lacquered. When put together, it as- 
 sumes the form of a handsome small chest, 
 and contains all sorts of accommodations ; it 
 is inlaid with ivory, and serves the purpose 
 of a reading desk.* 
 
 Your affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Dec. 24, 178,5. . 
 My dear Friend, — Till I had made such a. 
 progress in my present undertaking as to put 
 it out of all doubt that, if I lived, I should 
 proceed in and finish it. I kept the matter to 
 my.self. It would have done me little honor 
 to have told my friends that I had an arduous 
 enterprise in hand, if afterwards I must have 
 told them that I had dropped it. Knowing 
 it to have been universally the opinion of tlie 
 literati, ever since they have allowed them- 
 selves to consider the matter coolly, that a 
 translation, properly so called, of Homer is, 
 notwithstanding what Pope has done, a de- 
 sideratum in the Ensflish lang-uaofe ; it struck 
 me that an attempt to supply the deficiency 
 wou! 1 be an honorable one, and having made 
 myself, in former years, somewhat critically 
 a master of the original, I was by this double 
 consideration induced to make the attempt 
 myself I am now translating into blank 
 verse the last book of the Iliad, and mean 
 to publish by subscription. W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Dec. 31, 1785. 
 My dear William, — You have learned from 
 my last that I am now conducting myself 
 upon the plan that you recommended to me 
 in the summer. But since I wrote it I have 
 made still farther advances in my negociation 
 with Johnson. The proposals are adjusted. 
 The proof-sheet has been printed off, cor- 
 
 * This interesting relic was bequeathed to Dr. Johnson, 
 and is now in the possession of his fiimily. It was pre- 
 lented to Cowper by Lady Hesketta. 
 
 reefed, and returned. They will be sent 
 abroad, as soon as I make up a complete list 
 of the personages and persons to whom I 
 would have them sent, which in a few days I 
 hope to be able to accomplish. Johnson be- 
 haves very well, at least according to my 
 conception of the matter, and seems sensible 
 that I dealt liberally with him. He wishes 
 me to be a gainer by my labors, in his own 
 words, " to put something handsome into my 
 pocket," and recommends two large quartos 
 for the whole. He would not, he says, by 
 any means advise an extravagant price, and 
 has fixed it at three guineas, the half, as 
 usual, to be paid at the time of subscribing, 
 the remainder on delivery. Five hundred 
 names, he adds, at this price will put above 
 a thousand pounds into my purse. I am 
 doing my best to obtain them. Mr. Newton 
 is warm in my service, and can do not a little. 
 I have of course written to Mr. Bagot, who, 
 when he was here, with much earnestness 
 and afiection intreated me so to do as soon 
 as 1 could have settled the conditions. If I 
 could get Sir Richard Sutton's address, I 
 would write to him also, though I have been 
 but once in his company since I left West- 
 minster, where he and I read the Iliad and 
 Odyssey through together. I enclose Lord 
 Dartmouth's answer to my application, which 
 I will get you to show to Lady Hesketh, be- 
 cause it will please her. I shall be glad if 
 you can make an opportunity to call on her 
 during your present stay in town. You ob- 
 serve therefore that I am not wanting to my- 
 self. He that is so has no just claim on the 
 assistance of others, neither shall myself have 
 cause to complain of me in other respects. I 
 thank you for your friendly hints and pre- 
 cautions, and shall not fail to give them the 
 guidance of my pen. I respect the public 
 and I respect myself, and had rather want 
 bread than expose myself wantonly to the 
 condemnation of either. I hate the affecta- 
 tion, so frequently found in authors, of neg- 
 ligence and slovenly slightness, and in the 
 present case am sensible how necessary it is 
 to shun them, when I undertake the vast and 
 invidious labor of doing better than Pope has 
 done before me. I thank you for all that 
 you have said and done in my cause, and be- 
 forehand for all that you shall do and say 
 hereafter. I am sure that there will be no 
 deficiency on your part. In particular 1 
 thank you for taking such jealous care of my 
 honor, and respectability, when the man vou 
 mentioned applied for samples of my trans- 
 lation. When I deal in wine, cloth, or cheese, 
 I will give samples, but of verse never. No 
 consideration would have induced me to 
 comply with the gentleman's demand, unless 
 he could have assured me that his wife had 
 longed. 
 
 I have frequently thought with pleasure of
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 241 
 
 the summer that you have had in your heart, 
 while you have been employed in softening 
 the severity of winter in behalf of so many 
 who must otherwise have been exposed to it. 
 I wish that you could make a general gaol- 
 delivery, leaving only those behind who can- 
 not elsewhere be so properly disposed of. 
 You never said a better thing in your life 
 than when you assured Mr. of the ex- 
 pedience of a gift of bedding to the poor of 
 Olney. There is no one article of this world's 
 comforts with which, as Falstaff says, they 
 are so heinously unprovided. Wlien a poor 
 woman, and an honest one, whom we know 
 well, carried home two pair of blankets, a 
 pair for Iierself and husband, and a pair for 
 her six children ; as soon as the children saw 
 them, tliey jumped out of their straw, caught 
 them in tlicir arms, kissed them, blessed 
 them, and danced for joy. An old woman, a 
 very old one, the first night that she found 
 herself so comfortably covered, could not 
 sleep a wink, being kept awake by the con- 
 trary emotions of transport on the one hand, 
 and the fear of not bein<r thankful enoujjh on 
 the otlier. 
 
 It just occurs to me to say that this manu- 
 script of mine will be ready for the press, as 
 I hope, by the end of February. 1 shall have 
 finished the Iliad, in about ten days, and shall 
 proceed immediately to the revisal of the 
 whole. You must if possible come down to 
 Olney, if it be only that you may take 
 charge of its safe delivery to Jolmson. For, 
 if by any accident it siioukl be lost, I am un- 
 done — the first copy being but a lean coun- 
 terpart of the second. 
 
 Your mother joins with me in love and 
 good wishes of every kind to you and all 
 yours. 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 10, 1786. 
 
 It gave me great pleasure that you found 
 my friend Unwin, what I was sure you would 
 find him, a most agreeable man. I did not 
 usher him in with the marrow-bones and 
 cleavers of high-sounding panegyric, both be- 
 cause I was certain that, whatsoever merit he 
 had, your discernment would mark it, and 
 because it is possible to do a man material 
 injury by making his praise his harbinger. 
 It is easy to raise expectation to sucli a pitcli 
 that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must 
 necessarily fall below it. 
 
 I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , 
 
 of whom I have the first information from 
 yourself, both for his friendly disposition to- 
 wards me, and for the manner in which he 
 marks the defects in my volume. An author 
 must be tendtr indeed to wince on beinnf 
 
 touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he 
 says, and as you and my uncle say, you can- 
 not be all mistaken, neither is it at all prob- 
 able that any of you should be so. I take it 
 for granted, therefore, that there are inequal- 
 ities in the composition, and I do assure you, 
 my dear, most faithfully, that, if it should 
 reach a second edition, I will spare no pains 
 to improve it. It may serve me for an agree- 
 able amusement perhaps when Homer shall 
 be gone, and done with. The first edition 
 of poems has generally been susceptible of 
 improvement. Pope I believe never pub- 
 lished one in his life that did not undergo 
 variations, and his longest pieces many. I 
 will only observe that inequalities there must 
 be always, and in every work of length. 
 There are level parts of every subject, parts 
 wiiich we cannot with propriety attempt to 
 elevate. They are by nature humble, and 
 can only be made to assume an awkward and 
 uncouth appearance by being mounted. But 
 again I take it for granted that this remark 
 does not apply to the matter of your objec- 
 tion. You were sufiiciently aware of it be- 
 fore, and have no need that I should suggest 
 it as an apology, could it have served that 
 office, but would have made it for me your- 
 self In truth, my dear, had you known in 
 what anguish of mind I wrote the whole of 
 that poem, and under what perpetual inter 
 ruptions from a cause that has since been re- 
 moved, so that sometimes I had not an op- 
 portunity of writing more than three lines at 
 a sitting, you would long since have won- 
 dered as much as I do myself that it turned 
 out anything better than Grub-street. 
 
 My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find 
 out any of the magi to scrutinize my Homer. 
 I can do without them ; and, if I were not 
 conscious that I have no need of their help, 
 I would be the first to call for it. Assure 
 yourself that I intend to be careful to the ut- 
 most line of all possible caution, both with 
 respect to language and versification. I will 
 not send a verse to the press that shall nou 
 have undergone the strictest examination. 
 
 A subscription is surely on every account 
 the most eligible mode of publication. When 
 I shall have emptied the purses of my friends 
 and of their friends into my own, I am still 
 free to levy contributions upon the world at 
 large, and I shall then have a fund to defray 
 the expenses of a new edition. I have ordered 
 Johnson to print the proposals immediately, 
 and hope that they will kiss your hands be- 
 fore the week is expired. 
 
 I have had the kindest letter from Josephus 
 that I ever had. He mentioned my purpose 
 to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, 
 that "sucii a work is much wanted." 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 16
 
 242 
 
 CUVVPER S WORKS, 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. 
 
 My dear William, — I am glad that you 
 have seen Lady Hesketh. I knew that you 
 would find her everything that is amiable and 
 elegant. Else, being my relation, I would 
 never have shown her to you. She was also 
 delighted with her visitor, and expects the 
 greatest pleasure in seeing you again ; but is 
 under some apprehensions that a tender re- 
 gard for the drum of your ear may keep you 
 from her. Never mind! You have two 
 drums, and if she should crack both, I will 
 buy you a trumpet. 
 
 General Cowper having much pressed me 
 to accompany my proposals with a specimen, 
 I have sent him one. It is taken from the 
 twenty-fourth book of the Iliad, and is part 
 of the interview between Priam and Achilles. 
 Tell me, if it be possible for any man to tell 
 me — why did Homer leave off at the burial 
 of Hector 1 Is it possible, that he could be 
 determined to it by a conceit so little worthy 
 of him as that, having made the number of 
 his books completely the alphabetical num- 
 ber, he would not for the joke's sake proceed 
 any further ? Why did he not give us the 
 death of Achilles, with the destruction of 
 Troy ? Tell me also if the critics, with Aris- 
 totle at their head, have not found that he 
 left off exactly where he should, and that 
 every epic poem to all generations is bound 
 to conclude with the burial of Hector ? I do 
 not in the least doubt it. Therefore if I live 
 to write a dozen epic poems, I will always 
 take care to bury Hector, and to bring all 
 matters at that point to an immediate con- 
 clusion. 
 
 I had a truly kind letter from Mr. , 
 
 written immediately on his recovery from the 
 fever. I am bound to honor .Tames's powder, 
 not only for the services it has often ren- 
 dered to myself, but still more for having 
 been the means of preserving a life ten times 
 more valuable to society than mine is ever 
 likely to be. 
 
 You sny, "Why should I trouble you with 
 my troubles ?" I answer, " Why not ? What 
 is a friend good for, if we may not lay one 
 end of the sack upon his shoulders, while we 
 ourselves carry the other]" 
 
 You see your duty to God, and your duty 
 to your neighbor, and you practise both with 
 your best ability. Yet a certain person ac- 
 counts you blind. I would, that all the world 
 were so blind even as you are. But there 
 are some in it who, like the Chinese, say, 
 " We have two eyes ; and other nations have 
 but one !" I am glad however that in your 
 one eye you have sight enough to discover 
 that such censures are not worth mindino-. 
 
 I thank you heartily for every step you 
 take in the advancement of my present pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Contrive to pay Lady H. a long visit, for 
 she has a thousand things to say. 
 Yours, my dear William, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My proposals are aU 
 ready printed. I ought rather to say that 
 they are ready for printing ; having near ten 
 days ago returned the correction of the proof. 
 But a cousin of mine, and one who will I 
 dare say be very active in my literary cause, 
 (I mean General Cowper,) having earnestly 
 recommended it to me to annex a specimen, 
 I have accordingly sent him one, extracted 
 from the latter part of the last book of the 
 Iliad, and consisting of a hundred and seven 
 lines. I chose to extract it from that part of 
 the poem, because if the reader should happen 
 to find himself content with it, he will natu- 
 rally be encouraged by it to hope well of the 
 part preceding. Every man who can do any- 
 thing in the translating way is pretty sure 
 to set off with spirit ; but in works of such a 
 length, there is always danger of flagging 
 near the close. 
 
 My subscription I hope will be more pow- 
 erfully promoted than subscriptions generally 
 are. I have a warm and af!ectionate friend 
 in Lady Hesketh ; and one equally disposed, 
 and even still more able to serve me, in the 
 General above mentioned. The Bagot fam- 
 ily all undertake my cause with ardor ; and 
 I have several others, of whose ability and 
 good will I could not doubt without doing 
 them injustice. It will however be necessary 
 to bestow yet much time on the revisal of 
 this work, for many reasons ; and especially, 
 because he who contends with Pope upon 
 Homer's ground can of all writers least 
 afford to be negligent. 
 
 Mr. Scott brought me as much as he could 
 remember of a kind message from Lord Dart- 
 mouth; but it was rather imperfectly de- 
 livered. Enough of it however came to 
 hand to convince me that his lordship takes 
 a friendly interest in my success. When his 
 lordship and I sat side by side, on the sixth 
 form at Westminster, we little thought that 
 in process of time one of us was ordained to 
 give a new translation of Homer. Yet at 
 that very time it seems I was laying the 
 foundation of this superstructure. 
 
 Much love upon all accounts to you and 
 yours. 
 
 Adieu, my friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 15, 1780. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I have just time to give 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 24& 
 
 you a hasty line to explain to you the delay 
 that the publication of my proposals has un- 
 expectedly encountered, and at which I sup- 
 pose that you have been somewhat surprised. 
 
 I have a near relation in London, and a 
 warm friend in General Cowper ; he is also a 
 person as able as willing to render me mate- 
 rial service. I lately made him acquainted 
 with my design of sending into the world a 
 new Translation of Homer,and told him that 
 my papers would soon attend him. He soon 
 after desired tiiat I would annex to them a 
 specimen of the work. To this I at first ob- 
 jected, for reasons that need not be enume- 
 rated here, but at last acceded to his advice; 
 and accordingly the d:iy before yesterday I 
 sent him a specimen. It consists of one 
 hundred and seven lines, and is taken from 
 tile interview between Priam and Achilles in 
 the last book. I chose to extract from the 
 latter end of the poem, and as near to the 
 close of it as possible, that I might encourage 
 a hope in the readers of it, that if they found 
 it in some degree wortiiy of their approbation, 
 they would rind the former parts of tlie work 
 not less so. For if a writer flags anywhere, 
 it must be when he is near the end. 
 
 My subscribers will have an option gi\:en 
 them in the proposals respecting the price. 
 My predecessor in the same business was 
 not quite so moderate. You may say, per- 
 haps (at least if your kindness for me did not 
 prevent it, you would be ready to say,) "It is 
 vvell — but do you place yourself on a level 
 with Pope ?" I answer, or rather should 
 answer, " By no means — not as a poet ; but 
 as a translator of Homer, if I did not expect 
 and believe that I should even surpass him, 
 why have I meddled with this matter at all 1 
 If I confess inferiority, I reprobate my own 
 undertaking." 
 
 When I can hear of the rest of the bishops 
 that they preacii and live as your brotiier does, 
 I will think more respectfully of them than I 
 feel inclined to do at present. Tliey may be 
 learned, and I know tiiat some of them are; 
 but your brother, learned as he is, has other 
 more powerful recommendations. Persuade 
 him to publisli his poetry, and I promise you 
 that lie shall find as warm and sincere an ad- 
 mirer in me as in any man that lives. 
 Yours, my dear fiicnd. 
 
 Very aifectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Olney, Jan. -2'i, \l?Ci. 
 
 My dear and faithful friend, — . 
 
 • • , . • • 
 
 The paragraph that I am now beginm'ng 
 will contain information of a kind that I am 
 not very fond of conununicating, and on a 
 subject that I am not very fond of writing 
 about. Only to vou T will open my budget 
 
 without any reserve, because I know that in 
 what concerns my authorship you take an in- 
 terest that demands my confidence, and will 
 be pleased with every occurrence that is at all 
 propitious to my endeavors. Lady Hesketh, 
 who, had she as many mouths as Virgil's 
 Fame, with a tongue in each, would employ 
 them all in my service, whites me word that 
 Dr. Maty, of the Museum, has read my "Task." 
 I cannot, even to you, relate what he says of 
 it, though, when I began this story, I thought 
 I had courage enough to tell it boldly. He 
 designs, however, to give his opinion of it in 
 his next Monthly Review; and, being informed 
 that I was about to finish a translation of 
 Homer, asked lier ladyship's leave to mention 
 the circumstance on tiiat occasion. This in- 
 cident pleases me the more, because I have 
 authentic intelligence of his being a critical 
 character, in all its forms, acute, sour, and 
 blunt, and so incorruptible withal, and so un- 
 susceptible of bias from undue motives, that, 
 as my correspondent informs me, he would 
 not praise his own mother, did he not think 
 slie deserved it. 
 
 The said " Task" is likewise gone to Ox- 
 ford, conveyed thither by an intimate friend 
 
 of Dr. , with a purpose of putting ii; into 
 
 his hands. JMy friend, what will they do with 
 me at Oxford ? Will tliey burn me at Carfax, 
 or will they anthematize me with bell, book, 
 and candle ? I can say with more truth than 
 Ovid did — Pane, nee invideo. 
 
 The said Dr. has been heard to say 
 
 and I give you his own words, (stop both 
 your ears while I utter them,) "that Homer 
 has never been translated, and that Pope was 
 a fool." Very irreverend language, to be sure, 
 but, in consideration of the subject on which 
 he used them, we will pardon it, even in a 
 dean.* One of the masters of Eton told a 
 friend of mine lately, that a translation of 
 Homer is mucli wanted. So now you have 
 all my news. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, cordially, 
 
 vv. c. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Jan. 31, 178(i 
 It is very pleasant, my dearest Cousin, U 
 receive a present so delicately conveyed as 
 that wiiich I received so lately from Anony- 
 mous; but it is also very painful to have 
 nobody to thank for it. I find myself, there- 
 fore, driven by stress of necessity to the fol- 
 lowing resolutions, viz., that I will constitute 
 you my thanks-receiver-general, for whatso- 
 ever gift I sliall receive hereafter, as well as 
 for those that I have already received from a 
 nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, 
 
 * The person here alhuled to is Dr. Cyril Jackson, dean 
 of Christ Church, Oxford, a man of profound acquire- 
 int-nts and of sreat classical Ijuste. He was formerly pro- 
 ceptor to the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV.
 
 i" 
 
 244 
 
 COVVPER'S WORKS. 
 
 my cousin, for a most elegant present, includ- 
 ing the most elegant compliment that ever 
 poet was honored with ; for a snuft-box of 
 tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on 
 the lid of it, glazed with crystal, having the 
 figures of three hares in the fore ground, and 
 inscribed above with these words, The Peas- 
 ants Nest — and below with these, Tiney, 
 Puss, and Bess. For all and every of these 
 I thank you, and also for standing proxy on 
 this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank 
 yon, that so soon after I had sent you the 
 first letter of Anonymous, I received another 
 in the same hand. — There ! Now I am a little 
 easier. 
 
 I have almost conceived a design to send 
 up half a dozen stout country fellows, to tie 
 by the leg to their respective bed-posts, the 
 company that so abridges your opportunity 
 of writmg to me. Your letters are the joy 
 of my heart, and I cannot endure to be 
 robbed, by I know not whom, of half my 
 treasure. But there is no comfort without a 
 drawback, and therefore it is that I, who have 
 unknown friends, have unknown enemies also. 
 Ever since I wrote last, I find myself in better 
 health, and my nocturnal spasms and fever 
 considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. 
 Kerr on Thursday, that I may gratify him 
 with an account of my amendment : for to 
 him I know that it will be a gratification. 
 Were he not a physician, I should regret that 
 he lives so distant, for he is a most agreeable 
 man ;f but, being what he is, it would be im- 
 possible to have his company, even if he were 
 a neighbor, unless in time of sickness, at 
 which time, whatever charms he might have 
 himself, my own must necessarily lose much 
 of their effect on him. 
 
 When I write to you, my dear, what I have 
 already related to the General, I am always 
 fearful lest I should tell you that for news 
 with which you are well acquainted. For 
 once, however, I will venture. On Wednes- 
 day last I received from Johnson the MS. copy 
 of a specimen that I had sent to the General, 
 and inclosed in the same cover Notes upon it 
 by an unknown critic. Johnson, in a short 
 letter, recommended him to me as a man of 
 unquestionable learning and ability. On pe- 
 rusal and consideration of his remarks, I 
 found him such, and, having nothing so much 
 at heart as to give all possible security to 
 yourself and the General that my work shall 
 not come forth unfinished, I answered John- 
 son that I would gladly submit my MS. to 
 his friend. He is in truth a very clever fellow, 
 perfectly a stranger to me, and one who, I 
 promise you, will not spare for severity of 
 animadversion, where he shall find occasion. 
 It is impossible for you, my dearest cousin, 
 to express a wish that I do not equally feel a 
 
 * Dr. Kerr was an eminent plijsician, in great prac- 
 tice, and resident at Northampton. 
 
 wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty 
 should see a book of my Homer, and for that 
 reason, if Maty will see a book of it. he shall 
 be welcome, although time is likely to be 
 precious, and consequently any delay that is 
 not absolutely necessary as much as possible 
 to be avoided. I am now revising the " Iliad." 
 It is a business that will cost me four months, 
 perhaps five : for I compare the very words 
 as I go, and, if much alteration should occur, 
 must transcribe the whole. The first book I 
 have almost transcribed already. To these 
 five months Johnson says that nine more must 
 be added for printing, and upon my own ex- 
 perience, I will venture to assure you that the 
 tardiness of printers will make those nine 
 months twelve. There is danger therefore 
 that my subscribers may think that I make 
 tiiem wait too long, and that they who know 
 me not, may suspect a bubble. How glad 
 shall I be to read it over in an evening, book 
 by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you 
 and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touch- 
 stone always, and without reference to her 
 taste and judgment I have printed nothing. 
 With one of you at each elbow, I should 
 think myself the happiest of all poets. 
 
 The General and I, having broken the ice, 
 aft upon the most comfortable terms of cor- 
 respondence. He writes very affectionately 
 to me, and I say everything that comes up- 
 permost. I could not write frequently to any 
 creature living upon any other terms than 
 those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, 
 which make him less active than he was. I 
 am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas! 
 alas ! he was young when I saw him, only 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 I have the most affectionate letter imagina- 
 ble from Colman, who writes to me like a 
 brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb. 
 
 May God have you in his keeping, my be- 
 loved cousin. 
 
 Farewell, W. C. 
 
 Lady Hesketh having announced her in- 
 tention of paying a visit to Cowper, the fol- 
 lowing letters abound in all that delightful 
 anticipation which the prospect of renewing 
 so endeared an intercourse naturally sug- 
 gested. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 9, 1786. 
 My dearest Cousin, — I have been impa- 
 tient to tell you that I am impatient to see 
 you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me 
 in all my feelings upon this subject, and 
 longs also to see you. I should have told 
 you so by the last post, but have been so 
 completely occupied by this tomienting speci- 
 men, that it was impossible to do it. I sent 
 the General a letter on Monday that would
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 245 
 
 ■distress raid alarm him ; I sent him another 
 yesterda}', that will, I hope, quiet him again. 
 Johnson has apologized very civilly for the 
 multitude of his friend's strictures ; and iiis 
 friend has promised to confine himself in 
 future to a comparison with the original, so 
 that (I doubt not) we shall jog on merrily 
 LOffether. And now, my dear, let me tell 
 ycu once more that your kindness in prom- 
 ishifj us a visit has charmed us both. 1 shall 
 see you again. I sliall hear your voice. We 
 shall take walks together. I will show you 
 my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the 
 Ouse, and its banks, everything that T have 
 described. I anticipate the pleasure of tliose 
 days not very far distant, and feel a part of 
 it at this moment. Talk not of an inn! 
 Mention it not for your life ! We have 
 never had so many visitors but we could 
 easily accommodate them all, though we 
 have received Unwin, and his wife, and his 
 sister, and his son, all at once. JNIy dear, I 
 will not let you come till the end of May, or 
 beginning of June, because, before that time 
 my green-house will not be ready to receive 
 us, and it is the only pleasant room belong- 
 ing to us. When tiie plants go out, we go 
 in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor 
 with mats ; and there you shall sit, witii a 
 bed of miguonette at your side, and a hedge 
 of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I 
 will make you a bouquet of myrtle every 
 day. Sooner than the time 1 mention the 
 country will not be in complete beauty. 
 And I will tell you what you shall find at 
 your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as 
 ycu have entered the vestibule, if you cast a 
 look on either side of you, you shall see on 
 the right hand a box of my making. It is 
 the box in whicii have been lodged all my 
 hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. 
 But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, 
 and promises to die before you can see him. 
 On the right iiand stands a cupboard, the 
 work of the same author ; it was once a 
 dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite 
 to you stands a table, whicli I also made. 
 But, a merciless servant having scrubbed it 
 until it became paralytic, it serves no pur- 
 pose now but of ornament ; and all my clean 
 shoes stand under it. On tlie left hand, at 
 the fartlier end of this superb vestibule, you 
 will find the door of tlie parlor, into which I 
 will conduct yon, and wiiere I will introduce 
 you to Mrs. Uuwiii, unless we should meet 
 her before, and where we will be as Iiappy 
 as the day is long. Order yourself, my 
 cousin, to the Swan, at Newport, and there 
 you shall find me ready to conduct you to 
 Olney. 
 
 My dear, I have told Homer what you say 
 about casks and urns, and have asked him 
 whether he is sure that it is a cask in which 
 Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is 
 
 a cask, and that it will never be anything 
 better than a cask to eternity. So if the god 
 is content with it, we must even wonder at 
 his taste, and be so t(>o. 
 
 Adieu ! my dearest, dearest Cousin, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 11, 1786. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — It must be, I sup- 
 pose, a fortnight or thereabout since I wrote 
 last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to 
 write again. Be that as it may, here I come. 
 We talk of nobody but you, what we will do 
 with you when we get you, where you shall 
 walk, where you shall sleep, in short every- 
 thing that bears the remotest relation to your 
 well-being at Olney occupies all our talking 
 time, which is all that I do not spend at 
 Troy. 
 
 I have every reason for writing to you as 
 often as I can, but I have a particular reason 
 for doing it now. I want to tell you, that 
 by the diligence on Wednesday next, I mean 
 to send you a quire of my Homer for IMaty's 
 perusal. It will contain the first book, and 
 as much of the second as brings us to the 
 catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel 
 of the revised copy that I have transcribed. 
 3Iy dearest cousin, read it yourself, let the 
 General read it, do what you please with it, 
 so that it reach Johnson in due time. But 
 let JMaty be the only Critic that has anything 
 to do with it. The vexation, the perplexity, 
 that attends a multiplicity of criticisms by 
 various hands, many of which are sure to be 
 futile, many of them ill-founded, and some 
 of them contradictory to others, is incon- 
 ceivable, except by the autiior whose ill-fated 
 work happens to be the subject of them. 
 This also appears to me self-evident, that if 
 a work have passed under the review of one 
 man of taste and learning, and have had the 
 good fortune to please him, his approbation 
 gives security for that of all others qualified 
 like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after 
 having just escaped from such a storm of 
 trouble, occasioned by endless remarks, hints, 
 suggestions, and objections, as drove me al- 
 most to despair, and to the very verge of a 
 resolution to drop my undertaking forever. 
 With infinite difficulty I at last sifted the 
 chaff from the wheat, availing myself of 
 what appeared to me to be just, and rejected 
 the rest, but not till the labor and anxiety 
 iiad nearly undone all that Kerr had been 
 doing for me. My beloved cousin, trust me 
 for it, as you safely may, that temper, vanity, 
 and self-importance, had nothing to do in all 
 this distress that I suftered. It was merely 
 the effect of an alarm that I could not help 
 taking, when I compared the great trouble J 
 had with a few lines only, thus handled, with
 
 246 
 
 COVVPER'S WORKS. 
 
 that which I foresaw such handling of the 
 whole must necessarily give me. 1 felt be- 
 forehand that my constitution would not 
 bear it. I shall send up tliis second siieci- 
 men in a box that I have made on purpose ; 
 and when ]Maty has done witii the copy, and 
 you have done with it yourself, then you 
 must return it in said box to my translator- 
 ship. Though Johnson's friend has teased 
 me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have 
 no more such cause to complain of him. 
 We now understand one another, and I 
 firmly believe that I might have gone the 
 world'through before I had found his equal 
 in an accurate and familiar acquaintance with 
 the original. 
 
 A letter to Mr. Urban in the last Gentle- 
 man's JMagazine, of which I's book is the sub- 
 ject, pleases me more than anything I have 
 seen in the way of eulogium yet. I have no 
 guess of the author. 
 
 I do not wish to remind the Chancellor of 
 his promise. Ask you why, my Cousin? 
 Because I suppose it would be impossible. 
 He has, no doubt, forgotten it entirely, and 
 would be obliged to take my word for the 
 truth of it, which I could not bear. We 
 
 drank tea together with Mrs. C e, and 
 
 her sister, in King-street, Bloomsbury, and 
 there was the promise made. I said, " Thur- 
 low, I am nobody, and shall be always no- 
 body, and you will be Chancellor. You shall 
 provide for me when you are.'' He smiled, 
 and replied, " I surely will." " These ladies," 
 said I, " are witnesses." He still smiled, and 
 said, " Let them be so, for I certainly will do 
 it." But alas ! twenty-four years have passed 
 since the day of the date thereof; and to 
 mention it now would be to upbraid him 
 with inattention to his plighted troth. Nei- 
 ther do I suppose that he could easily serve 
 such a creature as I am, if he would. 
 Adieu, whom I love entirely, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Feb. 18, 1786. 
 My dear Friend, — I feel myself truly 
 obliged to you for the leave that you give me 
 to be less frequent in my writing, and more 
 brief than heretofore. I have a long work 
 upon my hands ; and standing engaged to 
 the public (for by this time I suppose my 
 subscription papers to be gone abroad, not 
 only for the performance of it, but for the 
 performance of it in a reasonable time), it 
 seems necessary to me not to intermit it 
 vften. My correspondence has also lately 
 been renewed with several of my relations, 
 and unavoidably engrosses now and then 
 one of the few opportunities that I can find 
 
 * I f ivate correspondence. 
 
 for writing. I nevertheless intend, in t'^a 
 exchange of letters with you, to be as reg. 
 ular as I can be, and to use, like a friend, 
 the friendly allowance that you have made ' 
 me. 
 
 My reason for giving notice of an Cflyssej' 
 as well as an Iliad, was this ■ I feared that 
 the public being left to doubt whether I 
 should ever translate the former, would be 
 unwilling to treat with me for the latter ; 
 which they would be apt to consider as an 
 odd volume, and unworthy to stand upon 
 their shelves alone. It is hardly probab:e, 
 however, that I should begin the Odyssey for 
 some months to come, being now closely en- 
 gaged in the revisal of my translation of the 
 Iliad, which I compare as I go most minutely 
 with the original. One of the great defects 
 of Pope's translation is that it is licentious. 
 To publish therefore a translation now, that 
 should be at all chargeable with the same 
 fault, that were not indeed as close and aa 
 faithful as possible, would be only actum 
 agere, and had therefore better be left un- 
 done. Whatever be said of mine when it 
 shall appear, it shall never be said that it is 
 not faithful. 
 
 I thank you heartily, both for your wishes 
 and prayers that, should a disappointment 
 occur, I may not be too much hurt by it. 
 Strange as it may seem to say it, and un- 
 willing as I should be to say it to any person 
 less candid than yourself, I will nevertheless 
 say that I have not entered on this work, un- 
 connected as it must needs appear with the 
 interests of the cause of God, without the 
 direction of his providence, nor altogether 
 unassisted by him in the performance of ii. 
 Time will show to what it ultimately tends. 
 I am inclined to believe that it has a ten- 
 dency to which I myself am at present per- 
 fectly a stranger.^ Be that as it may, he 
 knows my frame, and will consider that I am 
 but dust; dust, into the bargain, that has 
 been so trampled under foot and beaten, that 
 a storm, less violent than an unsuccessful 
 issue of such a business might occasion, 
 would be suthcient to blow me quite away. 
 But I will tell you honestly, I have no fears 
 upon the subject. My predecessor has given 
 me every advantage. 
 
 As I know not to what end this my pres- 
 ent occupation may finally lead, so nei-thei 
 did I know, when I wrote it, or at all suspect 
 one valuable end at least that was to be an- 
 swered by " The Task." It has pleased God 
 to prosper it ; and, being composed in blank 
 verse, it is likely to prove as seasonable an 
 introduction to a blank verse Homer by the 
 same hand as any that could have been de- 
 vised; yet, when I wrote the last line of 
 "The Task," I as little suspected that I 
 should ever engage in a version of the oli 
 Asiatic tale as you do now.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 247 
 
 I should choose for your general motto : — 
 Carmina tuin melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus. 
 
 For Vol. I.— 
 
 Unum pro multis dabitur caput. 
 
 For Vol. II.— 
 
 Aspice, venture laetentur ut omnia seecIo. 
 
 It seems to me that you cannot have bet- 
 ter than these. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 19, 178G. 
 My dearest Cousin, — Since so it must be, 
 so it" shall be. If you will not sleep under 
 the roof of a friend, may you never sleep 
 under the roof of an enemy! An enemy, 
 however, you will not presently find. Mrs. 
 Unwin bids me mention her atTectionately, 
 and tell you that she willingly gives up a 
 part, for tlie sake of the rest — willingly, at 
 least as far as willingly may consist with 
 some reluctance : I feel my reluctance too. 
 Our design was that you should have slept 
 in the room that serves me for a study, and 
 its having been occupied by you would iuive 
 been an additional recommendation of it to 
 me. But all reluctances are superseded by 
 tlie thought of seeing you ; and because we 
 have nothing so much at heart as the wish 
 to see you happy and comfortable, we are 
 desirous therefore to accommodate you to 
 your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Qii- 
 win has already secured for you an apart- 
 ment, or rather two, just such as we could 
 wish. The house in which you will find 
 them is within thirty yards of our own, and 
 opposite to it. The whole alf;iir is thus 
 commodiously adjusted; and now I have 
 nothing to do but to wish for June; and 
 June, my Cousin, was never so wished for 
 since June was made. I shall have a thou- 
 sand things to hear, and a thousand to say, 
 and they will all rush into my mind together, 
 till it will be so crowded with things im- 
 patient to be said, that for some time I shall 
 say nothing. But no matter — sooner or 
 later they will all come out ; and since we 
 shall have you the longer for not having you 
 under our own roof (a circumstance tiiat 
 more than anything reconciles us to that 
 measure), they will stand the better chance. 
 After so long a separation, — a separation 
 that of late seemed likely to last for life — 
 we shall meet each other as alive from tlie 
 dead ; and for my own part, I can truly say, 
 that I have not a friend in the other world 
 whose resurrection would give me greater 
 pleasure. 
 
 I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased 
 
 you with what you have seen of my Homer 
 I wish that all English readers had your un- 
 sophisticated, or rather unadulterated taste, 
 and could relish simplicity like you. But I 
 am well aware that in this respect I am under 
 a disadvantage, and that many, especially 
 many ladies, missing many turns and pretti- 
 nesses of expression, that they have admired 
 in Pope, will account my translation in those 
 particulars defective. But I comfort myself 
 with the thought, that in reality it is no de- 
 fect ; on the contrary, that the want of all 
 such embellishments as do not belong to the 
 original, will be one of its principal merits 
 with persons indeed capable of relishing Ho- 
 mer. He is the best poet that ever lived for 
 many reasons, but for none more than for 
 that majestic plainness that distinguishes him 
 from all others. As an accomplished person 
 moves gracefully without thinking of it, in 
 like manner the dignity of Homer seems to 
 cost him no labor. It was natural to him 
 to say great things, and to say them well 
 and little ornaments were beneath his notice. 
 If Maty, my dearest cousin, should return to 
 you my copy, with any such strictures as 
 may make it necessary for me to see it 
 again, before it goes to Johnson, in that case 
 you shall send it to me, otherwise to John- 
 son immediately ; for he writes me word he 
 wishes his friend to go to work upon it as 
 soon as possible. When you come, my dear, 
 we will hang all these critics together; for 
 they have worried me without remorse or 
 conscience. At least one of them has. I 
 had actually murdered more than a few of 
 the best lines in the specimen, in compliance 
 with his requisitions, but plucked up my 
 courage at last, and, in the very last oppor- 
 tunity that I had, recovered them to life 
 again by restoring the original reading. At 
 tiie same time I readily confess tliat the spe- 
 cimen is the better for all this discipline its 
 author has undergone, but then it has been 
 more indebted for its improvement to that 
 pointed accuracy of examination to which 
 I was myself excited, than to any proposed 
 amendments from Mr. Critic ; for, as sure as 
 you are my cousin, whom I long to see at 
 blney, so surely would he have done me ir- 
 reparable mischief, if I would have given him 
 leave. 
 
 jMy friend Bagot writes to me in a most 
 friendly strain, and calls loudly upon me for 
 original poetry. When I shall have done 
 with Homer, probably he will not call in vain. 
 Having found tiie prime feather of a swan 
 on the banks of the stiiug ami silver Trent, 
 he keeps it for me. 
 
 Adieu, dear Cousin, W. C. 
 
 I am sorry that the General has such indif- 
 ferent hea.th. He must not die. I can by 
 no means spare a person so kind to me.
 
 248 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Olney, Feb. 27, 1786. 
 Alas! alas ! my dear, dear friend, may God 
 himself comfort yoii ! I will not be so ab- 
 surd as to attempt it.* By the close of your 
 letter, it should seem that in this hour of 
 great trial he witiiholds not his consolations 
 from you. I know, by experience, that they 
 are neither few nor small; and though I 
 feel for you as I never felt for man before, 
 yet do I sincerely rejoice in this, that, where- 
 as there is but one true comforter in the uni- 
 verse, under afflictions such as yours, you 
 both know Him, and know where to seek 
 Him. I thought you a man the most happily 
 mated tliat I had ever seen, and had great 
 pleasure in your felicity. Pardon me, if 
 now I feel a wish that, short as my ac- 
 quaintance with her was, I had never seen 
 her. I should have mourned with you, but 
 not as I do now. Mrs. Unwin sympathizes 
 with you also most sincerely, and you nei- 
 ther are nor will be soon forgotten in such 
 prayers as we can make at Olney. I will 
 not detain you longer now, my poor afflict- 
 ed friend, than to commit you to the tender 
 mercy of God, and to bid you a sorrowful 
 adieu! 
 
 Adieu ! Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, March 6, 178C. 
 My dearest Cousm, — Your opinion has 
 more weight with me than that of all the 
 critics in the world ; and, to give you a proof 
 of it, I make you a concession that I would 
 hardly have made to them all united. I do 
 not indeed absolutely covenant, promise, and 
 agree, that I will discard all my elisions, but 
 I hereby bind myself to dismiss as many of 
 them as, without sacrificing energy to sound, 
 I can. It is incumbent upon me in the mean- 
 time to say something in justification o4' the 
 few that I shall retain, that I may not seem 
 a poet mounted rather on a mule than on 
 Pegasus. In the first place. The is a barba- 
 rism. We are indebted for it to the Celts, 
 or the Goths, or to the Saxons, or perhaps to 
 them all. In the two best languages that 
 ever were spoken, the Greek and the Latin, 
 there is no similar incumbrance of expres- 
 sion to be found. Secondly, the perpetual 
 use of it in our language is, to us miserable 
 poets, attended with two great inconve- 
 niences. Our verse consisting only of ten 
 syllables, it not unfrcquenly ]ia])pens that 
 tiie fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, 
 and necessarily too, unless elision prevents 
 it, by this abominable intruder, and, which is 
 worse on my account, open vowels are con- 
 tinually the consequence — The element — 
 
 * Mr. Bagot had recently sustained the loss of his wife. 
 
 The air, &c. Thirdly, the French, who are 
 equally with the English chargeable with 
 barbarism in this particular, dispose of their 
 Le and their La without ceremony, and al- 
 ways take care that they shall be absorbed, 
 both in verse and in prose, in the vowel that 
 immediately follows them. Fourthly, and I 
 believe lastly, (and for your sake I wish it 
 may prove so,) the practice of cutting short 
 The is warranted by Milton, who of all Eng- 
 lish poets that ever lived, had certainly the 
 finest ear. Dr. Warton indeed has dared to 
 say that he had a bad one, for which he de- 
 serves, as far as critical demerit can deserve 
 it, to lose his own. I thought I had done, 
 but there is still a fifthly behind; and it is 
 this, that the custom of abbreviating The, 
 belongs to the style in which, in my adver- 
 tisement annexed to the specimen, I profess" 
 to write. The use of that style would have 
 warranted me in the practice of much greater 
 liberty of this sort tli^n I ever intended to 
 take. In perfect consistence with that style, 
 I might say, I' th' tempest, F th' doorway, 
 &c., which, however, I would not allow my- 
 self to do, because I was aware that it would 
 be objected to, and with reason. But it seems 
 to me, for the causes above-said, that when I 
 shorten The, before a vowel, or before ivh, as 
 in the line you mention, 
 
 " Than th' whole broad Hellespont in all its 
 parts," 
 
 my license is not equally exceptionable, be- 
 cause W, though he rank as a consonant, in 
 the word xvhole, is not allowed to announce 
 himself to the ear ; and // is an aspirate. But 
 as I said in the beginning, so say I still, I am 
 most willing to conform myself to your very 
 sensible observation, that it is necessary, if 
 we would please, to consult the taste of our 
 own day ; neither would I have pelted you, 
 my dearest cousin, with any part of this vol- 
 ley of good reasons, had I not designed 
 them as an answer to those objections, which 
 you say you have heard from others. But I 
 only mention them. Though satisfactory to 
 myself, I waive them, and will allow to The 
 his whole dimensions, W'hensoever it can be 
 done. 
 
 Thou only critic of my verse that is to be 
 found in all the earth, whom I love, what 
 shall I say in answer to your own objection 
 to tliat passage ? 
 
 " Softly he placed his hand 
 On th' old man's hand, and pushed it gently 
 
 away." 
 
 I can say neither more nor less than this, 
 that when our dear friend, the General, sent 
 me his opinion on the specimen, quoting 
 those very words from it, he added — " With 
 this part I was particularly pleased ; there is 
 nothing in poetry more descriptive." Such
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 24^ 
 
 were his very words. Taste, my dear, is 
 various ; there is nothing so various ; and 
 even between persons of the best taste there 
 are diversities of opinion on the same sub- 
 ject, for wliich it is not possible to account. 
 So mucli for these matters. 
 
 You advise me to consult the General and 
 to confide in liim. 1 follow your advice, and 
 have done both. By the last post I asked 
 his permission to send iiim the books of my 
 Homer, as fast as I sliould finish them otl". 
 I shall be glad of his remarks, and more 
 glad, than of anything, to do that which I 
 hope may be agreeable to him. They will 
 of course pass into your hands before they 
 are sent to Johnson. Tlie quire that I sent 
 is now in the liands of Joimson's friend. I 
 intended to have told you in my last, but 
 forgot it, that Johnson" behaves very hand- 
 somely in the affair of my two volumes. 
 He acts with a liberality not often found in 
 persons of his occupation, and to mention it 
 wiien occasion calls me to it is a justice due 
 to him. 
 
 I am \ rry much pleased with Mr. Stanley's 
 letter — several compliments were paid me 
 on the subject of that first volume by my 
 own friends, but I do not recollect that 1 
 ever knew the opinion of a stranger about it 
 before, whether favorable or otherwise; I 
 only heard by a side wind that it was very 
 much read in Scotland, and more tlian here. 
 
 Farewell, my dearest cousin, whom we ex- 
 pect, of whom we talk continually, and 
 whom we continually long for. W. C. 
 
 P. S. Your anxious wishes for my success 
 delight me, and you may rest assured, my 
 dear, that I have all the ambition on the sub- 
 ject that you can wisii me to feel. I more 
 than admire my author. 1 often stand as- 
 tonished at his beauties : I am forever amused 
 wit!) tlie translation of liim, and I have re- 
 ceived a thousand encouragements. Tiiese 
 are all so many liap[)y omens that I iiope 
 shall be verified by tlie event. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, March 13, 1786. 
 My dear Friend, — I seem to be about to 
 write to you, but I foresee that it will not be 
 a letter, but a scrap that I shall send you. I 
 could tell you things, that, knowing how 
 much you interest yourself in my success, I 
 am sure would please you, but every mo- 
 ment of my leisure is necessarily spent at 
 Troy. I am revising my translation, and be- 
 stowing on it more labor than at first. At 
 the repeated solicitati(»n of General Cowper, 
 who had doubtless irrefragable reason on his 
 side, I have put my book into the hands of the 
 most extraordinary critic that I have ever 
 heard of. He is a Swiss; has an accurate 
 
 knowledge of English, and, for his knowledge 
 of Homer, has I verily believe no fellow. 
 Johnson recommended him to me. 1 am to 
 send him the quires as fast as I finish them 
 oft", and the first is now in his hands. I have 
 the comfort to be able to tell you that he is 
 very much pleased with what he has seen • 
 Johnson wrote to me lately on purpose to 
 tell me so. Things having taken this turn, 
 I fear that I must beg a release from my en- 
 gagement to put the IMS. into your hands. 1 
 am bound to print as soon as three hundred 
 shall have subscribed, and consequently have 
 not an hour to spare. 
 
 People generally love to go where they are 
 admired, yet Lady Hesketh complains of not 
 having seen you. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, April 1, 178G. 
 My dear Friend, — I have made you wait 
 long for an answer, and am now obliged to 
 write in a hurry. But, lest my longer silence 
 should alarm you, hurried as I am, still I 
 write. I told you, if I mistake not, that the 
 circle of my correspondence has lately been 
 enlarged, and it seems still increasing ; which, 
 together with my poetical business, makes 
 an hour a momenloiis affair. Pardon an un- 
 intentional pun. You need not fear for my 
 health : it suffers nothing by my employment. 
 We who in general see no company are at 
 present in expectation of a great deal, at 
 least, if three different visits may be called 
 so. Mr. and Mrs. Powley, in the first place, 
 are preparing for a journey southward. She 
 is far from well, but thinks herself well 
 enough to travel, and feels an affectionate 
 impatience for another sight of OIney.f 
 
 In the next place, we expect, as soon as 
 the season shall turn up bright and warm, 
 General Cowper and his son. I have not seen 
 him these twenty years and upwards, but our 
 intercourse, having been lately revived, is like- 
 ly to become closer, warmer, and more inti 
 mate than ever. 
 
 Lady Ilesketh also comes down in June, 
 and if she can be accommodated with anything 
 in the shape of a dwelling at Olney, talks of 
 making it always, in part, her summer resi- 
 dence. It has pleased God that I should, like 
 Joseph, be put into a well, and, because there 
 are no Midianites in the way to deliver me, 
 therefore my friends are coming down into 
 the well to see me. 
 
 I wish you, we both wish you, all happi- 
 ness in your new habitation: at least you 
 will be sure to find the situation more com- 
 modious. I thank you for all your hints 
 concerning my work, which shall be duly at 
 
 * Private correspoiiclence. 
 f Mrs. Unwiu's dauijlUer.
 
 250 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 tended to. You may assure all whom it may 
 concern, that all offensive elisions will be done 
 away. With Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself 
 and Mrs. Newton, I remain, my dear friend, 
 affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The friends of Cowper were not without 
 alarm at his engaging in so lengthened and 
 perilous an undertaking as a new version of 
 the Iliad, when the popular translation of 
 Pope seemed to render such an attempt su- 
 perfluous. To one of his correspondents, 
 who urged this objection, he makes the fol- 
 lowing reply. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 OIney, April 5, 1766. 
 
 I did, as you suppose, bestow all possible 
 consideration on the subject of an apology 
 for my Homerican undertaking. I turned 
 the matter about in my mind a hundred dif- 
 ferent ways, and, in every way in which it 
 would present itself, found it an impractica- 
 ble business. It is impossible for me, with 
 what delicacy soever I may manage it, to 
 state the objections that lie against Pope's 
 translation, without incurring odium and the 
 imputation of arrogance ; foreseeing this dan- 
 ger, I choose to say nothing. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 P. S. You may well wonder at my cour- 
 age, who have undertaken a work of such 
 enormous lenglh. You would wonder more 
 if you knew that I translated the whole Iliad 
 with no other help than a Clavis. But I 
 have since equipped myself better for this 
 immense journey, and am revising the work 
 in company with a good commentator. 
 
 The motives which induced Cowper to en- 
 gage in a new version of the Iliad originated 
 in the conviction, that, however Pope's trans- 
 lation might be embellished with liarmonious 
 numbers, and all the charm and grace of po- 
 etic diction, it failed in being a correct and 
 faithful representation of that immortal pro- 
 duction. Its character is supposed to be just- 
 ly designated by its title of "Pope's Homer." 
 It is not the Homer of the heroic ages ; it does 
 not express his majesty — his unadorned, yet 
 subhme simplicity. It is Homer in modern 
 costume, decked in a court dress, and in the 
 trappings of refined taste aud fashion. His 
 sententious brevity, which possesses the art 
 of conveying much compressed in a short 
 space, is also expanded and dilated, till it re- 
 sembles a paraphrase, and an imitation, rather 
 than a just and accurate version of its ex- 
 pressive and speaking original. We believe 
 this to be the general estimate of the merits 
 of Pope's translation. Profound scholars, 
 
 and one especially, whose discriminating taste 
 and judgment conferred authority on his de- 
 cision, Dr. Cyril Jackson (formerly the well- 
 known Dean of Christ Church, Oxford), con- 
 cur in this opinion. But notwithstanding this 
 redundance of artificial ornament, and the 
 " labored elegance of polished version," the 
 translation of Pope will perhaps always re- 
 tain its pre-eminence, and be considered what 
 Johnson calls it, " the noblest version of po- 
 etry which the world has ever seen," and "its 
 publication one of the greatest events in the 
 annals of learning."* 
 
 Of the merits of Cowper's translation, we 
 shall have occasion hereafter to speak. But it 
 is due to the cause of sound criticism, and to 
 the merited claims of his laborious under- 
 taking, to declare that he who would wish to 
 know and understand Homer must seek for 
 him in the expressive and unadorned version 
 of Cowper. 
 
 In the course of the following letters we 
 shall discover many interesting particulars of 
 the progress of this undertaking. 
 
 Cowper was now looking forward with 
 great anxiety, to the promised visit of Lady 
 Hesketh. The followiug letter adverts to 
 the preparations making at the vicarage at 
 Olney for her reception ; and to her delicate 
 mode of administering to his personal com- 
 forts and enjoyments. 
 
 TO LADY ICESKETH. 
 
 Olney, April 17, 1786. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — If you will not quote 
 Solomon, my dearest cousin, I will. He says, 
 and as beautifully as truly — " Hope deferred 
 maketh the heart sick, but when the desire 
 cometh, it is a tree of life !" I feel how much 
 reason he had on his side when he made this 
 observation, and am myself sick of your fort- 
 night's delay. 
 
 The vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, 
 and was not finished till some time after we 
 arrived at Olney, consequently it is new. It is 
 a smart stone building, well sashed, by much 
 too good for the living, but just what I would 
 wish for you. It has, as you justly concluded 
 from my premises, a garden, but rather calcu- 
 lated for use than ornament. It is square, and 
 well walled, but has neither arbor nor alcove 
 nor other shade, except the shadow of the 
 house. But we have two gardens, which are 
 yours. Between your mansion and ours is in- 
 terposed nothing but an orchard, into which a 
 door, opening out of our garden, affords us 
 the easiest communication imaginable, will 
 save the round about by the town, and make 
 both houses one. Your chamber windows 
 
 * See Johnson's Life of Pope. The original manu- 
 script copy of Pope's translation is deposited in the 
 British Museum.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 251 
 
 look over the river, and over the meadows, to 
 a village called Emberton, and command the 
 whole length of a long bridge, described by a 
 certain poet, togetlier with a view of tiie road 
 at a distance.* Should you wish for books 
 at Olney, you must bring them with you, or 
 you will wish in vain, for I have none but 
 the works of a certain poet, Cowper, of 
 whom, perhaps, you have heard, and they 
 are as yet but two volumes. They may 
 multiply hereafter, but at present they are no 
 more. 
 
 You arc the first person for whom I have 
 heard Mrs. Unwin express such feelings as 
 she does for you. She is not profuse in pro- 
 fessions, nor forward to enter into treaties 
 of friendship with new faces, but when her 
 friendship is once engaged, it may be con- 
 fided in, even unto death. She loves you 
 already, and how much more will she love 
 you before this time twclvemontli ! I have 
 indeed endeavored to describe you to her, 
 but, perfectly as I have you by heart, I am 
 sensible that my picture cannot do you jus- 
 tice. I never saw one that did. Be you wiiat 
 you may, you are much beloved, and will be 
 so at Olney, and Mrs. U. e.xpects you with 
 the pleasure that one feels at the return of a 
 long absent, dear relation ; that is to say, with 
 a pleasure such as mine. She sends you her 
 warmest affections. 
 
 On Friday, I received a letter from dear 
 Anonymous,! apprizing me of a parcel that 
 the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who 
 is there in the world that has, or thinks he 
 has reason to love me to the degree that he 
 does ? But it is no matter. He chooses to 
 be unknown, and his choice is, and ever shall 
 be so sacred to me, that, if his name lay on 
 the table before me reversed, I would not 
 turn the paper about, that I might read it. 
 Much as it would gratify me to thank iiim, I 
 would tm"n my eyes away from the forbidden 
 discovery. I long to assure him that those 
 same eyes, concerning which he ex])resses 
 such kind apprehensions, lest they should suf- 
 fer by this laborious undertaking, arc as well 
 as I could expect them to be, if 1 were never 
 to touch either book or pen. Subject to 
 weakness and occasional slight inflannuations 
 <t is probable that they will always be, l)ut I 
 cannot remember the time when they enjoyed 
 anything so like an exemption from those in- 
 firmities as at present. One would almost 
 suppose that reading Homer were the best 
 ophthalmic in the world. I siiould be happy 
 to remove his solicitude en the subject, but 
 't is a pleasure that he will not let me enjoy. 
 
 * Ilark ! 'tis the twanijins hoiii o'er yonder bridge 
 That wi^i its wciirisoiiie but iii'cill'iil leiitrlh 
 Bestrides tlie wintry fluod, in which the moon 
 Sees her unwrinkled lace reflected lirit'ht. 
 
 7'Ae Tank, Book IV. 
 
 t T,ady IJesketh adopted this delicate mode of extend- 
 tog lier kindness to the Poet. 
 
 Well then, I will be content without it ; and 
 so content, that though I believe you, my 
 dear, to be in full possession of all this mys- 
 tery, you shall never know me, while you live, 
 either directly or by hints of any sort, attempt 
 to extort or to steal the secret from you : I 
 should think myself as justly punishable as 
 the Bethsheraites, for looking into the ark, 
 which they were not allowed to touch. 
 
 I have not sent for Keiy-,* for Kerr can do 
 nothing but send me to Batli, and to Bath I 
 cannot go for a thousand reasons. The sum- 
 mer will set me up again ; I grow f;it every 
 day, and shall be as big as Gog or Magog, or 
 both put together, before you come. 
 
 I did actually live three years with Mr. 
 Chapman, a solicitor, that is to say, I slept 
 three years in his house, but I lived, that is to 
 say, I spent my days in Southampton Row, 
 as you very well remember. There was I, 
 and the future Lord Chancellor, constantly 
 employed from morning to night in giggling 
 and making giggle, instead of studying the 
 law. O fie, cousin ! how could you do so ? 
 I am pleased with Lord Thurlow's inquiries 
 about rae. If he takes it into that inimitable 
 head of his, he may make a man of me yet. 
 I could love him heartily, if he would de- 
 serve it at my hands. That I did so once is 
 
 certain. The Duchess of , who in the 
 
 world set her agoing? But if all the duch- 
 esses in the world were spinning, like so 
 many whirligigs, for my benefit, I would not 
 stop them. It is a noble thing to be a poet,- 
 it makes all the world so lively. I might 
 have preached more sermons than even Til- 
 lotson did, and better, and the world would 
 have been still fast asleep, but a volume of 
 verse is a fiddle that puts the universe in 
 motion. 
 
 Yours, 
 My dear friend and cousin, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Ohicy, April 24, 1786. 
 
 Your letters are so much my comfort, that 
 I often tremble lest by accident I should be 
 disappointed ; and the more because you 
 have been, more than once, so engaged in 
 company on the writing day, that I have had 
 a narrow escape. Let me give you a piece 
 of good counsel, my cousin : follow ray laud- 
 able example, write when you can, take time's 
 forelock in one hand, and a pen in the other, 
 and so make sure of your opportunity. It is 
 well for me that you write faster than any- 
 body, and more in an hour than other people 
 in two, else I know not what would become 
 of me. When I read your letters, I hear you 
 talk, and I love talking letters dearly, es- 
 pecially from yon. Well ! the middle of Juna 
 
 * Dr. Kerr, of Northampton.
 
 252 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 will not be always a thousand years off, and 
 when it comes I shall hear you, and see you 
 too, and sliall not care a fiirtliing then if you 
 do not touch a pen in a month. By the way, 
 you must either send me or bring me some 
 more paper, for before the moon shall have 
 performed a few more revolutions, I shall 
 not have a scrap left, and tedious revolutions 
 they are just now, that is certain. 
 
 I give you leave to be as peremptory as 
 you please, especially at a distance ; but, 
 when you say that you are a Cowper, (and 
 the better it is for the Cowpers that such you 
 are, and I give them joy of you, with all my 
 heart,) you must not forget, that I boast my- 
 self a Cowper too, and have my humors, and 
 fancies, and purposes, and determinations, as 
 well as others of my name, and hold them as 
 fast as they can. You indeed tell me how 
 often I shall see you when you come. A 
 pretty story truly. I am an he Cowper, my 
 dear, and claim the privileges that belong to 
 my noble sex. But these matters shall be 
 settled, as my cousin Agamemnon used to 
 say, at a more convenient time. 
 
 I shall rejoice to see the letter you promise 
 me, for, though I met with a morsel of praise 
 last week, I do not know that the week cur- 
 rent is likely to produce me any, and having 
 lately been pretty much pampered with that 
 diet, I expect to find myself rather hungry 
 by the time when your next letter shall ar- 
 rive. It will therefore be very opportune. 
 The morsel above alluded to came from — 
 whom do you think 1 From , but she de- 
 sires that her authorship may be a secret. 
 And in my answer I promised not to divulge 
 it, except to you. It is a pretty copy of 
 verses, neatly written and well turned, and 
 when you come you shall see them. I intend 
 to keep all pretty things to myself till then, 
 that they may serve me as a bait to lure you 
 hither more effectually. The last letter that 
 
 I had from I received so many years 
 
 since, that it seems as if it had reached me a 
 good while before I was born. 
 
 I was grieved at the heart that the General 
 could not come, and that illness was in part 
 the cause that hindered him. I have sent him, 
 by his express desire, a new edition of the first 
 book and half of the second. He would not 
 suffer me to send it to you, my dear, lest you 
 should post it away to Maty at once. He did 
 not give that reason, but being shrewd I 
 found it. 
 
 The grass begins to grow, and the leaves 
 to bud, and everything is preparing to be 
 beautiful against you come. 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 P. S. You inquire of our walks, I perceive, 
 as well as our rides. They are beautiful. You 
 inquire also concerning a cellar. You have 
 two cellars. Oh ! what years have passed 
 
 since we took the same walks, and drank out 
 of the same bottk but a few more weeks, 
 and then ! 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, May 8, 1786. 
 
 I did not at all doubt that your tenderness 
 for my feelings had inclined you to suppress 
 in your letters to me the intelligence con- 
 cerning Maty's critique, that yet reached me 
 from another quarter. When I wrote to you, 
 I had not learned it from the General, but 
 from my friend Bull, who only knew it by 
 hearsay. The next post brought me the 
 news of it from the first mentioned, and thb 
 critique itself inclosed. Together with it 
 came also a squib discharged against me in 
 the " Public Advertiser." The General's let^ 
 ter found me in one of my most melancholy 
 moods, and my spirits did not rise on the re- 
 ceipt of it. The letter indeed that he had 
 cut from the newspaper gave me little pain, 
 both because it contained nothing formida- 
 ble, though written with malevolence enough, 
 and because a nameless author can have no 
 more .veight with his readers than the reason 
 which he has on his side can give him. But 
 jMaty's animadversions hurt me more. In 
 part they appeared to me unjust, and in part 
 ill-natured, and yet, the man himself being 
 an oracle in everybody's account, I appre- 
 hended that lie had done me much mischief 
 Why he says that the translation is far from 
 exact is best known to himself. For I know 
 it to be as exact as is compatible with poetry ; 
 and prose translations of Homer are not 
 wanted, the world has one already. But I 
 will not fill my letter to you with hypercriti- 
 cisms, I will only add an extract from a letter 
 of Colman's, that I received last Friday, and 
 will then dismiss the subject. It came ac- 
 companied by a copy of tlie specimen which 
 he himself had amended, and with so much 
 taste and candor that it charmed me. He 
 says as follows : — 
 
 " One copy I have returned, with some re- 
 marks prompted by my zeal for your success, 
 not. Heaven knows, by arrogance or imperti- 
 nence, I know no other way, at once so plain 
 and so short, of delivering my thoughts on 
 the specimen of your translation, which on 
 the whole, I admire exceedingly, thinking it 
 breathes the spirit and conveys the maimer 
 of the original ; though having here neither 
 Homer, nor Pope's Homer, I cannot speak 
 precisely of particular lines or expressions, or 
 compare your blank verse with his rhyme, 
 except by declaring that I think blank verse 
 infinitely more congenial to the magnificent 
 simplicity of Homer's hexameters, than the 
 confined" couplets and the jingle of rhyme." 
 
 His amendments are chiefiy bestowed on 
 the lines encumbered with elisions, and I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 255 
 
 'vill just take this opportunity to tell you, 
 my dear, because I know you to be as much 
 interested in what I write as myself, that 
 some of the most offensive of these elisions 
 were occasioned by mere criticism. I was 
 fiiirly hunted into them, by vexatious objec- 
 tions made without end, by and his 
 
 friend, and altered, and altered, till at last I 
 did not care how I altered. Many thanks 
 
 for 's verses, which deserve just the 
 
 character you give of them. Tliey are neat 
 and easy — but I would mumble her well, if 
 I could get at her, for allowing herself to 
 suppose for a moment tiiat I praised the chan- 
 cellor with a view to emolument.* I wrote 
 those stanzas merely for my own amuse- 
 ment, and they slept in a dark closet years 
 after 1 composed them; not in the least de- 
 signed for publication. But when Johnson 
 kad printed off the longer pieces, of which 
 the first volume principally consists, he wrote 
 me word that he wanted yet two tliousand 
 Lines to swell it to a proper size. On that 
 occasion it was that I collected every scrap 
 of verse that I could find, and that among 
 the rest. None of the smaller poems had 
 been introduced, or had been published at 
 all with my name, but for this necessity. 
 
 Just as I wrote the last word, I was called 
 down to Dr. Kerr, who came to pay me a 
 voluntary visit. Were I sick, his cheerful 
 and friendly manner would almost restore 
 me. Air and exercise are his theme ; them 
 he recommends as the best physic for me, 
 and in all weathers. Come, therefore, my 
 dear, and take a little of this good physic 
 witii m^ for you will find it beneficial as 
 well as I; come and assist Mrs. Unwin in 
 the re-establishment of your cousin's liealtii. 
 Air and exercise, and she and you together, 
 will make me a perfect Samson. You will 
 have a good house over your head, comforta- 
 ble apartments, obliging neighbors, good 
 roads, a pleasant country, and in us, your 
 constant companions, two who will love you, 
 and do already love you dearly, and with all 
 our liearts. If you are in any danger of 
 trouble, it is from myself, if any fits of de- 
 'ection seize me ; and, as often as they do, 
 _'ou will be grieved for me ; but perhaps by 
 your assistance I shall be able to resist them 
 better. If there is a creature under iu'aven, 
 from wliose co-operations with Mrs. Unwin 
 I can reasonably expect such a blessing, that 
 creature is yourself. I was not without such 
 attacks when I lived in London, though at 
 that time, they were less oppressive, but in 
 your company I was never unhappy a wliole 
 day in all my life. 
 
 Of how mucli importance is an autlior to 
 himself! I return to tliat abominable speci- 
 men again, just to notice Maty's impatient 
 
 * See the verses on Tioril Tliurlow — 
 
 ' Round Thurlow's head iu early youth," &c. &c. 
 
 censure of the repetition that you mention, 
 I mean of the word hand. In tlie original 
 there is not a repetition of it. But to repeat 
 a word in that manner, and on such an occa- 
 sion, is by no means (what he calls it) a 
 modern invention. In Homer I could show 
 him many such, and in Virgil they abound. 
 Colman, who in his judgment of classical 
 matters is inferior to none, says, " / know not 
 why MaLy ohjecls to this expression." I could 
 easily change it. But, the case standing thus, 
 I know not whetlier my proud stomach will 
 condescend so low. I rather feel myself dis- 
 inclined to it. 
 
 One evening last week, Mrs. Unwin and I 
 took our walk to Weston, and, as we were 
 returning through the grove opposite the 
 house, the Throckmortons presented them- 
 selves at the door. They are owners of a 
 house at Weston, at present empty. It is a 
 very good one, infinitely superior to ours. 
 Wiien we drank cliocolate with them, they 
 botli expressed their ardent desire that we 
 would take it, wisiiing to have us for nearer 
 neighbors. If you, my cousin, were not so 
 well provided for as you are, and at our very 
 elbow, I verily believe I should have mus- 
 tered all my rhetoric to recommend it to 
 you. You might have it forever without 
 danger of ejectment, whereas your posses- 
 sion of the vicarage depends on the life of 
 the vicar, who is eighty-six.* The environs 
 are most beautiful, and the village itself one 
 of the prettiest I ever saw. Add to this, 
 you would step immediately into Mr. Throck- 
 morton's pleasure-ground, where you would 
 not soil your slipper even in winter. A most 
 unfortunate mistake was made by that gen- 
 tleman's bailiff in his absence. Just before 
 he left Weston last year for the winter, he 
 gave him orders to cut short the tops of the 
 tlowering shrubs, that lined a serpentine walk 
 in a delightful grove, celebrated by my poet- 
 ship in a little piece, that (you remember) 
 was called " The Siirubbery.""t The dunce, 
 misapprehending the order, cut down and 
 fagoted up the whole grove, leaving neither 
 tree, bush, nor twig; nothing but stumps 
 about as high as my ancle. Mrs. T. told us 
 that she never saw her husband so angry in 
 liis life. I judge indeed by his physiognomy, 
 wliich has great sweetness in it, that he is 
 very little addicted to that infernal passion, 
 but had he cudgelled the man for his cruel 
 blunder and the havoc made in consequence 
 of it, I could have excused him. 
 
 I felt myself really concerned for the chan- 
 cellor's illness, and, from what I learned of 
 it, both from the jjapers and from General 
 Cowper, concluded that he must die. I am 
 accordingly deligiited in the same proportion 
 with the news of his recovery. May he live, 
 
 * The Rev. Moses l?rown. 
 T '• O happy shades, &c. fcc
 
 254 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and live to be still the support of government ! 
 If it shall be his good pleasure to render me 
 personally any material service, I have no ob- 
 jection to it. But Heaven knows that it is 
 impossible for any living wight to bestow 
 less thought on that subject than myself. 
 
 May God be ever with you, my beloved 
 cousin ! W. C. 
 
 The mingled feelings with which we meet 
 a long absent friend, and the alternate sensa- 
 tions of delight and nervous anxiety experi- 
 enced as the long wished for moment ap- 
 proaches, are expressed with singular feli- 
 city in the following letter. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, May 15, 1786. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — ^From this very morn- 
 ing I begin to date the last month of our long 
 separation, and confidently and most comfort- 
 ably hope, that before the 15th of June shall 
 present itself we shall have seen each other. 
 Is it not so ] And will it not be one of the 
 most extraordinary eras of my extraordinary 
 life ? A year ago, we neither corresponded 
 nor expected to meet in this world. But this 
 world is a scene of marvellous events, many 
 of them more marvellous than fiction itself 
 would dare to hazard;* and, blessed be God! 
 they are not all of the distressing kind. Now 
 and then, in the course of an existence whose 
 hue is for the most part sable, a day turns 
 up that makes amends for many sighs and 
 many subjects of complaint. Such a day 
 shall I account the day of your arrival at 
 Olney. 
 
 Wherefore is it (canst thou tell me ?) that, 
 together with all those delightful sensations, 
 to which the sight of a long absent dear 
 friend gives birth, there is a mixture of some- 
 thing painful, flutterings, and tumults, and I 
 know not what accompaniments of our pleas- 
 ure, that are in fact perfectly foreign from the 
 occasion ? Such I feel, when I think of our 
 meeting, and such, I suppose feel you : and 
 the nearer the crisis approaches, the more I 
 am sensible of them. I know, beforehand, 
 that they will increase with every turn of the 
 wheels that shall convey me to Newport, 
 when I shall set out to meet you, and tiiat, 
 when we shall actually meet, the pleasure, 
 and this unaccountable pain together, will be 
 as much as I shall be able to support. I am 
 utterly at a loss for the cause, and can only 
 resolve it into that appointment by which it 
 has been foreordained that all human delights 
 shall be qualified and mingled witii their con- 
 traries. For there is nothing formidable in 
 you. To me at least there is nothing such, 
 no, not even in your menaces, unless when 
 you threaten me to write no more. Nay, I 
 * " Truth is strange, stranger than fiction." 
 
 verily believe, did I not know you to be what 
 you are, and had less affection for you than 
 I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, 
 of which I would have none, if I could help 
 it. But a fig for them all ! Let us resolve 
 to combat with and to conquer them. They 
 'are dreams. They are illusions of the judg- 
 ment. Some enemy, that hates the happi- 
 ness of human kind, and is ever industrious 
 to dash it, works them in us ; and their being 
 so perfectly unreasonable as they are is a 
 proof of it. Nothing that is such can be the 
 work of a good agent. This I know too by 
 experience, that, like all other illusions, they 
 exist only by force of imagination, are in- 
 debted for their prevalence to the absence 
 of their object, and in a few moments after 
 its appearance cease. So then this is a set- 
 tled point, and the case stands thus. You 
 will tremble as you draw near to Newport, 
 and so shall I. But we will both recollect 
 that there is no reason why we should ; and 
 this recollection will at least have some little 
 effect in our f;xvor. We will likewise both 
 taKe the comfort of what we know to be 
 true, that the tumult will soon cease, and th6 
 pleasure long survive the pain, even as long, 
 I trust, as we ourselves shall survive it. 
 
 What you said of jMaty gives me all the 
 consolation that you intended. We both 
 think it highly probable that you suggest 
 the true cause of his displeasure, when you 
 suppose him mortified at not having had a 
 part of the translation laid before him, ere 
 the specimen was published. The General 
 was very much hurt, and calls his censures 
 harsh and unreasonable. He like#\ise sent 
 me a consolatory letter on the occasion, in 
 which he took the kindest pains to heal the 
 wound that (he supposed) I might have suf- 
 fered. I am not naturally insensible, and the 
 sensibilities that I had by nature have been 
 wonderfully enhanced by a long series of 
 shocks given to a frame of nerves that was 
 never very athletic. I feel accordingly, whe- 
 ther painful or pleasant, in the extreme, am 
 easily elevated, and easily cast down. The 
 frown of the critic freezes my poetical pow- 
 ers, and discourages me to a degree that 
 makes me ashamed of my own weakness. 
 Yet I presently recover my confidence again. 
 The half of what you so kindly say in your 
 last would, at any time, restore my spirits ; 
 and, being said by you, is inf:Ulible. I am 
 not ashamed to confess, that, having com- 
 menced an author, I am most abundantly de- 
 sirous to succeed as such. Ihave (ichat per- 
 haps you little suspect me of) in my nature an 
 infinite share of ambition. But with it I have, 
 at the same time, as you well know, an equal 
 share of diffidence. To this combination of 
 opposite qualities it has been owing that, till 
 lately, I stole through life without undertak. 
 ing anything, yet always wishing to distin-
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 25& 
 
 guish myself. At last I ventured, ventured 
 too in the only path that, at so late a period, 
 was yet open to me ; and am determined, if 
 God have not determined otherwise, to work 
 ray way, through tlie obscurity that has been 
 so long my portion, into notice. Everything, 
 therefore, that seems to threaten this my fa- 
 vorite purpose with disappointment affects 
 me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious 
 minds are in the same predicament. He 
 who seeks distinction must be sensible of 
 disapprobation, exactly in the same propor- 
 tion as he desires applause. And now, my 
 precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to 
 you in this particular, without a speck of 
 dissimulation. Some people, and good peo- 
 ple too, would blame me. But you will not; 
 and they (I think) would blame without just 
 cause. We certainly do not honor God, 
 when we bury, or when we neglect to im- 
 prove, as far as we may, wliatever talent he 
 may have bestowed on us, whether it be lit- 
 tle or much. In natural things, as well as in 
 spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to 
 him who hath (that is, to him who occupies 
 what he liath diligently and so as to increase 
 it) more shall be given. Set me down, there- 
 fore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so 
 long as I siiall have the ability. For in this 
 only w;!y is it possible for me, so far as I can 
 see, either to honor God, or to serve man, or I 
 even to serve myself. 
 
 I rejoice to hear tliat Mr. Throckmorton 
 wishes to be on a more intimate footing. I 
 am shy, and suspect that he is not very much 
 otherwise, and the consequence has been, 
 that we have mutually wished an acquaint- 
 ance without being able to accomplisli it. 
 Blessings on you for the hint that you 
 dropped on the subject of the house at Wes- 
 ton ! For the burthen of my song is — 
 " Since we have met once again, let us never 
 be separated, as we have been, more." 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Olncy, May 20, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — About three weeks since 
 I met your sister Chester* at Mr. Throck- 
 morton's, and from her learned that you are 
 at Blithlield,! and in health. Upon the en- 
 couragement of this information it is that I 
 write now : I should not otherwise have 
 known with certainty where to lind you, or 
 have been eiiually free from the fear of un- 
 seasonable intrusion. May God be with 
 you, my friend, and give you a just measure 
 of submission to his will, the most etlectual 
 of all remedies for the evils of this changinjr 
 
 * Ctiiirlos Batcot, the brotlicr (if Waltor, took the uamp 
 of Chester on the (Uath of Sir Charles liaitot Chester, and 
 rived at Chicheh'y, not far from Weston, the scat of Air. 
 Throckmorton. 
 
 t Ho was rector of Blithflold, StalTordshire. 
 
 scene. I doubt not that he has granted you 
 this blessing already, and may he still con- 
 tinue it ! 
 
 Now I will talk a little about myself; for 
 except myself, living in this terrarmn aiigulo, 
 what can I have to talk about? In a scene 
 of perfect tranquillity and the profoundest 
 silence, I am kicking up the dust of heroic 
 narrative and besieging Troy again. I told 
 you that I had almost finished the translation 
 of the Iliad, and I verily thought so. But I 
 was never more mistaken. By the time 
 when I had reached the end of the poem, 
 the first book of my version was a twelve- 
 month old. When I came to consider it 
 after having laid it by so long, it did not 
 satisfy me. I set myself to mend it, and I 
 did so ; but still it appeared to me improve- 
 able, and that nothing would so effectually 
 secure that point as to give to the whole 
 book a nev/ translation. With the exception 
 of a very few lines I have so done, and was 
 never in my life so convinced of the sound- 
 ness of Horace's advice, to publish nothing 
 in haste ; so much advantage have I derived 
 from doing that twice which I thought I had 
 accomplished notably at once. He indeed 
 recommends nine years' imprisonment of 
 your verses before you send them abroad ; 
 but the ninth part of that time is, I believe, 
 as much as there is need of to open a man's 
 eyes upon his own defects, and to secure 
 him from the danger of premature self-ap- 
 probation. Neither ought it to be forgotten, 
 that nine years make so wide anninterval be- 
 tween the cup and the lip, thiit a thousand 
 things may fall out between. New engage- 
 ments may occur, which may make the fin- 
 ishing of that which a jjoet has begun im- 
 possible. In nine years he may rise into a 
 situation, or he may sink into one, utterly 
 incompatible with hi% purpose. His consti- 
 tution may break in nine years, and sick- 
 ness may disqualify him for improving what 
 he enterprised in the days of health. His 
 inclination may change, and he may lind 
 some other employment more agreeable, or 
 another poet may enter upon the same work, 
 and get the start of him. Therefore, my 
 friend Horace, though I acknowledge your 
 principle to be good, I must confess that I 
 think the practice you would ground upon it 
 carried to an extreme. The rigor that I ex- 
 ercised upon the first book I intend to exer- 
 cise upon all that follow, ;ind have now ac- 
 tually advanced into the middle of the 
 seventh, nowlw:'re admitting more than one 
 line in fifty of the first translation. You 
 must not imagine that I had been careless 
 and hasty in the first instance. In truth I 
 had not : but, in rendering so excellent a 
 poet as Homer into our language, there are 
 so many points to be attended to, both in 
 respect of language and r. umbers, that a first
 
 256 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 attempt must be fortunate indeed if it does 
 not call loud for a second. You saw the 
 specimen, and you saw (I am sure) one great 
 fjiult in it ; I mean the harshness of some of 
 the elisions. I do not altogether take the 
 blame of these to myself; for into some of 
 them I was actually driven and hunted by a 
 series of reiterated objections made by a 
 critical friend, whose scruples and delicacies 
 teazed me out of all my patience. But no 
 such monsters will be found in the volume. 
 
 Your brother Chester has furnished me 
 with Barnes's Homer, from whose notes I 
 collect here and there some useful informa- 
 tion, and whose fair and legible type pre- 
 serves from tlie danger of being as blind as 
 was my author. I saw a sister of yours at 
 Mr. Throckmorton's, but I am not good at 
 making myself heard across a large room, 
 and therefore nothing passed between us. I 
 however felt that she was my friend's sister, 
 and much esteemed her for your sake. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 P. S. — The swan is called argutus (I sup- 
 pose) a non arguendo and canorus a non ca- 
 nendo. But whether he be dumb or vocal, 
 more poetical than the eagle or less, it is no 
 matter. A feather of either, in token of 
 your approbation and esteem, will never, you 
 may rest assured, be an offence to me. 
 
 Cowper seems to have reserved for the 
 tried friendship of Newton the disclosure of 
 those secrA sorrows which he so seldom in- 
 truded on others. The communications 
 which he makes on these occasions are pain- 
 fully affecting. The mind labors, and the 
 language responds to the intensity of the in- 
 ward emotion. Sorrow is often sublime and 
 eloquent, because the source of eloquence is 
 not so mucii to be found in the powers of 
 the intellect as in the acute feelings of an 
 ardent and sensitive heart. It is the heart 
 that unlocks the intellect. 
 
 These remarks will prepare the reader for 
 the following letter. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, May 20, 1786. 
 My dear Friend, — ^Within this hour arrived 
 three sets of your new publication,! for 
 which we sincerely thank you. We have 
 breakfasted since they came, and conse- 
 quently, as you may suppose, have neither of 
 us had yet an opportunity to make ourselves 
 acquainted witli the contents. I shall be 
 happy (and when I say that, I mean to be 
 understood in the fullest and most emphatical 
 sense of the word) if my frame of mind 
 shall be such as may permit me to study 
 them. But Adam's approach to the tree of 
 * Private correspondence. T Messiah. 
 
 life, after he had sinned, was not more effect. 
 ually prohibited by the flaming sword that 
 turned every way, than mine to its great 
 Antitype has been now almost these thirteen 
 years, a short interval of Three or four days, 
 which passed about this time twelvemonth, 
 alone excepted. For what reason it is that I 
 am thus long excluded, if I am ever again to 
 be admitted, is known to God only. 1 can say 
 but this; that if he is still my Father, this 
 paternal severity hns toward me been such as 
 that I have reason to account it unexampled. 
 For though others have suffered desertion, 
 yet few, I believe, for so long a time, and 
 perhaps none a desertion accompanied with 
 such experiences. But they have this be- 
 longing to them, that, as they are not fit for 
 recital, being made up merely of infernal in- 
 gredients, so neither are they susceptible of 
 it ; for I know no language in which they 
 could be expressed. They are as truly 
 things which it is not possible for man to 
 utter as those were which Paul heard and 
 saw in the third heaven. If the ladder at 
 Christian experience reaches, as I suppose it 
 does, to the very presence of God, it has 
 nevertheless its foot in the abyss. And if 
 Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that expe- 
 rience of his to which I have just alluded, on 
 the topmost round of it, I have been stand- 
 ing, and still stand, or the lowest, in this 
 thirteenth year that }i,ts passed since I de- 
 scended. In such a situation of mind, en- 
 compassed by the midnight of absolute de- 
 spair, and a thousand times filled with un- 
 speakable horror, I first commenced as an 
 author. Distress drove me to it, and the im- 
 possibility of subsisting without some em- 
 ployment still recommends it. I am not, in- 
 deed, so perfectly hopeless as I was ; but I 
 am equally in need of an occupation, being 
 often as much, and sometimes even more, 
 worried than ever. I cannot amuse myself 
 as I once could, with carpenters' or with 
 gardenei-s' tools, or with squirrels and guinea- 
 pigs. At that time I was a child. But since 
 it has pleased God, whatever else he with- 
 holds, to restore to me a man's mind, I have 
 put away childish things. Thus far, there- 
 fore, it is plain that I have not chosen or pre- 
 scribed to myself my own way, but have been 
 providentially led to it; perhaps I might say 
 with equal propriety, compelled and scourged 
 into it ; for certainly, could I have made my 
 choice, or were I permitted to make it even 
 now, those hours which I spend in poetry I 
 would spend with God. But it is evidently his 
 will that I should spend them as I do, be- 
 cause every other way of employing them he 
 himself continues to make impossible. If in 
 the course of such an occupation, or by in- 
 evitable consequence of it, either my for- 
 mer connexions are revived or new ones oc 
 cur, these things are as much a part of th«
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 257 
 
 
 dispensation as the leading points of it them- 
 selves ; the effect as much as the cause. If 
 his purposes in thus directing me are gracious, 
 he will take care to prove them such in the 
 issue, and in the meantime will preserve me 
 (lor he is able to do that in one condition of 
 life as in another) from all mistakes in con- 
 duct that might prove pernicious to myself, 
 or give reasonable oftence to others. I can 
 say it as truly as it was ever spoken — Here 
 I am : let him do with me as seemeth him 
 good. 
 
 At present, liowever, I have no connexions 
 at which either you, I trust, or any who love 
 me, and wish me well, have occasion to con- 
 ceive alarm. ]\Iuch kindness indeed I have 
 experienced at tlie iiands of several, some of 
 them near relations, others not related to me 
 at all ; but I do not know that there is among 
 them a single person from whom I am likely 
 to catch contamination. I can say of tliem 
 all with more truth than Jacob uttered wlien 
 he called kid venison, " The Lord thy God 
 brought them unto me." I could show you 
 among them two men whose lives, though 
 they have but little of what we call evangeli- 
 cal liglit, are ornaments to a Christian coun- 
 try; men who fear God more than some 
 who even profess to love him. But I will not 
 particularize farther on such a subject. Be 
 they what they may, our situations are so dis- 
 tant, and we are likely to meet so seldom, 
 that, were they, as they are not, persons of 
 even exceptionable manners, their manners 
 would have little to do with me. We cor- 
 respond at present only on the subject of 
 what passed at Troy three thousand years 
 ago ; and they are matters that, if they can 
 do no good, will at least hurt nobody. 
 
 Your friendship for me, and the proof that 
 I see of it in your friendly concern for my 
 welfare on this occasion, demanded that I 
 should be explicit. Assure yourself that I 
 love and honor you, as upon all accounts, so 
 especially for the interest that you take and 
 have ever taken in my welfare, most sincerely. 
 I wish you all happiness in your new abode, 
 all possible success in your ministry, and 
 much fruit of your newly published labors, 
 and am, with Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself 
 and Mrs. Newton, 
 
 Most affectionately yours. 
 
 My dear friend, W. C. 
 
 Of all the letters, addressed by Cowper to 
 Newton, that we have yet laid before the 
 reader, we consider the last to be tiie fullest 
 development of the afHicting and mysterious 
 dispensation under which he labored. Tliese 
 are indeed the deep waters, the sound of the 
 terrible storm and tempest. We contem- 
 plate this state of mind with emotions of sol- 
 emn awe, deep interest, and merited admira- 
 tion, when we observe the spirit of patient 
 
 resignation by which it is accompanied.^ 
 " Here I am," exclaims Cowper, " let him do 
 with me as seemeth him good." To acqui- 
 esce in submissive silence, under circumstan- 
 ces the most opposed to natural feeling, to 
 bear an oppressive load daily, continuously, 
 and with little hope of intermission, and 
 amidst this pressure and anguish of the soul 
 to have produced writing characterised by 
 sound judgment, exalted morality, and a train 
 of lucid and elevated thought, is a phenome- 
 non that must ever remain a mystery ; but 
 the poet's submission is the faith of a suffer- 
 ing martyr, and will finally meet with a 
 martyr's triumphant crown. 
 
 But, after all, who does not see, in the case 
 of Cowper, the evident marks of an aberra- 
 tion of mind on one particular subject, found- 
 ed on the delusion of supposing himself ex 
 eluded from the mercy of God, when his fear 
 of offending him, the blameless tenor of hia 
 life, and his anxiety to render his works sub- 
 servient to the amelioration of the age, prove 
 the fidlacy of the persuasion ? How can a 
 tree be corrupt which produces good fruits? 
 How can a gracious Lord cast off those who 
 delight in fearing and serving him ? The 
 supposition is repugnant to every just and 
 sound view of the equity of the Divine gov- 
 ernment : God cannot act inconsistently with 
 his own character and attributes. The Biblo 
 is the record of what He is, of his declarations 
 to man, of his moral government, and of his 
 dealings with his people. And what does the 
 Bible proclaim? It tells us " God is love;" 
 " he delighteth in mercy ;" " he does not 
 willingly afflict the children of men ;" " in all 
 their affliction he was afflicted, and the ansrel 
 of his presence saved them." " Can a woman 
 forget her sucking child, that she should not 
 have compassion on the son of her womb 
 Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget 
 thee." "Fear not, thou worm Jacob; I will 
 help thee, saith the Lord, and thy Redeemer, 
 the Holy One of Israel."* His moral gov- 
 ernment and the history of his dealings to- 
 wards the most eminent saints is a powerful 
 illustration of these truths. He rnay indeed 
 infuse bitter ingrediems in the cup of his 
 children: all of them, in due time, taste the 
 wormwood and the gall. It is a part of the 
 covenant; the token of his love, and essential 
 to the trial of their f:iith and to their purifi- 
 C'ltion. But that he ever administers what 
 Cowper here painfully calls infernal mgre- 
 dients is impossible. These elements of evil 
 spring not from above but from below. Tiiey 
 may occur, as in the case of Job, by a per- 
 missive Providence, but sooner or later a di- 
 vine powerinterposes, and vindicates his own 
 wisdom and equity. We know from various 
 sources of information, that Cowper fully ad- 
 mitted the force of this reasoning, and the 
 
 * Isaiah Ixiii. 9. 
 
 17
 
 258 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 justness of its application in every otlier pos- 
 sible instance, himself alone excepted. The 
 answer to this objection is that the equity of 
 God's moral dealings admits of no exceptioji. 
 Men may change; they may act in opposition 
 to their own principles, falsify their judgment, 
 violate their most solemn engagements, and 
 be influenced by tlie variation of time and 
 circumstances. But this can never be true 
 of the Divine nature. " I, the Lord, change 
 not." " The same yesterday, to-day, and for- 
 ever." " With him is no variableness, nor 
 shadow of turning." " Have I ever been a 
 wilderness unto Zion ?" 
 
 We have indulged in this mode of reason- 
 ing, because it has been our lot to meet with 
 some examples of this kind, and to have ap- 
 plied the argument with success. If the con- 
 solations of the Gospel, administered by an 
 enlightened, tender, and judicious minister, 
 formed a more prominent part in tlie treat- 
 ment of cases of disordered intellect and de- 
 pressed spirit, we feel persuaded that the in- 
 stances of recovery would be tiw more nu- 
 merous than they are found to be under 
 existing circumstances — that suicides would 
 be diminished, and the ills of life be borne 
 with more submissive resignation. We con- 
 sider the ambassador of Christ to be as es- 
 sential as the medical practitioner. The 
 afflicted father, recorded in the Gospel,* as 
 having a lunatic son, " sore vexed," tried all 
 means for his recovery, but without success. 
 It is emphatically said, " they could not cure 
 Mm;" everything failed. What followed? 
 Jesus said, " Bring Mm Mther to me" The 
 same command is still addressed to us, and 
 there is still the same Lord, the same healing 
 balm and antidote, and the same Almighty 
 power and will to administer it. What was 
 the final result? ^-And the child was cured 
 from that very hour" or, as the narrative adds 
 m another account of the same event,f "Je- 
 sus took Mm by the hand, and lifted Mm up, 
 and he arose." 
 
 The miracles of Christ, recorded in the 
 New Test;mient, are but so many emblems of 
 the spiritual power and mercy that heals the 
 hifiraiities of a wounded spirit. 
 
 Other opportunities will occur in the course 
 of the ensuing history to resume the consid- 
 eration of this important subject. 
 
 The strain of atfectionate feeling which 
 pervades the following letters to Lady Hes- 
 keth, is strongly characteristic of the stability 
 of Cowper's friendships. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, May 25, 1786. 
 I have at length, my cousin, found my way 
 ini.o nv summer abode. I believe that I de- 
 scribed it to you some time since, and will 
 
 ''Matt. xvU 14—18. tMarkix. 27. 
 
 therefore now leave it undescribed. I will 
 only say that I am writing in a band-box, 
 situated, at least in my account, deliglitfuUy 
 because it has a window on one side that 
 opens into that orchard through which, as I 
 am sitting here, I shall see you often pass, 
 and which therefore I already prefer to all 
 tlie orchards in the world. You do well to 
 prepare me for all possible delays, because 
 in this life all sorts of disappointments are 
 possible, and I shall do well, if any such de- 
 lay of your journey should happen, to prac- 
 tise that lesson of patience which you incul- 
 cate. But it is a lesson which, even with 
 you as my teacher, I shall be slow to learn. 
 Being sure however that you will not pro- 
 crastinate without cause, I will make myself 
 as easy as I can about it, and hope the best. 
 To convince you how much I am under dis. 
 cipline and good advice, I will lay aside a 
 favorite measure, influenced in doing so by 
 nothing but the good sense of your contrary 
 opinion. I had set my heart on meeting you 
 at Newport; in my haste to see you once 
 again, I was willing to overlook many awk- 
 wardnesses I could not but foresee would 
 attend it. I put them aside so long as I 
 only foresaw them myself, but since I find 
 that you foresee them too, I can no longer 
 deal so sliglitly with them: it is therefore 
 determined that we meet at Olney. Much I 
 shall feel, but I will not die if I can lielp it, 
 and I beg that you will take all possible care 
 to outlive it likewise, for I know what it is 
 to be balked in the moment of acquisition, 
 and should be loath to know it again. 
 
 Last Monday, in the evening, we walked to 
 Weston, according to our usual custom. It 
 happened, owing to a mistake of time, that we 
 set out half an hour sooner than usual. This 
 mistake we discovered while we were in the 
 Wilderness : so finding that we had time be. 
 fore us, as they say, Mrs. Unwin proposed 
 that we should go into the village, and take 
 a \\Q\Y of the house that I had just mentioned 
 to you. We did so, and found it such a one 
 as in most respects would suit you well.* 
 But Moses Brown, our vicar, who, as I told 
 you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound 
 to die for that reason. He said himself, when 
 he was here last summer, that he should live 
 ten years longer, and for aught that appears 
 so he may. In which case, for the sake of 
 its near neighborhood to us, the vicarage has 
 charms for me that no other place can rival. 
 But this, and a tiiousand things more, shall 
 be talked over when you come. 
 
 We have been industriously cultivating 
 our acquaintance with our Weston neighbors 
 since I wrote last, and they on their part 
 have been equally diligent in the same cause. 
 I have a notion that we shall all suit well. 
 
 * The lodge at Weston to which Cowper removed ia 
 the November following.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 2Sh 
 
 I see much in them both that I admire. You 
 know perhaps that they are Catholics. 
 
 It is a deb'ghtful bundle of praise, my 
 cousin, that you have sent me : all jasmine 
 and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she has 
 evidently an admirable pen and a cultivated 
 mind. If a person reads, it is no matter in 
 what langu.ige, and if the mind be informed, 
 it is no matter whether that mind belongs to 
 a man or a woman : the taste and the judg- 
 ment will receive the benefit alike in both. 
 Long before the Task was published, I made 
 an experiment one da}-, being in a frolicsome 
 mood, upon my friend : we were walking in 
 the garden, and conversing on a subject sim- 
 ilar to these lines. 
 
 The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss, 
 
 And, .seeking grace t' improve the present good, 
 
 Would urge u wiser suit than asking more. 
 
 I repeated thena, and said to him with an air 
 of nonchalance, " Do you recollect those 
 lines ? I have seen them somewhere, where 
 are they ?" He put on a considering face, 
 and after some deliberation replied, " Oh, I 
 will tell you where they must be — in the 
 Night Thoughts." I was glad my trial 
 turned out so well, and did not undeceive 
 him. I mention this occurrence only in con- 
 firmation of the letter-writer's opinion, but 
 at the same time I do assure you, on the 
 faith of an honest man, that I never in my 
 life designed an imitation of Young or of 
 any other writer ; for mimicry is my abhor- 
 rence, at least in poetry. 
 
 Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that, 
 both for your sake, since you make a point 
 of it, and for my own, I will be as philo- 
 sophically careful as possible that these fine 
 nerves of mine shall not be beyond measure 
 agitated when you arrive. In truth, there is 
 much greater probability that they will be 
 benefited, and greatly too. Joy of heart, 
 from whatever occasion it may arise, is the 
 best of all nervous medicines, and I should 
 not wonder if such a turn given to my spir- 
 its should have even a lasting effect, of the 
 most advantageous kind, upon them. You 
 must not imagine, cither, that I am on the 
 whole in any great degree subject to nervous 
 affections ; occasionally I am, and have been 
 these many years, much liable to dejection. 
 Bnt, at intervals, and sometimes for an in- 
 terval of weeks, no creature would suspect 
 it ; for I have not that which commonly is a 
 symptom of such a case belonging to me : I 
 mean extraordinary elevation in the absence 
 of Mr. Bluedevil. When I am in the best 
 .lealth, my tide of animal sprightlintss Hows 
 with great equality, so that I am never at 
 any time exalted in proportion as I am 
 sometimes depressed. ]My depression has a 
 cause, and if that cause were to cease, I 
 should be as cheerful thenceforth, and per- 
 
 haps forever, as any man need be. But, aa 
 I have often said, Mrs. Unwin shall be mv 
 expositor. 
 
 Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant 
 that our friendship, which, while we could 
 see each other, never suffered a moment's 
 interruption, and which so long a separation 
 has not in the least abated, may glow in us 
 to our last hour, and be renewed in a better 
 world, there to be perpetuated forever. 
 
 For you must know, that I should not 
 love you half so well, if I did not believe 
 you would be my friend to eternity. There 
 is not room enough for friendship to unfold 
 itself in full bloom in such a nook of life aa 
 this. Therefore I am, and must and will be, 
 Yours forever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olnoy, May 29, 1786. 
 
 Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose let- 
 ters, among all that I receive, have this 
 property peculiarly their own — that I expect 
 them without trembling, and never find any- 
 thing in them that does not give me pleas- 
 ure — for which, therefore, I would take noth- 
 ing in exchange that the world could give 
 me, save and except that for which I must 
 exchange them soon — (and happy shall I be 
 to do so) — your own company. That in- 
 deed is delayed a little too long ; to my im- 
 patience, at least, it seems so, who find the 
 spring, backward as it is, too forward, be- 
 cause many of its beauties will have faded 
 before you will have an opportunity to see 
 them. We took our customary walk yes- 
 terday in the Wilderness at Weston, and 
 saw, with regret, the laburnums, syringas, 
 and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and 
 others just upon the point of blowing, and 
 could not help observing — all these will be 
 gone before Lady Hesketh comes. Still, 
 however, there will be roses, and jasmine, 
 and honeysuckle, and shady walks, and cool 
 alcoves, and you will partake them with us. 
 But I want you to have a share of every- 
 thing that is delightful here, and cannot bear 
 that the advance of the season should steal 
 away a single pleasure before you can come 
 to enjoy it. 
 
 Every day I think of you, and almost all 
 day long; I will venture to say, that even 
 ynn were never so expected in your life. I 
 called last week at the Quaker's, to see the 
 furniture of your bed, the fame of which had 
 reached me. It is, I assul-e you, superb, of 
 printed cotton, and the subject classical. 
 Every morning you will open your eyes on 
 Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring 
 his father to grant him the conduct of his 
 chariot for a day. j\Iay your sleep be as 
 sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and 
 vour nights, at least, will be well provided for
 
 260 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 I shall send you up the sixth and seventh 
 Dooks of the Ilhid sliortl)', and shall address 
 them to you. You will forward them to the 
 General. I long to show you my workshop, 
 and to see you sitting on the opposite side 
 of my table. We shall be as close packed 
 as two wax figures in an old-fashioned pic- 
 ture-frame. I am writing in it now. It is 
 the place in which I fabricate all my verse in 
 summer time. I rose an hour sooner than 
 usual, this morning, that I might finish my 
 sheet before breakfast, for I must write this 
 day to the General. 
 
 The grass under my windows is all be- 
 spangled with dew-drops, and the birds are 
 singing in the apple-trees, among the blos- 
 soms. Never poet had a more commodious 
 oratory, in which to invoke his muse. 
 
 I have made your heart ache too often, 
 my poor dear cousin, about my fits of dejec- 
 tion. Something has happened that has led 
 me to the subject, or I would have men- 
 tioned them more sparingly. Do not sup- 
 pose, or suspect, that 1 treat you with re- 
 serve; there is nothing in which I am con- 
 cerned that you shall not be made acquainted 
 with ; but the tale is too long for a letter. 
 I wdll only add, for your present satisfaction, 
 that the cause is not exterior, that it is not 
 within the reach of human aid, and that yet 
 I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a 
 strong persuasion, of its removal. I am in- 
 deed even now, and have been for a consid- 
 able time, sensible of a change for the bet- 
 ter, and expect, with good reason, a comfort- 
 able lift from you. Guess, then, my beloved 
 cousin, with what wishes I look forward to 
 the time of your arrival, from whose coming 
 I promise myself not only pleasure but 
 peace of mind, at least an additional share 
 of it. At present it is an uncertain and 
 transient guest with me, but the joy with 
 which I shall see and converse with you at 
 Olnev may perhaps make it an abiding one. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Olney, June 4 and 5, 1786. 
 Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to fear 
 and quake. What a hero am I, compared 
 with you ! I have no fears of yoii, on the 
 contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that 
 your carriage were even now at the door. 
 You should see with how much courage I 
 would face you. But what cause have you 
 for fear? Am I not your cousin, with whom 
 you have wandered in the fields of Free- 
 mantle and at Bevis's Mount? — who used 
 to read to you, laugh with you, till our sides 
 have ached at anything or nothing? And 
 am I in these respects at all altered? You 
 will not find me so, but just as ready to 
 laugh and to wander as you ever knew me. 
 
 A cloud, perhaps, may come over mo now 
 and then, for a few hours, but from clouds ] 
 was never exempted. And are not you the 
 identical cousin with whom I have performed 
 all these feats? the very Harriet whom 1 
 saw, for the first time, at De Grey's, in Nor- 
 folk-street ?* (It was on a Sunday, when 
 you came with my uncle and auntf to drink 
 tea there, and I had dined there, and was 
 just going back to Westminster.) If these 
 things are so, and I am sure that you cannot 
 gainsay a syllable of them all, then this con- 
 sequence follows, that I do not promise my- 
 self more pleasure from your company than 
 I shall be sure to find. Then you are my 
 cousin, in whom I always delighted, and in 
 whom I doubt not that I shall delight, even 
 to my latest hour. But this wicked coach- 
 maker has sunk my spirits. What a miser- 
 able thing it is to depend, in any degree, for 
 the accomplishment of a wish, and that wish 
 so fervent, on the punctuality of a creature, 
 who, I suppose, was never punctual in his 
 life ! Do tell him, my dear, in order to 
 quicken him, that if he performs his promise, 
 he shall make my coach, when I want one, 
 and that if he performs it not, I will most 
 assuredly employ some other man. 
 
 The Throckmortons sent us a note to invite 
 us to dinner : we went, and a very agreeable 
 day we had. They made no fuss with us, 
 which I was heartily glad to see, for where I 
 give trouble I am sure that I cannot be wel- 
 come. Themselves, and their chaplain, and 
 we, were all the party. After dinner we had 
 much cheerful and pleasant talk, the particu- 
 lars of which might not perhaps be so enter- 
 taining upon paper, therefore, all but one I 
 will omit, and that I will mention only be- 
 cause it will of itself be sufficient to give you 
 an insight into their opinion on a very im- 
 portant subject — their own religion. I hap- 
 pened to say that in all professions and trades 
 mankind affected an air of mystery. Physi- 
 cians, I observed, in particular, were objects 
 of that remark, who persist in prescribing in 
 Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard of 
 a patient's life through the ignorance of an 
 apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton assented to 
 what I said, and, turning to his chaplain, to 
 my infinite surprise observed to him, " That 
 is just as absurd as our praying in Latin." I 
 could have hugged him for his liberality and 
 freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather 
 more decent to let the matter pass without 
 any visible notice. I therefore heard it with 
 pleasure, and kept my pleasure to myself. 
 The two ladies in the meantime were tcte-d- 
 tete in the drawing-room. Their conversation 
 turned principally (as I afterwards learned 
 
 * This Mr. De Grey has been already mentioned. He 
 rose to the dignity of Lord Chief Justice of the Common 
 Pleas, and was finally created Lord Walsingham. 
 
 t Ashley Cowper and his wife, Lady Hesketh'a father 
 and mother.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 261 
 
 from ~SIys. Unwin) on a most delightful topic, 
 viz., myself. In the first place, Mrs. Throck- 
 morton admired my book, from which she 
 quoted by heart more than I could repeat, 
 thougli 1 so lately wrote it. In short, my 
 dear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said 
 of the book and the book's author, for that 
 abominable modesty that I cannot even yet 
 ge' n 1 of. Let it suffice to say, that you, who 
 a:- . aisposed to love everybody who speaks 
 kindly of your cousin, will certainly love Mrs. 
 Throckmorton, when you shall be told what 
 she said of him, and that you will be told is 
 equally certain, because it depends on Mrs. 
 Unwin. It is a very convenient thing to have 
 a Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good 
 long story for me, that I am not able to tell 
 for myself. I am however not at all in ar- 
 rears to our neighbors in matter of admira- 
 tion and esteem, but the more I know the 
 more 1 like thera, and have nearly an affec- 
 tion for them both. I am delighted that 
 " The Task" has so large a share of the ap- 
 probation of your sensible Suffolk friend. 
 
 I received yesterday from the General 
 another letter of T. S. An unknown auxil- 
 iary having started up in my behalf, I believe 
 I shall leave the business of answering to 
 him, having no leisure myself for contro- 
 versy. He lies very open to a very effectual 
 reply. 
 
 My dearest cousin, adieu ! I hope to write 
 to you once more before we meet. But oh ! 
 this coach-maker ! and oh ! this holiday week ! 
 
 Yours, with impatient desire to see you, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, June 9, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The little time that I 
 can devote to any other purpose than that 
 of poetry, is, as you may suppose, stolen. 
 Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much 
 remains undone, and no school-boy is more 
 attentive to the performance of his daily 
 task than I am. You will therefore excuse 
 me, if, at present, I am both unfrequent and 
 short. 
 
 The paper tells me that the Chancellor has 
 relapsed, and I am truly sorry to hear it. 
 The first attack was dangerous, but a second 
 must be more formidable still. It is not 
 probable that I should ever hear from him 
 again if he survive; yet of the much that I 
 should have felt for him, had our connexion 
 never been interrupted, I still feel much. 
 Everybody will feel the loss of a man, whose 
 abilities have made him of such general im- 
 portance. 
 
 I correspond again with Colman, and upon 
 the most friendly footing, and find in his in- 
 etance, and in some others, that an intimate 
 ■jitercoursf^, which has been only casually 
 
 suspended, not forfeited on either side by out- 
 rage, is capable not .only of revival but im- 
 provement. 
 
 I had a letter some time since from your 
 sister Fanny, that gave me great pleasure, 
 Such notices from old friends are always 
 pleasant, and of such pleasures I have re- 
 ceived many lately. They refresh the re- 
 membrance of early days, and make me 
 voun<r a^ain. The noble institution of the 
 Nonsense Club* will be forgotten when we are 
 gone who composed it, but I often think of 
 your most heroic line, written at one of our 
 meetings, and especially think of it when I 
 am translating Homer, 
 
 " To whom replied the Devil yard-Iong-tail'd." 
 
 There never was anything more truly Grecian 
 than that triple epithet, and, were it possible 
 to introduce it into either Iliad or Odyssey, I 
 should certainly steal it. I am now flushed 
 with expectation of Lady Hesketh, who 
 spends the summer with us. We hope to 
 see her next week. We have found admira- 
 ble lodgings both for her and her suite, and a 
 Quaker in this town, still more admirable than 
 they, who, as if he loved her as much as I do, 
 furnishes them for her with real elegance. 
 
 W.C. 
 
 The period so long and so fervently ex- 
 pected at length approached. Lady Hesketh 
 arrived at Olney in the middle of June, 1786. 
 These two relatives and friends met together, 
 after a separation of twenty-three years, 
 anxious to testify to each other that time, 
 " that great innovator," had left inviolate the 
 claims of a friendship, which absence could 
 not impair, because it was founded on esteem, 
 and strengthened by the most endearing rec- 
 ollections. It does not always happen, when 
 the mind has indulged in the anticipation of 
 promised joy, that the result corresponds 
 with the expectation. But in^the present 
 case the cherished hope was amply realized, 
 though its first emotions were trying to the 
 sensitive frame of Cowper. He was truly 
 delighted in welcoming his endeared relative ; 
 and, as his own house was inadequate for 
 her reception, Lady Hesketh was comforta- 
 bly lodged in the vicarage of Olney; a situ- 
 tion so near to his own residence, and so 
 eligible from the private communication 
 between their two houses, as to admit of 
 all the facilities of frequent intercourse and 
 union. 
 
 The influence of this event proved bene- 
 ficial to the health and spirits of Cowper. 
 The highly cultivated mind of Lady Hes- 
 keth, the charm of her manners, and her en- 
 
 * The club desisiiatod V)y tliis luimorous title, was com- 
 posed of Weslniiiisler men, and included amoni; its mem- 
 bers, Honiiell Tliornton, Cobiian, Moyd, Hill, Heaslcy, 
 and Cowper. They were accustomed to meet together 
 for the purpose of literary relaxation atid amusement.
 
 262 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 dearing qualities, called forth the develop- 
 ment of kindred feelings in his own charac- 
 ter. As she was furnished witli a carriage 
 and horses, he was gradually induced to 
 avail himself of this opportunity of explor- 
 ing the neighborhood, and of multiplying his 
 ianocent enjoyments. His life had been so 
 retired at Olney, that he had not even ex- 
 tended his excursions to the neighboring 
 town of Newport-Pagnell in the course of 
 many years ; but the convenience of a car- 
 riage led him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, 
 who resided there — the friend from whose as- 
 siduous attention he derived so much benefit 
 in a season of mental depression. It was at 
 his suggestion, as we have already stated, 
 that Cowper engaged in the translation of 
 Madame Guion's Poems. As it is some time 
 since we have had occasion to refer to this 
 justly esteemed character, we think the fol- 
 lowing snort letter, addressed to him by Cow- 
 per, will exhibit an amusing portrait of his 
 character and habits. 
 
 " Mon aimable and tres cher Ami, — It is 
 not in the power of chaises, or chariots, to 
 carry you wheremy affections will not follow 
 you ; if I heard that you were gone to finish 
 your days in the moon, I should not love 
 you fhe less ; but should contemplate the 
 place of your abode, as often as it appeared 
 in the heavens, and say — Farewell, my friend, 
 forever ! Lost ! but not forgotten ! Live 
 happy in thy lantern, and smoke the remain- 
 der of thy pipes in peace ! Thou art rid of 
 earth, at least of all its cares, and so far can 
 I rejoice in thy removal ; and as to the cares 
 that are to be found in the moon, I am re- 
 solved to suppose them lighter than those 
 below — heavier they can hardly be." 
 
 We also add the following beautifnl de- 
 scription of a thunder-storm, in a letter to 
 the same person, expressed with the feel- 
 ings of a poit, that knew how to embody the 
 sublime in language of corresponding gran- 
 deur. 
 
 "I was always an admirer of thunder- 
 storms, even before I knew whose voice I 
 heard in them ; but especially an admirer of 
 thunder rolling over the great waters. There 
 is something singularly majestic in the sound 
 of it at sea, where the eye and the ear have 
 uninterrupted opportunity of observation, and 
 the concavity above being made spacious re- 
 flects it with more advantage. I have conse- 
 quently envied you your situation, and the 
 enjoyment of those refreshing breezes that 
 belong to it. We have indeed been regaled 
 with some of these bursts of ethereal music. 
 The peals have been as loud, by the report 
 of a gentleman who lived many years in the 
 West Indies, as w€re ever heard in those 
 
 islands, and the flashes as splendid. But when 
 the thunder preaches, an horizon bounded by 
 the ocean is the only sounding-board."* 
 
 The visit of Lady Hesketh to Olney led to 
 a very favorable change in the residence of 
 Cowper. He had now passed nineteen years 
 in a scene that was far from being adapted 
 to his taste and feelings. The house which 
 he inhabited looked on a market-place, and 
 once, in a season of illness, he was so appre- 
 hensive of being incommoded by the bustle 
 of a fair, that he requested to lodge for a 
 single night under the roof of his friend Mr. 
 Newton, where he was induced, by tiie more 
 comfortable situation of the vicarage, to re- 
 main fourteen months. His intimacy with 
 this excellent and highly esteemed character 
 was so great that Mr. Newton has described 
 it in the following remarkable terms, in me- 
 moirs of the poet, which affection induced 
 him to begin, but which the troubles and in- 
 firmities of very advanced life obliged him to 
 relinquish. 
 
 " For nearly twelve years we were seldom 
 separated for seven hours at a time, when 
 we were awake, and at home : the first six 
 I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to 
 imitate him : during the second six, I walked 
 pensively with him in the valley of the shadow 
 of death." 
 
 Mr. Newton also bears the following hon- 
 orable testimony to the pious and benevolent 
 habits of Cowper. " He loved the poor. He 
 often visited them in their cottages, con- 
 versed with them in the most condescending 
 manner, sympatlnzed with them, counselled 
 and comforted them in their distresses ; and 
 those who were seriously disposed were often 
 cheered and animated by his prayers !" These 
 are pleasmg memorials, for we believe that 
 the cottages of the poor will ever be found 
 to be the best school for the improvement 
 of the heart. After the removal of Mr. New- 
 ton to liOndon, and the departure of Lady 
 Austen, Olney had no particular attractions 
 for Cowper; and Lady Hesketh was happy 
 in promoting the project, which had occurred 
 to him, of removing with Mrs. Unwin to the 
 near and picturesque village of Weston — a 
 scene highly fiivorable to his health and 
 amusement. For, with a very comfortable 
 
 * There are few countries where a thunder-storm pre- 
 sents so sublime and terrific a spectacle as in Switzer- 
 land. Tlio writer remembers once witnessing a scene of 
 this kind in the Castle of Chillon, on the banks of the 
 Lake of Geneva. The whole atmosphere seemed to be 
 overcharged with the electric fluid. A stillness, like 
 that of death, prevailed, forming a striking contrast with 
 the tumult of the elements that shortly succeeded. The 
 lightning at length bui'st forlh, in vivid coruscations, like 
 a flame of fire, darting upon the agitated waters ; while 
 the rain descended in torrents. Peuls of thunder fol- 
 lowed, rolling over the wide expanse of the lake, and re- 
 echoing along the whole range of the Aljis to the left ; 
 and then taking a complete circuit, finally passed over to 
 the Jura, on the opposite side, impressing the mind witb 
 indescribable awe and admiration.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 26S 
 
 house, it afforded him a garden, and a field 
 of considerable extent, which he delighted to 
 cultivate and embellish. With these he had 
 advantages still more desirable — easy, and 
 constant access to tlie spacious and tranquil 
 pleasure-grounds of his accomplished and be- 
 nevolent landlord, Mr. Throckmorton, whose 
 neighboring house supplied him with an in- 
 tercourse peculiarly suited to his gentle and 
 delicate spirit. 
 
 Cowper removed from Olney to Weston 
 in November, 1786. The course of his life, 
 in his new situation, (the scone so happily 
 embellished by his Muse,) will be best de- 
 scribed by the subsequent series of his let- 
 ters to that amiable relative, to whom he 
 considered himself chiefly indebted for this 
 improvement in his domestic scenery and 
 comforts. With tliese will be connected a 
 selection of Jiis letters to other friends, and 
 particularly the letters addressed to one of 
 his most intimate correspondents, Samuel 
 Rose, Esq., who commenced his acquaint- 
 ance in the beginning of the year 1787. 
 Another endeared character will also be in- 
 troduced to the notice of the reader, whose 
 affectionate and unremitting attention to the 
 poet, when he most needed these kind and ten- 
 der ofhces, will ever give him a just title to the 
 gratitude and love of the admirers of Cowper 
 we allude to the late Rev. Dr. Johnson. 
 
 We now resume the correspondence. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Jime 19, 178G. 
 
 My dear cousin's arrival has, as it could 
 not fail to do, made us happier than we ever 
 were at Olney. Her great kindness in giving 
 us her company is a cordial that I shall feel 
 the etTect of not only while she is here, but 
 while I live. 
 
 Onley will not be much longer the place 
 of our habitation. At a village two miles 
 distant we have hired a house of Mr. Throck- 
 morton, a much better than we occupy at 
 present, and yet not more expensive. It is 
 situated very near to our most agreeable 
 landlord and his agreeable pleasure-grounds. 
 In him, and in his wife, we shall find such 
 companions, as will always make the time 
 pass pleasantly while they are in the country, 
 and his grounds will afford us good air and 
 good walking-room in the winter; two ad- 
 vantages wliich we have not enjoyed at Ol- 
 ney, where I have no neighbor with whom I 
 can converse, and where, seven months in 
 the year, I have been imprisoned by dirty 
 and impassable ways, till both my health and 
 Mrs. Unwin's have suffered materially. 
 
 Ifoiner is ever importunate, and will not 
 suffer me to spend half the time with my dis- 
 tant friends that I \\ould gladly give them. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, June 22, 178G. 
 My dear Friend, — I am not glad that I am 
 obliged to apologize for an interval of three 
 weeks that have elapsed since the receipt of 
 yours; but, not having it in my power to 
 write oftener than I do, I am glad that ray 
 reason is such a one as you admit. In truth, 
 my time is very much occupied ; and the 
 more because I not only have a long and la- 
 borious work in hand, for such it would 
 prove at any rate, but because I make it a 
 point to bestow my utmost attention upon 
 it, and to give it all the finishing that the 
 most scrupulous accuracy can command. As 
 soon as breakfost is over, I retire to my nut- 
 shell of a summer-house, which is my verse- 
 maimfactory, and here I abide seldom less 
 than three hours, and not often more. In the 
 afternoon I return to it again ; and all the 
 dayliglit that follows, except what is devoted 
 to a walk, is given to Homer. It is well for 
 me that a course which is now become ne- 
 cessary is so much my choice. The regu- 
 larity of it indeed has been, in the course of 
 this last week, a little interrupted by the ar- 
 rival of my dear cousin. Lady Hesketh ; but 
 with the new week I shall, as they say, turn 
 over a new leaf, and put myself under tiie 
 same rigorous discipline as before. Some- 
 thing, and not a little, is due to the feelings 
 that the sight of the kindest relation that 
 ever man was blessed with must needs give 
 birth to, after so long a separation. But she, 
 whose anxiety for my success is I believe 
 even greater than my own, will take care that 
 I shall not play truant and neglect my proper 
 business. It was an observation of a sensi 
 ble man, whom I knew well in ancient days, 
 (I mean when I was very young,) that people 
 are never in reality Iiappy when they boast 
 much of being so. I feel myself accordingly 
 well content to say, without any enlarge- 
 ment on the subject, that an inquirer after 
 happiness miglit travel far, and not find a 
 iiappier trio than meet everyday either in 
 our parlor, or in the parlor at the vicarage. 
 I will not say that mine is not occasionally 
 soniewhat dashed with the sable hue of those 
 notions concerning myself and my situation, 
 that have occupied or rather possessed me 
 so long : but, on the other hand, I can also 
 affirm tliat my cousin's affectionate behavio. 
 to us botii, the sweetness of her temper, and 
 the sprigiitliness of her conversation, relieve 
 me in no small degree from the presence of 
 them. 
 
 iMrs. Unwin is greatly pleased with your 
 Sermons; and has told me so repeatedly; 
 and the pleasure that they have given her 
 awaits me also in due time, as I am well and 
 confidently assured: both because the sub- 
 ject of them is the greatest and the most in- 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 264 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 teresting that can fall under the pen of any 
 writer, and because no writer can be better 
 quahfied to discuss it judiciously and feel- 
 ingly than yourself. The third set with 
 A'hich you favored us we destined to Lady 
 Hesketii ; and, in so disposing of them, are 
 inclined to believe that we shall not err far 
 fi'om the mark at which you yourself directed 
 them. 
 
 Our affectionate remembrances attend 
 yourself and Mrs. Newton, to which you ac- 
 quired an everlasting right while you dwelt 
 under the roof where we dined yesterday. It 
 is impossible that we should set our foot 
 over the threshold of the vicarage without 
 recollecting all your kindness. 
 
 Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, July 3, 178G. 
 
 My dear William, — After a long silence I 
 begin again. A day given to my friends is a 
 day taken from Homer ; but to such an in- 
 terruption now and then occurring I have no 
 objection. Lady Hesketh is, as you observe, 
 arrived, and lias been with us near a fort- 
 night. She pleases everybody, and is pleased, 
 in her turn, with everything she finds at Ol- 
 ney, is always cheerful and sweet-tempered, 
 and knows no pleasure equal to that of com- 
 municating pleasure to us and to all around 
 her. This disposition in her is the more 
 comfortable, because it is not the humor of 
 the day, a sudden flash of benevolence and 
 good spirits occasioned merely by a change 
 of scene, but it is her natural turn, and has 
 governed all her conduct ever since I knew 
 her first. We are consequently happy in her 
 society, and shall be happier still to have you 
 partake with us in our joy. I am fond of the 
 sound of bells, but was never more pleased 
 with those of Olney than when they rang 
 her into her new habitation. It is a compH- 
 ment that our performers upon those instru- 
 ments have never paid to any other person- 
 age (Lord Dartmouth excepted) since we 
 knew the town. In short, she is, as siie ever 
 was, my pride and ray joy, and I am delighted 
 with everything that means to do her honor. 
 Her first appearance was too much for me ; 
 my spirits, instead of being gently raised, as 
 I had inadvertently supposed they would be, 
 broke down with me under the pressure of 
 too much joy, and left me flat, or rather mel- 
 ancholy, throughout the day, to a degree that 
 was mortifying to myself and alarming to 
 her. But I have made amends for this failure 
 since, and in point of cheerfulness have far 
 exceeded lier expectations, for she knew that 
 sable had been my suit for many years. 
 
 And now I shall communicate news that 
 vill give you pleasure. When you first con- 
 templated the front of our abode, you were 
 
 shocked. In your eyes it had the appearance 
 of a prison, and you sighed at the thought 
 that your mother lived in it. Your view of it 
 was not only just, but prophetic. It had not 
 only the aspect of a place built for the pur- 
 poses of incarceration, but has actually 
 served that purpose through a long, long pe- 
 riod, and we have been the prisoners. But a 
 jail-delivery is at hand. The bolts and bars 
 are to be loosed, and we shall escape. A 
 very different mansion, both in point of ap- 
 pearance and accommodation, expects us, and 
 the expense of living in it not greater than 
 we are subjected to in this. It is situated at 
 Weston, one of the prettiest villages in Eng- 
 land, and belongs to Mr. Throckmorton. We 
 all three dine with him to-day by invitation, 
 and shall survey it in the afternoon, point 
 out the necessary repairs, and finally adjust 
 the treaty. I have my cousin's promise that 
 she will never let another year pass without 
 a visit to us, and the house is large enough 
 to take us and our suite, and her also, with 
 as many of hers as she shall choose to bring. 
 The change will, I hope, prove advantageous 
 both to your mother and me in all respects. 
 Here we have no neighborhood ; there we 
 j shall have most agreeable neighbors in the 
 ! Throckmortons. Here we have a bad air 
 \ in winter, impregnated with the fishy-smel- 
 ling fumes of the marsh miasma ; there we 
 I shall breathe in an atmosphere untainted. 
 Here we are confined from September to 
 IMarch, and sometimes longer; there we shall 
 be upon the very verge of pleasure-ground? 
 j in which we can always ramble, and shall 
 j not wade through almost impassable dirt to 
 ' get at tliem. Both your mother's constitu- 
 tion and mine have suffered materially, by 
 such close and long confinement, and it is 
 high time, unless we intend to retreat into 
 the grave, that we should seek out a more 
 wholesome residence. So far is well, the 
 rest is left to Heaven. 
 
 I have hardly left myself room for an an- 
 swer to your queries concerning my friend 
 John and his studies. I should recommend 
 the Civil War of Cagsar, because he wrote it 
 who ranks, I believe, as the best writer, as 
 well as soldier, of his day. There are books 
 (I know not what they are, but you do, and 
 can easily find them) that will inform him 
 clearly of both the civil and military manage- 
 ment of the Romans, the several officers, J 
 mean, in both departments, and what was the 
 peculiar province of each. The study of 
 some such book would, I should think, prove 
 a good introduction, to that of Livy, unless 
 you have a Livy with notes to that effect. 
 A want of intelligence in those points has 
 heretofore made the Roman history very 
 dark and difficult to me; therefore I thus 
 advise. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 2b'3 
 
 The following letter contains some particu- 
 lars relative to his version of Homer. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Olney, July 4, 1786. 
 
 I rejoice, my dear friend, tiiat you have at 
 last received my proposals, and most cordially 
 thank you for all your labors in my service. 
 I have friends in the world, who, knowing 
 that I nni apt to l)e careless when left to my- 
 .self, are determined to watch over me with a 
 jealous eye upon this occasion. The conse- 
 quence will be, that the work will be better 
 executed, bnt more tardy in the production. 
 To them I owe it, that my translation, as fast 
 as it proceeds, passes under the revisal of a 
 most accurate discerncr of all blemishes. I 
 know not whether I told you before, or now 
 tell you for tlie lirst time, that I am in the 
 hands of a very extraordinary person. He is 
 intimate with my bookseller, and voluntarily 
 offered his service. I was at first doubtful 
 whether to accept it or not, but, finding that 
 my friends abovesaid were not to be satisfied 
 on any other terms, though myself a perfect 
 stranger to the man and his qualifications, ex- 
 cept as he was recommended by Johnson, I at 
 length consented, and have since found great 
 reason to rejoice that I did. I called him an 
 extraordinary person, and such he is. For lie 
 is not only versed in Homer, and accurate in 
 his knowledge of the Greek to a degree that 
 entitles him to that appellation; but, though 
 a foreigner, is a perfect master of our lan- 
 guage, and has exquisite taste in English 
 poetry. By his assistance I have improved 
 many passages, supplied many oversights, and 
 corrected many mistakes, such as will of 
 course escape the most diligent and attentive 
 laborer in such a work. I ought to add, be- 
 cause it affords the best assurance of his zeal 
 and fidelity, that he does not toil for hire, nor 
 will accept of any premium, but has entered 
 on this business merely for his amusement. 
 In the last instance, my sheets will pass 
 through the hands of our old schoolfellow 
 Colman, who has engaged to correct the press, 
 and make any little alterations tliat he may 
 see expedient. With all this precaution, little 
 as I intended it once, I am now well satisfied. 
 Experience has convinced me that other eyes 
 than my own are necessary, in order that so 
 long and arduous a task may be finished as it 
 ouglit, and may neither discredit me nor 
 morlify and disappoint my friends. You, 
 who i know interest yourself much and 
 deeply in my success, will, I dare say, be 
 satisfied with it too. Pope had many aids, 
 ami he who follows Pope ought not to walk 
 alone. 
 
 Though I announce myself by my very un- 
 dertaking to be one of Homer's most enrapt- 
 ured admirers, I am not a blind one. Per- 
 uaps the speech of Achilles, given in my 
 
 specimen, is, as you hint, rather too much in 
 the moralizing strain to suit so young a man 
 and of so much fire. But, whether it be or 
 not, in the course of the close application 
 that I am forced to give my author I discover 
 inadvertences not a few ; some perhaps that 
 have escaped even the commentators them- 
 selves, or perhaps, in the enthusiasm of their 
 idolatry, tiiey resolved that they should pass 
 for beauties. Homer, however, say what 
 they will, was man; and in all the works of 
 man, especially in a work of such length and 
 variety, many things will of necessity occur 
 that might have been better. Pope and Ad- 
 dison had a Dennis, and Dennis, if I mistake 
 not, held up as he has been to scorn and de- 
 testation, was a sensible fellow, and passed 
 some censures upon both those writers, that, 
 had they been less just, would have hurt them 
 less. Homer had his Zoilus, and perhaps, if 
 we knew all that Zoilus said, we should be 
 forced to acknowledge that, sometimes at 
 least, he had reason on his side. But it is 
 dangerous to find any fault at all with what 
 the world is determined to esteem faultless. 
 I rejoice, my dear friend, that you enjoy 
 some composure and cheerfulness of spirits; 
 may God preserve and increase to you so 
 great a blessing! 
 
 I am affectionately and truly yours, 
 
 vv. c. 
 
 Cowper again resumes the subject of his 
 painful dispensation, in the following lette; 
 to Newton. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Aug. 5, ]78G. 
 My dear Friend, — You have heard of oui 
 intended removal. The house that is to re- 
 ceive us is in a state of preparation, and, 
 when finished, will be both smarter and more 
 commodious than our present abode. But tlie 
 circumstance that reconnnends it chiefly is 
 its situation. Long- confinement in the win- 
 ter, and, indeed, for the most part in the au- 
 tumn too, has hurt us both. A gravel-walk, 
 thirty yards long, affords but indifierent scope 
 to the locomotive faculty : yet it is all that 
 we have had to move in for eight months in 
 the year, during thirteen years that 1 have 
 been a prisoner. Had I been confined in the 
 Tower, the battlements of it woidd have fur- 
 nisiied me with a larger space. Yon say 
 well, that there was a time when I was happy 
 at Olney ; and I am now as happy at Olney 
 as I expect to be anywhere without the pres- 
 ence of God. Change of situation is with 
 me no otherwise an object than as both IMrs. 
 Unwin's health and mine may happen tc be 
 concerned in it. A fever of the slew and 
 spirit-oppressing kind seems to belong to all, 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 266 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 except the natives, who have dwelt in Olney 
 many years ; and the natives have putrid fe- 
 vers. Both they and we, I believe, are im- 
 mediately indebted for our respective mala- 
 dies to an atmosphere encumbered with raw 
 vapors, issuing from flooded meadows ; and 
 we in particular, perhaps, have fared the 
 worse for sitting so often, and sometimes for 
 months, over a cellar filled with water. — 
 These ills we shall escape in the uplands; 
 and, as we may reasonably hope, of course, 
 their consequences. But, as for happiness, 
 he that has once had communion with his 
 Maker, must be more frantic than ever I was 
 yet, if he can dream of finding it at a distance 
 from Him. I no more expect happiness at 
 Weston than here, or than I should expect it 
 in company with felons and outlaws in the 
 hold of a ballast-lighter. Animal spirits, 
 however, have their value, and are especially 
 desirable to him wlio is condemned to carry 
 a burthen, which, at any rate, will tire him, 
 but whicli, without their aid, cannot fiul to 
 crush him. The dealings of God with me 
 are to myself utterly unintelligible. I have 
 never met, either in books or in conversation, 
 with an experience at all similar to my own. 
 More than a twelvemonth has passed since 
 I began to hope that, having walked the 
 whole breadtli of the bottom of this Red Sea, 
 I was beginning to climb the opposite shore, 
 and I prepared to sing the song of Moses. 
 But I have been disappointed ; those hopes 
 have been blasted ; those comforts have been 
 wrested from me. I could not be so duped, 
 even by the arch-enemy himself, as <to be 
 made to question the divine nature of them ; 
 but I have been made to believe, (which, you 
 will siiy, is being duped still more) that God 
 gave them to me in derision and took them 
 away in vengeance. Such, however, is, and 
 has been, my persuasion many a long day, 
 and when I shall think on that subject more 
 comfortably, or, as you will be inclined to 
 tell me, more rationally and scripturally, I 
 know not. In the meantime, I embrace with 
 alacrity every alleviation of my case, and with 
 the more alacrity, because whatsoever proves 
 a relief of my distress is a cordial to Mrs. 
 Unwin, whose sympathy with me, through 
 tlie whole of it, has been such that, despair 
 excepted, her burthen has been as heavy as 
 mine. Lady Hesketh, by her aflfectionate be- 
 havior, the cheerfulness of her conversation, 
 and the constant sweetness of her temper, 
 has cheered us both, and Mrs. Unwin not 
 less than me. By her help we get change of 
 air and of scene, though still resident at Ol- 
 ney, and by her means have intercourse with 
 some families in this country with whom, but 
 for her, we could never have been acquainted. 
 Her presence here would, at any time, even 
 in my happiest days, have been a comfort to 
 me, but in the present day I am doubly sensi- 
 
 ble of its value. She leaves nothing unsaid, 
 nothing undone, that she thinks will be con- 
 ducive to our well-being ; and, so far as she 
 is concerned, I have nothing to wish but that 
 I could believe her sent hither in mercy to 
 myself, — then I should be thankful. 
 
 I am, my dear friend, with Mrs. Unwin's 
 love to Mrs. N. and yourself, hers and yours, 
 as ever, W. C. 
 
 Having so recently considered the peculiar 
 circumstances of Cowper's depression, we 
 shall not further advert to it than to state, on 
 the authority of John Higgins, Esq., of Tur- 
 vey, who, at that time, enjoyed frequent oppor- 
 tunities of observing his manner and habits, 
 that there was no perceptible appearance of 
 his laboring under so oppressive a malady. 
 On the contrary, his spirits, as far as outward 
 appearances testified, were remarkably cheer- 
 ful, and sometimes even gay and sportive. 
 In a letter to Mrs. King, which will subse- 
 quently appear, will be found a remark to the 
 same effect. 
 
 TO THE REV. WaLLLAM UNWIN. 
 
 Olney, Aug. 24, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I catch a minute by the 
 tail and hold it fast while I write to you. 
 The moment it is fled I must go to breakfast. 
 I am still occupied in refining and polishing, 
 and sliall this morning mve the finishinof Jiand 
 
 to the seventh book. F does me the honor 
 
 to say that the most difficult and most inter- 
 esting parts of the poem are admirably ren- 
 dered. But, because he did not express him- 
 self equally pleased with the more pedestrian 
 parts of it, my labor therefore has been prin- 
 cipally given to the dignification of them; 
 not but that I have retouched considerably, 
 and made better still the best. In short, I 
 hope to make it all of a piece, and shall exert 
 myself to the utmost to secure that desirable 
 point. A story-teller, so very circumstantial 
 as Homer, must of necessity present us often 
 with much matter in itself capable of no other 
 embellishment than purity of diction and har- 
 mony of versification can give to it. Hie labor, 
 hoc opus est. For our language, unless it be 
 very severely chastised, has not the terse- 
 ness, nor our measure the music of the 
 Greek. But I shall not fail through want 
 of industry. 
 
 We are likely to be very happy in our con- 
 nexion with the Throckmortons. His reserve 
 and mine wear off; and he talks with great 
 pleasure of the comfort that he proposes to 
 himself from our winter evening conversa- 
 tions. His purpose seems to be that we 
 should spend them alternately with each oth- 
 er. Lady Hesketh transcribes for me at 
 present. When she is gone, Mrs. Throck- 
 morton takes up that business, and will be 
 
 ... ^
 
 my lady of the ink-bottle for the rest of the 
 winter. She solicited herself that office. 
 Believe me, my dear William, 
 
 Truly yours, W. C. 
 
 Mr. Throckmorton will (I doubt not) pro- 
 cure Lord Petre's name, if he can, without 
 any hint from me. He could not interest 
 himself more in my success than he seems to 
 do. Could he get the Pope to subscribe, I 
 should have him, and sliould be glad of him 
 and the whole conclave. 
 
 The following letters are without a date ; 
 nor do we know to what period they refer. 
 We insert them in the order in which we find 
 them. 
 
 TO THE REV. "WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 ]\Iy dear Friend, — You are my maliogany 
 box, with a slip in the lid of it, to which I 
 commit my productions of the lyric kind, in 
 perfect confidence that they are safe, and will 
 go no farther. All who are attached to the 
 jingling art have this peculiarity, that they 
 would find no pleasure in the exercise, had 
 they not one friend at least to whom they 
 might publish wliat they have composed. If 
 you approve my Latin, and your wife and 
 sister my English, this, together with the ap- 
 probation of your mother, is fiime enough 
 for me. 
 
 He who cannot look forward with comfort 
 must find wiiat comfort he can in looking 
 backward. Upon this principle I the otlier 
 day sent my imagination upon a trip thirty 
 years behind me. She was very obedient 
 and very swift of foot, presently performed 
 her journey, and at lust set me down in tlie 
 sixth form at Westminster. I fancied my- 
 self once more a school-boy, a period of 
 life in which, if I had never tasted true liap- 
 piness, I was at least equally unacquainted 
 with its contrary. No manufacturer of 
 waking dreams ever succeeded better in his 
 employment than I do. I can weave such a 
 piece of tapestry, in a few minutes, as not only 
 has all the clinrms of reality, but is embcl- 
 Hshcd also with a variety of beauties, wiiich, 
 though they never existed, are more captivat- 
 ing than any that ever did : — accordingly, I 
 wa.s a school-boy, in high favor with the mas- 
 ter, received a silver groat for my exercise, 
 and had the pleasure of seeing it sent from 
 form to form, for tlie admiration of all who 
 were able to understand it. Do you wish to 
 see this highly applauded performance? It 
 '"ollows on the other side. 
 
 [Tor7i ojj:]* 
 
 By way of compensation, we subjoin some 
 
 * Tills jt'U d'osprit lias tic vor been found, notwithatand- 
 ing the most diliguut iuqui-y. 
 
 verses addressed to a young lady, at the re. 
 quest of Mr. Unwin, to whom he thus 
 writes : — 
 
 " I have endeavored to comply with yom 
 request, though I am not good at writing 
 upon a given subject. Your mother however 
 comforts me by her approbation, and I steer 
 myself in all that I produce by her judgment 
 If she does not understand me at the first 
 reading, I am sure the lines are obscure and 
 always alter them ; if she laughs, I know it 
 is not without reason ; and if she says, 
 " That's well, it will do," I have no fear lest 
 anybody else should fine fixult with it. She 
 is my lord chamberlain, who licenses all I 
 write. 
 
 TO MISS C- 
 
 ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 How many between east and west 
 Disgrace their parent earth, 
 
 Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
 The day that gave them birth ! 
 
 Not so when Stella's natal morn 
 
 Revolving months icstore, 
 We can rejoice that she was born, 
 
 And wish her born once more ! 
 
 If you like it, use it : if not, you know the 
 remedy. It is serious, yet epigrammatic — 
 like a bishop at a ball ! W. C. 
 
 It is remarkable, that the laudable efforts 
 which are now making to enforce the better 
 observance of the Lord's day, to diminish ihe 
 temptations to perjury by the unnecessary 
 multiplication of oaths, and to arrest the prog- 
 ress of the vice of drunkenness, appear 
 from the following letter to have been anti- 
 cipated nearly fifty years since, by tlie Rev. 
 William Unwin. Deeply impressed with a 
 sense of the extent and enormity of these 
 national sins, his conscientious mind (always 
 seeking opportunities for doing good) led 
 him to urge the employment of Cowper's 
 pen in the correction of these evils. What 
 he suggested, as we believe, was as follows, 
 viz., to draw up a memorial or representation 
 on this subject to the bench of bishops, as 
 the constituted guardians of public morals, 
 and thus to call forth their united exertions ; 
 secondly, to awaken the public mind to the 
 magnitude of these crimes, and, finally, to 
 obtain some legislative enactment for their 
 prevention. 
 
 We now insert Cowper's reply to the pro- 
 position of his friend Mr. Unwin. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 I\Iy dear Friend, — I am sensibly mortified 
 at finding myself obliged to disappoint you • 
 but, though I have had many thoughts upon 
 the subjects you propose to my considera- 
 tion, I have had none that have been favora- 
 ble to the undertaking. I applaud your pur-
 
 268 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 pose, for the sake of the principle from which 
 it springs, but I look upon the evils you 
 mean to animadvert upon as too obstinate 
 and inveterate ever to be expelled by the 
 means you mention. The very persons to 
 whom you would address your remonstrance 
 are themselves sufficiently aware of their 
 enormity ; years ago, t<> my knowledge, they 
 were frequently the topics of conversations 
 at polite tables ; they have been frequently 
 mentioned in both houses of parliament ; 
 and, I suppose, there is hardly a member of 
 either who would not immediately assent to 
 the necessity of a reformation, were it pro- 
 posed to him in a reasonable way. But 
 there it sto}>s ; and there it will forever stop, 
 till the majority are animated with a zeal in 
 which they are at present deplorably defect- 
 ive. A religious man is unfeignedly shocked 
 when he reflects upon the prevalence of 
 such crimes ; a moral man must needs be so 
 in a degree, and will affect to be much more 
 so than he is. But how many do you sup- 
 pose there are among our worthy represent- 
 atives that come under either of these de- 
 scriptions? If all were such, yet to new 
 model the police of the country, which must 
 be done in order to make even unavoidable 
 pi-rjnry less frequent, were a task they would 
 hardly undertake, on account of the great 
 difficulty that would attend it. Government 
 is too much interested in the consumption 
 of malt liquor toreduc3the number of vend- 
 ers. Such plausible pleas may be offered 
 in defence of travelling on Sundays, espe- 
 cially by the trading part of the world, as 
 the whole bench of bishops would find it 
 difficult to overrule. And with respect to 
 the violation of oaths, till a certain name is 
 more generally respected than it is at present, 
 however such persons as yourself may be 
 grieved at it, the legislature are never likely 
 to lay it to heart. 1 do not mean, nor would 
 by any means attempt, to dis(;ourage you in 
 so laudable an enterprise, but such is the light 
 in which it appears to me, that I do not feel 
 the least spark of courage qualifying or 
 prompting me to embark in it myself. An 
 exhortaticn therefore written by me, by hope- 
 less, desponding me, would be flat, insipid, 
 and uninteresting ; and disgrace the cause 
 instead of serving it. If, after what I have 
 said, however, you still retain the same sen- 
 timents, Marie eslo tirlnte iud, there is no- 
 body better qualilied than yourself, and may 
 your success prove that I despaired of it with- 
 out a reason. 
 
 Adieu, 
 
 My dear friend. W. C. 
 
 Covvper, it seems, declined his friend's pro- 
 posal, and was by no means sanguine in his 
 hopes of a remedy. The reasons he assigns 
 
 are sufficient to deter the generality of man- 
 kind. Still there are men always raised up 
 by the providence of God, in his own ap- 
 pointed time — endowed from above with 
 qualifications necessary for great enterprises 
 — distinguished too by a perseverance that 
 no toil can weary, and which no opposition 
 can divert from its purpose, because they 
 are inwardly supported by the integrity of 
 their motives, and by a deep conviction of 
 the importance of their object. To men 
 of this ethereal stamp, trials are but an in- 
 centive to exertion, because they never fail 
 to see through those besetting difficulties, 
 which obstruct the progress of all good un- 
 dertakings, the final accomplishment of all 
 their labors. 
 
 Let no man despair of success in a right- 
 eous cause. Let him well conceive his plan 
 and mature it : let him gain all the aid that 
 can be derived from the counsel of wise and 
 reflecting minds; and, above all, let him im- 
 plore the illuminating influences of that Holy 
 Spirit, which can alone impart what all want, 
 " the wisdom that is from above," which is 
 " pure, peaceable, gentle, and full of good 
 fruits ;" let him be simple in his view, holy 
 in his purpose, zealous, prudent, and perse- 
 vering in his pursuit ; and we feel no hesita- 
 tion in saying, that man will be " blessed in 
 his deed." There are no difficulties, if his 
 object be practicable, and prosecuted in a 
 right spirit, that he may not hope to conquer; 
 no corrupt passions of men over which he 
 may not finally triumph, because there is a 
 Divine Power that can level the highest 
 mountains and exalt the lowest valleys, and 
 because it is recorded for our consolation 
 and instruction : " And the Lord went before 
 them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead 
 them the way ; and by night in a pillar of 
 fire, to give them light, to go by day and 
 night. He took not away the pillar of the 
 cloud by day, nor the pillar of fire by night, 
 from before the people."* 
 
 With respect to the more immediate sub- 
 ject of Cowper's letter, so far as it is applica- 
 ble to modern times, we must confess that 
 we are sanguine in our hopes of improve- 
 ment, founded on the increasing moral spirit 
 of the times, and the Divine agency, now so 
 visibly interposing in the affairs of men. 
 Every abuse will progressively receive its 
 appropriate and counteracting remedy. The 
 Lord's day will be rescued from gross pro- 
 fanation, and the claims of the revenue be 
 compelled to yield to the weight and author- 
 ity of public feeling. How just and forcible 
 is the following portrait drawn by the Muse 
 of Cowper ! 
 
 " The excise is fattened with the rich result 
 Of all this riot ; and ten thousand casks, 
 For ever dribbling out their base contents, 
 
 * Exodus, \dii. 21, 22.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 269 
 
 Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, 
 Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 
 Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! 
 Gloriously drunk obey the important call ! 
 Her cause demands the assistance of your throats ; 
 Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more." 
 
 The Task, Book IV. 
 
 We know not to what event the following 
 letter refers, as it is without any date to 
 guide us. It may probably relate to the pe- 
 riud of Lord George Gordon's riots. We 
 uisert it as we find it.* 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM ITNWIN. 
 
 Though we live in a nook, and the world 
 is quite unconscious that there are any such 
 beings in it as ourselves, yet we are not un- 
 concerned about wiiat passes in it. The pres- 
 ent awful crisis, big with the fate of Eng- 
 land, engages much of our attenlion. The 
 action is probably over by this time, and 
 though we know it not, the grand question 
 is decided, wliether the war shall roar in our 
 once peaceful fields, or wliether we shall still 
 only hear of it at a distance. I can compare 
 the nation to no similitude more apt than 
 that of an ancient castle, that had been for 
 days assaulted by the battering-ram. It was 
 ionof before the stroke of that enii'ine made 
 any sensible impression, but the continual 
 repetition at length communicated a slight 
 tremor to the wall ; the next, and the next, 
 and the next blow increased it. Another 
 shock puts the whole mass in motion, from 
 the top to the foundation : it bends forward, 
 and is every moment driven farther from the 
 perpendicular; till at last the decisive blow 
 is given, and down it comes. Every million 
 that has been raised within the last century, 
 has had an effect upon the constitution like 
 that of a blow from the aforesaid ram upon 
 the aforesaid wall. The impulse becomes 
 more and more important, and the impres- 
 sion it makes is continually augmented ; un- 
 less therefore something extraordinary inter- 
 venes to prevent it — you will find the conse- 
 quence at the end of my simile. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 The letter which we next insert, is curious 
 and interesting, as it contains a critique on 
 the works of Churcliill, whose style Cow- 
 per's is supposed to resemble, in its nervous 
 strength and pungency. He calls him, " the 
 great Churchill."f One of his productions, 
 
 * Men who are of sufficient celebrity to enlille Ihcir 
 letters to tiie lionor of future piiblicaliipn would do well 
 in never omitting to attach a date to them. The ncijlict 
 of tliis iirecautiun, on the piirt of the Rev. Legli Uith- 
 mond, l('d to invich perplexity. 
 
 t Cowper was an admirer of Churchill, and is thoncjht 
 to have formed his style on the model of that writer. 
 But he i? now no longer " the ^'reat Churchill." Tho 
 
 not here mentioned, was entitled the Ros- 
 ciad, containing strictures on the theatrical 
 performers of that day, who trembled at his 
 censures, or were elated by his praise. He 
 has passed along the stream, and has ceased 
 to be read, though once a popular writer. 
 It is much to be lamented that his habits 
 were irregular, his domestic duties violated, 
 and his life at length shortened by intem- 
 perance. The reader may form an estimate 
 of his poetical pretensions from the judg- 
 ment here passed upon them by Cowper. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 My dear William, — How apt we are to 
 deceive ourselves where self is in question ! 
 You say I am in your debt, and I accounted 
 you in mine : a mistake to which you must 
 attribute my arrears, if indeed I owe you 
 any, for I am not backward to write where 
 the uppermost thought is welcome. 
 
 I am obliged to you for all the books you 
 have occasionally furnished me with : I did 
 not indeed read many of Johnson's Clas- 
 sics — those of established reputation are so 
 fresh in my memory, though many years 
 have intervened since I made them ray com- 
 panions, that it was like reading what I read 
 yesterday over again ; and, as to the minor 
 Classics, I did not think them worth reading 
 at all. I tasted most of them, and did not 
 like them : it is a great thing to be indeed a 
 poet, and does not happen to more than 
 one man in a century. Churchill, the great 
 Churchill, deserved the name of poet — I 
 have read him twice, and some of his pieces 
 three times over, and the last time with more 
 pleasure than the first. Tlie pitiful scribbler 
 of his life seems to have undertaken that 
 task, for which he was entirely unqualified, 
 merely because it afforded him an opportu- 
 nity to traduce him. He has inserted in it 
 but one anecdote of consequence, for which 
 he refers you to a novel, and introduces the 
 story with doubts about the truth of it. 
 But his barrenness as a biographer L could 
 forgive, if the simpleton had not thought 
 himself a judge of his writings, and, under 
 the erroneous influence of that thought in- 
 forms his reader that Gotham, Independence, 
 
 causes of his reputation have been the occasion of its 
 decline. His jiroduclions are founded on the popular 
 yet evanescent topics of tlie time, which have ceiised to 
 create interest. He who wishes to survive in the mem- 
 ory of fut\ire a'^es must possess, not only the attribute of 
 cominandini; genius, but be careful to employ it on sub- 
 jects of abiding importance His life was characterised 
 by singidar imprudence, and by habits of gross vice and 
 intem|)erance. A preacher by profession, and a rake in 
 practice, he abandoned the church, or rather Wiis com- 
 pelled to resign its functions. (Jilted with a vigorous 
 fancy, and sujjerior powers, he prostituted them to the 
 purposes of political faction, and became the associate 
 and frit-ud of Wilkes. A bankrupt, at h'ligth, both in 
 fortune and constitution, he W!is seized with a fever 
 while paying a visit to Mr. Wilkes, at Boulogne: and 
 terminated his brilliant but guilty career at the eaxly age 
 of thirty-four.
 
 270 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and the Times, were catchpennies. Gotham, 
 unless I am a greater blockhead than he, 
 which I am far from believing, is a noble and 
 beautiful poem, and a poem with which I 
 make no doubt the author took as much pains 
 as with any he ever wrote. Making allow- 
 ance (and Dryden, perhaps, in his Absalom 
 and Acliitophel stands in need of the same 
 indulgence) for an unwarrantable use of 
 scripture, it appears to me to be a masterly 
 performance. Independence is a most ani- 
 mated piece, full of strength and spirit, and 
 marked with that bold masculine character 
 which I think is the great peculiarity of this 
 writer. And tlie Times (except that the sub- 
 ject is disgusting to the last degree) stands 
 equally high in my opinion. He is indeed a 
 careless writer for the most part, but where 
 shall we find, in any of those authors who 
 finish their works with the exactness of a 
 Flemish pencil, those bold and daring strokes 
 of fancy, those numbers so hazardously ven- 
 tured upon and so happily finished, the mat- 
 ter so compressed and yet so clear, and the 
 coloring so sparingly laid on and yet with 
 such a beautiful effect ? In short, it is not 
 his least praise that he is never guilty of 
 those faults as a writer which he lays to the 
 charge of others : a proof that he did not 
 judge by a borrowed standard, or from rules 
 laid down by critics, but that he was quali- 
 fied to do it by his own native powers and 
 his great superiority of genius : for he, that 
 wrote so much and so fast, would, through 
 inadvertence and hurry, unavoidably have 
 departed from rules which he might have 
 found in books, but his own truly poetical 
 talent was a guide whicli could not suffer 
 him to err. A race-horse is graceful in his 
 swiftest pace, and never makes an awkward 
 motion, though he is pushed to his utmost 
 speed. A cart-horse might perhaps be taught 
 to play tricks in the riding-school, and might 
 prance and curvet like his betters, but at 
 some unlucky time would be sure to betray 
 the baseness of his original. It is an affair 
 of very little consequence perhaps to the 
 well-being of mankind, but I cannot help re- 
 gretting that he died so soon. Those words 
 of Virgil, upon the immature death of Mar- 
 cellus, might serve for his epitaph. 
 
 " Osrendent terris hunc tantum fata, neque ultra 
 Esse sinent." 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I find tlie Register in 
 all respects an entertaining medley, but espe- 
 cially in this, that it has brought to my view 
 some long forgotten pieces of my own pro- 
 duction. I mean by the way two or three. 
 Those I have marked with my own initials, 
 
 and you may be sure I found them peculiarly 
 agreeable, as they had not only the grace of 
 being mine, but that of novelty likewise to 
 recommend them. It is at least twenty 
 years since I saw them. You, I think, was 
 never a dabbler in rhyme. I have been one 
 ever since I was fourteen years of age, when 
 I began with translating an elegy of Tibul- 
 lus. I have no more right to the name of a 
 poet than a maker of mouse-traps has to 
 that of an engineer ; but my little exploits in 
 this way have at times amused me so much, 
 that I have often wished myself a good one. 
 Such a talent in verse as mine is like a 
 child's rattle, very entertaining to the trifler 
 that uses it and very disagreeable to all be- 
 sides. But it has served to rid me of some 
 melancholy moments, for I only take it up 
 as a gentleman-performer does his fiddle. I 
 have this peculiarity belonging to me as a 
 rhymist, that though I am charmed to a 
 great degree with my own work while it is 
 on the anvil, I can seldom bear to look at it 
 when it is once finished. The more I con- 
 template it the more it loses its value, till I 
 am at last disgusted with it. I then throw 
 it by, take it up again, perhaps ten years 
 after, and am as much delighted with it as 
 at the first. 
 
 Few people have the art of being agree- 
 able when they talk of themselves ; if you 
 are not weary therefore, you jjay me a high 
 compliment. 
 
 I dare say Miss S * was much diverted 
 
 with the conjecture of her friends. The 
 true key to the pleasure she found at Olney 
 was plain enough to be seen, but they chose 
 to overlook it. She brought with her a dis- 
 position to be pleased, which, whoever does, 
 is sure to find a visit agreeable, because they 
 make it so Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Olney, August 31, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I began to fear for your 
 health, and every day said to myself — I must 
 write to Bagot soon, if it be only to ask him 
 how he does — a measure that I should cer- 
 tainly have pursued long since, had I been 
 less absorbed in Homer than I am. But 
 such are my engagements in that quarter, 
 that they make me, I think, good for little 
 else. 
 
 Many thanks, my friend, for the names 
 that you have sent me. The Bagots will 
 make a most conspicuous figure among my 
 subscribers, and I shall not, I hopp soon for- 
 get my obligations to them. 
 
 The unacquaintedness of modern ears with 
 the divine harmony of Milton's numbers,! 
 
 * Miss Shuttleworth. 
 
 t Addison was the tirst, by his excellent critiques in the 
 Spectator, to excite public attention to a more just sense
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 27 
 
 and the principles upon which he constructed 
 them, is the cause of the quarrel that they 
 have with elisions in hlanl^ verse. But 
 where is the remedy ? In vain should you 
 or I, and a few hundreds more perhaps who 
 have studied his versification, tell them of 
 the superior majesty of it, and that for that 
 majesty it is greatly indebted to those elis- 
 ions. In their ears they are discord and 
 dissonance, they lengthen the line beyond its 
 due limits, and are therefore not to be en- 
 dured. Tliere is a whimsical inconsistence 
 in the judgment of modern readers in this 
 particular. Ask them all round. Whom do 
 you account the best writer of blank verse? 
 and they will reply, almost to a man, Milton, 
 to be sure: Milton against the field! Yet 
 if a writer of the present day should con- 
 struct his numbers exactly upon Milton's 
 plan, not one in fifty of these professed ad- 
 mirers of Milton would endure him. The 
 case standing thus, what is to be done? 
 An author must either be contented to _give 
 
 of the immortal poem of tlic Paradise Lost. But it was 
 reserved for .loliiisoii (Rambler, Nos. 8(5, 88, 90, 94,) to 
 point out the beauty of Milton's versification. He showed 
 that it was formed, as fai- as our lanijuai^e admits, upon 
 the best models of Greece and Home, united to the soft- 
 ness of the Italian, the most mellilluoiis of all modern 
 poetry. 'J'o these examples we may add the name of 
 Sj)enser, who is distln^'uished for a most melodious How 
 of versilicaliou. Johnson emphatically ri'inarks, iliat 
 Miltcui's "skill in harmony w;is not less than his inven- 
 tion or his learning:." Dr. J. Whai'ton also observes, that 
 his verses vary, and resound a.s much, and display as 
 much majesty and energy, as any that can be found in 
 Dry den. 
 
 We subjoin the following passages as illustrating the 
 melody of his numbers, the grace and dignity of his 
 style, the correspondence of sound with the sentiment, 
 the easy How of his verses into one another, and the 
 beauty of his cadences. 
 
 THE DESCENT OF THE ANGEL RAl'HAEI, INTO P.VR.VDISK. 
 
 A seraph wing'd : six wings he lyore, to shade 
 Ills lineaments divine; the pair Ihat clad 
 I'.ach shoulder broad, came m.-uilling o'er his breast 
 With regal ornament; the middle pair 
 CJirt like a starry zone his waist, and round 
 Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold, 
 And odors dipt in Heaven ; the third his feet 
 Shadov/ed from either heel with feathered mail, 
 Sky tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood. 
 And sliook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fillVl 
 'I'he circuit wide. Buolc V. 
 
 Ib)w sweeUy did they float upon the wings 
 Of silence, through the empty vaulted night; 
 At every fall, smoothing the raven down 
 Of darkness, till it smiled. 
 
 THE DIRTII OK DEATH. 
 
 T fled, and cried out Drnth : 
 Hell trembled at the hiileous name, and sigh'd 
 From all her caves, and back resounded Death ! 
 
 EVE EATING THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 
 
 So saying, her rash hand in evil hour 
 Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate. 
 Earth felt the wound, and Nature, from her seat 
 Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe, 
 Tiiat all was lost. Book IX. 
 
 H)AM PARTICIPATING IN THE GREAT TRANSORKSSION. 
 
 He scrupled not to eat 
 Against his better knowledge — 
 Karlh trembli'd from her entrails, as again 
 In pangs ; and Nature gave a second groan ; 
 Sky loiu-'d ; and, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completing of the mortal sin — 
 Original. Book IX. 
 
 disgust to the generality, or he must humor 
 them by sinning against his own judgment. 
 This latter course, so far as elisions are con- 
 cerned, I have adopted as essential to my 
 success. In every other respect, I give as 
 much variety in my measure as I can, I be- 
 lieve I may say as in ten syllables it is pos- 
 sible to give, shifting perpetually the pause 
 and cadence, and accounting myself happy 
 that modern refinement has not yet enacted 
 laws against this also. If it had, I protest to 
 you I would have dropped my design of 
 translating Homer entirely ; and with what 
 an indignant stateliness of reluctance I make 
 them the concession that I have mentioned, 
 Mrs. Unwin can witness, who hears all my 
 complaints upon the subject. 
 
 After having lived twenty years at Olney, 
 we are on the point of leaving it, but shall 
 not migrate far. We have taken a house in 
 the village of Weston. Lady Hesketh is 
 our good angel, by whose aid we are enabled 
 to pass into a better air and a more walkable 
 country. The imprisonment that we have 
 suftered here for so many winters, has hurt 
 us both. That we may suffer it no longer, 
 she stoops to Olney, lifts us from our swamp, 
 and sets us down on the elevated grounds of 
 Weston Underwood. There, my dear friend, 
 I shall be happy to see you, and to thank 
 you in person for all your kindness. 
 
 I do not wonder at tlie judgment that you 
 form of — a foreigner; but you may assure 
 yourself that, foreigner as he is, he has an 
 exquisite taste in English verse. The man 
 is all fire, and an enthusiast in the highest 
 degree on the subject of Homer, and has 
 given me more than once a jog, when I have 
 been inclined to nap with my author. No 
 cold water is to be feared from him that 
 might abate my own fire, rather perhaps too 
 much combustible. 
 
 Adieu ! mon ami, 
 
 Yours faithfully, W. C. 
 
 We reserve our remarks on the next letter 
 till its close. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Olney, Sept. 30, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — No length of separation 
 will-ever make us indifferent either to your 
 pleasures or your pains. We rejoice that 
 you have had so agreeable a jaunt and (ex- 
 cepting Mrs. Newton's terrible fall, from 
 which, however, we are happy to fitid that 
 slie received so little injury) a safe return. 
 We, who live encompassed by rural scenery, 
 can afford to be stationary ; though we our- 
 selves, were I not too closely engaged with 
 Homer, should perhaps follow your ex- 
 ample, and seek a little refreshment from 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 272 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 variety and change of place — a course that 
 we might find not only agreeable, but, after 
 a sameness of thirteen years, periiaps useful. 
 You must, undoubtedly, have found your ex- 
 cursion beneficial, who at all otiier times en- 
 dure, if not so close a confinement as we, 
 yet a more unhealthy one, in city air and in 
 the centre of continual engagements. 
 
 Your letter to Mrs. Unwin, concerning our 
 conduct, and tlie offence taken at it in our 
 neigliboriiood, gave us both a great deal of 
 concern; and she is still deeply affected by 
 it. Of tliis you may assure yourself, that, if 
 our friends in London have been grieved, 
 they have been misinformed ; which is the 
 more probable, because the bearers of intel- 
 ligence hence to London are not always very 
 scrupulous concerning the truth of their re- 
 ports ; and that, if any of our serious neigh- 
 bors have been astonished, they have been so 
 without the smallest real occasion. Poor 
 people are never well employed even when 
 they judge one another; but when they un- 
 dertake to scan the motives and estin\ate the 
 behavior of those whom Providence has ex- 
 alted a little above them, they are utterly 
 out of their province and their depth. They 
 often see us get into Lady Hesketh'a car- 
 riage, and rather uncharitably suppose that it 
 always carries us into a scene of dissipation, 
 which, in fact, it never does. We visit, in- 
 deed, at Mr. Throckmorton's, and at Gay- 
 hurst ; rarely, however, at Gayhurst, on ac- 
 count of the greater distance; more fre- 
 quently, though not very frequently, at 
 Weston, both because it is nearer, and be- 
 cause our business in the house that is mak- 
 ing ready for us often calls us that way. 
 The rest of our journeys are to Bozeat turn- 
 pike and back again, or perhaps to the cabi- 
 net-maker's at Newport. As Othello says, 
 
 The very head and front of my offending 
 Hath this extent, no more. 
 
 What good we can get or can do in these 
 visits, is another question ; which they, I am 
 sure, are not at all qualified to solve. Of 
 this we are both sure, that under the guid- 
 ance of Providence we have formed these 
 connexions; that we should have hurt the 
 Christian cause, rather than have served it, 
 by a prudish abstinence from them ; and that 
 St. Paul himself, conducted to them as we 
 have been, would have found it expedient to 
 nave done as we have done. It is always 
 impossible to conjecture, to much purpose, 
 from the beginnings of a providence in what 
 It will terminate. If we have neither re- 
 ceived nor communicated any spiritual good 
 at present, while conversant with our new 
 acquaintance, at least no harm has befallen 
 on either side; and it were too hazardous an 
 assertion even for our censorious neighbors 
 to make, that, because the cause of the Gos- 
 
 pel does not appear to have been served a1 
 present, therefore it never can be in any fi\. 
 ture intercourse that we may have with them. 
 In the meantime, I speak a strict truth, and 
 as in the sight of God, when I say that we 
 are neither of us at all more addicted to gad- 
 ding than heretofore. We both naturally 
 love seclusion from company, and never go 
 into it without putting a force upon our dis- 
 position ; at the same time I will confess, 
 and you will easily conceive that the melan- 
 choly incident to such close confinement as 
 we have so long endured finds itself a litUe 
 relieved by such amusements as a society so 
 innocent affords. You may look round the 
 Christian world, and find few, I believe, of 
 our station, who have so little intercourse as 
 we with the world that is not Christian. 
 
 We place all the uneasiness that you have 
 felt for us upon this subject to the account 
 of that cordial friendship of which yon have 
 long given us proof But you may be as- 
 sured, that, notwithstanding all rumors to 
 the contrary, we are exactly what we were 
 when you saw us last: — I, miserable on ac- 
 count of God's departure from me, which I 
 believe to be final ; and she seeking his return 
 to me in the path of duty and by continuaL 
 prayer. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 That the above letter may be fully under- 
 stood, it is necessary to state that Mr. New- 
 ton had received an intimation from Olney 
 that the habits of Cowper, since the arrival 
 of Lady Hesketh, had experienced a change; 
 and that an admonitory letter from himself 
 might not be without its use. Under these 
 circumstances, Newton addressed such a let- 
 ter to his friend as the occasion seemed to 
 require. The answer of Cowper is already 
 before the reader, and in our opinion amounts 
 to a full justification of the poet's conduct. 
 We know, from various testimonies of un- 
 questionable authority, that no change tend- 
 ing to impeach the consistency of Mrs. Un- 
 win or of Cowper can justly be alleged. If 
 Newton should be considered as giving too 
 easy a credence to these reports, or too rigid 
 and ascetic in his spirit, we conceive that he 
 could not, consistently with his own views 
 as a faithful minister, and his deep interest 
 in the welfiire of Cowper, have acted other- 
 wise, though he may possibly have expressed 
 himself too strongly. As to Newton's own 
 spirit and temper, no man was more amiable 
 and sociable in his feelings, nor the object of 
 more afl'ectionate esteem and regard in the 
 circles where he was known. His character 
 has been already described by Cowper, as 
 that of a man that lived in an atmosphere of 
 Chiistian peace and love. " It is therefore," 
 observes the poet, " you were beloved at 
 Olney, and if you preached to the Chicksaws
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 273 
 
 and Chactaws, would be equally beloved by 
 them."* 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Olney, Oct. 6, 1786. 
 Yon have not heard, I suppose, that tlic 
 ninth book oC my translation is at the bot- 
 tom of the Tliames. But it is even so. A 
 storm overtook it ii\ its way to Kingston, and 
 it sunk, together with the whole cargo of the 
 boat in which it was a passenger. Not figu- 
 ratively foreshowing, I hope, by its submer- 
 sion, the fate of all the rest. My kind and 
 generous cousin, who leaves nothing undone 
 that she tliinks can conduce to my comfort, 
 encouragement, or convenience, is my tran- 
 scriber also. She wrote the copy, and she 
 will have to write it again — hers, therefore, 
 is the damjige. I have a thousand reasons to 
 lament that the time approaches when we 
 must lose her. She has made a winterly 
 summer a most delightful one, but the win- 
 ter itself we must spend without her. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 We are at length arrived at the period 
 when Cowper removed to Weston. He 
 fixed liis residence there Nov. 15th, 1786. 
 The first letters addressed from that place 
 are to his friends Mr. Bagot and Mr. Newton. 
 
 I'O THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. 
 My dear Friend, — There are some things 
 that do not actually shorten the life of man, 
 yet seem to do so, and frequent removals 
 from place to place are of that number. For 
 my own part, at least, I am apt to think if I 
 had been more stationary, I should seem to 
 myself to have lived longer. My many 
 changes of habitation have divided my time 
 into many short periods, and when I look 
 back upon them they appear only as the 
 stages in a day's journey, the first of which 
 is at no very great distance from the last. 
 
 I lived longer at Olney than anywhere. 
 There indeed I lived till mouldering walls 
 and a tottering iiouse warned me to depart. 
 I have accordingly taken the hint, and two 
 days since arrived, or rather took up my 
 abode, at Weston. You perhaps have never 
 made the experiment, but I can assure you 
 that the confusion which attends a transmi- 
 gration of this kind is infinite, and has a ter- 
 rible efi'ect in deranging the intellects. I 
 have been obliged to renounce my Homer on 
 the occasion, and, though not for many days, 
 I yet feel as if study and meditation, so long 
 my confirmed hahits, were on a sudden be- 
 come impracticable, and that I shall certainly 
 find them so when I attempt them again. 
 
 * See page 135, 
 
 But, in a scene so much quieter and pleas- 
 anter than that which I have just escaped 
 from, in a house so much more commodious, 
 and with furniture about me so much more 
 to my taste, I shall hope to recover my lit- 
 erary tendency again, when once the bustle 
 of the occasion shall have subsided. 
 
 How glad I should be to receive you under 
 a roof where you would find me so much more 
 comfortably accommodated than at Olney ! I 
 know your warmth of heart toward me, and 
 am sure that you would rejoice in my joy. 
 At present indeed I have not had time for 
 much self-gratulation, but have every reason 
 to hope nevertheless that in due time I shall 
 derive considerable advantage, both in health 
 and spirits, from the alteration made in my 
 ivhereahoiit. 
 
 I have now the twelfth book of the Iliad 
 in hand, having settled the eleven first books 
 finally, as I think, or nearly so. The winter 
 is the time when I make the greatest rid- 
 dance. 
 
 Adieu, my friend Walter ! Let me hear 
 from you, and 
 
 Believe me, ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My usual time of an 
 swering your letters having been unavoida- 
 bly engrossed by occasions that would not 
 be thrust aside, I have been obliged to post^ 
 pone the payment of my debt for a whole 
 week. Even now it is not without some dif- 
 ficulty that I discharge it: which you will 
 easily believe, when I tell you that this is 
 only the second day that has seen us inhabi- 
 tants of our new abode. When God speaks 
 to a chaos, it becomes a scene of order and 
 harmony in a moment ; but when his crea- 
 tures have thrown one house into confusion 
 by leaving it, and another by tumbling them- 
 selves and their goods into it, not less than 
 many days' labor and contrivance is neces"- 
 sary to give them their proper places. And 
 it belongs to furniture of all kinds, however 
 convenient it may be in its place, to be a nui- 
 sance out of it. We find ourselves here in a 
 comfortable dwelling. Such it is in itself; 
 and my cousin, who has spared no expense 
 in dressing it up for us, has made it a gen- 
 teel one. Such, at least, it will be when its 
 contents are a little harmonized. She left 
 us on Tuesday, and on Wednesday in the 
 evening Mrs. Unwin and I took possession. 
 I could not help giving a last look to my old 
 prison and its precincts ; and, though I cannot 
 easily account for it, having been miserable 
 there so many years, felt something like a 
 heart-ache when I took my last leave of a 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 18
 
 274 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 scene that certainly in itself had nothing to 
 engage affection. But I recollectod that I 
 had once been happy there, and could not, 
 without tears in my eyes, bid adieu to a place 
 in which God had so often found nie. The 
 human mind is a great mystery; mine, at least, 
 appeared to me to be such upon this occasion. 
 I found that I had not only had a tenderness 
 for that ruinous abode, because it had once 
 known me happy in the presence of God ; 
 but that even the distress I had suffered for 
 so long a time, on account of his absence, 
 had endeared it to me as much. I was 
 weary of every object, had long wished for a 
 change, yet could not take leave without a 
 pang at parting. What consequences are to 
 attend our removal, God only knows. I 
 know v/ell that it is not in situation to effect 
 a cure of melancholy like mine. The change, 
 however, has been entirely a providential 
 one ; for, much as I wished it, I never uttered 
 that wish, except to Mrs. Unvvin. When I 
 learned that the house was to be let, and had 
 seen it, I had a strong desire that Lady Hes- 
 keth should take it for herself, if she should 
 happen to like the country. That desire, in- 
 deed, is not exactly fulfilled; and yet, upon 
 the whole, is exceeded We are the tenants ; 
 but she assures us that we shall often have 
 her for a guest ; and here is room enougli for 
 us all. You, I hope, my dear friend, and 
 Mrs. Newton, will want no assurances to 
 convince you that you will always be received 
 here with the sincerest welcome. More wel- 
 come than you have been you cannot be ; but 
 better accommodated you may and will be. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend. Mrs. Unwin's af- 
 fectionate remembrances and mine conclude 
 me ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston Lodge, Nov. 26, 1786. 
 It is my birth-day, my beloved cousin, and 
 I determine to employ a part of it, tliat it may 
 not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. 
 The dark, thick fog that has obscured it 
 would have been a burden to me at Olney, 
 but here I have hardly attended to it. The 
 neatness and snugness of our abode com- 
 pensates all the dreariness of tlie season, and, 
 whether the ways are wet or dry, our house 
 at least is always warm and commodious. 
 Oh! for you, my cousin, to partake these 
 comforts with us ! I will not begin already 
 to tease you upon that subject, but Mrs. Un- 
 win remembers to have heard from your own 
 lips that you hate London in the spring. 
 Perhaps, therefore, by that time, you may be 
 glad to escape from a scene which will be 
 every day growing more disagreeable, that 
 you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. 
 You well know that the best house has a 
 desolate appearance unfurnished. This house 
 
 accordingly, since it has been occupied by as 
 and our meuhles, is as much superior to what 
 it was when you saw it as you can imagine. 
 The parlor is even elegant. When I say that 
 the parlor is elegant, I do not mean to in- 
 sinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, 
 warm, and silent, and a much better study 
 than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an 
 incomparable translation of Homer. I think 
 every day of those lines of Milton, and con- 
 gratulate myself on having obtained, before 
 I am quite superannuated, what he seems 
 not to have hoped for sooner : 
 
 " And may at length my weary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage !" 
 
 For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a 
 much better thing, and you must always un- 
 derstand, my dear, that when poets talk of 
 cottages, hermitages, and such like things, 
 they mean a house with six sashes in front, 
 two comfortable parlors, a smart staircase, 
 and three bed-chambers, of convenient di- 
 mensions ; in short, exactly such a house as 
 this. 
 
 The Throckmortons continue the most 
 obliging neighbors in the world. One morn- 
 >ng last week, they both went with me to the 
 cliffs — a scene, my dear, in which you would 
 delight beyond measure, but wliich you can- 
 not visit, except in the spring or autumn. 
 The heat of summer, and clinging dirt of 
 winter, would destroy you. What is called 
 the cliff, is no cliff, nor at all like one, but a 
 beautiful terrace, gently sloping down to the 
 Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not 
 lofty, you have a view of such a valley as 
 makes that which you see from the hills near 
 Olney, and which I have had the honor to 
 celebrate, an affiiir of no consideration.* 
 
 Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect 
 that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every 
 day change my ramble. Wherever I go, I 
 find short grass under my feet, and, when I 
 have travelled perhnps five miles, come home 
 with shoes not at all too dirty for a drawing- 
 room. I was pacing yesterdiiy under the 
 elms that surround the field in which stands 
 the great alcove, when lifting my eyes I saw 
 two black genteel figures bolt through a 
 hedge into the path where I was walking. 
 You guess already who they were, and that 
 they could be nobody but our neighbors. 
 They had seen me from a hill at a distance, 
 
 * " How oft, upon yon eminence, our pace 
 
 Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne 
 
 The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that It blew, 
 
 While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 
 
 And still ungated, dwelt upon the scene : 
 
 Thence with what pleasm-e have we just discerned 
 
 The distant plough slow moving, and, beside 
 
 His laboring team, that swerved not from the tract, 
 
 The sturdy swain, diminished to a boy ! 
 
 Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
 
 Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er. 
 
 Conducts the eye along his sinuous course, 
 
 Delighted," &c. &c. The Task, Book I.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 27» 
 
 and had traversed a great turnip field to get 
 at me. You see, therefore, my dear, that 1 
 am in some request. Ahis ! in too much re- 
 quest with some people. The verses of 
 Cadwallader have found me at last. 
 
 I am charmed with your account of our 
 little cousin* at Kensington. If the world 
 does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a 
 valuable man. 
 
 Good niffht, and may God bless thee ! 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In the midst of the brightening prospects 
 that seemed to await Covvper, by a change 
 of residence so conducive to his heallh and 
 spirits, his tender and atfectionate feelings 
 received a severe shock by tlie unexpected 
 intelligence of the death of ^Mr. Unwin. 
 Few events could have made a more sensible 
 inroad on his happiness, and on tliat of Mrs. 
 Unwin. This zealous and truly excellent 
 man had been taking a tour with Mr. Henry 
 Tiiornton, when, on his return, he was seized 
 with an attack at Winchester, which in a few 
 days terminated his valuable life. How pre- 
 carious are our enjoyments! By what a 
 slender tenure do we hold every sublunary 
 blessing, and how mysterious are the dispen- 
 sations" of Providence ! The Rev. William 
 Unwin, the endeared friend and correspond- 
 ent of Cowper; the possessor of virtues 
 that give a cliarm to domestic life, while di- 
 vine grace hallowed their character and ten- 
 dency ; the devoted minister of Clu-ist, turn- 
 ing many to righteousness, by tiie purity of 
 his doctrine and the eminence of his example, 
 was cut olf in the midst of his career, when 
 his continuance was most needed by his 
 family, and the influence of his principles 
 had begun to be felt beyond the precincts of 
 his parish. Happily for himself and his sur- 
 viving friends, he died as he lived, supported 
 by the iiopes and consolations of the gospel, 
 and witli tiie assured prospect of a blessed 
 immortality. 
 
 " And, behold, I come quickly, and my re- 
 ward is with me, to give every man according 
 as his work shall be." " He that overcometh 
 shall inherit all tilings, and I will be his God, 
 and he shall be my son."f 
 
 Cowper thus imparts the painful tidings to 
 Lady Hesketh. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lo(l;;e, Doc. 4, 1786. 
 
 I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, 
 and I do not know tliat I sliall now send you 
 one very unlike it. Not that anytiiing occurs 
 in consequence of our late loss more afflictive 
 than was to be expected, but the mind does 
 not perfectly recover its tone after a shock 
 ake that which has been felt so lately. Tiiis 
 
 * Lord Cowper. t Rev. xxi. 7 ; xxii. li. 
 
 I observe, that, though my experience has 
 long since taught me that this world is a 
 world of shadows, and that it is the more 
 prudent as well as the more Christian course 
 to possess the comforts that we find in it as 
 if we possessed them not, it is no easy mat- 
 ter to reduce this doctrine into practice. We 
 forget that that God w^ho gave them may, 
 when he pleases, take them away ; and that 
 perhaps it may please him to take them at a 
 time when we least expect, or are least dis- 
 posed to part from them. Thus it has hap- 
 pened in the present case. There never was 
 a moment in Unwin's life when there seemed 
 to be more urgent want of him than the mo- 
 ment in which he died. He had attained to 
 an age, when, if they are at any time useful, 
 men become more useful to their families, 
 their friends, and the world. His parish be- 
 gan to feel and to be sensible of the advan- 
 tages of his ministry. The clergy around 
 liim were many of them awed by his example. 
 His children were thriving under his own 
 tuition and management, and his eldest boy 
 is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his 
 years, in some respect qualified, to understand 
 the value of such a parent; by his literary 
 prop.ciency too clever for a school-boy, and 
 too young at the same time for the university. 
 The removal of a man in the prime of life, of 
 such a character, and with such connexions, 
 seems to make a void in society that can ne- 
 ver be filled. God seemed to have made him 
 just what he was, that he might be a blessing 
 to others, and, when the infiuence of his 
 character and abilities began to be felt, re- 
 moved him. These are mysteries, my dear, 
 that we cannot contemplate without astonish- 
 ment, but which will nevertheless be ex- 
 plained hereafter, and must in the meantime 
 be revered in silence. It is well for his 
 mother that she has spent iier life in the 
 practice of an habitual acquiescence in the 
 dispensations of Providence, else I know 
 that tliis stroke would have been heavier, after 
 all tliat she has sutTered upon another ac- 
 count, than she could have borne. She de- 
 rives, as she well may, great consolation 
 from the thought that he lived the life and 
 died tlie death of a Christian. Tiie conse- 
 quence is, if possible, more unavoidable than 
 the most mathematical conclusion that, there- 
 fore, he is happy. So farewell, my friend 
 Unwin! the first man for whom I conceived 
 a friendsiiip after my removal from St. 
 
 Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still con- 
 tinue to feel a friendship, though I shall see 
 thee with these eyes no more I 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. 
 I am perfectly sure that you are mistaken
 
 276 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 though I do not wonder at it, considering the 
 singular nature of the event, in the judgment 
 that you form of poor Unvvin's deatii, us it 
 affects the interest of his intended pupil. 
 When a tutor was wanted for him, you sought 
 out the wisest and best man for the office 
 within the circle of your connexions. It 
 pleased God to take him home to himself. 
 Men eminently wise and good are very apt 
 to die, because they are fit to do so. You 
 found in Unvvin a man worthy to succeed 
 him, and he in whose hands are the issues 
 of life and death, seeing no doubt that Unwin 
 was ripe for a removal into a better state, 
 removed him also. The matter viewed in this 
 light seems not so wonderful as to refuse all 
 explanation, except such as in a melancholy 
 moment you have given to it. And I am so 
 convinced that the little boy's destiny had no 
 influence at all in hastening the death of his 
 tutors elect, that, were it not impossible on 
 more accounts than one that I should be able 
 to serve him in that capacity, I would without 
 the least fear of dying a moment sooner, 
 offer myself to that office ; I would even do 
 it, were I conscious of the same fitness for 
 another and a better state that I believe them 
 to have been both endowed with. In that 
 case, I perhaps might die too, but, if I should, 
 it would not be on account of that connexion. 
 Neither, my dear, had your interference in 
 the business anything to do with the catas- 
 trophe. Your whole conduct in it must have 
 been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was 
 directed by principles of the purest bene- 
 volence.* 
 
 I have not touched Homer to-day. Yester- 
 day was one of my terrible seasons, and 
 when I arose this morning I found that I had 
 not sufficiently recovered myself to engage 
 in such an occupation. Having letters'* to 
 write, I the more willingly gave myself a dis- 
 pensation. Good night. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. 
 My dear Friend, — We had just begun to 
 enjoy the pleasantness of our new situation, 
 to find at least as much comfort in it as the 
 season of the year would permit, when afflic- 
 tion found us out in our retreat, and the 
 news reached us of the death of Mr. Unwin. 
 He had taken a western tour with Mr. Henry 
 Thornton, and in his return, at Winchester, 
 was seized with a putrid fever which sent 
 him to his grave. He is gone to it, however, 
 though young, as fit for it as age itself could 
 
 * Lady Hesketh had placed a young friend of hers 
 nnder a tutor, who died. She then consigned him to the 
 care of Mr. Unwin, who also departed. Hor mind was 
 much afflicted by the singularity of this event, and the 
 above letter is Ckjwper's reasoning upon it. 
 
 have made him. Regretted, indeed, and al- 
 ways to be regretted, by those who know 
 him, for he had everything that makes a man 
 valuable both in his principles and in his 
 manners, but leaving still this consohition to 
 his surviving friends, that he was desirable 
 in this world cliiefly because he was so uell 
 prepared for a better. 
 
 1 find myself here situated exactly to my 
 mind. Weston is one of the prettiest vil- 
 lages in England, and the walks about it at 
 all seasons of the year delightful. I know 
 that you will rejoice with me in the change 
 that we have made, and for which I am al- 
 together indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a 
 change as great, as (to compare metropolitan 
 things with rural) from St. Giles's to Gros- 
 venor Square. Our house is in all respects 
 commodious, and in some degree elegant; 
 and I cannot give you a better idea of that 
 which we have left than by telling you the 
 present candidates for it are a publican and 
 a shoemaker. W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, Dec. 16, 1786. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The death of one whom 
 I valued as I did Mr. Unwin is a subject on 
 which could say much, and with much feel- 
 ing. But habituated as my mind has been 
 these many years to melancholy themes, I 
 am glad to excuse myself the contemplation 
 of them as much as possible. I will only ob- 
 serve, that the death of so young a man, 
 whom I so lately saw in good health, and 
 whose life was so desirable on every account, 
 has something in it peculiarly distressing. 
 I cannot think of the widow and the children 
 that he has left, without a heart-ache that I 
 remember not to have felt before. We may 
 well say, that the ways of God are myste- 
 rious : in truth they are so, and to a degree 
 that only such events can give us any con- 
 ception of. Mrs. Unwin begs me to give her 
 love to you, with thanks for your kind letter. 
 Hers has been so much a life of affliction, 
 that whatever occurs to her in that shape has 
 not, at least, the terrors of novelty to embitter 
 it. She is supported under this, as she has 
 been under a thousand others, with a sub- 
 mission of which I never saw her deprived 
 for a moment. 
 
 Once, since we left Olney, I had occasion 
 to call at our old dwelling; and never did I 
 see so forlorn and woeful a spectacle. De- 
 serted of its inhabitants, it seemed as if it 
 could never be dwelt in forever. The cold- 
 ness of it, th'e dreariness, and the dirt, made 
 me think it no unapt resemblance of a soul 
 that God has forsaken. While hi dwelt in 
 it and manifested himself there, he could 
 ci sate his own accommodations, and give it 
 * Private correspondeuce.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 27^ 
 
 occasionally the appearance of a palace; but 
 the moment he withdraws and takes with 
 him all the furniture and embellishment of 
 his graces, it becomes what it was before he 
 entered it — the habitation of vermin and the 
 image of desolation. Sometimes I envy the 
 living, but not much or not long; for, while 
 they live, as we call it, they too are liable to 
 desertion. But the dead who have died in 
 tiie Lord I envy always ; for they, I take it 
 for granted, can be no more forsaken. 
 
 Ttiis Babylon, however, that we have left 
 behind us, ruinous as it is, the ceilings 
 cracked and the walls crumbling, still finds 
 some who covet it. A shoemaker and an 
 alemonger have proposed themselves as joint 
 candidates to succeed us. Some small dif- 
 ference between them and tlie landlord, on 
 the subject of rent, has hitherto kept them 
 out ; but at last they will probably agree. In 
 
 the meantime ]\Ir. R p-.ophesies its fall, 
 
 and tells them that they will occupy it at the 
 hazard of their lives unless it be well propped 
 before they enter it. We have not, there- 
 fore, left it much too soon ; and this we knew 
 before we migrated, though the same prophet 
 would never speak out so long as only our 
 heads were in danger. 
 
 I wish you well through your laborious 
 task of transcribing. I hope the good lady's 
 meditatiens are such as amuse you rather 
 more, while you copy them, than meditations 
 in general would; which, for the most part, 
 have appeared to me the most labored, insipid, 
 and unnatural of all productions. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend. Our love attends 
 vou both. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 21, 1786. 
 
 Your welcome letter, my beloved cousin, 
 which ought by the date to have arrived on 
 Sunday, being by some untoward accident 
 delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, 
 however, and has relieved me from a thou- 
 sand distressing apprehensions on your ac- 
 j-ount. 
 
 The dew of your intelligence has refreshed 
 my poetical laurels. A little praise now and 
 then is very good for your hard-working poet, 
 who is apt to grow languid, and perhaps care- 
 less, without it. Praise I find aflects us as 
 money does. The more a man gets of it, 
 ivith the more vigilance he watches over and 
 preserves it. Such at least is its effect on 
 me, and you may assure yourself that I i\'ill 
 never lose a mite of it for want of care. 
 
 I have already invited the good Padre* in 
 
 general terms, and he shall positively dine 
 
 here next week, whether he will or not. I do 
 
 not at all suspect that his kindness to Pro- 
 
 * Tlio cliaplaiii of John Tlirockmorton, Esq. 
 
 testants has anything insidious in it, any more 
 than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for 
 me with a view for my conversion. He would 
 find me a tough piece of business, I can tell 
 hira, for, when I had no religion at all, I had 
 yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much 
 
 more now 
 
 I should have sent you a longer letter, but 
 was obliged to devote my last evening to the 
 melancholy employment of composing a Latin 
 inscription for tiie tombstone of poor William, 
 two copies of which I wrote out and enclosed, 
 one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. 
 Newton. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 3, 1787. 
 My dear Friend, — You wish to hear from 
 me at any calm interval of epic frenzy. An 
 interval presents itself, but whether calm or 
 not is perhaps doubtful. Is it possible for a 
 man to be calm who for three weeks past has 
 been perpetually occupied in slaughter; let- 
 ting out one man's bowels, smiting another 
 through the gullet, transfixing the liver of 
 another, and lodging an arrow in a fourth? 
 Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and 
 you will find such amusing incidents as these 
 the subject of it, the sole subject. In order 
 to interest myself in it and to catch the spirit 
 of it, I had need discard all humanity. It is 
 woeful work ; and were the best poet in the 
 world to give us at this day such a list of 
 killed and wounded, he would not escape 
 universal censure, to the praise of a more en- 
 lightened age be it spoken. I have waded 
 through much blood, and through much more 
 I must wade before I shall have finished. I 
 determine in the mean time to account it all 
 very sulilime, and for two reasons ; — first, be- 
 cause all the learned think so, and secondly, 
 because I am to translate it. But were I an 
 indiftcrcnt by-stander. perhaps I should ven- 
 ture to wish that Homer had applied his 
 wonderful powers to a less disgusting sub- 
 ject : he has in the Odyssey, and I long to get 
 at it. 
 
 I have not the good fortune to meet with 
 any of these fine things that you say are 
 printed in my praise. But I learn from cer- 
 tain advertisements in the ^lorning Herald, 
 that I make a conspicuous figure in the en- 
 tertainments of Freemasons' Hall. I learn 
 also that my volumes are out of print, and 
 that a third edition is soon to be published. 
 But, if I am not gratified with the sight of 
 odes composed to my honor and glory, I have 
 at least been tickled with some douceurs of a 
 very flattering nature by the post. A lady 
 utdvnown addresses the best of men — an un- 
 known gentleman has read my inimitable 
 poems, and invites me to his seat in Hamp- 
 shire — another incognito gi\'cs me hopes of a
 
 278 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 memorial in his garden, and a Welsh attorney 
 sends me his verses to revise, and obligingly 
 
 asks 
 
 " Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 
 Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale 1" 
 
 If you find me a little vain hereafter, my 
 friend, you must excuse it in consideration 
 of these powerful incentives, especially the 
 latter; for surely the poet who can charm an 
 attorney, especially a Welsh one, must be at 
 least an Orpheus, if not something greater. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin is as much delighted as myself 
 with our present situation. But it is a sort 
 of April weather life that we lead in this 
 world. A little sunshine is generally the pre- 
 lude to a storm. Hardly had we begun to 
 enjoy the change, when the death of her son 
 cast a gloom upon everything. He was a 
 most exempjary man ; of your order; learned, 
 polite, and aimable ; the father of lovely 
 2hildren, and the husband of a wife (very 
 much like dear Mrs. Bagot) who adored him. 
 Adieu, my friend ! 
 
 Your affectionate, W. C. 
 
 The correspondence of Cowper was very 
 limited this year, owing to a severe attack of 
 nervous fever, which continued during a pe- 
 riod of eight months, and greatly affected his 
 health and spirits. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. 
 
 I have had a little nervous fever lately, my 
 dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep ; 
 and though I find myself better to-day than I 
 have been since it seized me, yet I feel my 
 head lightish, and not in the best order for 
 writing. You will find me therefore perhaps 
 not only less alert in my manner than I 
 usually am when my spirits are good, but 
 rather shorter. I will however proceed to 
 scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then 
 will do as I know you would bid me do were 
 you here, shut up my desk and take a walk. 
 
 The ijood General tells me that in tlie eight 
 first books which I have sent him he still finds 
 alterations and amendments necessary, of 
 which I myself am equally persuaded ; and 
 he asks my leave to lay them before an inti- 
 mate friend of his, of whom he gives a char- 
 acter that bespeaks him higlily deserving such 
 a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring 
 only to make the translation as perfect as I 
 can make it. If God grant me life and 
 health, I w'ould spare no labor to secure that 
 point. The General's letter is extremely 
 kind, and both for matter and manner like all 
 tlie rest of his dealings with his cousin, the 
 poet. 
 
 I had a letter also yesterday from Mr. 
 Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we 
 never saw each other, he writes to me in the 
 
 most friendly terms, and interests himself 
 much in my Homer, and in tlie success of my 
 subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, 
 he says, that my poems are read by hundreds 
 who know notjiing of my proposals, and 
 makes no doubt that they would subscribe 
 if they did. I have myself always thought 
 them imperfectly or rather insuificiently an- 
 nounced. 
 
 I could pity the poor woman who has been 
 weak enough to claim my song ; such pilfer- 
 ings are sure to be detected. I wrote it, I 
 know not how long, but I suppose four years 
 ago. The " Rose" in question was a rose 
 given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and 
 the incident that suggested the subject oc- 
 curred in the room in which you slept at the 
 vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining- 
 room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to 
 London, I gave him a copy of it, which he 
 undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer 
 of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it 
 
 to a Mrs. C , who begged to copy it, and 
 
 promised to send it to the printer's by her 
 servant. Three or four months afterwards, 
 and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw 
 it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my sig- 
 nature, " W. C." Poor simpleton ! She will 
 find now perhaps that the rose had a thorn, 
 and that siie has pricked her fingers with it. 
 Adieu ! my beloved cousin. W. C. 
 
 Though these verses, of which another 
 claimed the authorship, will appear in the 
 collection of poems, yet as they are so char- 
 acterized by taste and beauty, and the inci- 
 dent which gave rise to them is mentioned in 
 the above letter, we think the reader will be 
 pleased with their insertion. 
 
 The rose had been wash'd, just washed in a 
 shower, 
 
 Which Marj'* to Annaf convey'd ; 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower 
 
 And weigh'u down its beautiful head. 
 
 The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all 
 wet, 
 
 And it seemed to a fanciful view 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret 
 
 On tlie flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 I h astily seized it, unfit as it was, 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd; 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 
 
 And such, I exclaim'd. is the pitiless part 
 
 Some act by the dehcate mind ; 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 
 Already to sorrow resign'd. 
 
 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 
 Might\ave bloom'd with its owner awhile, 
 
 And tile tear that is wip'd with a little address 
 May be followed perhaps by a smile. 
 
 * Mrst Unwin. 
 
 t Lady Austen,
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 279 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, Jan. 13, 1787. 
 My dear Friend, — It gave me pleasure, 
 Buch as it was, to learn by a letter from Mr. 
 H. Thornton, that the inscription for the tomb 
 of poor Unwin has been approved of. The 
 dead have nothing to do with human praises, 
 but if they died in the Lord, they have abun- 
 dant praises to render to llim, wiiieli is far 
 better. The dead, whatever tiiey leave be- 
 hind them, have nothing to '•egret. Good 
 Christians are the only creatures in the world 
 that are truly good, and them they will see 
 again, and see them improved ; therefore them 
 they regret not. Regret is for the living: 
 what we get, we soon lose, and what we lose, 
 we reo-ret. The most obvious consolation 
 in this°case seems to be, that we who regret 
 others shall quickly become objects of regret 
 ourselves ; for mankind are continually pass- 
 ing oft' in rapid succession. 
 
 1 have many kind friends, who, like your- 
 self, wish that, instead of turning my en- 
 deavors to a translation of Homer, I had 
 proceeded in the way of original poetry. But 
 I can truly say that it was ordered otiierwise, 
 not by me, but by the Providence that gov- 
 erns all my thoughts and directs my inten- 
 tions as he pleases. It may seem strange, 
 but it is true, that after having written a vol- 
 ume, in general with great ease to myself, I 
 tound it impossible to write another page. 
 The mind of man is not a fountain, but a 
 cistern ; and mine, God knows, a broken one. 
 IL is my creed, that the intellect deperuls as 
 much:, both for the energy and the multitude of 
 its exertions, upon the operations of God's 
 agency upon it, as the heart, for the exercise 
 of its graces, upon the influence of the Holy 
 Spirit. According to this persuasion, I may 
 very reasonably aftirm, that it was not God's 
 pleasure that 1 should proceed in the same 
 track, because he did not enable me to do it. 
 A whole year I waited, and waited in circum- 
 stances of mind that m.ade a state of non- 
 employment peculiarly irksome to me. I 
 longed for the pen, as the only remedy, but 
 I could find no subject: extreme distress of 
 spirit at last drove me, as, if I mistake not, I 
 told vou some time since, to lay Homer be- 
 fore me and translate for amusement. Why 
 it pleased God that I should be hunted into 
 such a business, of such enormous length 
 and labor, by miseries for which He did not 
 see good to "r.tford me any otiier remedy, I 
 know not. But so it was : and jejune as the 
 consolation may be, and unsuited to the ex- 
 igencies of a mind that once was spiritual, 
 ylit a thousand times have I been glad of it ; 
 for a thousand times it has served at least to 
 divei-t my attention, in some degree, frcm 
 »uch terrible tempests as I believe have sel- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 dom been permitted to beat upon a human 
 mind. Let my friends, therefore, who wish 
 me some little measure of tranquillity in the 
 performance of the most turbulent voyage 
 that ever Christian mariner made, be con- 
 tented, that, having Homer's mountains and 
 forests to windward, I escape, under theii 
 shelter, from the force of many a gust that 
 would almost overset me ; especially when 
 they consider that, not by choice, but by ne- 
 cessity, I make them my refuge. As to fame, 
 and honor, and glory, that may be acquired 
 by poetical feats of any sort : God knows, 
 that if I could lay me down in my grave 
 with hope at my side, or sit with hope at my 
 side in a dungeon all the residue of my days, 
 I would cheerfully waive them all. For the 
 little fame that I have already earned has 
 never saved me from one distressing night, or 
 from one despairing day, since I first acquired 
 it. For what I am reserved, or to what, is a 
 mystery ; I would fain hope, not merely that 
 I may amuse others, or only to be a transla- 
 tor of Homer. 
 
 Sally Perry's case has given us much con- 
 cern. I have no doubt tliat it is distemper. 
 But distresses of mind, that are occasioned 
 by distemper, are the most dithcult of all to 
 deal witii. They refuse all consolation ; they 
 will hear no reason. God only, by his own 
 immediate impressions, can remove them ; as, 
 after an experience of thirteen years' misery, 
 I can abundantly testify. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 18, 1787. 
 I have been so much indisposed with the 
 fever that I told you iiad seized me, my nights 
 during the whole week may be said to have 
 been almost sleepless. The consequence has 
 been, that, except the translation of about 
 tliirty lines at the conclusion of the thirteenth 
 book, I have been forced to abandon Homer 
 entirely. This was a sensible mortification 
 to me, as you may suppose, and felt the 
 more, because, my spirits of course failing 
 with my strength,! seemed to have peculiar 
 need of my old amusement. It seemed hard 
 therefore to be forced to resign it just wlien 
 I wanted it most. But Homer's battles can- 
 not be fougiit by a man who does not sleep 
 well, and who has not some little degree of 
 animation in the daytime. Last night, how- 
 ever, quite contrary to my expectations, the 
 fever left me entirely, and I slept quietly, 
 soundly, and long. If it please God that it 
 return not, I shall soon find myself in a con- 
 dition to proceed. I walk constantly, that is 
 to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together; for at 
 these times I keep her continually employed, 
 and never suffer her to be absent from mo 
 many minutes. She gives me all her time
 
 280 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and all her attention, and forgets that there 
 is another object in the world. 
 
 Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams 
 as everybody else does, that is to say, accord- 
 ing to her own experience. She has had no 
 extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts 
 them only the ordinary operations of the 
 fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not 
 sufibr me to ascribe them to so inadequate a 
 cause, or to any cause but the operation of 
 an exterior agency. I have a mind, ray dear, 
 (and to you I will venture to boast of it) as 
 free from superstition as any man living, nei- 
 ther do I give heed to dreams in general as 
 predictive, though particular dreams I believe 
 to be so. Some very sensible persons, and, 
 I suppose, Mrs. Carter among them, will ac- 
 knowledge that in old times God spoke by 
 dreams, but athrm with much boldness that 
 he has since ceased to do so. If you ask 
 them why, they answer, because he has now 
 revealed his will in the Scripture, and there 
 is no longer any need that he should instruct 
 or admonish us by dreams. I grant that with 
 respect to doctrines and precepts he has left 
 us in want of nothing, but has he thereby 
 precluded himself in any of the operations 
 of his Providence"? Surely not. It is per- 
 fectly a difierent consideration ; and the same 
 need that there ever was of his interference 
 in this way there is still, and ever must be, 
 while man continues blind and fallible, and 
 a creature beset with dangers, which he can 
 neither foresee nor obviate. His operations 
 however of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; 
 and, as to the generality of dreams, they are 
 made of such stuff, and are in themselves so 
 insignificant, that, though I believe them all 
 to be the manufacture of others, not our own, 
 I account it not a fivrthing-matter who manu- 
 factures them. So much for dreams ! 
 
 My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes 
 seems to leave me. It is altogether of the 
 nervous kind, and attended now and then 
 with much dejection. 
 
 A young gentleman called here yesterday 
 who came six miles out of his way to see me. 
 He was on a journey to London from Glas- 
 gow, having just left the University there. 
 He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own 
 curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring 
 me the thanks of some of the Scotch profes- 
 sors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, 
 an Englishman. Your spirits being good, 
 you will derive more pleasure from this inci- 
 dent than I can at present, therefore I send it.* 
 Adieu, very affectionately, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL EOSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 24, 1787. 
 Dear Sir, — This is the first time I have 
 Written these six months, and nothing but 
 
 * Mr. Rose was the sou of Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, who 
 
 the constraint of obligation could induce me 
 to write now. I cannot be so wanting to 
 myself as not to endeavor, at lenst, to thank 
 you both for the visits with which you have 
 favored me, and the poems that you sent me; 
 in my present state of mind I taste nothing, 
 nevertheless I read, partly from habit, an^d 
 partly because it is the only thing I am capa- 
 ble of 
 
 I have therefore read Burns's poems, and 
 have read them twice; and, though they be 
 written in a language that is new to me, and 
 many of them on subjects much inferior to 
 the author's ability, I think ihem on the 
 whole a very extraordinary production. He 
 is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms 
 have produced in the lower rank of life since 
 Shakspeare (I should rather say since Prior) 
 who need not be indebted for any part of his 
 praise to a charitable consideration of his 
 origin and the disadvantages under which he 
 has labored. It will be a pity if he should 
 not hereafter divest himself of barbarism, and 
 content himself with writing pure English, in 
 which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. 
 He who can command admiration dishonors 
 himself if he aims no higher than to raise a 
 laugh. 
 
 I am, dear sir, with my best wishes for 
 your prosperity, and with Mrs. Unwin's re- 
 spects. 
 
 Your obliged and aflfectionate hum])le ser- 
 vant, W. C. 
 
 Burns is one of those instances which the 
 annals of literature occasionally furnish of 
 genius surmounting every obstacle by its 
 own natural powers, and rising to command 
 ing eminence. He was a Scottish peasant, 
 born in Ayrshire, a native of tiiat land where 
 Fingal lived and Ossian sung.* He rose 
 from the plough, to take his part in the pol- 
 ished and intellectual society of Edinburgh, 
 where he was admitted to the intercourse of 
 Robertson, Blair, Lord Monboddo, Stewart, 
 Alison, and Mackenzie, and found a patron 
 in the Earl of Glencairn. 
 
 formerly kept a seminary there. He was at this time a 
 young mun, distinguished by talent and great araiable- 
 iiess of character, and won the regard and esteem of 
 Cowper. He soon became one of his favorite correspon- 
 dents. 
 
 * The peasantry of Scotland do not resemble the same 
 class of men in England, owing to a legal provision 
 made by the Parliament of Scotland, in 1646, whereby a 
 school is established in every parish, for the express 
 purpose of educating the poor. This statute was re- 
 pealed on the accession of Charles the Second, in IGtiO, 
 but was finally re-established by the Scottish Parliament, 
 after the Revolution, in 1696. The consequence of thia 
 enactment is, that every one, even in the humblest con- 
 dition of life, is able to read ; and most persons are more 
 or less skilled in writing and arithmetic. The moral 
 effects are such, that it has been said, one quarter ses- 
 sions for the town of Miuichester has sent more felons 
 for transportation than all the judges of Scotland consign 
 during a whole year. Why is not a similar enactment 
 made for Ireland, whore there is more ignorance and 
 consequently more demoralization, than in any country 
 I of equal extent in Europe '1
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 28. 
 
 His poetry is distinj^uished by the powers 
 of a vivid imagination, a deep acquaintance 
 witii tlie recesses of tlie luunan lieart, and an 
 ardent and generous sensibility of feeling. 
 It contains beautiful delineations of the scen- 
 ery and manners of his country. "Many of 
 her rivers and mountains," observes his bio- 
 grapher,* "formerly unknown to the muse, 
 are now consecrated by his immortal verse ; 
 the Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and 
 tiie Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, 
 the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as 
 classic streams, and their borders will be trod 
 with new and superior emotions." 
 
 It is to be lamented that, owing to the dia- 
 lect in which his poems are for the most part 
 written, they are not sutiiciently intelligible 
 to English readers. His popular songs have 
 given him much celebrity in his own coun- 
 try.! 
 
 Unhappily the fame of his genius attracted 
 around him the gay and social, and his fine 
 powers were wasted in midnight orgies ; till 
 he ultimately fell a victim to intemperance, in 
 the thirty-eigiith year of his age ;| furnishing 
 one more melancholy mstance of genius not 
 advancing the moral welfare and dignity of 
 its possessor, because he rejected the guid- 
 ance of prudence, and forgot that it is religion 
 alone that can make men truly great or hap- 
 py. How often is genius like a comet, ec- 
 centric in its course, which, after astonishing 
 the world by its splendor, suddenly expires 
 and vanishes ! 
 
 We think that if a selection could be 
 made from his works, excluding what is of- 
 fensive, and retaining beauties which all 
 must appreciate, an acceptable service might 
 be rendered to the British public. Who can 
 withhold their admiration from passages hke 
 these ? 
 
 " Still o'er these scenes my metn'ry wakes, 
 And loudly broods with miser care ; 
 Time bul the impression stronger makes, 
 As streams their channels deeper wear." 
 
 Speaking of religion, he observes: — 
 
 " 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
 
 bright, 
 'Tis llih that gilds the horror of our night, [low; 
 When wealth forsakes us. and when friends are 
 When friends are faitldess, or when foes pursue; 
 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
 Disarms alHietion, or repels his dart; 
 Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
 Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 
 
 skies." 
 
 We would also quote the following beau- 
 tiful lines from his Cotter's (or Cotkiger's) 
 Saturday Night, which represents the habits 
 of domestic piety in humble life. 
 
 * Dr. Currie. 
 
 t Till! iiiUioniil air of "Scots wha hac wi' Wallace 
 bled," H fiiiiiiliar ti) every one. 
 t He died in IT'Jli. 
 
 " Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 
 How cuiltless blood for guilty man was shed-. 
 How He who bore in heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
 How his first followers and servants sped : 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land- 
 How he. who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the sun a miglity angel stand ; 
 And heard great Babylon doom'd by Heaven's 
 command." 
 
 " Then kneehng. unto Heaven's Eternal King, 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays:* 
 Hope • springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 
 
 That thus\hey all shall meet in future days; 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
 
 fn such society, yet still more dear, 
 While time moves round in an eternal sphere." 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 27, 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I have not yet taken up the pen 
 again, except to write to you. The little 
 taste that I have had of your company, and 
 your kindness in finding me out, make me 
 wish that we were nearer neighbors, and that 
 there were not so great a disparity in our 
 years — that is to say, not that you were old- 
 er, but that I were younger. Could v.'e have 
 met in early life, I flatter myself that we 
 might have been more intimate than now we 
 are likely to be. But you shall not find me 
 slow to cultivate such a measure of your re- 
 gard as your friends of your own age can 
 spare me. When your route shall lie through 
 this country, I shall hope that the same kind- 
 ness which has prompted you twice to call 
 on me, will prompt you again, and I shall be 
 happy if, on a future occasion, I may be able 
 to give you a more cheerful reception than 
 can be expected from an invalid. My health 
 and spirits are considerably improved, and I 
 once more associate with my neighbors. My 
 head, however, has been the worst part of 
 me, and still continues so; is subject to gid-. 
 diness and pain, maladies very unfavorable to 
 poetical employment; but a preparation of 
 the b:u-k, which I take regularly, has so far 
 been of service to me m those respects, as to 
 encourage in me a hope that, by persever- 
 ance in the use of it, I may possibly find 
 myself qualified to resume the translation of 
 Homer. 
 
 When I cannot walk, I read, and perhaps 
 more than is good for me. But I cannot be 
 idle. The only mercy that I show myself in 
 this respect, is, that I read nothing that re- 
 quires much closeness of application. I late- 
 ly finished the perusal of a book, which in 
 former years I have more than once attiicked, 
 but never till now conquered; some other 
 
 * This is said to be a porti-ait of his own father's do- 
 mestic piety.
 
 282 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 book always interfered before I could finish it. 
 The work I mean is Barclay's "Argenis;'"* 
 and, if ever you allow yourself to read for 
 mere amusement, I can recommend it to you 
 (provided you have not already perused it) as 
 the most amusing romance that ever was 
 written. It is the only one, indeed, of an old 
 date, that I ever had the patience to go 
 through with. It is interesting in a high de- 
 gree; richer in incident than can be ima^ 
 gined; full of surprises, which the reader 
 never forestalls; and yet free from all en- 
 tanglement and confusion. The style, too, 
 appears to be such as would not dishonor 
 Tacitus himself 
 
 Poor Burns loses much of his deserved 
 praise in this country, through our ignorance 
 of his language. I despair of meeting with 
 any Englishman who will take the pains that 
 I have taken to understand him. His candle 
 is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. I 
 lent him to a very sensible neighbor of mine. 
 But his uncouth dialect spoiled all, and, be- 
 fore he had half read him through he was 
 quite bamboozled. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETII. 
 
 The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1787. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — Though it costs me 
 something to write, it would cost me more to 
 be silent. My intercourse with my neighbors 
 being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget 
 how many reasons there are why you, espe- 
 cially, should not be neglected ; no neighbor, 
 indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere 
 long, I hope, an inmate. 
 
 My health and spirits seem to be mending 
 daily. To what end I know not, neither will 
 conjecture, but endeavor, as far as I can, to 
 be content that they do so. I use exercise, 
 and take the air in the park and wilderness. 
 I read much, but as yet write not. Our 
 friends at the Hall make themselves more 
 and more amiable in our account, by treating 
 us rather as old friends than as friends newly 
 acquired. There are few days in which we 
 do not meet, and I am now almost as much 
 at home in their house as in our own. Mr. 
 Throckmorton, having long since put me in 
 possession of all his ground, has now given 
 me possession of his library. An acquisition 
 of great value to me, who never have been 
 able to live without books, since I first knew 
 my letters, and who have no books of my 
 own. By his means I have been so well sup- 
 plied, that I have not even yet looked at the 
 
 * A Latin romance, once celebrated. Barclay was the 
 author of two celebrated Latin romances ; the first en- 
 titled Euphorraio, a political, satirical work, chiefly 
 levelled against the .Jesuits, and dedicated to James 1. 
 His Argenis is a political allegory, descriptive of the 
 state of Europe, and especially of France, during the 
 League. Sir Walter Scott alludes to the Euphormio in 
 Ws notes on Marmion, canto 3rd. 
 
 " Lounger," for which, however, I do not for. 
 get that I am obliged to you. His turn 
 comes next, and I shall probably begin him 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall. 
 I thought I had known these brothers long 
 enough to have found out all their talents 
 and accomplishments. But I was mistaken. 
 The day before yesterday, after having walked 
 with us, they carried us up to the library (a 
 more accurate writer would have said con- 
 ducted \\&),nnA then they showed me Ihe con- 
 tents of an immense portfolio, the work of 
 their own hands. It was furnished with 
 drawings of the architectural kind, executed 
 in a most masterly manner, and, among oth- 
 ers, contained outside and inside views of 
 the Pantheon, I mean the Roman one. They 
 were all, I believe, made at Rome. Some 
 men may be estimated at a first interview, 
 but the Throckmortons must be seen often 
 and known long before one can understand 
 all their value.* 
 
 They often inquire after you, and ask me 
 whether you visit Weston this autumn. I an- 
 swer, yes ; and I charge you, my dearest cous- 
 in, to authenticate my information. Write 
 to me. and tell us when we may expect to see 
 you. We were disappointed that we had no 
 letter from you this morning. You will find 
 me coated and buttoned according to your 
 recommendation. 
 
 I write but little, because writing has be- 
 come new to me ; but I shall come on by de- 
 grees. Mrs. Unwin begs to be affectionately 
 remembered to you. She is in tolerable 
 health, which is the chief comfort here that I 
 have to boast of. 
 
 Yours, my dearest cousin, as ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Sept. 4, 1787. 
 My dearest Coz., — Come, when thou canst 
 come, secure of being always welcome ! All 
 that is here is thine, together with the hearts 
 of tliose who dwell here. I am only sorry 
 that your journey hither is necessarily post- 
 poned beyond tiie time when I did hope to 
 have seen you; sorry, too, that my uncle's 
 infirmities are the occasion of it. But years 
 u-ill have their course and their efl^ect ; they 
 are happiest, so far as this life is concerned, 
 who like him escape those effects the longest, 
 
 * With Mr., afterwards Sir John Throckmorton, the 
 Editor had not the opportunity of being acquainted ; but 
 he would fail in rendering what is due to departed 
 worth, if he did not record the high sense which he en- 
 tertained of the virtues of his brother, Sir (Jeorge Throck- 
 morton. To the polished manners of the gentleman he 
 united the accomplishments of the scholar and the man 
 of taste and refinement ; while the attention paid to the 
 wants, the comforts, and instruction of the poor, in which 
 another participated with equal promptness and deUght, 
 has left behind a memorial that will not soon be for 
 gotten.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 283 
 
 and who do not grow old before their time. 
 Trouble and anguish do that for some, which 
 only longevity does for others. A few- 
 months since I was older than your father is 
 now, and, though I have lately recovered, as 
 Falstaff says, some smalch (>f my youth, I have 
 but little confidence, in truth none, in so flat- 
 tering a change, but expect, ivheii I least ex- 
 fect it, to witlier again. The past is a pledge 
 for the future. 
 
 Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's un- 
 cle, lie is lately arrived from Italy, where 
 he has resided several years, and is so much 
 the gentleman that it is impossible to be 
 more so. Sensible, rolite, obliging; slender 
 in his figure, and in manners most engaging 
 — every way worthy to be related to the 
 T]"'-ockmortons.=*' 
 
 I liave read Savary's Travels into Egypt ;f 
 Memoires du Baron de Tott ; Fenn's Origi- 
 nal Letters; the letters of Frederick of Bohe- 
 mia; and am now reading IMemoires d'llenri 
 de Lorraine, Due de Guise. I have also read 
 Barclay's Argenis, a Latin romance, and the 
 best rouiance that ever was written — all these, 
 together with Madan's Letters to Priestly, 
 and several pamphlets, within these two 
 months. So I am a great reader. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH, 
 
 The Lodge, Sept. 15, 1787. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — on Monday last I was 
 
 invited to meet your friend. Miss J , at 
 
 the Hall, and there we found her. Her good 
 nature, her humorous manner, and her good 
 sense, are charming, insomuch that even I, 
 who was never much addicted to speech- 
 making, and who at present find myself par- 
 ticularly indisposed to it, could not help saying 
 at parting, I am glad that I have seen you, and 
 sorry that I have seen so little of you. We 
 were sometimes many in company ; on Tiiurs- 
 day we were fifteen, but we had not alto- 
 gether so much vivacity and cleverness as 
 Miss J , wiiose talent at mirth-makinir 
 
 * T. Ciffard, Es(i., is the person liere intended, for 
 whom the verses were composed, inserted in a separate 
 purl of this volume. 
 
 t .Savary's travels in Egypt and the I,evant, from 1776 
 to 17riO. — They have acquired sullioient popuhirity to be 
 translated into most of the Eoi'opean languages, lie 
 died in 1788. 
 
 Baron de Tott's memoirs. — The severe reflections in 
 which this writer iuduliied against Ihe Turkish govern- 
 ment, and his imprudent exposure of its political weak- 
 ness, subjected him to a series of hardships and im- 
 prisonment, which seem almost to exceed the bounds of 
 credibility. 
 
 Sir John Fenn's Letters. — Written by various members 
 of the Paston family, during the historical period of the 
 wars between the two houses of York and Lancaster. 
 He died in 17!)4. 
 
 Heiu'i de Lorraine, Due de (luise. — Tliis celebrated 
 character was the great opponent of the Ilu'.;uen(>ls, and 
 founder of tlie League in the time of llcnry III., of 
 France. He was assa.ssinatcd at lilois, al Ihe instigation, 
 it is sa-d, of his sovereign, to whom his iulluence had 
 become formidable. 
 
 has this rare property to recommend it, thai 
 nobody suifers by it. 
 
 I am making a gravel-walk for winter use, 
 under a warm hedge in the orchard. It shall 
 be furnished with a low seat for your accom- 
 modation, and if you do but like it I sliall be 
 sa.isfied. In wet weather, or rather after wet 
 weather, when the street is dirty, it will suit 
 you well, for, lying on an easy declivity 
 through its whole length, it must of course 
 be immediately dry. 
 
 You are very much wished for by our 
 friends at the Hall — how much by me I will 
 not tell you till the second week in October. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Sept. 20, 1787. 
 
 My dear Coz., — I thank you for your politi- 
 cal intelligence : retired as we are, and seem- 
 ingly excluded from the world, we are not 
 indifferent to what passes in it ; on the con- 
 trary, the arrival of a newspaper, at the pres- 
 ent juncture, never fails to furnish us with a 
 theme for di.scussion, short indeed, but satis- 
 factory, for we seldom difi'er in opinion. 
 
 I have received such an impression of the 
 Turks, from the Memoirs of Baron de Tott, 
 win'ch I read lately, that I can hardly help 
 presaging the conquest of tiiat empire "by the 
 Rus.sians. The disciples of Mahomet are 
 such babies in modern tactics, and so ener- 
 vated by the use of their favorite drug, so 
 fatally secure in their predestinarian dream, 
 and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against 
 their leaders, that nothing less can be ex- 
 pected. In fact, they had not been their own 
 masters at this day, had but the Russians 
 known the weakness of their enemies half so 
 well as they undoitbtedly know it now. Add 
 to this, that there is a popular prophecy current 
 in both countries, that Turkey is one day to 
 fall under the Russian sceptre. A prophecy, 
 which, from whatever authority it be dei-ived, 
 as it will naturally encourage the Russians, and 
 dispirit the Turks, in exact proportion to the 
 degree of credit it has obtained on both sides, 
 has a direct tendency to eflTect its own ac- 
 complishment. In the meantime, if I wish 
 them conquered, it is only because I tliink it 
 will be a blessing to them to be governed by 
 any other hand titan their own. For under 
 heaven has there never been a throne so ex- 
 ecrably tyrannical as theirs. The heads of 
 the innocent that have been cut off to gratify 
 the humor or caprice of their tyrants, could 
 they be all collected and discharged against 
 the walls of their city, would not leave one 
 stone on another. 
 
 O that you were here this beautiful day ! 
 It is too fine by half to be spent in London. 
 I have a perpetual din in my head, and
 
 284 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright, 
 neither my own voice, nor that of others. I 
 am under a tub, from which tub accept my 
 best love. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 The following letter discovers an afflicting 
 instance of the delusion under which the in- 
 teresting mind of Cowper labored in some 
 particular instances. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN MEWTON.* 
 
 Weston Underwood, Oct. 2, 1787. 
 
 My dear Friend, — After a long but neces- 
 sary interruption of our correspondence, I re- 
 turn to it iigain, in one respect at least better 
 qualified for it than before ; I mean by a be- 
 lief of your identity, which for thirteen years 
 I did not believe. The acquisition of this 
 light, if light it may be called which leaves 
 me as much in the dark as ever on the most 
 interesting subjects, releases me however 
 from the disagreeable suspicion that I am ad- 
 dressing myself to you as the friend whom I 
 loved and valued so highly in my better days, 
 while in fact you are not that friend, but a 
 stranger. I can now write to you without 
 seeming to act a part, and without having 
 any need to charge myself with dissimula- 
 tion ; — a charge from which, in that state of 
 mind and under such an uncomfortable per- 
 suasion, I knew not how to exculpate myself, 
 and which, as you will easily conceive, not 
 seldom made my correspondence with you a 
 burden. Still, indeed, it wants, and is likely 
 to want, that best ingredient which can alone 
 make it truly pleasant either to myself or 
 you — that spirituality which once enlivened 
 all our intercourse. You will tell me, no 
 doubt, that the knowledge I have gained is 
 an earnest of more and more valuable infor- 
 mation, and that the dispersion of the clouds, 
 in part, promises, in due time, their complete 
 dispersion. I should be hajDpy to believe it ; 
 but the power to do so is at present far from 
 me. Never was the mind of man benighted 
 to the degree that mine has been. The 
 storms that have assailed me would have 
 overset the faith of every man that ever had 
 any ; and the very remembrance of them, 
 even after they have been long passed by, 
 makes hope impossible. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, whose poor bark is still h''d 
 together, though shattered by being tossed 
 and agitated so long at the side of mine, does 
 not forget yours and Mrs. Newton's kindness 
 on this last occasion. Mrs. Newton's offer 
 to come to her assistance, and your readiness 
 to have rendered us the same service, could 
 you have hoped for any salutary effect of 
 vour presence, neither Mrs. Unwin nor my- 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 self undervalue, nor shall presently forget. 
 But you judged right when you supposed, 
 that even your company would have been no 
 relief to me ; the company of my father or 
 my brother, could they have returned from the 
 dead to visit me, would have been none to me. 
 We are busied in preparing for the recep- 
 tion of Lady Hesketh, whom we expect here 
 shortly. We have beds to put up, and fur- 
 niture for beds to make; workmen, and 
 scouring, and bustle. Mrs. Unwin's time has 
 of course been lately occupied to a degree 
 that made writing to her impracticable ; and 
 she excused herself the rather, knowing my 
 intentions to take her office. It does not, 
 however, suit me to write much at a tiffiC. 
 This last tempest has left my nerves in a 
 worse condition than it found them ; my 
 head especially, though better informed, is 
 more inhrm than ever. I will therefore only 
 add our joint love to yourself and Mrs. New- 
 ton, and that I am, my dear friend. 
 
 Your affectionate W. C* 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 19, 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir, — A summons from Johnston, 
 which I received yesterday, calls my attention 
 once more to the business of translation. 
 Before I begin, I am wilhng to catch though 
 but a short opportunity to acknowledge your 
 last favor. Tiie necessity of applying ray- 
 self with all diligence to a long work, that 
 has been but too long interrupted, will make 
 my opportunities of writing rare in future. 
 
 Air and exercise are necessary to all men 
 but particularly so to the man whose mind 
 labprs, and to him who has been all his lift 
 accustomed to much of both they are neces- 
 sary in the extreme. My time, ance we 
 parted, has been devoted entirely to the re- 
 covery of health and strength for this service, 
 and I am willing to hope with good effect. 
 Ten months have passed since I discontinued 
 my poetical efforts; I do not expect to find 
 the same readiness as before, till exercise of 
 the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have 
 restored it to me. 
 
 You find yourself, I hope, by this time as 
 comfortably situated in your new abode as 
 in a new abode one can be. I enter perfectly 
 into all your feelings on occasion of the 
 change. A sensible mind cannot do violence 
 even to a local attachment without much 
 pain. When my father died, I was young, 
 too young to have reflected much. He was 
 Rector of Berkhamstead, and there I was 
 born. It had never oecured to me that a 
 parson has no fee-simple in the house and 
 glebe he occupies. There was neither tree, 
 
 * This letter was addressed to Mr. Ne^rtoi., on the 
 writer's recovery from an attack of liis grit/-.ui eonstitti 
 tional malady, which lasted eight mouths.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 285 
 
 nor gate, nor stile, in all that country, to 
 which I did not feel a relation, and the house 
 itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent for 
 from Loudon to attend him in Ins last illness, 
 and he died just before I arrived. Then, and 
 not till then, I felt for the first time tliat I 
 and my native place were disunited forever. 
 I sighed a long adieu to fields and woods, 
 from which I once thought I should never be 
 parted, and was at no time so sensible of their 
 beauties as just when I left them all behind 
 
 ine, to return no more. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Oct. 20, 1737. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My indisposition could 
 not be of a worse kind. Had I been afflicted 
 with a fever, or confined by a broken bone, 
 neither of these cases would have made it 
 impossible that we should meet. I am truly 
 sorry that the impediment was insurmounta- 
 'ble while it lasted, for such in fact it was. 
 The sight of any face, except Mrs. Unwin's, 
 was to me an insupportable grievance ; and 
 when it has happened that, hy forcing him- 
 self into my hiding place, some friend has 
 found me out, he has iiad no great cause to 
 e.\ult in his success, as j\Ir. Bull can tell you. 
 From this dreadful condition of mind I 
 emerged suddenly; so suddenly, that Mrs. 
 Unwin, having no notice of such a change 
 herself, could give none to anybody ; and 
 when it obtained, how long it might last, or 
 how far it was to be depended on, was ;i mat- 
 ter of the greatest uncertainty. It alfects me 
 on the recollection with the more concern, 
 because I learn from your last, tiiat I have 
 not only lost an interview with you myself, 
 but have stood in the way of visits that you 
 would have gladly paid to others, and who 
 would have been happy to have seen you. 
 You should have forgotten (but you are not 
 good at forgetting your friends) tiiat such a 
 creature as myself existed. 
 
 I rejoice tluit Mrs. Cowper lias been so 
 comfortably supported. Siie must have se- 
 verely felt the loss of her son. She has an 
 affectionate heart toward her children, and 
 could but bo sensible of the bitterness of 
 such a cup. But God's presence sweetens 
 every bitter. Desertion is the only evil that 
 a Cin-istian cannot bear. 
 
 I have done a deed for which I fmd some 
 people thank me little. Periiaps I have only 
 burned my fingers, ;uid had better not have 
 meddled. Last Sunday se'nnight I drew up 
 a petition to Lord Dartmouth, in bciialf of 
 Mr. Postlethwaite. We signed it and all 
 the principal inhabitants of Weston followed 
 our example.f What we had done was soon 
 
 * Private correspondnncfi. 
 
 t ri)i! living of (Jliicy liiui become vacant by tlio death 
 of the Rev. Moses Brown, and an attempt was made to 
 
 known in Olney, and an evening or two ago 
 
 Mr. R called here to inform me (for that 
 
 seemed to be his errand) how little the meas- 
 ure that I had taken was relished by some 
 of his neighbors. I vindicated my proceed- 
 ing on the principles of justice and mercy to 
 a laborious and well-deserving minister, to 
 whom I had the satisfaction to find that none 
 could allege one serious objection, and that 
 all, except one, who objected at all, are per- 
 sons who in reality ought to have no vote 
 upon such a question. The aflliir seems 
 still to remain undecided. If h » lordship 
 waits, which I a little suspect, till his steward 
 shall have taken the sense of those with 
 whom he is likely to converse upon the sub- 
 ject, and means to be determined by his re- 
 port, Mr. Postlethwaite's case is desperate. 
 
 I beg that you will remember me affection- 
 ately to Mr. Bacon. We rejoice in Mrs. 
 Newton's amended health, and wh§n we can 
 hear that she is restored, shall rejoice still 
 more. The next summer may prove more 
 propitious to us than the past: if it should, 
 we shall be happy to receive you and yours. 
 Mrs. Unwin unites with me in love to you 
 all three. She is tolerably well, and her 
 writing was prevented by nothing but her 
 expectation that I should soon do it myself. 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Nov. 10, 1787. 
 
 The parliament, my dearest cousin, pro- 
 rogued continuallj^ is a meteor- dancing be- 
 fore my eyes, promising me my wish only to 
 disappoint me, and none but the king and his 
 ministers can tell when you and I shall come 
 together. I hope, however, that the period, 
 though so often postponed, is not far distant, 
 and that once more I shall behold you, and 
 experience your power to make winter gay 
 and sprightlv. 
 
 I have a kitten the drollest of all creatures 
 that ever wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are 
 not to be described, and would be incredible, 
 if they could. In point of size she is likely 
 to be a kitten always, being extremely small 
 of her age, but time, I suppose, that .spoils 
 everything, will make her also a cat. You 
 will see her, I hope, before that melancholy 
 period shall arrive, for no wisdom that she 
 may gain by experience and reilection here- 
 after will compensate the loss of her pres- 
 ent hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoise- 
 shell suit, and I know that you will delight 
 in her. 
 
 Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to-morrow 
 in her chaise to Chicheley. The event, how- 
 ever, must be supposed to depend on ele- 
 ments, at least on the state of the atmos- 
 
 secure it for the Rev. Mr. Postlethwaite, the curate. Mr 
 Bean was ultimately appointed.
 
 256 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 pliere, which is turbulent beyond measure. 
 Yesterday it thundered, last night it liglit- 
 ened, and at three this inorninif I saw the 
 sky as red as a city in flames could have 
 made it. I have a leech in a bottle that fore- 
 tells all these prodigies and convulsions of 
 nature. No, not as you will naturally con- 
 jecture, by articulate utterance of oracular 
 notices, but by a variety of gesticulations, 
 which here 1 have not room to give an ac- 
 count of Suffice it to say, that no change 
 of weather surprises him, and that, in point 
 of the earliest and most accurate intelligence 
 he is worth all the barometers in the world. 
 None of them, all, indeed, can make the 
 least pretence to foretell thunder — a sjiecies 
 of capacity of which he has given the most 
 unequivocal evidence. I gave but six-pence 
 £fw him, which is a groat more than the mar- 
 ket price, tliough he is in fact, or rather would 
 be, if leeches were not found in every ditch, 
 an invaluable acquisition. W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Nov. 16, 1787. 
 
 I thank you for the solicitude that you ex- 
 press on the subject of my present studies. 
 The work is undoubtedly long and laborious, 
 but it has an end, and, proceeding leisurely, 
 with a due attention to the use of air and ex- 
 ercise, it is possible that I may live to finish 
 it. Assure yourself of one thing, that, tliough 
 to a by-stander it may seem an occupation 
 surpassing the powers of a constitution never 
 very athletic, and at present not a little the 
 worse for wear, I can invent for myself no 
 employment that does not exhaust my spir- 
 its more. I will not pretend to account for 
 this ; I will only say, that it is not the lan- 
 guage of predilection for a ftivorite amuse- 
 ment, but that the fact is really so. I have 
 even found that those plaything-avocations 
 which one may execute almost without any 
 attention, fatigue me, and wear me away, 
 while such as engage me much and attach 
 me closely, are rather serviceable to me than 
 otherwise. W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787. 
 It is the pajt of wisdom, my dearest cous- 
 in, to sit dov/n contented under the demands 
 of necessity, because they are such. I am 
 sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's pres- 
 ent infirm state, and of which it is not possi- 
 ble to expect any considerable amendment, 
 indulge either us or yourself with a journey 
 to Weston. Yourself, I say, both because I 
 know it will give you pleasure to see Causi- 
 dice mi* once more, especially in the cora- 
 
 * The appellation which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to 
 give him in jest, when he was of the Temple. 
 
 fortable abode where you have placed him. 
 and because, after so long an imprisonmenl 
 in London, you, who love the country, and 
 have a taste for it, would, of course, be glad 
 to return to it. For my own part, to me it 
 is ever new, and though I have now been ^n 
 inhabitant of this village a twelvem"nth,and 
 have, during the half of that time, bee:> kl 
 liberty to expatiate and to make discoveries, 
 I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks 
 which you would never be satisfied with en- 
 joying — some of them are unapproachable 
 by you, either on foot or in your carriage. 
 Had you twenty toes (whereas I suppose, 
 you have but ten) you could not reach them ; 
 and coach-wheels have never been seen there 
 since the flood. Before it indeed, (as Burnet 
 says, that the earth was then perfectly free 
 from all inequalities in its surface,)* they 
 might have been seen there every day. We 
 have other walks, both upon hill tops and 
 in valleys beneath, some of which, by the 
 help of your carriage, and many of them 
 without its help, would be always at your 
 command. 
 
 On Monday morning last, Sam brought 
 me word that there was a man in the kitchen 
 who desired to speak with me. I ordered 
 him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made 
 its appearance, and, being desired to sit, 
 spoke as follows : " Sir, I am clerk of the 
 parish of All-saints in Northampton ; bro- 
 ther of Mr. C. the upholsterer. It is custom- 
 ary for the person in my office to annex to 
 a bill of mortality, which he publishes at 
 Christmas, a copy of verses. You will do 
 me a great favor. Sir, if you would furnish 
 me with one." To this I replied, " Mr. C, 
 you have several men of genius in your 
 town, why have you not applied to some of 
 them? There is a namesake of yours in 
 particular, C , the statuary, who, every- 
 body knows, is a first-rate maker of verses. 
 He surely is the man of all the world for 
 your purpose." — " Alas ! Sir, I have hereto- 
 fore borrowed help from him, but he is a 
 gentleman of so much reading that the peo- 
 ple of our town cannot understand him." I 
 confess to you, my dear, I felt all the force 
 of the compliment implied in this speech, 
 and was almost ready to answer, " Perhaps, 
 my good friend, they may find me unintelli- 
 gible too for the same reason." But on ask- 
 ing him whether he had walked over to Wes- 
 ton on jjurpose to implore the assistance of 
 my muse, and on his replying in the affirma- 
 tive, I felt my mortified vanity a little con- 
 soled, and, pitying the poor man's distress, 
 which appeared to be considerable, promised 
 to supply him. The wagon has accordingly 
 gone this day to Northampton loaded m part 
 
 * See Burnet's Theory of the Earth, in which book, as 
 well as by other writers, the formation of rr.oanlains i» 
 attributed to the agency of the great dclug.i. The deposit 
 of marine shells is alleged as favoring this Dypothesis.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 287 
 
 witl' my effusions in the mortuary style. A 
 fij^ for poets who write epitaphs upon indi- 
 viduals ! I have written one that serves two 
 hundred persons* 
 
 A few days since I received a second very 
 
 obliging letter from Mr. JI .f He tells 
 
 rae that ills own papers, which are by far (lie 
 is sorry to say it) the most numerous, are 
 marked V. I. Z.J Accordingly, my dear, I 
 am h:ippy to find that I am engaged in a cor- 
 respondence with Mr. Viz, a ofiitleman for 
 whom I have always entertained the profound- 
 est veneration. But the serious fact is, that 
 the papers distinguished by those signatures 
 have ever pleased me most, and struck me as 
 the work of a sensible man, who knows the 
 world well, and has more of Addison's deli- 
 cate humor than anybody. 
 
 A poor man begged food at the hall lately. 
 The cook gave him some vermicelli soup. lie 
 ladled it about some time with the .spoon, 
 and then returned it to her, " I am a poor 
 man it is true, and I am very hungry, bat yet 
 I cannot eat breth with maggots in it." Once 
 more, my dear, a tiiousand thanks for your 
 box full of good things, useful things, and 
 beautiful things. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1787. 
 
 I am glad, my dearest coz, that my last 
 letter pro\ed so diverting. You may assure 
 yourself of the literal truth of the whole 
 narration, and that, however droll, it was not 
 in the least indebted to any embellishments 
 of mine. 
 
 You say well, my dear, that in ^Ir. Throck- 
 morton we have a peerless neighbor; we 
 have so. In point of information upon all 
 important subjects, in respect too of expres- 
 sion and address, and, in short, everything 
 that enters into the idea of a gentleman, 1 
 have not found his equal (not often) any- 
 where. Were I asked, who in my judgment 
 approaches nearest to him in all iiis amiable 
 qualities and qualifications, I should cert;iinly 
 answer, his brother George, who, if he be 
 not his exact counterpart, endued with pre- 
 cisely the same measure of the same accom- 
 plishments, is nevertheless deficient in none 
 
 * We introduce one stanza from these verses:— 
 " Like crowded forest trees wo stand. 
 And some are marlied to fall ; 
 The axe will smite at Uod's command, 
 And soon shall smite us all." 
 \ (Henry Mackenzie.) This popular writer first be- 
 came know as the author of "The Man of Feelinp;," 
 which was published in 1771, and of other works of a 
 similar character, lie al'trrwards bccMiiic a member of 
 a literary society, established at Kdinburnh, in 177H, 
 imder the title of the Mirror Club. Here oriijinated the 
 Mirror and Louni^er, periodical essays written al'ler the 
 manner of the Spectator, of which he Wius the editor and 
 principal contributor. He died in 1S31. 
 i lu a periodical called "The Lounger." 
 
 of them, and is of a character singulaily 
 agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, I had 
 almost said heroic, frankness, with which his 
 air strikes one almost immediately. So fai* 
 as his opportunities have gone, he has ever 
 been as friendly and obliging to us as we 
 could wish him, and, were he lord of the hall 
 to-morrow, w"ould, I dare say, conduct him- 
 self towards us in such a manner as to leave 
 us as little sensible as possible of the re- 
 moval of its present owners. But all this I 
 say, my dear, merely for the sake of stating 
 the matter as it is ; not in order to obviate or 
 to prove the inexpedience of any future plan 
 of yours concerning the place of our resi- 
 dence. Providence and time shape every- 
 thing — I should rather say Providence alone, 
 for time has often no hand in the wonderful 
 ciianges that we experience ; they take place 
 in a moment. It is not therefore worth 
 while perhaps to consider much what we will 
 or will not do in years to come, concerning 
 which all that I can say with certainty at 
 present is, that those years will be the most 
 welcome in which I can see the most of you. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 6, 1787. 
 
 My dear Friend, — A short time since, by 
 the help of Mi-s. Throckmorton's chaise, Mrs. 
 Unwin and I reached Chichely. " Now," 
 said 1 to Mrs. Chester, " I shall write boldly 
 to your brother Walter, and will do it imme- 
 diately. I have passed the gulf that parted 
 us, and he will be glad to hear it." But let 
 not the man who translates Homer be so 
 presumptuous as to have a will of his own, 
 or to promise anything. A fortnight has, I 
 suppose, elapsed since I paid this visit, and I 
 am only now beginning to fulfil what I then 
 undertook to accomplish without delay. The 
 old Grecian must answer for it. 
 
 I spent my morning there so agreeably that 
 I have ever since regretted more sensibly that 
 there are five miles of a dirty country inter- 
 posed between us. For the increase of my 
 pleasure, I had the good fortune to find your 
 brother, the Bishop, there. We had much 
 talk about many things, but most, I believe 
 about Homer; and great satisfaction it gave 
 me to find that on the most important points 
 of that subject his Lordship and I were ex- 
 actly of one mind. In the course of our con- 
 versation, he produced from his pocket-book 
 a translation of the first ten or twelve lines 
 of the Iliad, and, in order to leave my judg- 
 ment free, informed me kindly at the same 
 time '.hat they were not his own. I read 
 them, and, according to the best of my rec- 
 ollection of the original, found theiii well 
 executed. The Bishop indeed acknowledged 
 that they were not faultless, neither did I fuid
 
 them so. Had they been such, I should have 
 felt their perfection as a 'liscourageraent 
 hardly to be surmounted; for at that passage 
 I have labored more abundantly than at any 
 other, and hitherto witli the least success. I 
 am convinced tliat Homer placed it at the 
 threshold of his work as a scarecrow to all 
 translators. Now, Walter, if thou knowest 
 the author of this version, and it be not trea- 
 son against thy brotlier's confidence in thy 
 secrecy, declare him to me. Had 1 been so 
 happy as to have seen the Bishop again be- 
 fore he left this country, I should certainly 
 have asked him the question, having a curi- 
 osity upon the matter that is extremely trou- 
 blesome.* 
 
 The awkward situation in which you found 
 yourself on receiving a visit from an author- 
 ess, whose works, though presented to you 
 long before, you had never read, made me 
 laugh, and it was no sin against my friend- 
 ship for you to do so. It was a ridiculous 
 distress, and I can laugh at it even now. I 
 hope she catechized you well. How did you 
 extricate yourself] — Now laugh at me. The 
 clerk of the parish of All Saints, in the town 
 of Northampton, having occasion for a poet, 
 has appointed me to the office. I found my- 
 self obliged to comply. The bell-man comes 
 next, and then, I tiiink, though even borne 
 upon your swan's quill, I can soar no higher I 
 I am, my dear friend, fiuthfully yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. Ill, 178G. 
 
 I thank you for the snip of cloth, com- 
 monly called a pattern. At present I have 
 two coats, and but one back. If at any time, 
 hereafter, I should find myself possessed of 
 fewer coats, or more backs, it will be of use 
 to me. 
 
 Though I have thought proper never to 
 take any notice of the arrival of my MSS. 
 together with the other good ihings in the 
 box, yet certain it is that I received them. I 
 have furbislied up the tenth book till it is as 
 bright as silver, and am now occupied in be- 
 stowing the same labor upon the eleventh. 
 The twelfth and thirteenth are in the hands 
 
 of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are 
 
 ready to succeed them. This notable job is 
 the delight of my heart, and how sorry shall 
 I be when it is ended ! 
 
 The smith and the carpenter, my dear, arv. 
 both in the room hanging a bell ; if I there- 
 fore make a thousand blunders let the said 
 intruders answer for them all. 
 
 I thank you, my dear, for your history of 
 
 the G s. Wliat changes in that family ! 
 
 And how many thousand families have in the 
 same time experienced changes as violent as 
 
 * The author was Lord Bagot. 
 
 theirs ! The course of a rapid river is the 
 justestofall emblems to express the vjiria- 
 bleness of our scene below. Shakspeare 
 says, none ever bathed himself twice in the 
 same stream, and it is equally true tliat the 
 world upon which we close our eyes at night 
 is never the same witii that on which we 
 open them in the morning. 
 
 I do not always say, give my love to my 
 uncle,* because he knows that I always love 
 him. I do not always present Mrs. Unwin's 
 love to you, partly for the same reason, 
 (deuce take the smith and the carpenter,) 
 and partly because I forget it. But to pre- 
 sent my own, I forget never, for I always 
 have to finish my letter, which I know not 
 how to do, my •dearest Coz, without telling 
 you, that I am 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. 
 Dear Sir, — Unless my memory deceives 
 me, I forewarned you that I should prove a 
 very unpunctual correspondent. The work 
 that lies before me engages unavoidably my 
 whole attention. The length of it, the spirit 
 of it, and the exactness that is requisite to 
 its due performance, are so many most inter- 
 esting subjects of consideration to me, who 
 find that my best attempts are only intro- 
 ductory to others, and that what to-day I 
 suppose finished to morrow I must begin 
 again. Thus it fares witli a translator of 
 Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a 
 poet in a modern language is a task that no 
 man can estimate the difficulty of till he at- 
 tempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to 
 hang him with trappings that do not belong 
 to him, all this is comparatively easy. But 
 to represent him with only his own orna- 
 ments, and still to preserve his dignity, is a 
 labor that, if I hope in any measure to achieve 
 it, I am sensible can only be achieved by the 
 most assiduous and most unremitting atten- 
 tion. Our studies, however different in them- 
 selves, in respect of the means by which they 
 are to be successfully carried on, bear some 
 resemblance to each other. A perseverance 
 that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of 
 observ.ation that suffers nothing to escape, 
 and a determination not to be seduced from 
 the straight line that lies before us by any 
 images with which fimcy may present us, are 
 essentials that should be common to us both. 
 There arc, perhaps, few arduous undertak- 
 ings that are not in fact more arduous than 
 we at first supposed them. As we proceed, 
 difficulties increase upon us, but our hopes 
 gather strength also, and we conquer diffi- 
 culties which, could we have foreseen them, 
 we should never have had the boldness to 
 
 * Ashley Cowper, Esq.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER, 
 
 289 
 
 encounter. May this be your experience, as I 
 doubt not that it will. You possess by na- 
 ture all that is necessary to success in the 
 profession that you have chosen. What re- 
 mains is in your own power. They say of 
 poets tliat they must be born such : so must 
 mathematicians, so must great generals, and 
 so must lawyers, and so indeed must men of 
 all de lomi nations, or it is not possible that 
 they should excel. But, with whatever fac- 
 ulties we are born, and to whatever studies 
 our genius may direct us, studies they must 
 still be. I am persuaded that Milton did not 
 write his " Paradise Lost," nor Homer his 
 "Ilia.i," nor Newton his " Principia," without 
 immimse labor. Nature ga\e them a bias to 
 their respective pursuits, and that strong pro- 
 pensity, I suppose, is what we mean by 
 genius. The rest they gave themselves. 
 "Macte esto," therefore have no fears for 
 the issue ! 
 
 I have had a second kind letter from your 
 
 friend, Mr. , wiiich I have just answered. 
 
 I must not, I tiud, hope to see him here, at 
 least, I must not much expect it. He has a 
 family that does not permit him to ily south- 
 ward. I have also a notion that we three 
 could spend a few days comfortably toge- 
 ther, especially in a country like this, abound- 
 ing in scenes with which 1 am sure you would 
 both be delighted. Having lived till lately 
 at some distance from the spot that I now 
 inhabit, and having never been master of any 
 sort of vehicle whatever, it is but just now 
 that I begin myself to be acquainted with 
 the beauties of our situation. To you 1 may 
 hope one time or other to show them, and 
 shall be happy to do it when an opportunity 
 offers. 
 
 Yours, most affectionately, W. C, 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 1, 1788. 
 Now for another story almost incredible ! 
 A story that would be quite such, if it was 
 not certain that you give me credit for any- 
 thing. 1 have read the poem for the sake of 
 which you sent the paper, and was much en- 
 tertained by it. You think it perhaps, as 
 very well you may, the only piece of that 
 kind that was ever produced. It is indeed 
 original, for I dare say Mr. Merry* never saw 
 mine ; but certainly it is not unique. For 
 most true it is, my dear, that ten years since, 
 having a letter to WTite to it friend of mine 
 to whom I could write anything, I fdled a 
 
 * Ho belonn;i'd to what wiis formerly known by the 
 name of tlio UcUa Criisca School, at Florence, whose 
 wrilinxa were characterised by an afTectatinn of style 
 aiul sentiment, which ol)tained its admirers in this coiin- 
 tiy. The iudii;nant muse of Ciffol-d, in his well-known 
 Baviad and Mieviad, at length vindicated the cause of 
 Bound tiwte and jndi^raent; and such was the effect of 
 his caustic satire, that this spuricJB and corrupt style 
 tpidl» iisappuared. 
 
 whole sheet with a composition, both in meas. 
 ure and in manner, precisely similar. I have 
 in vain searched for it. It is either burnt or 
 lost. Could I have fo jnd it, you would have 
 had double postnge io pay. For that one 
 man in Italy and another in England, who 
 never saw each other, should stumble on a 
 species of verse, in which no other man ever 
 wrote (and I believe that to be the case) and 
 upon a style and manner too of which, I sup- 
 pose, that neither of them had ever seen an 
 example, appears to me so extraordinary a 
 fact that I must have sent you mine, what- 
 ever it had cost you, and am really vexed that 
 I cannot authenticate the story by producing 
 a voucher. The measure I recollect to have 
 been perfectly the same, and as to the man- 
 ner I am equally sure of that, and from this 
 circumstance, that Mrs. Unwin and I never 
 laughed more at any production of mine, per- 
 haps not even at John Gilpin. But for all 
 this, my dear, you must, as I said, give me 
 credit, for the thing itself is gone to that 
 limbo of vanity where alone, says Milton, 
 things lost on earth are to be met with. 
 Said limbo is, as you know, in the moon, 
 whither I could not at present convey myself 
 without a good deal of difficulty and incon- 
 venience. 
 
 This morning, being the morning of new 
 year's day, I sent to the hall a copy of verses, 
 addressed to Mrs. Throckmorton, entitled 
 " The Wish, or the Poet's New Year's Gift." 
 We dine there to-morrow, when I suppose I 
 shall hear news of them.* Their kindness ia 
 so great, and they seize with such eagerness 
 every opportunity of doing all they think will 
 please us, that I held myself almost in duty 
 bound to treat them with this stroke of my 
 profession. 
 
 The small-pox has done, I believe, all that 
 it has to do at Weston. Old folks, and even 
 women with child, have been inoculated. 
 
 * The poet's wish is so expressive of the poet's taste, 
 and there is so beautiful a turn in these coir.plimentary 
 verses, that we cannot resist the pleasure of inserting 
 them. 
 
 THE poet's new YKAR's GIFT 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTOK. 
 
 "Maria! 1 have every good 
 
 l''or thee wish'd many a time. 
 Both sad and in a cheerful mood. 
 But never yet in rhyme. 
 
 To wish thee fairer is no need, 
 .More prudent, or more sprightly, 
 
 Or more ingenious, or more freed 
 From temper-llaws unsightly. 
 
 What favor then not yet possess'd 
 
 Can I for thee require, 
 In Wedded love already blest. 
 
 To thy whole heart's desire ? 
 
 None here is happy but in part 
 
 Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
 There dwells some wish in every heart, 
 
 And doubtless one in thine. 
 
 That wish, on some fair future day. 
 
 Which fate shall brightly gild, 
 ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 
 
 1 wish it all fullill'd." 
 
 19
 
 290 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 We talk of our freedom, and some of us are 
 free enough, but not the poor. Dependent 
 as they are upon parish bounty, they are 
 sometimes obliged to submit to impositions 
 which, perhaps in France itself, could hardly 
 be paralleled. Can man or woman be said 
 to be free, who is commanded to take a dis- 
 temper sometimes, at least, mortal, and in 
 circumstances most likely to make it so ? No 
 circumstance whatever was permitted to ex- 
 empt the inhabitants of Weston. The old 
 as well as the young, and the pregnant as 
 well as they who had only themselves within 
 them, have been inoculated. Were I asked 
 who is the most arbitrary sovereign on earth, 
 I should answer, neither the king of France, 
 nor the grand signior, but an overseer of the 
 poor in England.* 
 
 I am as lieretofore occupied with Homer : 
 my present occupation is the revisal of all I 
 have done, viz., the first fifteen books. I 
 stand amazed at my own exceeding dexterity 
 in the business, being verily persuaded that, 
 as far as I have gone, I have improved the 
 work to double its value. 
 
 That you may begin tiie new year and end 
 it in all health and happiness, and many more 
 when the present shall have been long an old 
 one, is the ardent wish of Mrs. Unwin and of 
 yours, my dearest coz., most cordially, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 5, 1788. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for your in- 
 formation concerning the author of the trans- 
 lation of those lines. Had a man of less 
 note and ability than Lord Bagot produced 
 it, I should have been discouraged. As it is, 
 I comfort myself with tlie thought that even 
 he accounted it an achievement worthy of 
 his powers, and that even he found it diffi- 
 cult. Though I never had the honor to be 
 known to his lordship, I remember him well 
 at Westminster, and the reputation in which 
 he stood there. Since that time I have never 
 seen him except once, many years ago, in the 
 House of Commons, when I heard him speak 
 on the subject of a drainage bill better than 
 any member there. 
 
 My first thirteen books have been criticised 
 in London; have been by me accommodated 
 to those criticisms, returned to London in 
 tlieir improved state, and sent back to Wes- 
 ton with an imprimatur. This would satisfy 
 some poets less anxious than myself about 
 what they expose in public ; but it has not 
 satisfied me. I am now revising them again 
 by the light of my own critical taper, and 
 make more alterations than at first. But are 
 
 * The discovery of vaccination, since the above period, 
 has entitled the name of Jenner to rank among the bene- 
 lactors of mankind. 
 
 they improvements? you will ask. Is not 
 the spirit of the work endangered by all this 
 attention to correctness? I think and hope 
 that it is not. Being well aware of the pos- 
 sibility of such a catastrophe, I guard partic- 
 ularly against it. Where I find that a ser- 
 vile adherence to the original would render 
 the passage less animated than it would be. 
 I still, as at the first, allow myself a liberty. 
 On all other occasions I prune with an un- 
 sparing hand, determined that there shall not 
 be found in tlie whole translation an idea that 
 is not Homer's. My ambition is to produce 
 the closest copy possible, and at the same 
 time as harmonious as I know how to make 
 it. This being my object, you will no longer 
 think, if indeed you have thought it at all, 
 that I am unnecessarily and over-much in- 
 dustrious. The original surpasses every- 
 thing; it is of an immense length, is com- 
 posed in the best language ever used upon 
 earth, and deserves, indeed demands, all the 
 labor that any translator, be he who he may, 
 can possibly bestow on it. Of tliis I am 
 sure; and your brother, the good bishop, is 
 of the same mind, that at present mere Eng- 
 lish readers know no more of Homer in 
 reality than if he had never been translated. 
 That consideration indeed it was, which 
 mainly induced me to the undertaking ; and 
 if, after all, eitiier through idleness or dotage 
 upon wliat I have already done, I leave it 
 chargeable with the same incorrectness as 
 my predecessors, or indeed with any other 
 that I may be able to amend, I had better 
 have amused myself otherwise : and you, I 
 know, are of my opinion. 
 
 I send you the clerk's verses, of which I 
 told you. They are very clerk-like, as you 
 will perceive. But plain truth in plain words 
 seemed to me to be the ne plus ulira of com- 
 position on such an occasion. I might have 
 attempted something very fine, but then the 
 persons principally concerned, viz., my read- 
 ers, would not have understood me. If it 
 puts them in mind that they are mortal, its 
 best end is answered. 
 
 My dear Walter, adieu ! 
 
 Yours faithfully, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1788. 
 When I have prose enough to fill my paper 
 which is always the case when I write to you, 
 I caimot find in my heart to give a third part 
 of it to verse. Yet this I must do, or I must 
 make my packets more costly than worship- 
 ful, by doubling the postage upon you, which 
 I should hold to ^e unreasonabie. See then 
 the true reason wiiy I did not send you that 
 same scribblement* till you desired it. The 
 
 * The verses on the new year.
 
 thought which naturally present"? itself to me 
 on nil such occiisions is this. — Is not your 
 30i;siii coming? Why are you impatient? 
 Will it not he time enougii to show her 
 your line things when she arrives? 
 
 Fine things indeed I have few. He v/ho 
 has Homer to transcribe may well he con- 
 U-Med. to do little else. As when an ass, 
 being harnessed with ropes to a sand-cart, 
 drags with hanging ears his heavy burden, 
 neither filling the long-echoing streets with 
 his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his 
 heels behind, frolicsome and airy, as asses 
 less engaged are wont to do ; so J, satisfied 
 to find myself indispensably obliged to ren- 
 der into the best ]iossiblo English metre 
 eight-and-forty Greek books, of which the 
 two finest poems in the world consist, ac- 
 count it quite suflicient if I may at last 
 achieve that labor, and seldom allow myself 
 those pretty little vagaries in which I should 
 otherwise delight, and of whicii, if I should 
 live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy 
 my fill. 
 
 This is the reason, my dear cousin, if I 
 may be permitted to call you so in tiie same 
 breath with which I have uttered this truly 
 heroic comparison ; tliis is the reason why 1 
 produce at present but few occasional poems, 
 and tlie preceding reason is that which may 
 account satisfactorily enough for my with- 
 holding the very few that I do produce. A 
 tliought sometimes strikes me before I rise ; 
 if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish 
 it before bniakfast, it is well; otherwisQ it 
 dies and is forgotten ; for all the subsequent 
 hours are devoted to Horiier. 
 
 The day before yesterday I saw for tjie 
 first time Bunbury's* new print, the " Propa- 
 gation of a Lie." Mr. Throckmorton sent it 
 for tiie amusement of our party. Bunbury 
 sells humor by tiie yard, and is, I suppose, 
 the first vender of it wiio ever did so. He 
 cannot therefore be said to have humor with- 
 out measure (pardon a pun, my dear, from a 
 man who has not niaile one before these 
 forty years) tliougii he may certainly be said 
 '.o be immeasurably droll. 
 
 The original thought is good, and the ex- 
 emplification of it in those very expressive 
 figures, admirable. A poem on the same 
 subject, displaying all that is displayed in 
 those attitudes and in those features (for 
 faces they can hardly be called) would be 
 most excellent. Tiie afiinity of the two arts, 
 viz., verse and painting, has been often ob- 
 served; possibly the happiest illustration of 
 it would be found, if some poet would ally 
 himself to some draughtsman, as Bunbury, 
 and undertake to write evciylhing he should 
 draw. Then let a musician be admitted of 
 tiie party. He should compose the said 
 DoeiU, adapting notes to it exactly accommo- 
 
 * The celebrated caricatiu'ist. 
 
 dated to the theme ; so should the sister arts 
 be proved to be indeed sisters, and the world 
 
 die of laughing. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Jan. 21, 1788. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Your last letter informed 
 us that you were likely to be much occupied 
 for some time in writing on a subject that 
 must be interesting to a person of your feel- 
 ings — the slave trade. I was unwilling to 
 interrupt your progress in so good a work, 
 and have therefore enjoined myself a longer 
 silence than I should otherwise have thought 
 excusable ; though, to say the truth, did not 
 our once intimate fellowship in the things of 
 God recur to my remembrance, and jJresent 
 me with sometliin<r like a warrant for doing 
 it, I should hardly prevail with myself to 
 write at all. Letters, such as mine, to a 
 person of a character such as yours, are like 
 snow in harvest; and you well say, that if I 
 will send you a letter that you can answer, 
 I shall make your part of the business easier 
 than it is. This I would gladly do ; but though 
 I abhor a vacuum as much as nature herself is 
 said to do, yet a vacuum I am bound to feel 
 of all such matter as may merit your perusal. 
 
 I expected that before this time I should 
 have had the pleasure of seeing your friend 
 Mr. Bean,f but his stay in this country was 
 so short, that it was hardly possible he should 
 find an opportunity to call. I have not only 
 lieard a hiffh character of that gentleman 
 from yourself, whose opinion of men, as well 
 as of other matters, weighs more with me 
 than anybody's ; but from two or three dif- 
 ferent persons likewise, not ill qualified to 
 judge. From all that I have heard, both 
 from you and them, I have every reason to 
 expect that I shall find him botii an agree- 
 able and useful neighbor ; and if he can be 
 content with me (for that seems doubtful, 
 poet as I am, and now, alas 1 nothing more), 
 it seems certain that I shall be highly satis- 
 fied with him. 
 
 Here is much shifting and changing of 
 ministers. Two are passing away, and two 
 
 are stepping into the places. IMr. B , I 
 
 suppose, whom I know not, is almost upon 
 
 the wing; and Mr. P ,J with whom I 
 
 have not been very much acquainted, is either 
 going or gone. A Mr. C is come to oc- 
 cupy, for the present at least, the place of 
 the former ; and if he can possess liiniself of 
 the two curacies of Ravcnstone and Weston, 
 will, I imagine, take up his abode here. Hav- 
 ing, as I understood, no engagements else- 
 where, he will doubtless be happy to obtain 
 a lasting orfe in tiiis country. What accept- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t I'ViriiiLTly Viciir of Oliicy, and alsu one of the Libra- 
 riuns of llii- llrilish Museum. 
 t Mr. I'ostlethwaitc.
 
 ance he finds among the people of Raven- 
 stone I have not lieard, but at Olney, where 
 he has preached once, he was liailed as the 
 sun by the Greenlanders after half a year of 
 lamp-light. 
 
 Providence interposed to preserve me from 
 the heaviest affliction that I can now sutTer, 
 or I had lately lost Mrs. Unwin, and in a 
 way the most shocking imaginable. Haying 
 kindled lier fire in tlie room where she dresses 
 (an oftice tiuit siie always performs for her- 
 self), she placed the candle on the hearth, 
 and, kneeling, addressed herself to her devo- 
 tions. A thought struck her, while thus 
 occupied, that the candle, being short, might 
 possibly catch her clothes. She pinched it 
 out with the tongs, and set it on the table. 
 In a few minutes the chamber was so filled 
 with smoke that her eyes watered, and it 
 w\is hardly possible to see across it. Sup- 
 posing that it proceeded from the chimney, 
 she pushed the billets backward, and, while 
 she did so, casting her eye downward, per- 
 ceived that iier dress was on fire. In fact, 
 before she extinguished the candle, the mis- 
 chief that she apprehended was begun ; and 
 when slie related the matter to me, she 
 showed me her clothes with a hole burnt in 
 them as large as this sheet of paper. It is 
 not possible, perhaps, that so tragical a death 
 should overtake a person actually engaged 
 in prayer, for her escape seems almost a 
 miracle. Her presence of mind, by which 
 she was enabled, without calling ibr help 
 or waiting for it, to gather up her clothes 
 and plunge them, burning as they were, in 
 water, seems as wonderful a part of the oc- 
 currence as any. The very report of fire, 
 though distant, has rendered hundreds tor- 
 pid and incapable of self-succor: how much 
 more was such a disability to be expected, 
 when the fire had not seized a neighbor's 
 house, or begun its devastations on our own, 
 but was actually consuming the apparel that 
 she wore, and seemed in possession of her 
 person. 
 
 It draws toward supper-time. I therefore 
 heartily wish you a good night ; and, with 
 our best aflfections to yourself, Mrs. Newton, 
 and Miss Catlett, I remain, my dear friend, 
 truly and warmly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 30, 1788. 
 My dearest Coz., — It is a fortnight since I 
 heard from you, that is to say, a week 
 longer than you have accustomed me to wait 
 for a letter. I do not forget that you have 
 recommended it to me, on occasions some- 
 what similar, to banish all an'xiety, and to 
 ascribe your silence only to the interruptions 
 of company. Good advice, my dear, but not 
 easily taken by a man circumstanced as 1 
 
 am. I have learned in the school of adver- 
 sity, a school from which I have no expci Na- 
 tion that I siiall ever be dismissed, to iippre- 
 hend the worst, and have ever found it Ihe 
 only course in which I can indulge myself 
 wiihout the least danger of incurring a dis- 
 appointment. This kind of experience, con- 
 tinued througii many years, has given me 
 such an iiabitual bias to the gloomy side of 
 everything, that 1 never have a momen.'s 
 ease on any subject to which I am not indif- 
 ferent. How then can I be easy when I am 
 left afloat upon a sea of endless conjectures, 
 of which you furnish the occasion. Write, 
 I beseech you, and do not forget that I am 
 now a battered actor upon this turbulent 
 stage ; that what little vigor of mind I ever 
 had, of the self-supporting kind I mean, has 
 long since been broken ; and that, though I 
 can bear nothing well, yet anything better 
 than a state of ignorance concerning your 
 welfare. I have spent hours in the night lean- 
 ing upon my elbow, and wondering what your 
 silence means. I entreat you once more to 
 put an end to these speculations, which cost 
 me more animal spirits than I can spare ; if 
 you cannot, without great trouble to your- 
 self, which in your situation may very pos- 
 sibly be the case, contrive opportunities of 
 writing so frequently as usual, only say it, 
 and I am content. I will wait, if you desire 
 it, as long for every letter, but then let them 
 arrive at the period once fixed, exactly at the 
 time, for my patience will not hold out an 
 hour beyond it.* W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb 1, 1788. 
 
 Pardon me, my dearest cousin, the mourn- 
 ful ditty that I sent you last. There are 
 times when I see everything through a me- 
 dium that distresses me to an insupportable 
 degree, and that letter was written in one of 
 them. A fog that had for three days oblit- 
 erated all the beauties of Weston, and a 
 north-east wind, might possibly contribute 
 not a little to the melancholy that indited it. 
 But my mind is now easy ; your letter has 
 made it so, and I feel myself as bhthe as a 
 bird in comparison. I love you, my cousin, 
 and cannot suspect, either with or without 
 cause, the least evil in which you may be 
 concerned, without being greatly troubled ! 
 Oh, trouble! The portion of all mortals — 
 but mine in particular; would I had never 
 known thee, or could bid thee farewell 
 forever; for I meet thee at every turn: 
 my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very 
 roses smell of thee, and even my cousin, who 
 
 * This letter proves how much the sensitive tniiul of 
 Cowper was liable to be rulHed by external incidents, 
 Lite presents too many real sources of anxiety, to Justify 
 us in adding those which are imaginai-y and of our owu 
 creation.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 292 
 
 would ciTiv me of all trouble rf she could, is 
 sometiu.'f.s innocently the cause of trouhle 
 to me. 
 
 I now see the unreasonableness of my 
 late trouble, and would, if I could trust my- 
 self so far, promise never again to trouble 
 either myself or you in the same manner, 
 unless warranted by some more substantial 
 ^a'ound of apprehension. 
 
 What I said concerning Homer, my dear, 
 was spoken, or rather written, merely under 
 the influence of a certain jocularity that I 
 felt at that moment. I am in reality so lUr 
 from thinking myself an ass, and my trans- 
 lation a sand-cart, that I rather seem, in n:y 
 own account of the matter, one of those 
 flaming steeds harnessed to the chariot of 
 Apollo, of which we read in the works of tiie 
 ancients. I have lately, I know not how, 
 acquired a certain superiority to myself in 
 this business, and in this last revisal have 
 elevated the expression to a degree far sur- 
 passing its former boast. A few eveiungs 
 since, I had an opportunity to try how far I 
 might venture to expect such success of my 
 labors as can alone repay them, by reading 
 the first book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. 
 He dined with you once at OIncy. His 
 name is Greatheed, a man of letters and of 
 taste. He dined with us, and, the evening 
 proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to 
 take a bed. I entertained him .-is I tell you. 
 He heard me with great attention, and with 
 evident symptoms of the highest satisftiction, 
 which, when I had finished the exhibition, 
 he put out of all doubt by expressions which 
 I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. 
 Unwin, while I was in another room, that he 
 had never entered into the spirit of Homer 
 before, nor had anything like a due concep- 
 tion of his manner. This I have said, know- 
 ing tinit it will please you, and will now say 
 no more. 
 
 Adieu ! my dear, will you never speak of 
 coininir to Weston more? W. C. 
 
 Mrs. King, to whom tlie following letter is 
 addressed, was the wife of Mr. King, Rector 
 of Perten Hall, near Kimbolton, and a con- 
 nexion of t'le late Professor Martyn, well 
 known for his botanical researches. Tiie 
 perusal of Cowper's Poems had been the 
 means of conveying impressions of piety 
 to her mind; and it was to record her grat- 
 itude, and to cultivate his acquaintance, that 
 sJie wrote a letter, to which this is the reply. 
 
 TT MRS. KING, PERTEN HALL, NEAR KIMBOL- 
 TON, HUNTS.* 
 
 Weslon Lodge, Feb. 12, 1788. 
 Dear Madam, — A letter from a lady who 
 was once ultimate with my brother could not 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 fail of being most acceptable to me. I lost 
 him just in tlit moment when those truths 
 which have retommended my volumes to 
 your approbation were become his daily sus- 
 tenance, as they had long been mine. But 
 the will of God was done. I have sometimes 
 thought tluit had his life been spared, being 
 made brothers by a stricter tie than ever in 
 the bonds of the same fiiith, hope, and love, 
 we should have been happier in each other 
 than it was in the power of mere natural af- 
 fection to make us. But it was his blessing 
 to be taken from a world in which he had no 
 longer any wish to continue, and it will be 
 mine, if, while I dwell in it, my time may not 
 be altogether wasted. In order to effect tliat 
 good end, I wrote what I am happy to find it 
 has given you pleasure to read. But for that 
 pleasure, madam, you are indebted neither to 
 me, nor to my Muse ; but (as you are well 
 aware) to Him who alone can make divine 
 truths palatable, in whatever vehicle con- 
 veyed. It is an established philosophical 
 axiom, that nothing can communicate what it 
 iias not in itself; t)ut, in the effects of Chris- 
 tian communion, a very strong exception is 
 found to this general rule, however self-evi- 
 dent it may seem. A man himself destitute 
 of all spiritual consolation may, by occasion, 
 impart it to others. Thus I, it seems, who 
 wrote those very poems to amuse a mind 
 oppressed with melancholy, and who have 
 myself derived from them no other benefit 
 (for mere success in authorship will do me 
 no good), have, nevertheless, by so doing, 
 comforted others, at the same time that they 
 administer to me no consolation. But I will 
 proceed no farther in this strain, lest my 
 prose should damp a pleasure that my verse 
 has happily excited. On the contrary, I will 
 endeavor to rejoiceinyour joy, and especially 
 because I have been myself the instrument 
 of conveying it. 
 
 Since the receipt of your obliging letter, 1 
 have naturally had recourse to my recollec- 
 tion, to try if it would furnish me with the 
 name that I find at the bottom of it. At the 
 same time I am aware that there is nothing 
 more probable than that my brotiicr might be 
 honored with your friendsiiip without men- 
 tioning it to me; for, except a very short 
 period before his death, we lived necessarily 
 at a considerable distance from each other. 
 Ascribe it, madam, not to an impertinent 
 curiosity, but to a desire of better acquaint- 
 ance with you, if I take the liberty to ask 
 (since ladies' names, at least, are changea- 
 ble) whether yours was at that time the same 
 as now. 
 
 Sincerely wishing you all happiness, and 
 especially that which I am sure you covet 
 most, the happiness wiiich is from above, I 
 remain, dear madam — early as it may socm 
 to say it, Aflectionatelv vours. W. C.
 
 294 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Fob. 14, 1788. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Though it be long since I re- 
 ceived your last, I have not yet forgotten the 
 impression it made upon me, nor how sensi- 
 bly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved 
 and friendly communications. I will not apol- 
 ogize for my silence in the interim, because, 
 apprized as you are of my present occupa- 
 tion, the excuse that I might allege will pre- 
 sent itself to you of course, and to dilate upon 
 it would therefore be waste of paper. 
 
 You are in possession of the best security 
 imaginable for the due improvement of your 
 time, which is a just .sense of its value. Had 
 I been, when at your age, as much affected by 
 that important consideration as I am at pres- 
 ent, I should not have devoted, as I did, all the 
 earliest parts of ray life to amusement only. 
 I am now in the predicament into which the 
 thoughtlessness of youth betrays nine-tenths 
 of mankind, who never discover that the 
 health and good spirits which generally ac- 
 company it are, in reality, blessings only ac- 
 cording to the use we make of them, till ad- 
 advanced years begin to threaten them with 
 the loss of both. How much wiser would 
 thousands have been than now they ever will 
 be, had a puny constitution, or some occa- 
 sional infirmity, constrained them to devote 
 those hours to study and reflection, which for 
 want of some such check they had given en- 
 tirely to dissipation! I, therefore, account 
 you happy, who, young as you are, need not 
 be informed that you cannot always be so, and 
 who already know that the materials upon 
 which age can alone build its comfort should 
 be brought together at an earlier period. 
 You have, indeed, in losing a father, lost a 
 friend, but you have not lost his instructions. 
 His example was not buried with Iiim, but 
 happily for you (happily because you are de- 
 sirous to avail yourself of it), still lives in 
 your remembrance, and is cherished in your 
 best affections. 
 
 Your last letter was dated from the house 
 of a gentleman who was, I believe, my school- 
 fellow. For the Mr. C , who lived at Wat- 
 ford, while I had any connexion with Hert- 
 fordshire, must have been the father of the 
 present, and, according to his age and the 
 state of his health when I saw him last, must 
 have been long dead. I never was acquaint- 
 ed with the family further than by report, 
 which always spoke honorably of them, 
 though, in all my journeys to and from my 
 father's, 1 must have passed the door. The 
 circumstance, however, reminds me of the 
 beautiful reflection of Glaucus in the sixth 
 Iliad ; beautiful as well for the affecting na- 
 ture of the observation as for the justness of 
 the comparison and the incomparable sim- 
 plicity of the expression. I feel that I shall 
 not be satisfied without transcribing it, and 
 
 yet perhaps my Greek may be diflicult tc 
 decipher. 
 
 Oirj TTcp (pvWi.iv yri'tij, roirjSe Km afSpiov. 
 
 T/jXeSoojo-u <pv£i, capo; i Eiriyiyvcrut iapT], 
 £2{ avipuiv ycusrij ij ijev (pvci. tj <5 uTroX/jyti.* 
 
 Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man 
 whose Homer is always before him ! What 
 would I give that he were living now, and 
 within my reach ! I, of all men living, have 
 the best excuse for indulging such a wish, 
 unreasonable as it may seem ; for I have no 
 doubt that the fire of his eye, and the smile 
 of his lips would put me now and then in 
 possession of his full meaning more effectu- 
 ally than any commentator. I return you 
 many thanks for the elegies which you sent 
 me, both wiiich I think deserving of much 
 commendation. I should requite you but ill 
 by sending you my mortuary verses, neither 
 at present can I prevail on myself to do it, 
 having no frank, and being conscious that 
 they are not worth carriage without one. I 
 have one copy left, and that copy I will keep 
 for you. W. C. 
 
 The public mind was, at this time, greatiy 
 excited by the slave trade — that nefarious 
 system, which was once characterized in the 
 House of Lords, by Bishop Horsley, as " the 
 greatest moral pestilence that ever withered 
 the happiness of mankind." The honor of in- 
 troducing this momentous question, in which 
 the interest of humanity and justice were so 
 deeply involved, was reserved for William 
 Wilberforce, Esq. How he executed that 
 task, is too well known to require either 
 detail or panegyric. The final abolition of 
 the slave trade was an era in the history of 
 Great Britain, never to be forgotten; and 
 the subsequent legislative enactments for 
 abolisiiing slavery itself completed what was 
 wanting, in this noble triumph of national 
 benevolence. 
 
 The following letter alludes to this inter- 
 esting subject. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. 
 I have now three letters of yours, my dear- 
 est cousin, before me, all written in the space 
 of a week ; and must be indeed insensible of 
 kindness did I not feel yours on this occasion. 
 I cannot describe to you, neither could you 
 comprehend it if I should, the manner in which 
 
 * We insert Pope's translation, as being ;he troai 
 
 familiar to the reader. 
 
 " Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, 
 Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; 
 Another race the following spring supplies, 
 They fall successive, and successive rise : 
 So generations in their course decay. 
 So tloujish these, when those have pass'd away." 
 
 Papers Version.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 295 
 
 my mind is sometimes impressed with mel- 
 anclioly on particular subjects. Your late 
 silence was such a subject. I heard, saw, and 
 felt, a thousand terrible things, which had no 
 real existence, and was haunted Ijy them 
 night and day, till they at last extorted from 
 me the doleful epistle which I have since 
 wished had been burned before I sent it. But 
 the cloud has passed, and, as far as you are 
 concerned, my heart is once more at rest. 
 
 Before you gave me the hint, I had once 
 or twice, as I lay on my bed, watching the 
 break of day, ruminated on the subject which, 
 in your last but one, you recommend to me. 
 
 Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as 
 the poor negroes have endured, or perhaps 
 both these topics together, appeared to me a 
 theme so important at the present juncture, 
 and at the same time so susceptible of poetical 
 management, that I more than once perceived 
 myself ready to start in that career, could I 
 have allowed myself to desert Homer for so 
 long a time as it would have cost me to do 
 them justice. 
 
 While I was pondering these things, the 
 public prints informed me that Miss More was 
 on tiic point of publication, having actually 
 finished what I had not yet begun.* 
 
 The sight of her advertisement convinced 
 me tiiat my best course would be that to 
 Avliich I felt myself most inclined, to perse- 
 vere without turning aside to attend to any 
 other call, however alluring, in the business I 
 have in hand. 
 
 It occurred to me likewise, that I have 
 already borne my testimony in favor of my 
 black brethren, and that I was one of the 
 earliest, if not the lirst, of those, who have in 
 the present day expressed their detestation of 
 the diabolical traffic in question.f 
 
 * For the gratification of tliose who are not in posses- 
 sion of this |)oeir,, we insert tlic followiufj extract: — 
 
 " Whene'er to Afric's shores I tm'n my eyes, 
 Horrors ot'ileepi'St, (K'udliest LCiiilt arise ; 
 I see, by nuire than I'luicy's minor sliown, 
 The l)urnin'^ villaije and the Ijlazini; town: 
 See tlie dire victim torn from social life. 
 The shrielcing babe, the agonizing wife ; 
 
 By feUm hands, by one relentless stroke, 
 See the fond links of feeling nature broke! 
 The libres twisting round a parent's heart 
 Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part." 
 
 We add one more pjussage, as it contains an animated 
 appeal agamst the injustice of this nefarious tratlic. 
 "What wrouL's, what injuries docs Oppression plead. 
 
 To smooth the crime, aiid sanctify llie devd? 
 
 What strange oi!ence, wliat aggravated sin? 
 
 They stand convicted — of a darker skin ! 
 
 liarnnrians, ho.:l I the opprobrious commerce spare, 
 
 Res|)ect His sacred image which they bear. 
 
 Though dark and savagi-, ignorant and l)ljnd. 
 
 They claim the common jirivilege of kind ; 
 
 Let "malice strip them of cacli other plea, 
 
 They still are men, and men shouM slill be free." 
 
 See Miss .More's Poem, entitled Tlic S/ave. Trade. 
 
 t With respect to the claim of priority, or who first de- 
 nounced the injustice and horrors of slavery, we believe 
 the following is a correct historical narrative on this im- 
 portant subject. 
 
 The celebrated He I. as Ca.sa,s (born at Seville in 1474, 
 and wlui accompanied Columbus in his voyage in 1493) 
 
 On all these accounts I judged it best to be 
 silent, and especially because I cannot doubt 
 that some effectual measure will now be taken 
 to alleviate the miseries of their condition, 
 the whole nation being in possession of the 
 case, and it being impossible also to allege an 
 argument in behalf of man-merchandise that 
 can deserve a hearing. I should be glad to 
 see Hannah IMore's poem ; she is a favorite 
 writer with me, and has more nerve and 
 energy both in her thoughts and language 
 than half the he-rhymers in the kingdom. 
 The " Thoughts on the Manners of the Great" 
 will likewise be most acceptable. I want to 
 learn as much of the world as I can, but to 
 acquire that learning at a distance ; and a book 
 with such a title promises fiiir to serve the 
 purpose effectually. 
 
 I recommend it to you, my dear, by all 
 means to embrace the fair occasion, and to 
 put yourself in the way of being squeezed 
 and incommoded a few hours, for the sake 
 of hearing and seeing what you will never 
 have an opportunity to see and hear hereafter, 
 the trial of a man who has been greater and 
 more feared than the great Mogul himself. 
 Whatever we are at home, we have certainly 
 been tyrants in the East, and if these men 
 have, as they are charged, rioted in the 
 miseries of the Innocent, and dealt death to 
 the guiltless, with an unsparing hand, may 
 they receive a retribution that shall in future 
 make all governors and judges of ours, in 
 those distant regions, tremble. While I speak 
 thus, I equally wish them acquitted. They 
 were both my school-fellows, and for Hast- 
 ings I had a particular value. Farewell.* 
 
 W. C. 
 
 was so deeply impressed with the cruelties and oppres- 
 sions of slavery, that he retm-nod to Europe, and pleaded 
 the cause of humanity before the Emperor Charles V. 
 This prince was so far moved by his representations as 
 to pass royal ordinances to mitigate the evil ; but hia 
 intentions were unhappily defeated. The Rev. ^Morgan 
 Godwyn, a Welshman, is the next in order. Abo>it the 
 middle of the last C(uUury, John Woolman and Anthony 
 lienezet, belonging to the society of Friends, endeavored 
 to rouse the public attention. In ll'A, the Society itself 
 took uj) the cause with so much zeal and success, that _ 
 there is not at this day a single slave in the possession ' 
 of any acknowledged Quaker in Pennsylvania. In 1776, 
 (Granville Sharp addressed to the British public his 
 "Just Limitation of Slavery," his "Essay on Slavery," 
 and his " Law of Retribution, or a Serious Warning to 
 fireat Britain and her Colonies." The poet Shenstoue 
 also wrote an elegy on the subject, beginning : — 
 
 " See the poor native quit the Lybian shores," &c. &c. 
 
 Ramsey and Clarkson bring down the list to the time of 
 Cowper, whose indignant muse in 178'2 poured forth his 
 detestation of this traffic in his poem on Charity, an ex- 
 tract of which we shall shortly lay before the reader. 
 The distinguished honor was, however, reserved for 
 Thomas Clarkson, to be the instrument of first engaging 
 the zeal and eloqtience of Mr. Wilberforce in the great 
 cause of tlie abolition of the Slave Trade. The per- 
 severing exertions of Mr. Fowell Buxton and those of the 
 Anti-slavery Society achieved the final triumph, and led 
 to the great legislative enactment which abolished sla- 
 very itself in the British colonies ; and nothing now re- 
 mains but to associate France, the Brazils, and America, 
 in the noble enterprise of proclaiming the blessings ot 
 liberty to live remaining millions of this degraded race. 
 
 * Tile trial of Warren Hastings excited universal lntei» 
 est, from the official rank o!*tho accused, as Governor
 
 296 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 22, 1786. 
 
 I do ii( t wonder that )'our ears and feel- 
 ings were hurt by Mr. Burke's severe invec- 
 tive. But you are to know, my dear, or prob- 
 ably you know it already, that tlie prosecution 
 of public delinquents has always, and in all 
 countries, been tlius conducted. The style 
 of a criminal charge of this kind has been an 
 ai!Jiir settled among orators from the days of 
 Tully to the present, and, like all other prac- 
 tices that have obtained for ages, this in par- 
 ticular seems to have been founded originally 
 in reason and in the necessity of the case. 
 
 He who accuses another to the state must 
 rot appear himself unmoved by the view of 
 crimes with which he charges him, lest he 
 should be suspected of fiction, or of pre- 
 cipitancy, or of a consciousness that after all 
 he shall not be able to prove his allegations. 
 On the contrary, in order to impress the minds 
 of his hearers with a persuasion that he him- 
 self at least is convinced of the criminality of 
 the prisoner, he must be vehement, energetic, 
 rapid ; must call him tyrant, and traitor, and 
 everything else that is odious, and all this to 
 his face, because all this, bad as it is, is no 
 more than he undertakes to prove in the 
 sequel, and if he cannot prove it he must him- 
 self appear in a light very little more desirable, 
 and at ihe best to have trifled wiili the tribunal 
 to which he has summoned him. 
 
 Thus Tully, in the very first sentence of 
 his oration against Catiline, calls him a 
 monster ; a manner of address in which he 
 persisted till said monster, unable to support 
 the fury of his accuser's eloquence any longer, 
 rose from his seat, elbowed for himself a pas- 
 sage through the crowd, and at last burst from 
 the senate house in an agony, as if the Furies 
 themselves had followed him. 
 
 And now, my dear, though I have thus 
 spoken, and have seemed to plead the cause 
 of that species of eloquence which you, and 
 every creature who has your sentiments, must 
 necessarily dislike, perhaps lam not alto- 
 gether convinced of its propriety. Perhaps, 
 at the bottom, I am much more of opinion, 
 that if the charge, unaccompanied by any in- 
 General of India, the number and magnitude of the ar- 
 ticles of impeachment, the splendor of the scene, (which 
 was in WestmiriSter Hall,) and the impsissioned elo- 
 quence of Mr. Burke, who conducted the prosecution. 
 The proceedings were protracted for nine successive 
 years, when Mr. Hastings was finally acquitted. He is 
 Baid to have incurred an expense of i)30,000 on this occa- 
 sion, a painful proof of the costly character and delays 
 of British jurisprudence. Some of the highest specimeiis 
 of eloquence that ever adorned any ago or country were 
 delivered din-inR this trial ; among which ought to be 
 Bp(!cified the address of the celebrated Mr. Sheridan, 
 who captivMted the attention of llie assembly in a speech 
 of three hours and a half, distinguished by all the graces 
 and powers of the most fiidslied oratory. At the close 
 of this speech, Mr. Pitt rose and projjosed an adjourn- 
 ment, observing that they were then too much under the 
 Influence of the wand of the enchanter to be capable of 
 exercising the functions of a sound and deliberate judg- 
 ment. 
 
 f^ammatory matter, and simply detailed, being 
 once delivered into the court, and read aloud, 
 the witnesses were immediately exiiniiiied, 
 and sentence pronounced according to the 
 evidence, not only the process would be 
 shortened, much time and much expense saved, 
 but justice would have at least as fair play as 
 now she has. Prejudice is of no use in weivM- 
 ing the question, guilty or not guilty, and the 
 principal aim, end, and effect of such intro- 
 ductory harangues is to create as much pre- 
 judice as possible. When you and I, therefore, 
 shall have the sole management of such a 
 business entrusted to us, we will order it 
 otherwise. 
 
 I was glad to learn from the papers that 
 our cousin Henry shone as he did in reading 
 the charge. This must have given much 
 pleasure to the General.* 
 
 Thy ever affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Weston, March 1, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — That my letters may not 
 be exactly an echo to those which I receive, T 
 seldom read a letter immediately before I 
 answer it ; trusting to my memory to suggest 
 to me such of its contents as may call for 
 particular notice. Thus I dealt with your last, 
 which lay in my desk, while I was writing to 
 3'ou. But my memory, or rather my recollec- 
 tion failed me, in that instance. I had not 
 forgotten Mr. Bean's letter, nor my obligations 
 to you for the communication of it; but they 
 did not happen to present themselves to me 
 in the proper moment, nor till some hours 
 after my own had been despatched. I now 
 return it, with many thanks for so favorable 
 a specimen of its author. That he is a good 
 man, and a wise man, its testimony proves 
 sufficiently ; and I doubt not, that when he 
 shall speak for himself he will be found an 
 agreeable one. For it is possible to be very 
 good, and in many respects very wise ; yet at 
 the same time not the most delightful com- 
 panion. Excuse the shortness of an occasicnaJ 
 scratch, which I send in such haste ; and 
 believe me, my dear friend, with our united 
 love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, of whose 
 health we hope to hear a more favorable ac- 
 count as the year rises. 
 
 Your truly affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON \ 
 
 Weston Lodge, March 3, 1788.t 
 My dear Friend, — I had not, as you may 
 
 * The poet addressed some complimentary verses od 
 this occasion to Mr. Henry Cowper, beginning thus:— 
 " Cowper,whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,"&c 
 Henry Cowper, Esq., was reading clerk in the House of 
 Lords. 
 
 t Piivate correspondence. 
 
 i The date having been probably wriuen on the lattei
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 29T 
 
 .magine, read more tlian two or three lines of 
 the enclosed, before I perceived that I had 
 accident.iily come to the possession of another 
 man's property ; wlio, by tlie same misadven- 
 ture, lias doubtless occupied mine. I accord- 
 ingly folded it again the moment after having 
 opened il, and now return it. The bells of 
 Olney, both last night and this morning, have 
 announced the arrival of Mr. Bean. 1 under- 
 stand that he is now come with his family. It 
 will not be long tlierefore, before we shall be 
 acquainted. I rather wish tiian hope tliat lie 
 may lind himself comfortably situated ; but 
 
 the parishoners' admiration of i\Ir. C , 
 
 whatever the bells may say, is no good omen. 
 It is hardly to be expected tiuit the same 
 people should admire both. 
 
 I have lately been engaged in a corre- 
 spondence with a lady wlioin I never saw. 
 She lives at Perten-hall, near Kimbolton, and 
 is the wife of a Dr. King, who lias tlie living. 
 She is evidently a Christian, and a very gra- 
 cious one. I would that she had you for a 
 correspondent rather than me. One letter 
 from you would do her more good than a 
 ream of mine. But so it is ; and since I 
 cannot depute my ottice to you, and am bound 
 by all sorts of considerations to answer her 
 this evening, I must necessarily quit you that 
 I may have time to do it. 
 
 vv. c. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.^ 
 
 Weston Lodge, March 3, 1788. 
 
 I owe you many acknowledgments, dear 
 madam, for that unreserved communication, 
 both of your history and of your sentiments, 
 with whicii yon favored me in your last. It 
 fjives me great pleasure to learn that yon are 
 so happily circumstanced, both in respect of 
 situation and frame of mind. With your 
 view of religious subjects, yon could not, in- 
 dited, speaking properly, be pronounced un- 
 happy in any circumstances ; but to have 
 received from above, not only that faith which 
 reconciles the heart to affliction, but many 
 outward comforts also, and especially that 
 greatest of all earthly comforts, a comforta- 
 ble home, is iiappiness indeed. May you 
 ong enjoy it ! As to health or sickness, you 
 have learned already their true value, and 
 know well that the former is no blessing, 
 unless it be sanctitied, and that the latter is 
 3nc of the greatest we can receive, when we 
 are enabled to make a proper use of it. 
 
 Tiiere is nothing in my story that can pos- 
 sibly be worth your knowledge ; yet, lest I 
 should seem to treat you with a reserve which 
 at your hands I have not experienced, such 
 as it is, I will relate it. — I was bred to the 
 
 hnlf of tlcis IctltT, which is torn off, the editor Ims en- 
 deiivorcd to sii|)[)ly it from Iho folluwiiig to Mrs. King. 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 law ; a profession to which I was never 
 much inclined, and in which I engaged rather 
 because I was desirous to gratify a most in- 
 dulgent father, than because I had any hope 
 of success in it myself. I spent twelve years 
 in the Temple, where I made no progress in 
 that science, to cultivate which I was sent 
 thither. During this time my father died; 
 not long after him died my mother-in-law: 
 and at the expiration of it a melanc'ioly 
 seized me, which obliged me to quit London, 
 and consequently, to renounce the bar. I 
 lived soiue time at St. Alban's. After hav- 
 ing suffered in that place long and extreme 
 affliction, the storm was suddenly dispelled, 
 and the same day-spring from on high which 
 has arisen upon you, arose on me also. I 
 spent eight years in the enjoyment of it; 
 and have, ever since the expiration of those 
 eight years, been occasionally the prey of 
 the same melancholy as at first. In the 
 depths of it I wrote " The Task," and the 
 volume whicli preceded it; and in the same 
 deeps I am now translating Homer. But to 
 return to St. Alban's. I abode there a year 
 and half. Thence I went to Cambridge where 
 I spent a short time with my brother, in 
 whose neighborhood I determined, if possi- 
 ble, to pass the remainder of my days. He 
 soon found a lodging for me at Huntingdon. 
 At that place I had not resided long, when I 
 was led to an intimate connexion with a 
 family of the name of Unwin. I soon quit- 
 ted my lodging and took up my abode with 
 them. I had not lived long under their roof, 
 when Mr. Unwin, as he was riding one Sun- 
 day morning to his cure at Gravely, was 
 thrown from his horse ; of whicli fall he 
 died. Mrs. Unwin, having the same views 
 of the gospel as myself, and being desirous 
 of attending a purer ministration of it than 
 was to be found at Huntingdon, removed to 
 Olney, where Mr. Newton was at that time 
 the preacher, and I with her. There we 
 continued til! Mr. Newton, whose family was 
 the only one in the place with which we could 
 have a connexion, and with whom we lived 
 always on the most intimate terms, left it. 
 After his departure, finding the situation no 
 longer desirable, and our house threatening 
 to fall upon our heads, we removed hiliicr. 
 Here we have a good house in a most beautif d 
 village, and for the greatest part of the year, 
 a most agreeable neighborhood. Like you, 
 madam, I stay much at home, and have not 
 travelled twenty miles from this place and its 
 environs more than once these twenty years. 
 
 All this I have written, not for the singu 
 larity of the matter, as you will perceive, but 
 partly for the reason which I gave at the out- 
 set, and partly that, seeing we are become (,'or- 
 respondents, we may know as much of each 
 otiu'r as we can, and that as soon as possible. 
 
 I beg, madam, that you will present mv
 
 298 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 best respects to Mr. King, whom, together 
 with yourself, should you at any time here- 
 after take wing for a longer flight than 
 usual, we shall be happy to receive at Wes- 
 ton ; and believe me, dear madam, his and 
 vour obliged and affectionate, 
 
 ■^ W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, March 3, 1789. 
 
 One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I, 
 having taken our morning walk, and return- 
 ing homeward through the Wilderness, met 
 the Throckmortons. A minute after we had 
 met, them, we heard the cry of hounds at no 
 great distance, and, mounting the broad 
 stump of an elm, which had been felled, and 
 by the aid of which we were enabled to look 
 over the wall, we saw them. They were all 
 at that time in our orchard : presently we 
 heard a terrier, belonging to Mrs. Throck- 
 morton, which you may remember by the 
 name of Fury, yelping with much vehemence 
 and saw her running through the thickets 
 within a few yards of us at her utmost speed, 
 as if in pursuit of something which we 
 doubted not was the fox. Before we could 
 reach the other end of the Wilderness, the 
 hounds entered also ; and when we arrived 
 at the gate which opens into the grove, there 
 we found the whole weary cavalcade assem- 
 bled. The huntsman, dismounting, begged 
 leave to follow his hounds on foot, for he 
 was sure, he said, that they had killed him — 
 a conclusion which I suppose he drew from 
 their profound silence. He was accordingly 
 admitted, and, with a sagacity that would not 
 have dishonored the best hound in the world, 
 pursuingprecisely the same track which the fox 
 and the dogs had taken, though he had never 
 had a glimpse at either after their first en- 
 trance through the rails, arrived where he 
 found the slaughtered prey. He soon pro- 
 duced dead reynard, and rejoined us in the 
 grove with all his dogs about him. Having 
 an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I 
 was pretty sure would never fall in my way 
 again, I determined to stay, and to notice all 
 that passed with the most minute attention. 
 The huntsman, having, by the aid of a pitch- 
 fork, lodged reynard on the arm of an elm, at 
 the height of about nine feet from the ground, 
 there left him for a considerable time. The 
 gentlemen sat on their horses contemplating 
 the fox, for which they had toiled so hard ; 
 and the hounds, assembled at the foot of the 
 tree, with faces not less expressive of the 
 most rational delight, contemplated the same 
 object. The huntsman remounted ; cut off a 
 foot, and threw it to the hounds — one of them 
 swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then 
 once more, alighted, and, drawing down the 
 fox by the hinder legs, desired the people, 
 
 who by this time were rather numerous, to 
 open a lane for him to the right and left. 
 He was instantly obeyed, when, throwing the 
 fox to the distance of some yards, and scream- 
 ing like a fiend, " tear him to pieces," at least 
 six times repeatedly, he consigned him over 
 absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes 
 devoured him completely. Thus, my dear, 
 as Virgil says, what none of the gods could 
 have ventured to promise me, time itself, pur- 
 suing its accustomed course, has of its own 
 accord presented me with. I have been in at 
 the death of a fox, and you now know as much 
 of the matter as I, who am as well informed 
 as any sportsman in England. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, March 12, 1788. 
 
 Slavery, and the Manners of the Great, I 
 have read. The former I admired, as I do a'l 
 that Miss More writes, as well for energy of 
 expression, as for the tendency of the design. 
 I have never yet seen any production of her 
 pen that has not recommended itself by both 
 these qualifications. There is likewise much 
 good sense in her manner of treating every 
 subject, and no mere poetic cant (which is the 
 thing that I abhor) in her manner of treating 
 any. And this I say, not because you now 
 know and visit her, but it has long been my 
 avowed opinion of her works, which I have 
 both spoken and written, as often as I have 
 had occasion to mention them.* 
 
 Mr. Wilberforce's little book (if he was 
 the autlior of it) has also charmed me. It 
 must, I should imagine, engage the notice of 
 those to whom it is addressed. In that case 
 one may say to them, either answer it «ir be 
 set down by it. They will do neither. They 
 will approve, commend and forget it. Such 
 has been the fate of all exhortations to re- 
 form, whether in prose or verse, and liowever 
 closely pressed upon the conscience, in all 
 ages : here and there a happy individual, to 
 whom God gives grace and wisdom to profit 
 by the admonition, is the better for it. But 
 the aggregate body (as Gilbert Cooper used 
 to call the multitude) remain, though with a 
 very good understanding of the matter, like 
 horse and mule who have none. 
 
 * Wo here beg particularly to recommend the perusal 
 of the Memoirs of Mrs. Hauii.ih More. They are rei)letfe 
 with peculiar interest, not only in detailing the histfiry 
 of her own life, and the incidents connected with her 
 numerous and valuable productions, but as elucidatmg 
 the character of the times in which she lived, and ex- 
 hibiJng a lively portrait of the distinguished literary per- 
 sons with whom she associated. The Blue Stocking 
 Club, or " Bas bleu," is minutely described— we are pres- 
 ent at its coteries, introduced to its personages, and 
 familiar with its manners and habits. The Montagus, 
 the Boscawens, the Veseys, the Carters, and the Pepyses, 
 all pass in review before us; and prove how conversa- 
 tion might be made subservient to the improvement o. 
 the intellect, and the enlargement of the heart, if both 
 were cultivated to answer these exalted ei. Is.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 299 
 
 We shall now soon lose our neighbors at 
 the Hall. We shall truly miss them and long 
 for their return. Mr. Throckmorton said to 
 me last night, with sparkling eyes, and a face 
 expressive of the highest jjleasure — " We 
 compared you this morning with Pope ; we 
 read your fourth Iliad and his, and I verily 
 think we shall heat him. He has many 
 superfluous lines, and does not interest one. 
 When I read your translation, I am deeply 
 affected. I see plainly your ad'-antage, and 
 am convinced that Pope spoiled all by at- 
 tempting the work in rhyme."' His brother 
 George, who is my most active amanuensis, 
 and who indeed first introduced the subject, 
 seconded all he said. More would have 
 passed, but, IMrs. Throckmorton iiaving 
 seated herself at the harpsichord, and for my 
 amusement merely, my attention was of 
 course tuwied to her. The new vicar of 
 Olney is arrived, and we have exchanged 
 visits. He is a plain, sensible man, and 
 pleases me much. A treasure for Olney, if 
 Olney can understand his value. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The public mind, inflamed by details of the 
 most revolting atrocities, whicli characterised 
 the Slave-Trade, became daily more agitated 
 on this important subject, and impressed with 
 a sense of its cruelty and injustice. To 
 strengthen the ardor of these generous feel- 
 ings, the relatives of Cowper solicited the 
 co-operation of his pen, which was already 
 known to have employed its powers in the 
 vindication of oppressed Africa.* General 
 Cowper, among others, suggested that the 
 composition of songs or ballads written in 
 the simplicity peculiar to that style of poetry, 
 and adapted to popular airs, might perliaps 
 be the most etKcient mode of promoting tiie 
 interests of the cause. The poet lost no time 
 in complying with this solicitation, and com- 
 posed three ballads, one of which he trans- 
 mitted to the General, witli tiie following 
 letter. 
 
 TO GENERAL COWPER. 
 
 Weston. 1788. 
 My dear General, — A letter is not pleasant 
 which excites curiosity, but does not gratify 
 it. Such a letter was my last, the defects of 
 which I therefore take the first opportunity 
 to supply. When the condition of our ne- 
 groes in the islands was first presented to 
 me as a subject for songs, I felt myself not 
 at all allured to the undertaking ; it seemed 
 to olfer only images of horror, which could 
 by no means be accommodated to the style of 
 that sort of eomposition. But having a de- 
 fiiro to comply, if possible, with the request 
 made to me, after turning the matter in my 
 ' See Poem on Cliarity. 
 
 mind as many ways as I could, I at last, as I 
 told you, produced three, and that which ap- 
 pears to myself the best of those three I have 
 sent you. Of the other two, one is serious, 
 in a strain of tliought perliaps rather too 
 serious, and I could not help it. The other, 
 of which the slave-trader is himself the sub- 
 ject, is somewhat ludicrous. If I could think 
 them worth your seeing, I would, as oppor- 
 tunity should occur, send them also. If this 
 amuses you I shall be glad. W. C. 
 
 THE MORNING DREAM, A BALLAD. 
 
 To the tune nf " Tweed Side"* 
 
 'Twas in the gkul season of spring. 
 
 Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
 I dream'd what I cannot but sing. 
 
 So pleasant it seeni'd as I lay. 
 I dream'd that on ocean afloat. 
 
 Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
 While the liillows high lifted the boat, 
 
 And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 
 
 In the steerage a woman I saw, 
 
 Such at least was the form that she wore, 
 Whose beauty impressed me with awe. 
 
 Ne'er taught me by woman betbre : 
 She sat, and a shield at her side 
 
 Shed liirht like a sun on the waves, 
 And smiling divinely, she cried — 
 
 " I go to make Ireemen of slaves." 
 
 Then, raising her voice to a strain, 
 
 The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
 She sung of the slave's broken chain 
 
 Wherever her glory appear'd. 
 Some clouds which had over us hung 
 
 Fled, chas'd by her meloily clear. 
 And methought, while she liberty sung, 
 
 'Twas liberty only to hear. 
 
 Thus swiftly dividing the flood. 
 
 To a slave-cultured island we came, 
 Where a demon, her enemy, stood, 
 
 Oppression his terrible name : 
 In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 
 
 A scourije hunir with lashes he bore, 
 And stood looking out for his prey, 
 
 From Africa's sorrowful shore. 
 
 But soon as. approachinti the land, 
 
 That rroddess-like woman he view'd, 
 The scoiirire he let fall troin his hand. 
 
 With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
 I saw lii?n both sicken and die, 
 
 And, the moment the monster expir'd, 
 Heard shouts that ascended the sky. 
 
 From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 
 
 Awakin<T, how could I but muse 
 
 At wliat such a dream .shoukl l)etide, 
 But soon my ear caught the glad news. 
 
 Which serv'd my weak tiiought for a guide- 
 That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves, 
 
 For the hatred she ever has shown 
 To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 
 
 Resolves to have none of her own. 
 
 * Those verses wero sot to a popular tiino. for the par 
 pose of general circulation, and to aid the efforts the> 
 making for the abolition of the slave-trade.
 
 300 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Few subjects have agitated this country 
 more deeply than the important question of 
 the abolition of the Slave-Trade ; if we ex- 
 cept, what was its final and necessary conse- 
 quence, the extinction of Slavery itself. 
 The wrongs of injured Africa seemed at 
 length to have come up in remembrance be- 
 fore God, and the days of mourning to be 
 approaching to their end. Tlie strife of pol- 
 itics and the passions of contending parties 
 gave way to the great cause of humanity, and 
 a Pitt and a Fox, supported by many of their 
 yespective adherents, here met on common 
 and neutral ground. The walls of parlia- 
 ment re-echoed with the tones of an elo- 
 quence the most sublime and impassioned, 
 because it is the generous emotions of the 
 heart that invigorate the intellect, and give 
 to it a persuasive and commanding power. 
 In the meantime the mammon of unright- 
 eousness was not inactive ; commercial cu- 
 pidity and self-interest raised up a severe and 
 determined resistance, which protracted the 
 final settlement of this question for nearly 
 twenty years. But its doom was sealed. 
 The moral feeling of the country pronounced 
 the solemn verdict of condemnation, long be- 
 fore the decision of Parliament confirmed 
 that verdict by the authority and sanction of 
 law. William Wilberforce, Esq., the great 
 champion of this cause, who had pleaded its 
 rights with an eloquence that had never been 
 surpassed, and a perseverance and ardor that 
 no opposition could subdue, lived to see the 
 traffic in slaves d<:clared illegal by a legis- 
 lative enactment; his own country rescued 
 from an injurious imputation ; and himself 
 distinguished by the honorable and nobly 
 earned title of The Liberator of Africa* 
 
 We have already stated that Covvper was 
 urged to contribute some popular ballads in 
 behalf of this benevolent enterprise, and that 
 he composed three, one of which is inserted 
 in the previous page. We now insert an- 
 other production of the same kind, which we 
 think possesses more pathos and spirit than 
 the former. 
 
 THE negro's complaint. 
 
 Forced from home and all its pleasures, 
 
 Afric's coast I left forlorn; 
 
 To increase a stranger's treasures, 
 
 O'er the raging billows borne. 
 
 Men from England bought and sold me, 
 
 Paid my price in paltry gold ; 
 
 But, though slave they have enroll'd me, 
 
 Minds are never to be sol''. 
 
 Still in thought as free as ever, 
 What are England's rights, I ask, 
 Me from my delights to sever, 
 Me to torture, me to task 1 
 Fleecy locks and black complexion 
 Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 
 
 * Thetslave trade was abolished in the year 1807 ; de- 
 clared to be felony, in 1811 ; and to be piracy, in 1824. 
 
 Skins may differ, but affection 
 Dwells in white and black the same. 
 
 Why did all-creating Nature 
 Maice the plant for which we toil *? 
 Sighs must fan it, tears must water, 
 Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
 Think, ye masters iron-hearted, 
 Lolling at your jovial boards, 
 Think how many backs have smarted 
 For the sweets your cane affords. 
 
 Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 
 Is there One who reigns on highl 
 Has he bid you buy and sell us, 
 Speaking from his throne, the sky 1 
 Ask him, if your knotted scourges. 
 Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
 Are the means that duty urges 
 Agents of his will to use 1 
 
 Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes. 
 Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, 
 Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 
 Are the voice with which he speaks. 
 He, foreseeing what vexations 
 Afric's sons should undergo, 
 Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 
 Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 
 
 By our blood in Afric wasted, 
 Ere our necks received the chain; 
 By the miseries that we tasted, 
 Crossing in your barks the main ; 
 By our sufferings, since ye brought its 
 To the man-degrading mart ; 
 All sustain'd by patience, taught us 
 Only by a broken heart: 
 
 Deem our nation brutes no longer. 
 Till some reason ye shall find 
 Worthier of regard, and stronger. 
 Than the color of our kind. 
 Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
 Tarnish all your boasted powers, 
 Prove that you have human feelings, 
 Ere you proudly question ours! 
 
 See Poefne. 
 
 To the Christian and philosophic mind, 
 which is accustomed to trace the origin and 
 operation of principles that powerfully affect 
 the moral dignity and happiness of nations, 
 it is interesting to enquire what is the rise 
 of that high moral feeling, that keen and in- 
 dignant sense of wrong and oppression, which 
 form so distinjTuishinof a feature in the 
 character of this country ? Why, too, when 
 the crime and guilt of slavery attached to 
 France, to Portugal, to Spain, to Holland, 
 and above all to America, not less justly than 
 to ourselves, was Great Britain the first to 
 lead the way in this noble career of human- 
 ity, and to sacrifice sordid interest to the 
 claims of public duty ? 
 
 This in|uiry is by no means irrelevant, be- 
 cause the same question suggested itself to 
 the mind of Cowper, and he thus answers 
 it— 
 
 The cause, though worth the search, may yet 
 
 elude 
 Conjecture and remark, however shrewd.
 
 They take perhaps a well-directed aim, 
 Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
 Liberal in all things else, yet nature here 
 With stern severity deals out the year. 
 Winter invades the sprinjr. and often pours 
 A chilling flood on sumaier's drooping flowers ; 
 Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal heams, 
 Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams; 
 The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork 
 With double toil, and shiver at their work; 
 Tlius with a ri'j;' r,fur his good designed, 
 She rears her faruritc man of all mankind. 
 His form robiust and of elastic tone, 
 Proportioned irell, half muscle and half bone, 
 Supplies with warm aclivitij and force 
 A mind well-lodged and masculine of course. 
 ■ Hence liberty, sweet liberty inspires, 
 And keeps aliv^ his fierce but noble fires.* 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 The foundation of this high national feeling 
 must evidently be sought in the causes here 
 specified. To these may be added the in- 
 fluence arising from the constitution of our 
 government, Ihe cliaractcr of our institu- 
 tions, and the freedom with which every sub- 
 ject undergoes the severe ordeal of public 
 discussion. 
 
 May it always be so wisely directed, as 
 never to incur, the risk of becoming the 
 foaming and heedless torrent; but rather re- 
 semble the majestic river, so beautifully de- 
 scribed by the poet Denham : 
 
 * Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full." 
 
 Cooper's Hill. 
 
 It is due, however, to the venerable name of 
 Granville Sharp, to record, more particularly, 
 the zeal witii which he c:illed forth and fos- 
 tered these feelings, and devoted his time, 
 his talents, and his labors, in exposing the 
 cruelty and injustice of this nefarious traffic. 
 He brought it to the test of Scripture. He 
 refuted those arguments which pretended to 
 justify the practice from the supposed au- 
 thority of the Mosaic law, by proving that 
 
 * Tlie followinp; lines IVdm (loldsinith's " Tnivi'llcr," 
 have Hlways been justly adinireil, luiU ar<' s<n much in 
 unison wilh the verses of Cuwjicr, (lunted above, that 
 we ("eel ])ersiia(lr(l we shall cuiisult the taste of the reader 
 by inserting Ihein. 
 
 " Fired at the sound, my genius spieads her wing. 
 And (lies where Uritain courts the western spring ; 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
 And bri'-;hter streams than famed Ilydaspus glide ! 
 There all around the ),'entlL'St breo/.ea stray, 
 There Kenlle music melts on every spray; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
 Extremes are only in the nuLslfr's mind. 
 Stern o'er each bosom rea.son holds her state, 
 Wilh darini; aims irre'.cul;irly threat. 
 Pride in their port, dcllance in their eye ; 
 I see the; lords of human kind pass by ; 
 Intent on liiu'h designs, a lhou'.;htful l)and, 
 By forms unfashioned, Ircsh from Nature's hand ; 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
 True to imai,'ined ri','bt, above control; 
 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself a.s man." 
 
 The celebrated Dr. .Johnson once quoted these lines. 
 
 with so much personal feeling and interest, that the tears 
 
 nre said to have sti'jted into his eyes.— See Boswclfs Lift 
 
 ■V' .Johnson. 
 
 the servitude there mentioned was a limited 
 service, and accompanied by the year of re- 
 lease* and jubilee. He cited pas.sages from 
 that law, expressly proliibiting and condemn 
 ing it. " Thou shall not oppress a stranger 
 for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing 
 ye were strangers in the land of Egypt." 
 Exod. xxiii. 9. " If a stranger sojourn with 
 thee, in your land, ye shall not vex the stran- 
 ger," &c. (fee. " Thou shall love him as thy- 
 self." Lev. xix. 33. " Love ye therefore the 
 stranger, for ve were strangers in the land of 
 Egypt." Deut. x. 17—19. He showed at 
 large that slavery was directly opposed to 
 the genius and spirit of the Gospel, which 
 connects all mankind in the bonds of fellow- 
 ship and love. He adduced the beautiful 
 and affecting remark of St. Paul, who, in his 
 address to Philemon, when he beseeches him 
 to take back his servant Onesimus, observes, 
 and yet " not now as a servant, but above a 
 servant, a brother beloved, specially to me, but 
 how ?nuch more unto thee, both in the flesh and 
 in the Lord." Ver. 16. 
 
 After urgintj various other arguments, and 
 insisting largely, in his " Law of Retribution, 
 on the extent and enormity of the national 
 sin, and its fearful consequences, he draws 
 an affecting picture of the desolation of 
 Africa, quoting the following words of his 
 illustrious ancestor, Archbishop Sharp : — 
 " Thai Africa, which is now more fruitful of 
 monsters, than it was once of excellently 
 wise and learned men ; that Africa, which 
 formerly afforded us our Clemens, our Origen, 
 our Tertullian, our Cyprian, our Augustine, 
 and many other extraordinary lights in the 
 church of God ; ihaX famous Africa, in whose 
 soil Christianity did thrive so prodigiously, 
 and which could boast of so many flourishing 
 churches, alas! is 7iow a wilderness. 'The 
 wild boar out of the wood doth waste it, and 
 the wild beast of the field doth devour it,' 
 ' and it bringeth forth nothing but briars and 
 thorns.' " 
 
 Such were the appeals of Granville Sharp 
 to the generation that is now swept away by 
 the rapid current of time. The grave has 
 entombed their prejudices. The great judg- 
 ment day will pronounce the final verdict. 
 It is a melancholy proof of the slow progretvs 
 of truth, and of the influence of prejudice 
 and error, that De Las Casas pleaded tiie in- 
 justice of slavery, before the Emperor Charles 
 v., nearly three hundred years from the pres- 
 ent time ; and that it required this long and 
 protracted period before the cause of hu- 
 manity finally triumphed; and even then, the 
 triumph was restricted to the precincts of one 
 single kingdom. That kingdom is Great 
 Britain ! Five millions are said to be stili 
 
 * "In the seventh year thou shall lei him go free froir 
 thee. And when tliou seiidesl him out free from thee 
 thou shall uol let him go away empty." Deul. xv. 12, 13
 
 302 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 reserved in bondage and oppression.* May 
 this foul stain be speedily effaced, and civil- 
 ized nations learn, that they can never found 
 a title to true greatness till the rights of hu- 
 manity and justice are publicly recognized 
 and respected ! 
 
 We could have dwelt with delight on the 
 zeal of Ramsay and Clarkson, but our limits 
 do not allow further digression, and the name 
 of Cowper demands and merits our attention. 
 
 How much the cause is indebted to his 
 zeal and benevolence, may be collected from 
 the following extracts. 
 
 Canst thou, and honored with a Christian name, 
 
 Buy what is vvoiuan-horn, and feel no shame ; 
 
 Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 
 
 Expedience as a warrant tor the deed ? 
 
 So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold 
 
 To quit the forest and invade the fold : 
 
 So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide. 
 
 Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 
 
 Not he, but his emergence forced the door, 
 
 He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 The verses which we next insert unite the 
 inspiration of poetry with the manly feelings 
 of the Englishman, and the ardor of genuine 
 humanity. 
 
 I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
 To carry me. to fan me while I sleep, 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the v/ealth 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
 No : dear as freedom is. and in my heart's 
 Just estlaiation prized above all price, 
 I had much rather be myself the slave. 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
 We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad 1 
 And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their lunrrs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall.f 
 
 * It is computed that there are two millions of slaves 
 belonging,' to the United States of America; a similar 
 number in the Brazils ; and that the remainder are under 
 the control of other governments. 
 
 t The force and beauty of this passase will be best 
 understood by the following statement. A slave, of the 
 name of Somerset was brought over to England from the 
 West Indies, by his master^ Mr. Stewart. Shortly after, 
 he absented himself, and refused to return. He was pur- 
 sued and ari'ested, and by Mr. Stewart's orders forcibly 
 put on board a ship, the captain of which was called 
 Knowles. He was there detained in custody, to be car-, 
 ried out of the kingdom and sold. The casebeing made' 
 known was brought before Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, 
 in the Court of King's Bench, .Tune 22, 1772. The judg- 
 ment of Lord Mansfield, on this occasion was as fol- 
 lows: — "A foreigner cannot be imprisoned here, on the 
 authority of any law existing in his own country. The 
 power of a master over his servant is different in all 
 coimtries, more or less limited or extensive ; the exercise 
 of it therefore must always be regulated by the laws of 
 the place where exercised. The power claimed by this 
 return was never in use here. No roaster ever was al- 
 lowed here to take a slave by force, to be sold abroad, 
 because he had deserted from his service, or for any 
 other reason whatever. We oannot say the cause set 
 forth by this return is allowed or approved of hy the laws 
 of this kingdom, and therefore the man must be dis- 
 charged." " In other words,'''' says a report of the case, 
 " a negro slave, coming from the colonies into Oreat Brit- 
 tin, becomes ipso facto Free.'" 
 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 And let it circulate through every vein 
 Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's powei 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 
 
 The Task— The Timepiece. 
 
 But, highly as v/e appreciate the manly 
 spirit of tlie Englishman, and the ardor of 
 the philanthropist, in the foregoing verses, it 
 is the yjiissionary feeling, glowing in the fol- 
 lowing passage, that we Uiost admire, as ex- 
 pressing the only true mode of requiting in- 
 jured Africa. Let us not think that we have 
 discharged the debt by an act of emancipa- 
 tion.* In conferring the boon of liberty, we 
 restore only that of which they oup-ht never 
 to have been deprived. Restitution is not 
 compensation. We have granted compensa- 
 tion to the proprietor, but where is the com- 
 pensation to the negro? Never will the 
 accumulated wrongs of ages be redressed, 
 till we say to the sable sons of Africa, Be- 
 hold your God '. We have burst the chains 
 from the body, let us now convey to them 
 the tidings of a nobler freedom, a deliver- 
 ance from a worse captivity than even 
 African bondage and oppressicn. Let us 
 announce to them that God " hath made of 
 one blood all nations of men that dwell on 
 the face of the earth." Acts xvii. -IQ. Let 
 their minds be expanded by instruction, and 
 the Bible, that great charter of salvation, be 
 circulated wherever it can be read, and thus 
 Britain may acquire a lasting and an honor- 
 able title to their gratitude and love. 
 
 Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
 VVould heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 
 " Beauty tor ashes" is a gift indeed, 
 And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 
 
 * With what feelings of deep gratitude ought we to re- 
 cord the final emancipation of eight hundred thousand 
 Negroes, in the West India Colonies, by an act which 
 passed the British legislature, in the year 1834, dating 
 the commencement of that memorable event fi-om the 
 first of August. The sum of twenty millions was voted 
 to the proprietors of slaves, as a compensation for any 
 loss they might incur. Mr. Wilberforce was at this time 
 on his dying bed, as if bis life had been protr.icted to 
 witness tliis noble consummation of all his labors. When 
 he heard of this splendid act of national generosity, he 
 lifted up his feeble hands to heaven, exclaiming, " Thank 
 God, that I hare lived to see my country give twenty mil 
 lions to abolish slavery.'''* 
 
 The noble grant of the Biitish and Foreign Bible So- 
 ciety (to commemorate this great event) of a copy of a 
 New Testament and Psalter to every emancipated negro 
 that was able to read, deserves to be recorded on this 
 occasion. The measure originated in a suggestion of the 
 Rev. Hugh Stowell. It was computed that, out of a 
 population of eight hundred thousand negroes, one hun- 
 dred and fifty thousand were capable of reading, and 
 that an expenditure of twenty thousand pounds would 
 bf necessary to supply this demand. Forty tons cubic 
 measure of J^Trw Testaments were destined to .Jamaica 
 alone. The Colonial department was willing to assist In 
 the transfer, but the Government packets were found to 
 be too small for this purpose. It is greatly to the honor 
 of some ship-owners, distinguished for their benevolence 
 and public spirit, in the city of London, that they offered 
 to convey this valuable deposit, free of freightage and 
 expense, to its place of destination. The sura of fifteen 
 thousand pounds was eventually contributed.
 
 Then woukl he say, submissive at thy feet, 
 While irratilLide and love made service sweet — 
 " My dear deliverer out of hopeless night. 
 Whose iiounty boujrht me but to give ine light, 
 I was a bondman on my native plain, 
 Sin forged, and ignorance made fast the chain ; 
 Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew. 
 Taught me what j)ath to shun and what pursue; 
 Farewell my former joys ! 1 sigh no more 
 For Africa's once loved, benighted shore; 
 Serving ' benetactor. I am free, 
 At my best home, if not exiled from thee." 
 
 Charity. 
 
 That Ethiopia shall one day stretch out 
 her hands unto God we have the assurance 
 of a specific prophecy, as well as the general 
 declarations of sacred scripture. " All the 
 ends of the world sliall renicinbcr and turn 
 unto tiie Lord, and all the kindreds of the 
 nations shall worsliip before thee." At what 
 time or in what manner the propiiecy will be 
 accomplished, it is not for us to determine. 
 But should it please divine providence that 
 the light of the gospel, through the instru- 
 mentality of Britain, should fir.st spring forth 
 from among that people in our own West 
 India colonies, the land of their former servi- 
 tude and oppression; should they sub.se- 
 quently, witii bowels yearning for liieir own 
 country, see fit to return, seized with a de- 
 sire to communicate to the land of their na- 
 tivity that gospel, the power of wliicli they 
 liave previously felt for themselves; and 
 should tlie hitherto inaccessible and unex- 
 plored parts of that vast continent thus be- 
 come evangelised, such an event will furnish 
 one of the most remarkable instances of an 
 over-ruling Powder, educing good out of posi- 
 tive evil, ever recorded in the annals of man- 
 kind. 
 
 We beg to add one more remark. The 
 blacks are considered to be the descendants 
 of Han^., who first peopU'd Africa, it pleased 
 God to pronounce an awful curse on him and 
 his posterity. " Cursed be Canaan, a servant 
 of servants shall he be." For the long period 
 of four thousand years has that curse impend- 
 ed over their heads. They have drunk the cup 
 of bitterness to its lowest dregs. We con- 
 ceive this terrible interdict to be now ap- 
 proaching to its termination. The curse be- 
 gan to be repealed, in fart, when the aboli- 
 tion of slavery was first proclaimed by a 
 British parliament. This was the seed-time 
 of the future harvest: the example of Brit- 
 ain cannot be exhibited in vain: other na- 
 tions must follow that example, or sutler the 
 consequences of their neglect. They must 
 concede the liberty which is the great inher- 
 ent right of all mankind, or expect to behold 
 it wrested from them amidst scenes of car- 
 nage and blood. Policy, justice, and human- 
 ity, therefore, require the concession. We 
 have said that the repeal of the curse had be- 
 gun in nart; it will be completed when civil 
 
 privileges shall be considered to be only the 
 precursors of that more glorious liberty flow- 
 ing from the communication of the gospel of 
 peace. Then will Africa be raised up from 
 her state of moral degradation, and be ele- 
 vated to the rank and order of civilized na- 
 tions. Then will she once more boast of 
 her Cyprians, her Tertullians, and her Au- 
 gustines ; and the voice of the Lord, speak- 
 ing from his high and holy place, will pro- 
 claim to her sable and afflicted sons, '• Ari-se, 
 shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of 
 the Lord hath arisen upon thee." " There is 
 neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncir- 
 cumcision, barbarian, Scythian, bond, nor free: 
 but Christ is all, and in all." Col. iii. IL 
 
 How sweetly does the muse of Cowper pro- 
 claim the blessings of this spiritual liberty! 
 
 But there is yet a fiberty, unsung 
 
 By poets, and by senators unprais'd, 
 
 Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs 
 
 Of earth and hell con fed rate take away: 
 
 A liberty which persecution, fraud. 
 
 Oppressions, prisons, have no power to bind : 
 
 Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. 
 
 'Tis liberty of heart deriv'd from heavn, 
 
 Bought with His blood, who gave it to manldud, 
 
 And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
 
 By charter, and tliat charter sanction'd sure 
 
 By th' unimpeachable and awful oath 
 
 And promise of a God. His other gifts 
 
 All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his. 
 
 They are august ; but this transcends them all. 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
 And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
 That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, 
 Can wind around him, but he casts it oft' 
 With as much case as Samson his green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varieil field 
 Of nature, and, though poor perhaps compar'd 
 With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
 Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
 And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy- 
 With a propriety that none can feel 
 But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, 
 Can lill to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye 
 And smiling say — "My Father made them all!" 
 
 Winter Morning- Wul/c. ' 
 
 The interesting nature of the subject, and 
 its popularity at the present moment, must 
 plead our excuse for these lengthened re- 
 marks and extracts. But we were anxious 
 to prove how much this great cause of hu- 
 manity was indebted, in the earlier stages of 
 its progress, to the powerful appeals and re- 
 presentations of Cowper. 
 
 We now resume the correspondence 
 
 TO MKS. HILL.* 
 
 Weston Lodge, March 17, 1788. 
 My dear IMadam — A thousand thanks to 
 you for your obliging and most acceptable 
 present, which I received safe this evening, 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 304 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 Had you known my occasions, you could 
 not possibly have timed it more exactly. 
 Tiie Throckmorton family, who live in our 
 neighburliood, and who sometimes take a 
 dinner with us, were, by engag-ement made 
 with them two or three days ago, appointed 
 to dine with us just at the time when your 
 turkey will be in perfection. A turkey from 
 WargBave, the residence of my friend, and a 
 turkey, as I conclude, of your breeding, stands 
 a fair chance, in my account, to excel all other 
 turkeys ; and the ham, its companion, will be 
 no less welcome. 
 
 I shall be happy to hear that my friend 
 Joseph has recovered entirely from his late 
 indisposition, which I was informed was 
 gout; a distemper which, however painful in 
 itself, brings at least some comfort with it, 
 both for the patient and those who love him, 
 the hope of length of days, and an exemption 
 from numerous other evils. I wish him just 
 so much of it as may serve for a confirmation 
 of this hope, and not one twinge more. 
 
 Your husband, my dear madam, told me, 
 some time since, tluit a certain library of 
 mine, concerning which I have heard no 
 other tidings these five-and-twenty years, is 
 still in being.* Hue and cry have been made 
 after it in Old Palace-yard, but hitherto in 
 vain. If he can inform a bookless student 
 in what region, or in what nook, his long- 
 lost volumes may be found, he will render 
 me an important service. 
 
 I am likely to be furnished soon with 
 shelves, which my cousin of New Norfolk- 
 street is about to send me ; but furniture for 
 these shelves I shall not presently procure, 
 unless by recovering my stray authors. I 
 am not young enough to think of making a 
 new collection, and shall probably possess 
 myself of few books hereafter but such as I 
 may put forth myself, which cost me nothing 
 but what I can better spare than money — 
 time and consideration. 
 
 I beg, my dear madam, that you will give 
 my love to my friend, and believe me, with 
 the warmest sense of his and your kindness, 
 Your most obliged and affectionate 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Weston Lodge, March 17, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — The evening is almost 
 J^orn away while I have been writing a let- 
 ter, to which I was obliged to give immediate 
 attention. An application from a lady, and 
 backed by you, could not be less than irre- 
 sistible. The lady, too, a daughter of Mr. 
 Thornton's.| Neither are these words of 
 course: since I returned to Homer in good 
 
 * Cowper's books had been Inst, owins to his original 
 illness, and nis sudden removal to St. Alban's. 
 t Private corrijsponuence. 
 i Lady Balsonie, 
 
 earnest, I turn out of my way for no consid- 
 eration that I can possibly put aside. 
 
 With modern tunes I am unacquainted, and 
 have therefore accommodated my verse to an 
 old one; not so old, however, but that there 
 will be songsters found old enough to re- 
 member it. The song is an admirable on« 
 for which it was made, and, though political, 
 nearly, if not quite, as serious as mine. On 
 such a subject as 1 had before me, it seems 
 impossible not to be serious. I shall be 
 happy if it meet with your and Lady Bal 
 gonie's approbation. 
 
 Of Mr. Bean I could say much ; but havo 
 only time at present to say that I esteem and 
 love him. On some future occasion I shall 
 speak of him more at large. 
 
 We rejoice that Mrs. Newton is better, and 
 wish nothing more than her complete recov- 
 ery. Dr. Ford is to be pitied.* His wife, I 
 suppose, is going to heaven ; a journey which 
 she can better afford to take than he to part 
 with her. 
 
 I am, my dear friend, with our united love 
 to you all three, most truly yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 March 19, 1788. 
 
 My dear Friend, — The spring is come, but 
 not, I suppose, that spring which our poets 
 have celebrated. So I judge at least by the 
 extreme severity of the season, sunless skies, 
 and freezing blasts, surpassing all that we 
 experienced in the depth of winter. How 
 do you dispose of yourself in this howling 
 month of March? As for me, I walk daily, 
 be the wea'ther what it may, take bark, and 
 write verses. By the aid of such means as 
 these I combat the north-east wind with some 
 measure of success, and look forward, with 
 the hope of enjoying it, to the warmth of 
 summer. 
 
 Have you seen a little volume, lately pub- 
 lished, entitled, "The Manners of the Great?" 
 It is said to have been written by Mr. Wilber- 
 force, but whether actually written by him or 
 not, is undoubtedly the work: of some man 
 intimately acquainted with tin; subject, a gen- 
 tleman, and a man of letters.f If it makes 
 the impression on those to whom it is ad- 
 dressed, that may be in some degree expect- 
 ed from his arguments, and from his manner 
 of pressing them, it vi'ill be well. But you 
 and I have lived long enough in the world to 
 know that the hope of a general reformation 
 in any class of men whatever, or of women 
 either, may easily be too sanguine. 
 
 I have now given the last revisal to as 
 
 * Dr. Ford was Vicar of Melton Mowbray, well known 
 and respected, and a particular friend of Mr. Newton's. 
 
 t The author of this work proved to be Miss Hannah 
 More.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 305 
 
 much of my translation as was ready for it, 
 and Jo not know that I shall bestow another 
 single stroke of my pen on that part of it 
 before I send it to the press. My business 
 at present is with the sixteenth book, in 
 which I have made some progress, but have 
 not yet actually sent forth Patroclns to the 
 battle. My lirst translation lies always be- 
 fore me ; line by line I examine it as I pro- 
 ceed, and line by line reject it. I do not, 
 however, hold myself altogether indebted to 
 my critics for the better judgment that I 
 seem to exercise in this matter now than in 
 the first instance. By long study of him, I 
 am in fact become mucli more familiar with 
 Homer tlian at any lime heretofore, and 
 have possessed myself of such a taste of his 
 manner, as is not to be attained by mere 
 cursory reading for amusement. But, alas! 
 'tis after all a mortifying consideration that 
 the majority of my judges hereafter, will be 
 no judges of this. Gncciim est, non potest 
 li'iii, is a motto that would suit nine in ten 
 of those who will give themselves airs about 
 it, and pretend to like or to dislike. No 
 matter. I know I shall please yon, because 
 I know vhai pleases you, and 1 am sure that 
 I have done it. 
 
 Adieu 1 my good friend, 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, W. C, 
 
 Cowper alludes in the following letters, to 
 the progress of his version, and the obstruc- 
 tions to the negro cause. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ., 
 
 Weston, March 29, 1788. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you have 
 so successfully performed so long a journey 
 without the aid of hoofs or wheels. I do 
 not know that a journey on foot exposes a 
 man to more disasters than a carriage or a 
 horse : perhaps it may be the safer way of 
 travelling, but the novelty of it impressed 
 me with some anxiety on your account. 
 
 It seems almost incredible to myself that 
 my company should be at all desirable to 
 you, or to any man. I know so little of the 
 world as it goes at present, and labor gen- 
 erally under such a depression of spirits, es- 
 pecially at those times when I could wish to 
 be most cheerful, that my own share in 
 every conversation appears to me to be the 
 most insipid thing imaginable. But yon say 
 you found it otherwise, and I will not for 
 my own sake doubt your sincerity: (h: gnsti- 
 hits non est dispulamium, and since such is 
 yours, I shall leave you in quiet possession 
 of it, \vishing indeed both its contiiuiance 
 and increase. I shall not find a properer 
 place in which to say, accept of Mrs. Un- 
 win's acknowledgements, as well as mine, 
 for the kindness of your expressions on this 
 
 subject, and be assured of an undissembling 
 welcome at all times, when it shall suit you 
 to give us your company at Weston. As to 
 her, she is one of the sincerest of the human 
 race, and if she receives you with the appear- 
 ance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. 
 Her behavior on such occasions is with her 
 an affair of conscience, and she dares no 
 more look a falsehood than utter one. 
 
 It is almost time to tell you, that I have 
 received the books safe ; they have not suf- 
 fered the least detriment by the way, and T 
 am much obliged to you for them. If my 
 translation should be a little delayed in con- 
 sequence of this favor of yours, you must 
 take the blame on yourself. It is impossible 
 not to read the notes of a commentator so 
 leaimed, so judicious, and of so fine a taste 
 as Dr. Clarke,* having him at one's elbow. 
 Though he has been but few hours under my 
 roof, 1 have already peeped at him, and find 
 that he will be instar omnium to me. They 
 are such notes exactly as I wanted. A trans- 
 lator of Homer should ever have somebody 
 at hand to say, " That's a beauty," lest he 
 should slumber where his author does not, 
 not only depreciating, by such inadvertency, 
 the work of his original, but depriving per- 
 haps his own of an embellishment, which 
 wanted only to be noticed. 
 
 If you hear ballads sung in the streets on 
 the hardships of the negroes in the islands, 
 they are probably mine.f It must be an 
 honor to any man to have given a stroke to 
 that chain, however feeble. I fear however 
 that the attempt will fail. The tidings which 
 have lately reached me from London con- 
 cerning it are not the most encouraging. 
 While the matter slept, or was but slightly 
 adverted to, the English only had their share 
 of shame in common with other nations on 
 account of it. But, since it has been can- 
 vassed and searched to the bottom, since the 
 public attention has been riveted to the hor- 
 rible scheme, we cjin no longer plead either 
 that we did not know it, or did not think of 
 it. Woe be to us if we refuse the poor cap- 
 tives the re ress to which they have so clear 
 a right, and prove ourselves in the sight of 
 God and menjndifferent to all considerations 
 but those of gain !| 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, March 31, 1788. 
 My dearest Cousin, — Mrs. Throckmorton 
 
 * Well known for his celebrated works, on the " Being 
 and attriljutes of (iod," and the "Evidences of Natural 
 and Revealed Religion." 
 
 t They were, after all, never appropriated to that pur- 
 pose. 
 
 \ The interests of commerce wore too much at vari 
 ance with this yreat cause of humanity not to oppose a 
 lono; and persevcrjnL,' resistance to its progress in parlia 
 ini'iit. Though Mr. I'iu supported the measure, it wai 
 not made a government question. 
 
 20
 
 306 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 has promised to write to me. I beg that, as 
 often as you shall see her, you will give her 
 a smart pinch, and say, " Have you written 
 to my cousin ?" I build all my hopes of her 
 performance on this expedient, and for so 
 doing these my letters, not patent, shall be 
 your sufficient warrant. You are thus to give 
 her the question till she shall answer, " Yes." 
 I have written one more sdng, and sent it. 
 It is called the " JMorning Dream," and may 
 be sung to tlie tune of Tweed-Side, or any 
 other tune that will suit it, for I am not nice 
 on that subject. I woidd have copied it for 
 you, had I not almost filled my sheet with- 
 out it ; but now, my dear, you must stay till 
 the sweet sirens of London shall bring it to 
 you, or, if that happy day should never ar- 
 rive, I hereby acknowledge myself your 
 debtor to that amount. I shall now prob- 
 ably cease to sing of tortured negroes, a 
 theme which never pleased me, but which, 
 in the hope of doing them some little ser- 
 vice, I was not unwilling to handle. 
 
 If anything could have raised Miss More 
 to a higlier place in my opinion than she 
 possessed before, it could only be your in- 
 formation that, after all, she, and not Mr. 
 Wilberforce, is author of that volume. How 
 comes it to pass, that she, being a woman, 
 writes with a force and energy, and a cor- 
 rectness hitherto arrogated by the men, and 
 not very frequently displayed even by the 
 men themselves? 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 The object of this valuable treatise is not 
 to attack gross delinquencies, but to show 
 the danger of resting for acceptance on mere 
 outward decorum and general respectability 
 of character, while the internal principle, 
 which can alone elevate the affections of the 
 heart and influence the life, is wanting. We 
 select the following passage as powerfully 
 illustrating this view. Speaking of the ricli 
 man, who is represented by our Lord as 
 lifting up his eyes in torments, Miss More 
 observes, " He committed no enormities, that 
 have been transmitted to us; for that he 
 dined well and dressed well could hardly 
 incur the bitter penalty of eternal misery. 
 That his expenses were suitable to his sta- 
 tion, and his splendor proportioned to his 
 opulence, does not exhibit any objection to 
 his character. Nor are we told that lie re- 
 fused the crumbs which Lazarus solicited: 
 and yet this man, on an authority we are not 
 permitted to question, is represented hi a 
 future state as lifting up his eyes, being in 
 torments. His punishment seems to have 
 been the consequence of an irreligious, a 
 worldly spirit; a heart corrupted by the 
 softnesses and delights of life. It was not 
 because he was i ich, but because he trusted 
 in riches : or, if even he was charitable, his 
 
 charity wanted that principle which alone ccu'd 
 sanctify it. His views terminated here ; this 
 world^s good, and this wnrUVs applause, were 
 the motives and the end of his actions. He fyr- 
 got God; he icas destitute of piety; and the 
 absence of this great and first principle of hu- 
 man actions rendered his shining deeds, how- 
 ever they might be admired among men, of no 
 value in the sight of God." 
 
 Admonitory statements like these are in- 
 valuable, and demand the earnest attention 
 of those to whom they apply. 
 
 Nor is the next passage less important on 
 the subject of sins of omission. 
 
 "It is not less agamst negative than against 
 actual evil, that affectionate exhortation, live- 
 ly remonstrance, and pointed parable are ex- 
 hausted. It is against the tree which bore 
 no fruit, the lamp which had no oil, the un- 
 profitable servant who made no use of his 
 talent, that the severe sentence is denounced, 
 as well as against corrupt fruit, bad oil, and 
 talents ill employed. We are led to believe, 
 from the saine high authority, that omitted 
 duties and neglected opportunities tfill furnish 
 no inconsideral)le portvm (f our future coru- 
 demnation. A very awful part of the de- 
 cision, in the great day of account, seems to 
 be reserved merely for carelessness, omis- 
 sions, and negatives. Ye gave me no meat, 
 ye gave me no drink ; ye took me tLot in, ye 
 visited me not. On the punishment attend- 
 ing positive crimes, as being more naturally 
 obvious, it was not, perhaps, thought so 
 necessary to insist."* 
 
 Tin's work was the first important appeal, 
 in those days, addressed to the fashionable 
 world, and Miss More's previous intercourse 
 with it admirably qualified her to write with 
 judgment and effect. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 Weston Lodge, April 11, 1T88. 
 Dear Jladam, — The melancholy that I have 
 mentioned, and concerning whicii you are so 
 kind as to inquire, is of a kind, so far as I 
 know, peculiar to myself. It does not at all 
 affect the operations of my mind on any sub- 
 ject to which I can attach it, whether serious 
 or ludicrous, or whatsoever it may be ; for 
 which reason I am almost always employed 
 either in reading or writing when I am not 
 engaged in conversation. A vacant hour is 
 my abhorrence, because when I am not occa- 
 piedl suffer under the whole influence of my 
 unhappy temperament. I thank you for the 
 recomniendation of a medicine from which 
 you have received benefit yourself; but there 
 is hardly anything that I have not proved, 
 however beneficial it may have been found by 
 others, in my own case utterly useless. I 
 
 * Thonsjhts on the Manuel's of the Great, 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 30r 
 
 have, therefore, long since bid adieu to all 
 hope from liuma;i means, — the means except- 
 ed of perpetual employment. 
 
 I will not say that we shall never meet, 
 bocause it is not for a creature who knows 
 not what shall be to-morrow to assert any- 
 thing positively concerning the future. Things 
 more unlikely I have' yet seen brought to 
 pass, and things which, if I had expressed 
 myself of them at all, I should have said 
 were impossible. But, being respectively 
 circumstanced as we are, there seems no pres- 
 ent probability of it. You speak of insuper- 
 able hindrances ; and I also have hindrances 
 that would be equally ditlicult to surmount. 
 One is, that I never ride, that I am not able 
 to perform a journey on foot, and that chaises 
 do not roll within the sphere of that economy 
 which my circumstances oblige me to observe. 
 If this were not of itself sullicieut to excuse 
 me, when I decline so obliging an invitation 
 as yours, I could mention yet other obstacles. 
 But to what end ? One impracticability 
 makes as ctTectual a barrier as a thousand. 
 It will be otherwise in other worlds. Either 
 we shall not bear about us a body, or it will 
 be more easily transportable than this. In the 
 meantime, by the help of the post, strangers 
 to each other may cease to be such, as you 
 and I have already begun to experience. 
 
 It is indeed, madam, as you say, a foolish 
 world, and likely to continue such till the 
 Great Teacher shall himself vouchsafe to 
 make it wiser. I am persuaded that time 
 alone will never mend it. But there is 
 doubtless a day appointed wiien there shall 
 be a more general manifestation of the 
 beauty of holiness than mankind have ever 
 yet beheld. When that period shall arrive 
 there will be an end of profane representa- 
 tions, whether of heaven or hell, on the 
 stage: — the great realities will supercede 
 them. 
 
 I have just discovered that I have written 
 to you on paper so transparent that it will 
 hardly keep the contents a secret. Excuse 
 the mistake, and believe me, dear madam, 
 with my respects to Jlr. King, 
 
 Alfectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 The slow progress of the abolition cause, 
 and the nature of the dilficulties, are adverted 
 to in the following letter. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Wfstoii, April 19, 1788. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for your 
 last, and for the verses in particular therein 
 contained, in which there is not on' y rhyme 
 but reason. And yet I fear that neitiier you 
 nor I, with all uur reasoning and rhyming, 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 shall effect much good in this matter. So 
 far as I can learn, and I have had intelligence 
 from a quarter witiiin the reach of such as is 
 respectable, our governors are not animated 
 altogether with such heroic ardor as the oc- 
 casion might inspire. They consult frequent- 
 ly indeed in the cabinet about it, but the fre- 
 quency of their consultations in a case so 
 plain as tiiis would be, did not what Shak- 
 speare calls commodity, and what we call 
 political expediency, cast a cloud over it, 
 rather bespeaks a desire to save appearances 
 than to interpose to purpose. Laws will, I 
 suppose, be enacted for the more humane 
 treatment of the negroes ; but who shall see 
 to the execution of them ? The planters will 
 not, and the negroes cannot. In fact, we 
 know that laws of this tendency have not 
 been wanting, enacted even amongst them- 
 selves, but there has been always a want of 
 prosecutors, or righteous judges ; deficiencies 
 which will not be very easily supplied. The 
 newspapers have lately told us that these 
 merciful masters have, on this occasion, been 
 occupied in passing ordinances, by which the 
 lives and limbs of their slaves are to be se- 
 cured from wanton cruelty hereafter. But 
 who does not immediately detect the artifice, 
 or can give them a moment's credit for any- 
 thing more than a design, by this show of 
 lenity, to avert the storm which they think 
 hangs over them? On the whole, I fear 
 there is reason to wish, for the honor of Eng- 
 land, that the nuisance had never been troub- 
 led, lest we eventually make ourselves justly 
 chargeable with the whole offence by not re- 
 moving it. The enormity cannot be palli- 
 ated ; we can no longer plead that we were 
 not aware of it, or that our attention was 
 otherwise engaged, and shall be inexcusable 
 therefore ourselves if we leave the least part 
 of it unredressed. Such arguments as Pha- 
 raoh might have used to justify the de- 
 struction of the Israelites, substituting only 
 sugar for bricks, may lie ready for our use 
 also; but I think we can find no better. 
 
 We are tolerably well, and shall rejoice to 
 hear that, as the year rises, Mrs. Newton's 
 health keeps pace with it. Believe me, my 
 dear friend, 
 
 Alfectionately and truly yours, 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 T1r> Lodge, M:iy G, 1788. 
 My dearest Cousin, — You ask me how I 
 like Smollett's Don Quixote ? I answer, well ; 
 perhaps better than anybody's ; but, having 
 no skill in the oriirinal, some diftidenee be- 
 comes me : that is to say, I do not know 
 whether I ought to prefer it or not. Yet, 
 there is so little deviation from other versions 
 which I have seen that I do not much hesi-
 
 308 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 tate. It h.is made me laugli I know immod- 
 erately, and ill such a case <;« siijil. 
 
 A thousand thanks, my dear, for the new 
 convenience in the way of stowage which you 
 are so kind as to intend me. There is noth- 
 ing in which I am so deficient as repositories 
 for letters, papers, and litter of all sorts. 
 Your last present has helped me somewhat, 
 but not with respect to such things as require 
 lock and key, which are numerous. A box, 
 therefore, so secured, will be to me an invalu- 
 able acquisition. And, since you leave me 
 to my option, what shall be the size thereof, 
 I of course prefer a folio. On the back of 
 the book-seeming box, some artist expert in 
 those matters, may inscribe these words, 
 
 Collectanea curiosa, 
 
 the English of which is, a collection of curi- 
 osities. A title which 1 prefer to all others, 
 because if I live, I shall take care that the 
 box shall merit it, and because it will operate 
 as an incentive to open that which being 
 locked cannot be opened : for in these cases 
 the greater the baulk the more wit is dis- 
 covered by the ingenious contriver of it, viz., 
 myself. 
 
 The General, I understand by his last letter, 
 is in town. In my last to him I told him 
 news, possibly it will give you pleasure, and 
 ought for that reason to be made known to 
 you as soon as possible. My friend Rowley, 
 who I told you has, after twenty-five years' 
 silence, renewed his correspondence with me, 
 and who now lives in Ireland, where he has 
 many and considerable connexions, has sent 
 to me for thirty subscription papers.* Row- 
 ley is one of the most benevolent and friend- 
 ly creatures in the world, and will, I dare say, 
 do all hi his power to serve me. 
 
 I am just recovered from a violent cold, 
 attended by a cough, which split my head 
 while it lasted. I escaped these tortures all 
 the winter, but whose constitution, or what 
 skin, can possibly be proof against our vernal 
 breezes in England ? Mine never were, nor 
 will be. 
 
 When people are intimate, we say they are 
 as great as two inkle-weavers, on which ex- 
 pression I have to remark, in the first place, 
 that the word great is here used in a sense 
 which the corresponding term has not, so far 
 as I know, in any other language, and second- 
 ly, that inkle-weavers contract intimacies with 
 each other sooner than other people on ac- 
 count of their juxtaposition in weaving of 
 inkle. Hence it is that Mr. Gregson and I 
 emulate those happy weavers in the close- 
 ness of our connexion.! We live near to each 
 other, and while the Hall is empty are each 
 other's only extraforaneous comfort. 
 
 Most truly thine, W. C. 
 
 * For his version of Homer. 
 
 \ Mr. Gregson was chaplain to Mr. Throckmorton. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, May S, 1/W. 
 Alas ! n y library — T must now give it '.ii: 
 for a lost thing forever. The only consob- 
 tion belonging to the circumstance is, or 
 seems to be, that no such loss did ever befall 
 any other man, or can ever befall me again 
 As far as books are concerned I am 
 
 Totus teres atque rotundus, 
 
 and may set fortune at defiance. The books, 
 which had been my fathers, had, most of 
 them, his arms on the inside cover, but the 
 rest no mark, neither his name nor mine. I 
 could mourn for them like Sancho for his 
 Dapple, but it would avail me nothing. 
 
 You will oblige me much by sending me 
 " Crazy Kate." A gentleman last winter 
 promised me both her and the " Lace-maker," 
 but he went to London, that place in which, 
 as in the grave, "all things are forgotten," and 
 I have never seen either of them.* 
 
 I begin to find some prospect of a con- 
 clusion, of the Iliad at least, now opening 
 upon me, having reached the eighteenth book. 
 Your letter found me yesterday in the very 
 fact of dispersing the ^hole host of Troy, by 
 the voice only of Achilles. There is nothing 
 extravagant in the idea, for you have wit- 
 nessed a similar eifect attending even such a 
 voice as mine, at midnight, from a garret 
 window, on the dogs of a whole parish, whom 
 I have put to flight in a moment. 
 
 ^ ° W. C. 
 
 His high sense of the character and quali- 
 fications of Lady Hesketh is pleasingly ex- 
 pressed in the following letter, where Mrs. 
 Montagu's coteries in Portman-square are 
 also alluded to. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, May 12, 1788. 
 
 It is probable, my dearest coz., that I shall 
 not be able to write much, but as much as I 
 can I will. The time between rising and 
 breakfast is all that I can at present find, and 
 this morning I lay longer than usual. 
 
 In the style of the lady's note to you, I 
 can easily perceive a smatch of her charac- 
 ter.! Neither men nor women write with 
 such neatness of expression, who have not 
 given a good deal of attention to language, 
 and qualified themselves by study. At the 
 same time it gave me much more pleasure to 
 observe, that my coz., though not standing 
 on the pinnacle of renown quite so elevated 
 
 * He alludes to engravings of these two characters, 
 which had acquired much popularity with the public, 
 especially Crazy Kate, beginning, 
 " There often wanders oce, whom better days," &c. &c 
 
 t Mrs. Montagu.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 309 
 
 .IS thiit whicli lifts Mrs. Montagu to tlie 
 clouds, fulls in no degree short of her in this 
 pnrtieuhir ; so that, should she make you a 
 member of her academy,* she will do it honor. 
 Suspect me not of Hattering you, for I ahlior 
 the thought; neither will you suspect it. 
 Recollect that it is an invariable rule with 
 me never to pay compliments to those I love. 
 
 Two days, eii sni/f, I have walked to Gay- 
 hurst.f a longer journey than I have walked 
 on foot these seventeen years. The first day 
 I went alone, designing merely to make the 
 experiment, and choosing to oe at liberly to 
 return at whatsoever point of my pilgrimage 
 I should find myself fatigued. For I was 
 not without suspicion that years, and some 
 other things no less injurious than years, 
 viz., melanciioly and distress of mind, might 
 by this tin\e have unfitted me for such achieve- 
 ments. But I found it otherwise. I reached 
 the cliurch, which stands, as you know, in 
 the garden, in fifty-five minutes, and returned 
 in ditto time to Weston. The next day I 
 took the same walk with Mr. Powley, having 
 a desire to show him the prettiest place in 
 the country.| I not only performed tliese 
 two excursions without injury to my health, 
 but have by means of them gained indisput- 
 able proof that my ambulatory faculty is not 
 yet impaired; a discovery which, considering 
 that to my feet alone I am likely, as I have 
 ever been, to be indebted always for my 
 transportation from place to place, I find very 
 delectable. 
 
 You will find in the last Gentleman's Mag- 
 azine a sonnet, addressed to Henry Cowper, 
 signed T. H. I am the writer of it. No 
 creature knows this but yourself; you will 
 make what use of the intelligence you shall 
 see good. W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Tlie I,o(lge, RTay 24, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — For two excellent prints 
 I return you my sincere acknowledgments. 
 
 * The Bliic-stockins; Club, or Bas bleu. 
 The Ibllowin;; is llio accimiil of the origin of tlio RIuo- 
 stockiii? Club, extracted from lioswell's " Life of .Joliu- 
 eou:" '■ Aboi'.t lliis lime (l"ril) it wius miicli tlie fashion 
 for sm'eral ladies lo \\-\\> ■•vonuvj: assemblies, where the 
 fair sex initjlil parlioii-.-t" in conversation with literary 
 and inijenious men. animiU'il by a ilesire lo i)leii.se. 
 
 These societies were dt ■!'" lated lilnc-atockinir C/tib.s, 
 
 the oriu'in of wliicli title Iteinj,' liltl<^ known, it may be 
 worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent :nem- 
 bi:rs of these societies, when they lirst commenced, was 
 Mr. lieMjamin Stillinu'fleet, (anlhor of tracts relatin<; to 
 natural iiistory, &c.) whose dress was remarkalily );rave, 
 and in particillar it wxs observed that /ir wore blur. .<tiirl;- 
 inirs. Such was the excellence of his conversatiun, that 
 ins absence was felt as so u'reat a hiss, that it used to be 
 Baid. 'We can do nothin.; without the blue gtucliliiirx C 
 and thus by degrees the title was established. Nliss 
 Haimah More luii admirably described a Blur-slorliin/T 
 Club, in her ' Has lileii,'' a lioem in which many of tht! 
 persiins who were most cousiiiciious there arc men- 
 tioned."' 
 
 T A lan,'e niausion near Newport Pagnel, formerly bc- 
 onginir to Miss Wriu'lit. 
 I The Uev. .Mr. Powley mtui ied Mrs. Uuwin's daughter. 
 
 I cannot say that poor Kate resembles much 
 the original, who was neither so young nor 
 so handsome as the pencil has represented 
 her ; but she has a figure well suited to the 
 account given of her in " The Task," and 
 has a face exceedingly expressive of despair- 
 ing melancholy. The Lace-maker is acci- 
 dentally a good likeness of a young woman 
 once our neighbor, who was hardly less hand 
 some than the picture twenty years ago ; 
 but the loss of one husband, and the acqui- 
 sition of another, have, since that time, im- 
 paired her much ; yet she might still be sup- 
 posed to have sat to the artist.* 
 
 We dined yesterday with your friend and 
 mine, the most companionable and domestic 
 
 Mr. C .f The whole kingdom can hardly 
 
 furnish a spectacle more pleasing to a man 
 who has a taste for true happiness, than him- 
 self, Mrs. C , and thei* multitudinous 
 
 family. Seven long miles are interposed 
 between us, or perhaps I should oftener have 
 an opportunity of declaiming on this subject. 
 
 I am now in the nineteenth book of the 
 Iliad, and on the point of displaying such 
 feats of heroism performed by Achilles as 
 make all other achievements trivial. I may 
 well exclaim, " O for a Muse of fire !" es- 
 pecially having not only a great host to cope 
 with, but a great river also ; much, however, 
 may be done when Homer leads the way. 
 I should not have chosen to have been the 
 original author of such a business even 
 though all the Nine had stood at ray elbow. 
 Time has wonderful effects. We admire 
 that in an ancient, for which we should send 
 a modern bard to Bedlam. 
 
 I saw at jMr. C 's a great curiosity — an 
 
 antique bust of Paris, in Parian marble. 
 You will conclude that it interested me ex- 
 ceedingly. I pleased myself with supposing 
 that it once stood in Helen's chamber. It 
 was in fact brought from the Levant, and, 
 though not well mended, (for it had suffered 
 much by time,) is an admirable performance. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Mr. Bull had urged Cowper once more to 
 employ the powers of his pen, in what he so 
 eminently excelled, the composition of hymns 
 expressive of resignation to the will of God. 
 It is much to be lamented that he here de- 
 clines what would so essentially have pro- 
 moted the interests of true religion. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULLt- 
 
 Weston, May 2o, 1788. 
 ]My dear Friend, — Ask possibilities and 
 they shall be performed ; but ask not hymns 
 
 * Poor Kate and the Laco-makcr were portraits drawn 
 from real life. 
 t Mr. Chester, of Cliieheley, near Newport PagneU 
 % Private corresijoudeuce.
 
 310 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 from a man suffering by despair as I do. I 
 could not sing the Lord's song were it to 
 save my life, banished as I am, not to a 
 strange land, but to a remoteness from his 
 presence, in comparison with which the dis- 
 tance flora east to west is no distance, is 
 vicinity and cohesion. I dare not, either in 
 prose or verse, allow myself to express a 
 frame of mind which I am conscious does 
 not belong to me ; least of all can I venture 
 to use the language of absolute resignation, 
 lest, only counterfeiting, I should for that 
 very reason be taken strictly at my word, 
 and lose all my remaining comfort. Can 
 there not be found among those translations 
 of Madame Guion somewhat that might 
 serve the purpose? I should think there 
 might. Submission to the will of Christ, 
 my memory tells me, is a theme that pervades 
 them all. If so, your request is performed 
 already ; and if any alteration in them should 
 be necessary, I will with all my heart make 
 it. I have no objection to giving the graces 
 of the foreigner an English dress, but insu- 
 perable ones to all false pretences and affected 
 exhibitions of what I do not feel. 
 
 Hoping that you will have the grace to be 
 resigned most perfectly to this disappoint- 
 ment, which you should not have suffered 
 had it been in my power to prevent it, I 
 remain, with our best remembrances to Mr. 
 Thornton, 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, May 27, 1788. 
 
 My dear Coz., — Tlie General, in a letter 
 which came yesterday, sent me inclosed a 
 copy of my sonnet ; thus introducing it. 
 
 " I send a copy of verses somebody has 
 written for the Gentleman's Magazine for 
 April last. Independent of my partiality 
 towards the subject, I think the lines them- 
 selves are good." 
 
 Thus it appears that my poetical adven- 
 ture has succeeded to my wish, and I write 
 to him by this post, on purpose to inform 
 him that the somebody m question is my- 
 self* 
 
 I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu 
 stands at the head of all that is called learned, 
 and that every critic vails his bonnet to her 
 
 * Mr. Henry Cowper, who was reading-clerk in the 
 House of Lords, was remark.able for the clearness and 
 melody of his voice. This qualification is happily al- 
 luded to l)y the poet, in the following lines : — 
 
 " Thou art not voice alone, but hast besides 
 Both heart and head, and couldst with music sweet 
 Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
 Like thy renown'd forefathers,* far and wide 
 Thy fame diffuse, praised, not for utterance meet 
 Of others' speech, but magic of thy own." 
 
 * Lord-Chancellor Cow ler, and Spencei Cowper, Chief- 
 lostice of Chester. 
 
 superior judgment; T am now reading, and 
 have reached the middle of her Essay on the 
 Genius of Shakspeare; a book of wliicli, 
 strange as it may seem, though I must have 
 read it formerly, I had absolutely forgot the 
 existence.* 
 
 Tlie learning, the good g?nse, the sound 
 judgment, and the wit displayed in it, fully 
 justify not only my compliment, but all com- 
 pliments tliat either have been already paid 
 to her talents, or shall be paid hereafter. 
 Voltaire, I doubt not, rejoiced that his antag- 
 onist wrote in English, and that his country- 
 men could not possibly be judges of the dis 
 pute. Could they have known how much 
 she was in the right, and by how many thou- 
 sand miles the bard of Avon is superior to 
 all their dramatists, the French critic would 
 have lost half his fame among them. 
 
 I saw at Mr. Chester's a head of Paris ; an 
 antique of Parian marble. His uncle, who 
 left him the estate, brought it, as I under- 
 stand, from the Levant : you may suppose 
 I viewed it witli all the enthusiasm tiiat 
 belongs to a translator of Homer. It is in 
 reality a great curiosity, and highly valuable. 
 
 Our friend Sephusf has sent me two 
 prints; the Lace-maker and Crazy Kate. 
 These also I have contemplated with pleas- 
 ure, having, as you know, a particular inter- 
 est in them. The former is not more beau- 
 tiful than a lace-maker once our neighbor at 
 Olney ; though the artist has assembled as 
 many charms in her countenance as I ever 
 saw in any countenance, one excepted. Kate 
 is both younger and handsomer than the 
 original from which I drew, but she is in 
 good style, and as mad as need be. 
 
 How does this hot weather suit thee, my 
 dear, in London? as for me, with all my 
 colonnades and bowers, I am quite oppressed 
 by it. W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, June 3, 1788. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — The excessive heat 
 of these last few days was indeed oppressive ; 
 but, excepting the languor that is occasioned 
 both in my mind and body, it was far from 
 being prejudicial to me. It opened ten thou- 
 sand pores, by which as many mischiefs, the 
 effects of long obstructions, began to breathe 
 themselves forth abundantly. Then came an 
 east wind, baneful to me at all times, but fol- 
 
 * This essay contributed very much to establish the 
 literary character of Mrs. Montagu, as a woman of taste 
 and learning; and to vindicate Shakspeare from the 
 sallies of the wit of Voltaire, who comprehended his 
 genius as little as the immortal poem of the " Paradise 
 Lost." It is well known how Young replied to his 
 frivolous raillery on the latter work : — 
 "Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin. 
 At once we think thee Milton's Death and Sin " 
 
 t Mr. Hill.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 311 
 
 lowing so closely such .1 sultry season, un- 
 commonly noxious. To speak in tlic seaman's 
 phrase, not entirely strange to you, / was 
 taken all aback ; and the humors which would 
 have escaped, if old Euras would have given 
 them leave, finding every door shut, iiave 
 fallen into my eyes. But, in a country like 
 this, poor miserable mortals must be content 
 to suffer all that sudden and violent changes 
 can inflict ; and if they are quit for about half 
 the plagues that Caliban calls down on Pros- 
 pero, they may say, " We are well off," and 
 dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will 
 let them. 
 
 Did you ever see an advertisement by one 
 Fowle, a dancing-master of Newport-Paguel ? 
 If not, I will contrive to send it to you for 
 your amusement. It is the most extravagantly 
 ludicrous affair- of the kind I ever saw. The 
 author of it had the good hap to be crazed, 
 or he had never produced anything half so 
 clever ; for you will ever observe, that they 
 who are said to have lost their wits have more 
 than other people. It is therefore only a 
 slander, with which envy prompts the malig- 
 nity of persons in their senses to asperse those 
 wittier tlian themselves. But tliere are coun- 
 tries in the world where tiie mad have justice 
 done them, where they are re\ ered as the sub- 
 jects of inspiration, and consulted as oracles. 
 Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In the next letter Cowper declines writing 
 further on the subject of tlie slave trade: the 
 horrors connected with it are the reasons as- 
 signed for this refusal. His past efforts in 
 that cause are the best evidence of his ability 
 to write upon it with powerful effect. The 
 sensitive mind of Cowper shrunk with terror 
 from tliese appalling atrocities. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston Lodi^e, .Tune 5, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — It is a comfort to me 
 that you are so kind as to make allowance 
 for me, in consideration of my being so busy 
 a man. The truth is that, could I write with 
 both hands, and with both at the same time, 
 verse with one and prose with the other, I 
 should not even so be able to despatch both 
 my poetry and my arrears of correspondence 
 faster than I have need. The only opportu- 
 nities that I can find for conversing with 
 distant friends are in the early hour (and that 
 sometimes reduced to half a one) before 
 breakfast. Neither am I exempt from hind- 
 lances, which, while they last, are insurmount- 
 iible ; especially one, by which I have been 
 occasionally a sufferer all my life. I mean 
 ar. mlhimination of the eyes; a malady under 
 wiiich I iiave lately labored, and from which 
 I am at this moment only in a small degree 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 relieved. The last sudden change of the 
 weather, from heat almost insupportable to a 
 cold as severe as is commonly felt in midwin- 
 ter, would have disabled me entirely for all 
 sorts of scribbling, had I not favored int v.^ak 
 part a little, and given my eyes a respite. 
 
 It is certain that we do not live far from 
 Olney, but small as the distance is, it has too 
 often the effect of a separation between the 
 Beans and us. He is a man with whom, 
 when I can converse at all, I can converse on 
 terms perfectly agreeable to myself; who 
 does not distress me with forms, nor yet dis- 
 gust me by the neglect of them; whose 
 manners are easy and natural, and his obser- 
 vations always sensible. I often, therefore, 
 wish them nearer neighbors. 
 
 We have heard nothing of the Powleys 
 since they left us, a. fortnight ago, and should 
 be uneasy at their silence on such an occasion, 
 did we not know that she cannot write, and 
 that he, on his first return to his parish after 
 a long absence, may possibly find it difficult. 
 Her we found much improved in her health and 
 spirits, and him, as always, affectionate and 
 obliging. It was an agreeable visit, and, as 
 it was ordered for me, I happened to have 
 better spirits than I have enjoyed at any time 
 since. 
 
 I shall rejoice if your friend Mr. Philips, 
 influenced by what you told him of my present 
 engagements, shall waive his applicatoin to 
 me for a poem on the slave-trade. I account 
 myself honored by his intention to solicit me 
 on the subject, and it would give me pain to 
 refuse him, which inevitably I shall be con- 
 strained to do. The more I have considered 
 it, the more I have convinced myself that it 
 is not a promising theme for verse. General 
 censure on the iniquity of the practice will 
 avail nothing. The world has been over- 
 whelmed with such remarks already, and to 
 particularize all the horrors of it were an em- 
 ployment for the mind both of the poet and 
 his readers, of which tlusy would necessarily 
 soon grow weary. For my own part, I cannot 
 contemplate the subject very nearly, without 
 a degree of abhorrence that affects my spirits, 
 and sinks them below the pitch requisite for 
 success in verse. Lady Ilesketh recom- 
 mended it to me some months since, and then 
 I declined it for these reasons, and for others 
 which need not be mentioned here. 
 
 I return you many thanks for all your in- 
 telligence concerning the success of the gospel 
 in far countries, and shall rejoice in a sight 
 of Mr. Van Lier's letter,* which, being so vo- 
 luminous, I think you should bring with you, 
 when you take your flight to Weston, rather 
 than commit to any other conveyance. 
 
 Remember that it is now summer, and that 
 
 * Mr. Viin I-ior was a Diitcli tninistor, to whom the 
 perusiil of Mr. Newton's works liad been made ominontly 
 nsi't'ul. We sliall liavo occasion to allude to this subject 
 in itd proper place.
 
 su 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 the summer flies fast, and that we shall be 
 happy to see you and yours as speedily and 
 for as long a time as you can afford. We are 
 sorry, truly so, that Mrs. Newton is so fre- 
 quently and so much indisposed. Accept our 
 best love to you both, and believe me, my 
 dear friend. 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 After what I have said on the subject of 
 my writing engagements, I doubt not but you 
 will excuse my transcribing the verses to Mrs. 
 Montagu,* especially considering that my 
 eyes are weary with what I have written this 
 morning already. I feel somewhat like an 
 impropriety in referring you to the next 
 "Gentleman's Magazine," but at the present 
 juncture I know not how to do better. 
 
 The death of Ashley Cowper, the father of 
 Lady Hesketh and of Miss Theodora Cowper, 
 the object of the poet's fond and early attach- 
 ment, occurred at this period, and is the sub- 
 ject of the following letters. His reflections 
 on this occasion are interesting and edifying. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 8, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — Your letter brought me 
 the very first intelligence of the event it men- 
 tions. My last letter from Lady Hesketh 
 gave me reason enough to expect it, but the 
 certainty of it was unknown to me till I 
 learned it by your information. If gradual 
 decline, the consequence of great age, be a 
 si\fficient preparation of the mind to encounter 
 such a loss, our minds were certainly prepared 
 to meet it ; yet to you I need not say, that no 
 preparation can supersede the feelings of the 
 heart on such occasions. While our friends 
 yet live inhabitants of the same world with 
 
 * These verses, "On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hancr 
 ings," are chiiracterized by elegant taste and a delicate 
 turn of compliinent. We insert an extract from them, 
 as descriptive of her evening parties in Porlmau-square, 
 the resort of cultivated wit and fashion, and so frequently 
 Blluded to in the interesting Memoirs of Mrs. More. 
 To the same patroness resort, 
 Secure of favor at her court, 
 Strong genius, from whose forge of thought 
 Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, 
 Which, though new-born, with vigor move. 
 Like Pallas, springing armed from Jove — 
 Imagination, scattering round 
 Wild roses over furrow'd ground, 
 Which Labor of his frowns beguile. 
 And teach Philosophy a smile — 
 Wit, flashing on Religion's side, 
 Whose flres, to sacred Truth ai)plied, 
 The gem. though luminous before, 
 Obtrude on human notice more, 
 Like sun-beams, on the golden height 
 Of some tall temple playing bright — 
 Well-tutored Learning, from his books 
 Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks. 
 Their order, on his shelves exact. 
 Not more harmonious or compact 
 Than that, to which he keeps confined 
 The various treasures of his mind — 
 All these to Montagu's repair, 
 Ambitious of a shelter there. 
 
 ourselves, they seem still to live to us ; \\\. 
 are sure that they sometimes think of us ; and-, 
 however nnprobable it may seem, it is never 
 impossible that we may see each other once 
 again. But the grave, like a great gulf, swal 
 lows all such expectations, and, in the momen( 
 when a beloved friend sinks into it, a thou- 
 sand tender recollections awaken a regret that 
 will be felt in spite of all reasonings, and let 
 our warnings have been what they may. Thus 
 it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley, 
 whose heart towards me was ever truly paren- 
 tal, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness 
 and respect that will never leave me. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge,- June 10, 1788. 
 
 My dear Coz., — Your kind letter of pre- 
 caution to Mr. Gregson, sent him hither as 
 soon as chapel service was ended in the 
 evening. But he found me already apprized 
 (»f the event that occasioned it, by a line from 
 'Sephus, received a few hours before. My 
 dear uncle's death awakened in me many re- 
 flections, which for a time sunk my spirits. 
 A man like him would have been mourned 
 had he doubled the age he reached. At any 
 age his death would have been felt as a loss, 
 that no survivor could repair. And though it 
 was not probable that, for my own part, I 
 should ever see him more, yet the conscious- 
 ness that he still lived was a comfort to me. 
 Let it comfort us now, that we have lost him 
 only at a time when nature could afford him 
 to us no longer; that, as his life was blame- 
 less, so was his deatii without anguish, and 
 that he is gone to hea\en. I know not that 
 human life, in its most prosperous state, can 
 present anything to our wishes half so desir- 
 able as such a close of it. 
 
 Not to mingle this subject with others that 
 would ill suit with it, I will add no more at 
 present than a warm iiope, that you and your 
 sister* will be able effectually to avail your- 
 selves of all the consolatory matter with which 
 iv abounds. You gave yourselves, while he 
 lived, to a lather, whost- life was doubtless 
 prolonged by your attentions, and whose ten- 
 derness of disposition made him alwaj's 
 deeply sensible of your kindness in this re- 
 spect, as well as in many others. His old age 
 was the happiest that I have ever known, and 
 I give you both joy of having had so fair an 
 opportunity, and of having so well used it, ti 
 approve yourselves equal to the calls of such 
 a duty in the sight of God and man. 
 
 ^ W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, June 1.5, 1786 
 Although 1 know that you must be very 
 * Miss Theodora Cowper.
 
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 31o 
 
 much occupied on the present most affecting 
 occasion, yet, not hearing from you, I began 
 to be very uneasy on yonr account, and to 
 fear that your iiealth might have suffered by 
 the fatigue both of body and spirits that you 
 must luive undergone, till a letter tliat reached 
 me yesterday from the General* set my heart 
 at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in 
 question. He speaks of my uncle in the ten- 
 derest terms, such as show how truly sensi- 
 ble he was of the amiableness and excellence 
 of his character, and how deeply he regrets 
 his loss. Wc have indeed lost one who has 
 not left his like in the present generation of 
 our family, and whose equal, in all respects, 
 no future of it will probably produce. JMy 
 memory retains so perfect an impression of 
 hira, tiiat, had I been painter instead of poet, 
 I could from those faithful traces have per- 
 petuated his face and form with the most 
 minute exactness; and tliis I the rather won- 
 der at, because some with whom I was equal- 
 ly conversant five-and-tvventy-years ago have 
 almost faded out of all recollection witii me. 
 But he made impressions not soon to be 
 effaced, and was in figure, in temper, in man- 
 ner, and in numerous other respects, such as 
 I shall never behold again. I often think 
 what a joyful interview there has been be- 
 tween him and some of his contemporaries 
 who went before him. The truth of the 
 matter is, my dear, that they are the happy 
 ones, and that we shall never be such our- 
 selves till we have joined the party. Can 
 there be anything so worthy of our warmest 
 wishes as to enter on an eternal, unchange- 
 able state, in blessed fellowship and com- 
 munion with tliose wJiose society we valued 
 most, and for the best reasons, while they 
 continued with us? A few steps more 
 through a vain, foolish world, and this hap- 
 piness will be yours. But be not hasty, my 
 dear, to accomplish thy journey ! For of all 
 that live thou art one whom I can least spare ; 
 for thou also art one, who shalt not leave thy 
 equal behind thee. W. C. 
 
 The contrast between the awful scenes in 
 nature, and those produced by the passions of 
 men, is liuely drawn in the following letter. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Wi'slon, .lime IT, 1788. 
 My dear Walter, — You think luc, no doubt, 
 a tardv correspondent, and such i am, but not 
 willingly. Many hindrances have intervened, 
 and the most dillicult to surmount have been 
 those which the east and north-east winds 
 have occasioned, breathing winter upon the 
 'oses of June, and inflaming my eyes, ten 
 times more sensible of the inconvenience 
 than they. The vegetables of England seem, 
 
 * fiMiionil Cowpcr wa.s nephew to Ashley Cowper. 
 
 like our animals, of a hardier and bolder na- 
 ture than those of other countries. In France 
 and Italy flowers blow because it is warm, 
 but here in spite of the cold. The season 
 however is somewhat mended at present, and 
 my eyes with it. Finding myself this morn- 
 ing in perfect ease of body, I seize the wel- 
 come opportunity to do something at least 
 towards tiie discharge of my arrears to you. 
 
 I am glad that you liked ray song, and, if 
 I liked the others myself so well as that I 
 sent you, I w'ould transcribe for you them 
 also. But I sent iha!, because I accounted 
 it the best. Slavery, and especially negro 
 slavery, because the cruellest, is an odious 
 and disgusting subject. Twice or thrice I 
 have been assailed with entreaties to write a 
 poem on that theme. But, besides that it 
 would be in some sort treason against Homer 
 to al)andon iiim for any other matter, I felt 
 myself so much hurt in my spirits the mo- 
 ment I entered on the contemplation of it, 
 that I have at last determined absolutely to 
 have nothing more to do with it. Tiiere are 
 some scenes of horror on which my imagina 
 tion can dwell not without some compla- 
 cence. But, then, they are such scenes as 
 God, not man, produces. In earthquakes, 
 high winds, tempestuous seas, there is the 
 grand as well as the terrible. But, when 
 man is active to disturb, there is such mean- 
 ness in the design and such cruelty in the 
 execution, that I both hate and despise the 
 whole operation, and feel it a degradation of 
 Poetry to employ her in the description of 
 it. 1 hope also that the generality of ray 
 countrymen have more generosity in their 
 nature than to want the fiddle of verse to go 
 before them in the performance of an act to 
 which they are invited by the loudest calls 
 of iunnanity. 
 
 Breakfast calls, and then Homer. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 Erratum. — Instead of Mr. Wilberforce as 
 author of '"Manners of the Great," read 
 Hannah More. 
 
 IMy paper mourns, and my seal. It is for 
 the death of a venerable uncle, Ashley Cow 
 per, at the age of eighty-seven. 
 
 Cowper's description of the variations of 
 climate, and their influence on the nerves 
 and constitution, is what most of his reader.-! 
 probably know from frequent experience of 
 their eftects. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 The Lodge, June 19, 1788. 
 My dear Madam, — You must think me a 
 tardy correspondent, unless you have had 
 
 * Private cornapondence.
 
 S14 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 charity enough for me to suppose that I have 
 met with other hindrances than those of in- 
 dolence and inattention. With these I can- 
 not charge myself, for I am never idle by 
 choice; and inattentive to you I certainly 
 have not been, but, on the contrary, can 
 safely affirm that every day I have thought 
 on you. My silence has been occasioned by 
 a malady to wliich I have all my life been 
 subject — an inflammation of the eyes. The 
 last sudden change of weather from exces- 
 sive heat to a wintry degree of cold occa- 
 sioned it, and at t!ie same time gave me a 
 pinch of the rheumatic kind ; from both which 
 disorders I have but just recovered. I do not 
 suppose that our climate has been much al- 
 tered since the days of our forefathers, the 
 Picts;* but certainly the human constitution 
 in this country has been altered much. Inured 
 as we are from our cradles to every vicissi- 
 tude in a climate more various than any 
 other, and in possession of all that modern 
 refinement has been able to contrive for our 
 security, we are yet as subject to blights as 
 the tenderest blossoms of spring; and are 
 so well admonished of every change in the 
 atmosphere by our bodily feelings as hardly 
 to have any need of a weather-glass to mark 
 them. For this we are, no doubt, indebted 
 to the multitude of our accommodations; for 
 it was not possible to retain the hardiness 
 that originally belonged to our race, under 
 the delicate management to wliich for many 
 years we have now been accustomed. I can 
 hardly doubt that a bull-dog or a game-cock 
 might be made just as susceptible of injuries 
 from weather as myself, were he dieted and 
 in all respects accommodated as I am. Or, 
 if the project did not succeed in the first in- 
 stance, (for we ourselves did not become 
 what we are at once,) in process of time, 
 however, and in a course of many genera- 
 tions, it would certainly take effect. Let 
 such a dog be fed in his infancy with pap, 
 Naples biscuit, and boiled chicken; let him 
 be wrapt in flannel at night, sleep on a good 
 feather-bed, and ride out in a coach for an 
 airing; and if his posterity do not become 
 slight-limbed, puny, and valetudinarian, it 
 will be a wonder. Thus our parents, and 
 tlieir parents, and the parents of both were 
 managed ; and thus ourselves ; and the con- 
 sequence is, that instead of being weather- 
 proof, even without clothing, furs and flan- 
 nels are not warm enough to defend us. It 
 is observable, however, that though we have 
 by these means lost much of our pristine 
 Tigor, our days are not fewer. We live as 
 long as those whom, on account of the sturdi- 
 ness of their frame, the poets supposed to 
 have been the progeny of oaks. Perhaps 
 too they had little feeling, and for that rea- 
 son also might be imagined to be so de- 
 
 * The Picts were not our ancestors. 
 
 scended. For a very robust athletic habit 
 seems inconsistent with much sensibility 
 But sensibility is the sine qua non of real 
 happiness. If, therefore, our lives have not 
 been shortened, and if our feelings have been 
 rendered more exquisite as our habit of body 
 has become more delicate, on the whole per- 
 haps we have no cause to complain, but are 
 rather gainers by our degeneracy. 
 
 Do you consider wiiat you do when you 
 ask one poet his opinion of another 1 Yet I 
 think I can give you an honest answer to 
 your question, and withont the least wish to 
 nibble. Thomson was admirable in descrip- 
 tion : but it alvvays seemed to me that there 
 was somewhat of affectation in his style, and 
 that his numbers are sometimes not well har- 
 monized. I could wish too, witli Dr. John- 
 son, that he had confined himself to this 
 country; for, when he describes what he 
 never saw, one is forced to read him with 
 some allowance for possible misrepresenta- 
 tion. He was, however, a true poet, and his 
 lasting fiime has proved it. Believe me, my 
 dear madam, with my best respects to Mr. 
 King, most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 P. S. — I am extremely sorry that you have 
 been so much indisposed, and hope that your 
 next will bring me a more favorable account 
 of your health. I know not why, but I rath- 
 er suspect that you do not allow yourself 
 sufficient air and exercise. The physicians 
 call them non-naturals, I suppose to deter 
 their patients from the use of them. 
 
 The providence of God and the brevity of 
 human life are subjects of profitable remark 
 in the following letter. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 23, 1788. 
 When I tell you that an unanswered letter 
 troubles my conscience in some degree like 
 a crime, you will think me endued with a 
 most heroic patience, who have so long sub- 
 mitted to that trouble on account of yours 
 not answered yet. But the truth is, that I 
 have been much engaged. Homer (you 
 know) affords me constant employment; 
 besides which, I have rather what may be 
 called, considering the privacy with which I 
 have long lived, a numerous correspondence : 
 to one of my friends, in particular, a near and 
 much loved relation, 1 write weekly, and 
 sometimes twice in a week ; nor are these my 
 only excuses: the sudden changes of the 
 weather have much afl'ected me, and especial- 
 ly with a disorder most unfavorable to let- 
 ter-writing, an inflammation in my eyes. 
 With all these apologies, I approach you 
 once more, not altogether despairing of for- 
 giveness.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 316 
 
 It has pleased God to give us rain, with- 
 out which this part of the country at least 
 must soon have become a desert. The mea- 
 dows have been parched to a January brown, 
 and we have foddered our cattle for some 
 time, as in tiie winter. Tlie goodness and 
 power of God are never (I believe) so uni- 
 versally acknowledged as at the end of a long 
 drought. Man is naturally a self-sullicient 
 animal, and, in all concerns that seem to lie 
 within the sphere of his own ability, thinks 
 little or not at all of the need he always has 
 of protection and furtherance from above. 
 But he is sensible that tiie clouds will not 
 assemble at his bidding, and tiiat, though the 
 clouds assemble, they will not fall down in 
 showers, because he commands them. When 
 therefore at last the blessing descends, you 
 shall hear even in the streets the most irre- 
 ligious and thoughtless with one voice ex- 
 claim, "Thank God!" — confessing themselves 
 indebted to his favor, and willing, at least so 
 far as words go, to give liim the glory. I 
 can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is 
 sometimes parched, and the crops endangered 
 in order tiiat the multitude may not want a 
 memento to whom they owe them, nor abso- 
 lutely forget the power on which all depend 
 for all thing's. 
 
 Our solitary part of the year is over. Mrs. 
 Unwin's daugiiter and son-in-law Iiave lately 
 spent some time witli us. We shall siiortly 
 receive from London our old friends the New- 
 tons (he was once minister of Olney), and 
 when they leave us, we expect that Lady 
 Hesketh will succeed them, perhaps to spend 
 the summer here, and possibly the winter 
 also. The summer indeed is leaving us at 
 a rapid rate, as do all the seasons ; and tliough 
 I have marked their ilight so often, I know 
 not which is tiie swifiest. Man is never so 
 deluded as when he dreams of his own du- 
 ration. The answer of the old patriarch to 
 Pharaoh may be adopted by every man at 
 the close of tiie longest life: "Few and evil 
 have been the days of the years of my pil- 
 grimage." Whether we look back from fifiy, 
 or from twice tifty, the past appears equally 
 a dream ; and we can only be said truly to 
 liave lived, while we have been profitably 
 employed. Alas! then, making the neces- 
 sary deductions, how short is life ! Were 
 men in general to save themselves all the 
 steps they take to no purpose, or to a bad 
 one, what number.i, who are now active, 
 would become sedentary! 
 
 Thus I have sermonized through my pa- 
 per, liiving where you live, you can bear 
 with me the better. I always follow the 
 leading of my unconstrained thoughts, when 
 I write to a friend, be they grave or other- 
 wise. Homer reminds me of you everyday. 
 I am now in tiie twenty-first Iliad. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 June 24, 1788. 
 My dear Friend,— I rejoice that my letter 
 found you at all points so well prepared to 
 answer it according to our wishes. I have 
 written to Lady Hesketh to apprise her of 
 your intended journey hither, and she, hav- 
 ing as yet made no assignation with us her- 
 self, will easily adjust her measures to the 
 occasion. 
 
 I have not lately had an opportunity of 
 seeing Mr. Bean. The late rains, which have 
 revived the hopes of the farmers, have inter- 
 cepted our communication. I hear, how- 
 ever, that he meets with not a little trouble 
 in his progress towards a reformation of Ol- 
 ney manners ; and that the Sabbath, which 
 he wishes to iiave hallowed by a stricter and ^ 
 more general observation of it, is, through 
 the brutality of the lowest order, a day of 
 more turbulence and riot than any other. 
 At the latter end of last week he found him- 
 self obliged to make another trip to the jus- 
 tice, in company with two or three of the 
 principal inhabitants. What passed I have 
 not learned ; but I understand their errand 
 to have been, partly at least, to ellace the 
 evil impressions made on his worship's mind, 
 by a man who had applied a day or two be- 
 fore for a warrant against the constable; 
 which, however, he did not obtain. I rather 
 fear that the constables are not altogether 
 judicious in the exercise either of their jus. 
 tice or their mercy. Some, who may have 
 seemed proper objects of punishment, they 
 have released, on a promise of better beha- 
 vior; and others, whose oifence has been 
 personal against themselves, though in other 
 respects less guilty, they have set in the 
 stocks. The ladies, however, and of course 
 the ladies of Silver-End in particular, give 
 them most trouble, being always active on 
 these occasions, as well as clamorous, and 
 botli with impunity. For the sex are priv- 
 ileged in the free use of their tongues and 
 of their nails, the parliament having never 
 yet laid them under any penal restrictions ; 
 and they employ them accordingly. Johnson, 
 the constable, lost much of '^his skin, and 
 still more of his coat, in one of those Sun- 
 day battles: and had not Ashburner hast- 
 ened to his aid, had probably been complete- 
 ly stripped of both. With such a zeal are 
 these fair ones animated, though, unfortu- 
 nately for all parties, rather erroneously. 
 
 Wliat you tell me of the effect that the 
 limitation of numbers to tonnage is likely to 
 have on the slave trade, gives me the great- 
 est pleasure.f Should it amount, in the 
 issue, to an abolition of the traffic, I shall 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The credit of having' introduced this rcRuIation ia 
 duo to the late much respected Sir William Dolbea,
 
 816 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 account it indeed an argument of great wis- 
 dom in our youtliful minister. A silent and 
 indirect way of doing it, is, I suppose tlie 
 only safe one. At the same time, in how 
 horrid a light does it place the trade itself, 
 when it comes to be proved by consequences 
 that the mere article of a little elbow-room 
 for the poor creatures in their passage to the 
 islands could not be secured by an order of 
 parliament, without the utter annihilation of 
 it ! If so it prove, no man deserving to be 
 called a man, can say that it ought to subsist 
 a moment longer. My writing time is ex- 
 pended, and breakfast is at hand. Witli our 
 joint love to the trio, and our best wishes for 
 your good journey to Weston, I remain, my 
 dear friend, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W, C. 
 
 The ne.xt letter contains an interesting in- 
 cident, recorded of his dog Beau, and the 
 verses composed on the occasion. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Tlie Lodge, June 27, 1788. 
 
 For the sake of a longer visit, my dearest 
 Coz, I can be well content to wait. The 
 country, this country at least, is pleasant at 
 all times, and when winter is come, or near 
 at hand, we shall have the better chance for 
 being snug. I know your passion for retire- 
 ment indeed, or for what we call deedy re- 
 tirement, and, the F s intending to return 
 
 to Bath with their mother, when her visit 
 at the Hall is over, you will then faid here 
 exactly the retirement in question. I have 
 made in the orchard the best winter-walk in 
 all the parish, sheltered from the east and 
 from the north-east, and open to the sun, ex- 
 cept at his rising, all the day. Then we will 
 have Homer and Don Quixote ; and then we 
 will have saunter and chat and one laugh 
 more before we die. Our orchard is alive 
 with creatures of all kinds ; poultry of every 
 denomination swarms in it, and pigs, the 
 drollest in the world ! 
 
 I rejoice that we have a cousin Charles 
 also, as well as a cousin Henry, who has had 
 the address to win tlie good likings of the 
 Chancellor. ]\Iay he fare the better for it. 
 As to myself, I have long since ceased to 
 have any expectations from that quarter. 
 Yet, if he were indeed mortified as you say 
 (and no doubt you have particular reasons 
 for thinking so), and repented to that degree 
 of his hasty exertions in favor of the present 
 occupant, who can tell ? He wants neither 
 means nor management, but can easily at 
 some future period redress the evil, if he 
 chooses to do it. But in the meantime life 
 steals away, and shortly neither he will be 
 Lq circumstances to do n; e a kindness, nor I 
 
 to receive one at his hands. Let him make 
 haste, therefore, or he will die a promise in 
 my debt, which he will never be able to per- 
 form.* Your communications on this sub- 
 ject are as safe as you can wish them. We 
 divulge nothing but what might appear in 
 the magazine, nor that without great consid- 
 eration. 
 
 I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. 
 Walking by the river-side, I observed some 
 water-lilies floating at a little distance from 
 the bank. They are a large white flower, 
 with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. 
 I had a desire to gather one, and, having 
 your long cane in my hand, by the help of it 
 endeavored to bring one of them within my 
 reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I 
 walked forward. Beau had all the while ob- 
 served me very attentively. Returning soon 
 after toward the same place, I observed him 
 plunge into the river, while I was about forty 
 yards distant from him ; and, when I had 
 nearly reached the spot, he swam to land 
 with a lily in his mouth, which he came and 
 laid at my foot. 
 
 Mr. Rose, whom I have mentioned to you 
 as a visitor of mine for the first time soon 
 after you left us, writes me word that he has 
 seen ray ballads against the slave-mongers, 
 but not in print.f Where he met with them 
 I know not. Mr. Bull begged hard for leave 
 to print them at Newport-Pagnel, and I re- 
 fused, thinking that it would be wrong to 
 anticipate the nobility, gentry, and others, at 
 whose pressing instance I composed them, 
 in their designs to print them. But perhaps 
 I need not have been so squeamish : for the 
 opportunity to publish them in London 
 seems now not only ripe, but rotten. I am 
 well content. There is but one of them 
 with which I am myself satisfied, though I 
 have heard them all well spoken of. But 
 there are very few things of ray own com- 
 position that I can endure to read, when they 
 have been written a month, though at first 
 they seem to me to be all perfection. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, who has been much the hap- 
 pier since the time of your return hither has 
 been in some sort settled, begs me to make 
 her kindest remembrance. 
 
 Yours, my dear, most truly, W. C. 
 
 The following verses are so singularly 
 beautiful, and interesting from the incident 
 which gave rise to them, that, though they 
 are inserted in the Poems, we cannot refrain 
 from introducing them, in connexion with 
 the letter which records the occasion of their 
 being written. 
 
 * Lord Thurlow, it will be reinembered, pledged him 
 self to make some provision for Cowper, if he became 
 Lord Chancellor. 
 
 t We have elsewhere obser\-ed that they never were 
 printed as ballads, but were inserted in his "works.
 
 IIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 317 
 
 THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY, 
 
 No Fable. 
 
 The noon was shady, and soft airs 
 
 Swept Ouse's silent tide. 
 When, 'scaped from literary cares, 
 
 I wandered on his side. 
 
 My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 
 
 And high in pedigree, — 
 Two nymphs* adorned with every grace 
 
 That spaniel found for me, — 
 
 Now wantoned, lo^;t in flags and reeds, 
 
 Now starting into sight. 
 Pursued the swallow o'er the meads 
 
 With scarce a slower flight. 
 
 It was the time when Ouse displayed 
 
 His lilies newly blown ; 
 Their beauties I intent surveyed, 
 
 And one I wished my own. 
 
 With cane extended far I sought 
 
 To steer it close to land ; 
 But still the prize, though nearly caught 
 
 Escaped my eager hand. 
 
 Beau marked my unsuccessful pains 
 
 With fixed considerate face, 
 And, puzzling, set his puppy brains 
 
 To comprehend the case. 
 
 But, with a chirrup clear and strong, 
 
 Dispersing all his dream, 
 I thence withdrew, and followed long 
 
 The windings of the stream. 
 
 Aly ramble ended, I returned, 
 
 Beau, trotting tar before. 
 The floating wreath again discerned, 
 
 And plunging letl the shore. 
 
 I saw him, with that lily cropped, 
 
 Impatient swim, to meet 
 My quick approach, and soon he dropped 
 
 The treasure at my feet. 
 
 Charmed with the sight, " The world," I cried, 
 
 " Shall hear of this thy deed; 
 My dog shall mortify the pride 
 
 Of man's superior breed. 
 
 " But chief myself I will enjoin — 
 
 Awake at duty's call. 
 To show a love as prompt as thine 
 
 To Him who gives me all." 
 
 TC JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.*' 
 
 .luly r>, I7r!8. 
 
 My dear I riend, — " Bitter con.straint and 
 rfad occasion der.r" have compelled me to 
 draw on you for the sum of twenty pounds, 
 payable to Joim lliggius, Esq., or order. 
 The draft bears date July 5th. You will 
 excuse my giving you this trouble, in con- 
 «iideration that 1 am a poet, and can conse- 
 quently draw for money much easier than 
 I can earn it. 
 
 I heard of you a few days smce, from 
 
 * Tlie Mi33 Gunnings, the daughters of Sir Robert Gun- 
 liiiir. Hart. 
 \ Private correspondence. 
 
 Walter Bagot, who called here and told mo 
 that you were gone, I think, into Rutland- 
 shire, to settle the accounts of a large estate 
 unliquidated many years. Intricacies that 
 would turn my brains are play to you. But I 
 give you joy of a long vacation at hand, when 
 I suppose that even you will find it pleasant; 
 if not to be idle, at least not to be hemmed 
 around by business. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, July 28, 1788. 
 
 It is in vain that you tell me that yotx 
 have no talent at description, while in fact 
 you describe better than anybody. You 
 have given me a most complete idea of your 
 mansion and its situation; and I doubt not 
 that, with your letter in my hand by way of 
 map, could I be set down on the spot in a 
 moment, I should fmd myself qualified to 
 take my walks and my pastime in whatever 
 quarter of your paradise it should please me 
 the most to visit. We also, as you know, 
 have scenes at Weston worthy of descrip- 
 tion ; but, because you know them well, I 
 will only say, that one of them has, within 
 these few days been much improved ; I mean 
 the lime-walk. By the help of the axe and 
 the wood-bill, which have of late been con- 
 stantly employed in cutting out all strag- 
 gling branches that intercepted the arch, Mr. 
 Throckmorton has now defined it with such 
 exactness tlmt no catlicdral in the world can 
 show one of more magnificence or beauty. 
 I bless myself that I live so near it; for, 
 were it distant several miles, it would be 
 well worth while to visit it, merely as an ob- 
 ject of taste; not to mention the refresh- 
 ment of such a gloom both to the eyes and 
 spirits. And these are the things which our 
 modern improvers of parks and pleasure- 
 grounds have displaced without mercy; be- 
 cause, forsooth, they are rectilinear. It is a 
 wonder that they do not quarrel with the 
 sunbeams for the same reason. 
 
 Have you seen the account of five hundred 
 celebrated authors now living]* I am one 
 of t'lem ; but stand charged with the high 
 crime and misdemeanor of totally neglecting 
 method ; an accusation, which, if the gentle- 
 man would take the pains to read me, he 
 would find sufficiently refuted. I am con- 
 .scious at least myself of having labored 
 much in tiie arrangement of my matter, and 
 of having given to the several parts of every 
 book of " The Task," as well as to each 
 poem in the first volume, that sort of .slight 
 connexion which poetry demands; for in 
 poetry (except professedly of the didactic 
 kind) a logical precision would be stiff, pe- 
 
 * A book full of blunders and scandal, and destituta 
 both of information and interest.
 
 318 
 
 COWPER'S WOkKy, 
 
 dantic, and ridiculous. But there is no pleas- 
 ing some critics ; the comfort is, that I am 
 contented whether they be pleased or not. 
 At the same time, to my honor be it spoken 
 the chronicler of us five lunidred prodigies 
 bestows on me, for aught I know, more 
 commendations than on any other of my 
 confraternity. May he live to write the his- 
 tories of as many 'thousand poets, and find 
 me the very best among them ! Amen ! 
 
 I join with you, my dearest coz, in wish- 
 ing that I owned the fee simple of all the 
 beautiful scenes around you, but such emol- 
 uments were never designed for poets. Am 
 I not happier than ever poet was in having 
 thee for my cousin, and in the expectation 
 of thy arrival here whenever Strawberry-hill* 
 shall lose thee. 
 
 Ever thine, W C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Aug. 9, 1788. 
 The Newtons are still here, and continue 
 with us, I believe, until the 15th of the month. 
 Here is also my friend, Mr. Rose, a valuable 
 young man, wlio, attracted by the effluvia of 
 my genius, found me out in my retirement last 
 January twelvemonth. I have not permitted 
 him to be idle, but have made him transcribe 
 for me the twelfth book of the Iliad. He 
 brings me the compliments of several of the 
 literati, with whom he is acquainted in town, 
 and tells me, that from Dr. Maclain,! whom 
 he saw lately, he learns that my book is in tlie 
 hands of si.xty diflerent persons at the Hague, 
 who are all enchanted with it; not forget- 
 ting the said Dr. Maclain himself, who tells 
 him tliat he reads it every day, and is always 
 the better for it. O rare we ! 
 
 I have been employed this morning in 
 composing a Latin motto for the king's 
 clock, the embellishments of which are by 
 Mr. Bacon. That gentleman breakfasted 
 with us on Wednesday, having come thirty- 
 seven miles out of his way on purpose to 
 see your cousin. At his request I have done 
 it, and have made two, he will choose that 
 which liketh him best. Mr. Bacon is a most 
 excellent man, and a most agreeable com- 
 panion ; I would that he lived not so remote, 
 or that he had more opportunity of travelling. 
 There is not, so far as I know, a syllable 
 of the rhyming correspondence between me 
 and my poor brother left, save and except 
 the six lines of it quoted in yours. I had 
 the whole of it, but it perished in the wreck 
 of a thousand other things when I left the 
 Temple. 
 
 Breakfast calls. Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 * The celebrated seat of Lord Orford, near Richmond, 
 where Lady Hesketh wa.s then visiting. 
 
 t The well-known translator of Mosheim's Eccleaias- 
 Ucal History. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 18, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — I left you with a sensi- 
 ble regret, alleviated only by the consider- 
 ation, that I shall see you again in October. 
 I was under some concern also, lest, not 
 being able to give you any certain direc- 
 tions myself, nor knowing where you might 
 find a guide, should you wander and fatigue 
 yourself, good walker as you are, before you 
 could reach Northampton. Perhaps you 
 heard me whistle just after our separation ; 
 it was to call back Beau, who was running 
 after you with all speed to entreat you to 
 return with me. For my part, I took my 
 own time to return, and did not reacli home 
 till after one, and then so weary that I was 
 glad of my great chair ; to the comforts of 
 which I added a crust, and a glass of rum 
 and water, not without great occasion. Such 
 a foot-traveller am I. 
 
 I am writing on Monday, but whether I 
 shall finish my letter this morning depends 
 on Mrs. Unwin's coming sooner or later 
 down to breakhist. Something tells me that 
 you set oil' to-day for Birmingham; and 
 though it be a sort of Irishism to say here, I 
 beseech you take care of yourself, for the 
 day threatens great heat, I cannot help it ; 
 the weather may be cold enough at the time 
 when that good advice shall reach you, but, 
 be it hot or be it cold, to a man who travels 
 as you travel, take care of yourself can never 
 be an unseasonable caution. I am some- 
 times distressed on this account, for tiiough 
 you are young, and well made for such ex- 
 ploits, those very circumstances are more 
 likely than anything to betray you into dan- 
 ger. 
 
 Consule quid valeant plants;, quid ferre re- 
 cusent. 
 
 The Newtons left us on Friday. We fre 
 quently talked about you after your depart- 
 ure, and everything that was spoken was to 
 your advantage. I know they will be glad to 
 see you in London, and perhaps, when your 
 summer and autumn rambles are over, you 
 will afford them that pleasure. The Throck- 
 mortons are equally well disposed to you, 
 and them also I recommend to you as a valu- 
 able connexion, the rather because you can 
 only cultivate it at Weston. 
 
 I have not been idle since you went, having 
 not only labored as usual at the Iliad, but 
 composed a spick and span new piece, called 
 " The Dog, and the Water-Lily," which you 
 shall see when we meet again. I believe 1 
 related to you the incident which is the sub- 
 ject of it. I have also read most of Lavater's 
 Aphorisms : they appear to me some of them 
 wise, many of them whimsical, a few of them 
 false, and not a few of them extravagani 
 Ail illi medium. If he finds in a man the
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 319 
 
 feat'ire or quality that he approves, he deifies 
 him ; if the contrary, lie is a devil. His ver- 
 dict is in neither case, I suppose, a just one.* 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 AiiRust 28, 1788. 
 
 My dear Madam, — Should you discard me 
 from the number of your correspondents, you 
 would treat me as I seem to deserve, though 
 I do not actually deserve it. 1 have lately 
 been engaged with company at our house, 
 who resided with us five weeks, and have had 
 much of the rheumatism into tlie bargain. 
 Not in my fingers, you will say — True. But 
 you know as well as I, that pain, be it where 
 it may, indisposes us to writing. 
 
 You express some degree of wonder that 
 I found yon out to be sedentary, at least 
 mucli a stayer within doors, without any suf- 
 ficient data for my direction. Now, if I 
 should guess your figure and stnturc with 
 erjunl success, you will deem me not only a 
 poet but a conjurer. Yet in fact I have no 
 pretensions of that sort. I have only formed 
 a picture of you in my own imagination, as 
 we ever do of a person of whom we think 
 much, though we have never seen that person. 
 Your height I conceive to be about five feet 
 five inches, whicli, tliough it would make a 
 short man, is yet height enougli for a woman. 
 If you insist on an inch or two more, I iiave 
 no objection. You are not very fat, but 
 
 * Cowper's strictures on [jav.itor are rather severe; in 
 a snbs(!ii\i('nt letter we sluill fiml tliat lie expresses him- 
 seir iilniMst in the lans;najj;e of a disciple. We believe 
 all men ti) he pliysioKuomists, that is, they are ij;ui(le(l in 
 their estimate of one another by external impressions, 
 niilil they are furnished with better data to determine 
 their judi^ment. The conntenanee is often the faithful 
 mirror of the inward emotions of the soul, in the same 
 luamier as the li<;ht and shade on the mouutain's side 
 (xhibit llie varialioii* of the atmosphere. In the curious 
 •md valuable cabinet of Denon, in I'aris, which was sold 
 in ]H-i7, two casts taken from Robespierre and Marat 
 ■vere sin.<tdarly expressive of the atrocity of their charac- 
 ter. 'J'hc cast of an idiot, in the same collection, denoted 
 the total absenci! of inlellect. iiaU whatever may be our 
 sentiments oil this subject, there is one noble act of bene- 
 volence which has justly endeared the name of l.avater 
 to his country. We allude to the celelirati'd Orphan In- 
 stitution at Zurich, of which he was the founder. It is 
 a handsome and commodious establishment, where these 
 intiM'estini; olijects of humanity receive a siiittilile educa- 
 tion, and ari^ titled for future usefulness. The church is 
 shown wliere .loliii (Caspar I.avatiT otliciated, surrounded 
 by his youthful aiKlitory ; and an humble stone in the 
 churchyard lirietly records his name and virtues. His 
 own I )i'|ihan-hoiise is the ninst honoral)le monuinent of 
 his fame. Tt is in visiting scenes like these that we feel 
 the moral di'.;iiity of our niilure, that the heart becomes 
 expanded with ijenerous emotions, and that we learn to 
 imitate that Ilivine Master, who went about doing irood. 
 The Kdilor could not avoid reijretlin',' that, in his own 
 country, where charity a.ssumes almost every possible 
 form, the Orphan-house is of rare occurrence, though 
 ahouudim; iu most of the cities of Pwil/.erland. Wliere 
 are the |ihilantliiopists of Urislol, Hirmiiinham, Liver- 
 pool, Manchester, Norwich, and of our other [;reat 
 towns? Surely, to wip(! away the tear from the cheek 
 of the orphan,' to rescue want from destitution and un- 
 protected innocence from exposure to vice and ruin, 
 must ever be considered to be one of the noblest etforts 
 of Chri-^tiaa Ijenevolence. 
 t Private correspondeuce. 
 
 somewhat inclined to be fat, and unless you 
 allow yourself a little more air and e.xercise, 
 will incur some danger of exceeding in your 
 dimensions before you die. Let me, there- 
 fore, once more recommend to you to walk a 
 little more, at least in your garden, and to 
 amuse yourself occasionally with pulling up 
 here and there a weed, for it will be an incon- 
 venience to you to be much fatter than you 
 are, at a time of life when your strength will 
 be naturally on the decline. I have given 
 you a fair complexion, a slight tinge of the 
 rose in your cheeks, dark brown hair, and, if 
 the fashion would give you leave to sh(>w it, 
 an open and well-formed forehead. To all 
 this I add a pair of eyes not quite black, but 
 nearly approaching to that hue, and very an- 
 imated. I have not absolutely determined 
 on the shape of your nose, or the form of 
 your mouth ; but should you tell me that I 
 have in other respects drawn a tolerable like- 
 ness, have no doubt but I can describe them 
 too. I assure you tliat thougli I luive a great 
 desire to read him, I have never seen Lava- 
 ter, nor liave availed myself in the least of 
 any of his rules on this occasion. Ah, 
 madam! if with all that sensibility of yours, 
 which exposes you to so miic'a sorrow, and 
 necessarily must expose you to it, in a world 
 like this, I have had the good fortune to make 
 you smile, I' have then painted you, whether 
 with a strong resemblance, or with none at 
 all, to very good purpose.* 
 
 I had intended to have sent you a little 
 poem, whicli I have lately finished, but have 
 no room to transcribe it.f You shall have it 
 by another opportunity. Breakfast is on the 
 table, and my time also fails, as well as my 
 paper. I rejoice that a cousin of yours foutid 
 my volumes agreeable to him, for, being your 
 cousin, I will be answerable for his good 
 taste and judgment. 
 
 When I wrote last, I was in mourning for 
 a dear and much-valued uncle, Ashley Cow- 
 per. He died at the age of eighty-six. My 
 best respects attend Mr. King: and I am, 
 dear madam. 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.}; 
 
 Weston Lodge, Sept. 2, 1781. 
 My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and 
 yours re;\c]ied London safe, especially when 
 I reflect that you performed the journey on a 
 day so fiital, as I understand, to others trav- 
 elling the same rotid. I found tliose com, 
 forts in your visit which have formerly sweet- 
 ened all our interviews, in part restored. ] 
 knew you; knew you for the same shepherd 
 
 * Cowper's fancy was never more erroneously om- 
 ployc<I. The portrait he here draws of Mrs. King pos- 
 sessed no resemblance to the original. 
 
 t The Dog and the Water-LiU. 
 
 i Private correspondenot).
 
 320 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 who was sent to lead me out of the wilder- 
 ness into the pasture where the chief Shep- 
 herd feeds his flock, and felt my sentiments 
 of affectionate friendship for you the same as 
 ever.* But one thinjr was still wantin<j, and 
 that thing the crown of all. I shall tind it 
 in God's time, if it be not lost forever. 
 When I say this, I say it trembling; for at 
 what time soever comfort shall come, it will 
 not come without its attendant evil ; and, 
 whatever good thing may occur in the inter- 
 val, I have sad forebodings of the event, 
 having learned by experience that I was born 
 to \)e persecuted with peculiar fury, and as- 
 suredly believing, that, such as my lot has 
 been, it will be so to the end. This belief is 
 connected in my mind wi. h an observation I 
 have often made, and is pt rhnps founded in 
 great part upon it : that there is a certain 
 style of dispensations maintained by Provi- 
 dence in the dealings of God with every man, 
 which, however the incidents of his life may 
 vary, and though he may be thrown into many 
 different situations, is never exchanged for 
 another. The style of dispensation peculiar 
 to myself has hitherto been that of sudden, 
 violent, unlooked-for change. When I have 
 thought myself t;illing into the abyss, I have 
 been caught up again ; when I have thought 
 myself on the threshold of a happy eternity, 
 I have been thrust down to heH. The rough 
 and the smooth of such a lot, taken together, 
 should perhaps have taught me never to de- 
 spair ; but, through an unhappy propensity in 
 my nature to forebode the worst, they have 
 on the contrary operated as an admonition to 
 me never to hope. A firm persuasion that I 
 can never durably enjoy a comfortable state 
 of mind, but must be depressed in proportion 
 as I have been elevated, withers my joys in 
 the bud, and, in a manner, entombs them be- 
 fore they are born ; for I have no expectation 
 but of sad vicissitude, and ever believe that 
 the last shock of all will be fiital. 
 
 Mr. Bean has still some trouble with his 
 parishioners. The suppression of five public- 
 houses is the occasion.! He called on me 
 yesterday morning for advice ; though, dis- 
 creet as he is himself, he has little need of 
 
 such council as I can give him. , who 
 
 is subtle as a dozen foxes, met him on Sun- 
 day, exactly at his descent from the pulpit, 
 and proposed to him a general meeting of the 
 
 * It was a singular delusion under which Cowper 
 labored, and seems to be inexplicable ; but it is not less 
 true that, for many years, he doubted the identity of Mr. 
 Newton. When we see the powers of a great mind liable 
 to such instances of delusion, and occasionally suffering 
 an entire eclipse, how irresistibly are we led to ex- 
 claim, " Lord, what is man !" 
 
 t The late Rev. H. Colbourne Ridley, the excellent 
 vicar of Harableden, near Henley-on-Thames, distin- 
 guished for his parochial plans and general devotedness 
 to his professional duties, once observed that the fniit of 
 all his labors, during a residence of flve-and-twenty years, 
 was destroyed in one single year by the introduction of 
 beer-houses, and their demoralizing effects. 
 
 parish in vestry on the subject. j\lr. Bean, 
 attacked so suddenly, consented, but .after- 
 wards repented that he had done so, assured 
 as he was that he should be out-voted. 
 There seemed no remedy but to apprise them 
 beforehand that he would meet them indeed, 
 but not with a view to have the question de- 
 cided by a majority : that he would take that 
 opportunity to make his allegations against 
 each of the houses in question, which if they 
 could refute, well : if not, they could no 
 longer reasonably oppose his measures. — 
 This was what he came to submit to ray 
 opinion. 1 could do no less than approve it; 
 and he left me with a purpose to declare his 
 mind to them immediately. 
 
 I beg that you will give my affectionate 
 respects to Mr. Bacon, and assure him of my 
 sincere desire that he should think himself 
 perfectly at liberty respecting the mottoes, to 
 choose one or to reject both, as likes him 
 best. I wish also to be remembered with 
 much affection to Mrs. Cowper, and always 
 rejoice to hear other well-being. 
 
 Believe me, as I truly am, my dear friend, 
 most affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 11, 178b. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Since your departure 1 
 have twice visited the oak, and with an inten- 
 tion to push my inquiries a mile beyond it, 
 where it seems I should have found another 
 oak, much larger and much more respectable 
 than the former ; but once I was hindered b) 
 the rain, and once by the sultriness of the 
 day. This latter oak has been known by the 
 name of Judith many ages, and is said tsy 
 have been an oak at the time of the Con- 
 quest.* If I have not an opportunity to 
 reach it before your arrival here, we will at- 
 tempt that exploit together, and even if I 
 should have been able to visit it ere you come, 
 I shall yet be glad to do so, for the pleasure 
 of extraordinary sights, like all other pleas- 
 ures, is doubled by the participation of a 
 friend. 
 
 You wish for a copy of my little dog's eulo- 
 
 * This celebrated oak, which is situated in Yardley 
 Chase, near Lord Northampton's residence at Castle 
 Ashby, has furnished the muse of Cowper with an occa- 
 sion for displaying all the graces of his rich poetical 
 fancy. The poem will be inserted in a subsequent part 
 of the worli. In the meantime we extract the following 
 lines from "The Task," to show how the descriptive 
 powers of Cowper were awakened by this favorite and 
 inspiring subject. 
 
 "The oak 
 
 Thrives bv the rude concussion of the storm : 
 
 He seems'indeed indignant, and to feel 
 
 The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 
 
 Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
 
 He held the thunder ; but the monarch owes 
 
 His firm stability to what he scorns. 
 
 More fixed below, the more disturb'd above." 
 
 Tit Sofa
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 321 
 
 giuni, which I will therefore transcribe, but 
 by so doing I shall leave myself but scanty 
 room for prose. 
 
 I shall be sorry if our neighbors at the Hall 
 should have left it, when we have the pleasure 
 of seeing you. I want you to see them soon 
 again, that a little consuetudo may wear off 
 restraint ; and you may be able to improve 
 the advantage you have already gained in that 
 quarter. I pitied you for tiie fears whieh de- 
 prived you of your uncle's company, and the 
 more iiaving suffered so much by tliose fears 
 myself. Fight against that vicious fear, for 
 such it is, as strenuously as you can. It is 
 the worst enemy that can attack a man de- 
 stined to the forum — it ruined me. To asso- 
 ciate as much as possible with the most re- 
 specHble company, for good sentie and good 
 breeding is, I believe the only, at least I am 
 sure it is the best remedy. The society of 
 men of pleasure will not cure it, but rather 
 leaves us more exposed to its influence in 
 company of better persons. 
 
 Now for the "Dog and the Water-Lily."* 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 Weston Lodge, Sept. 2.5, 1788. 
 My dearest Madam, — How surprised was I 
 this moment to meet a servant at the gate, 
 who told me that he came from you. He 
 could not have been more welcome unless 
 he had announced yourself. I am charmed 
 with your kindness, and with all your elegant 
 presents; so is Mrs. Unwin, who begs me in 
 particular to thank you warmly for the house- 
 wife, the very thing she had just begun to 
 want. In the firescreen you have sent me an 
 enigma which at present I have not the inge- 
 nuity to expound ; but some muse will help 
 me, or I shall meet with somebody able to 
 in.struct me. In all that I have seen besides, 
 for that I have not yet seen, I admire both 
 the taste and the execution. A toothpick 
 case I had; but one so large, that no modern 
 waistcoat pocket could possibly contain it. 
 It was some years since the Dean of Dur- 
 ham's, for whose sake I valued it, though to 
 me useless. Yours is come opportunely to 
 supply the deficiency, and shall be my con- 
 stant companion to its last thread. The 
 cakes and apples ve will eat, remembering 
 who sent tliem, ami when I say this, I will 
 add also, that when we have neither apples 
 nor cakes to eat, we will still remember you. 
 What tlie MS. poem can be, that you sup- 
 pose to have been written by me, I am not 
 able to guess ; and since you will not allow 
 that I have guessed your person well, am be- 
 come shy of exercising conjecture on any 
 meaner subject. Perhaps they may be some 
 
 * This has already been inserted, 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 mortuary verses, which I wrote last year, at 
 the request of a certain parish-clerk. If not, 
 and you have never seen them, I will send 
 you them hereafter. 
 
 You have been at Bedford. Bedford is but 
 twelve miles from Westoti. When you are 
 at home, we are but eighteen miles asunder. 
 Is it possible that such a paltry interval can 
 separate us always ? I will never believe it. 
 Our house is going to be filled by a cousin 
 of mine and her train, who will, I hope, spend 
 the winter with us. I cannot, therefore, re- 
 peat my invitation at present, but expect me 
 to be very troublesome on that theme next 
 summer. I could almost scold you for liot 
 making Weston in your way home from Bed- 
 ford. Though I am neither a relation, nor 
 quite eighty-six years of age,* believe me, I 
 sliould as much rejoice to see you and Mr. 
 King, as if I were both. 
 
 I send you, my dear madam, the poem I 
 promised you, and shall be g'ad to send you 
 anything and everything I write, as fast as 
 it flows. Behold my two volumes ! which, 
 though your old acquaintance, I thought 
 migiit receive an additional recommendation 
 in the shape of a present from myself. 
 
 What I have written I know not, for all 
 has been scribbled in haste. I will not tempt 
 your servant's honesty, who seems by his 
 countenance to have a great deal, being equal- 
 ly watciiful to preserve uncorrupted the hon- 
 esty of my own. 
 
 I am, my dearest madam, with a thousand 
 thanks for this stroke of friendship, which I 
 feel at my heart, and with Mrs. Unwin's very 
 best re.spects, most sincerely yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 P. S. My two hares died little more than 
 two years since, one of them aged ten years, 
 the other eleven years and eleven months.f 
 
 Our compliments attend Mr. King 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 25, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — 
 
 Say what is the thing, by my riddle design'J, 
 Which you carried to London, and yet left behind, 
 
 I expect your answer, and without a fee. — 
 The half hour next before breakfast I devote 
 to you. The moment Mrs. Unwin arrives in 
 the study, be what I have written much or 
 little, I shall make my bow, and take leave. 
 If you live to be a judge, as, if I augur right, 
 you will, I shall expect to hear of a walking 
 circuit. 
 
 I was shocked at what you tell me of • 
 
 * Mrs. Battison, a relative of Mrs. King's, and at this 
 advanced age, was in a v('ry dcclir.ing state ol' health. 
 
 t There is a Utile nieinuir of Cowper's hares, written 
 by hiiuseir, which will be inserted in liis works. 
 
 21
 
 822 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 superior talents, it seems, give no security 
 for propriety of conduct ; on tlie contniry, 
 having a natural tendency to nourish pride, 
 they often betray the possessor into such 
 mistakes as men more moderately gifted nev- 
 er commit. Ability, tiierefore, is not wis- 
 dom, and an ounce of grace is a better guard 
 against gross absurdity than tlie brightest 
 talents in tlie world. 
 
 I rejoice that you arc prepared for tran- 
 script work: liere will be plenty for you. 
 The day on which you shall receive tliis, I 
 beg you will remember to drink one glass at 
 least to the success of the Iliad, wliich I fin- 
 ished the day before yesterday, and yesterday 
 began the Odyssey. It will be some time 
 before I shall perceive myself travelling in 
 another road ; the objects around me are at 
 present so much the same ; Olympus, and a 
 council of gods, meet me at my first entrance. 
 To tell you the truth, I am weary of heroes 
 and deities, and, with reverence be it spoken, 
 shall be glad for variety's sake, to exchange 
 their company for that of a Cyclops. 
 
 Weston has iiot been without its tragedies 
 since you left us ; Mrs. Throckmorton's piping 
 bullfinch has been eaten by a rat, and the 
 villain left nothing but poor Bully's beak be- 
 hind liim. It will be a wonder if this event 
 does not at some convenient time employ my 
 versifying passion. Did ever fair lady, from 
 tl-e Lesbia of Catullus to the present day, 
 lose her bird, and find no poet to commem- 
 orate the loss ? W. C. 
 
 Cowper here gives an amusing account 
 ot the manner in which he employed his 
 nours of recreation, at different periods of his 
 life. 
 
 TO MKS. KING.* 
 
 Weston Lodge, Oct. 11, 1788. 
 My dear Madam, — You are perfectly secure 
 from all danger of being overwhelmed with 
 presents from me. It is not much that a 
 poet can possibly have it in his power to 
 give. When he has presented his own 
 works, he may be supposed to have exhaust- 
 ed all means of donation. They are his only 
 superfluity. There was a time, but that time 
 was before J commenced writer for the press, 
 when I amused myself in a way somewhat 
 similar to yours ; allowing, I mean, for the 
 difference between masculine and female op- 
 erations. The scissors and the needle are 
 your chief implements; mine were the chisel 
 and the saw. In those days you might have 
 been in some danger of too plentiful a return 
 for ycur favors. Tables, such as they were, 
 and jrtint-stools, such as never were, might 
 have travelled to Perten-hall in most incon- 
 venient abundance. But I have long since 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 discontinued this practice, and many others 
 which I found it necessary to adopt that I 
 might escape the worst of all evils, both in 
 itself and in its consequences — an idle life. 
 IMany arts I have exercised with this view, for 
 which nature never designed me ; though 
 among them were some in which I arrived at 
 considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the 
 most heroic perseverance. There is not a 
 'squire in all this country who can boast of 
 having made better squirrel-houses, hutches 
 for rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in 
 the article of cabbage-nets I had no superior. 
 I even had the hardiness to take in hand the 
 pencil, and studied a whole year the art of 
 drawing. Many figures were the fruit of my 
 labors, which had, at least, the merit of being 
 unparalleled by any production either of art 
 or nature. But, before the year was ended, 
 I had occasion to wonder at the progress that 
 maybe made, in despite of natural deficiency, 
 by dint alone of practice ; for I actually pro- 
 duced three landscapes, which a lady thought 
 worthy to be framed and glazed. I then 
 judged it high time to exchange this occupa- 
 tion for another, lest, by any subsequent pro- 
 ductions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the 
 honor I had so fortunately acquired. But 
 gardening was, of all employments, that in 
 which I succeeded best; though even in this 
 I did not suddenly attain perfection. I began 
 with lettuces and cauliflowers : from them I 
 procedcd to cucumbers ; next to melons. I 
 then purchased an orange tree, to which, in 
 due time, I added two or three myrtles. 
 These served me day and night with employ- 
 ment during a whole severe winter. To de- 
 fend them from the frost, in a situation that 
 exposed them to its severity, cost me much 
 ingenuity and much attendance. I contrived 
 to give them a fire heat; and have waded 
 night after night through the snow, with 
 the bellows under my arm, just before go- 
 ing to bed, to give the latest possible puff 
 to the embers, lest the frost should seize 
 them before the morning. Very minute be- 
 ginnings have sometimes important conse- 
 quences. From nursing two or three little 
 evergreens, I became ambitious of a green- 
 house, and accordingly built one ; which, 
 verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a 
 longer time than any expedient of all the 
 many to which I have fled for refuge from the 
 misery of having nothing to do. When I left 
 Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a 
 greenhouse of my own ; but in a neighbor's 
 garden I find a better, oi^ which the sole man- 
 agement is confined to me. 
 
 I had need take care, when I begin a letter, 
 that the subject with which I set off be of 
 some importance; for before I can exhaust it, 
 be it what it may, I have generally filled my 
 paper. But self is a subject inexhaustible, 
 which is the reason that though I have said
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 323 
 
 little, and nothing, I am afraid, worth your 
 hearing-, I have only room to add that I am, 
 my dear madam, 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEAVTON.* 
 
 The Lodge, Nov. 29, 1788. 
 My dear Friend,— Not to fill my paper with 
 apologies, I will only say that yuu know my 
 occupation, and how little time it leaves me 
 for other employments; in which, had I leis- 
 ure for them, I could take much pleasure. 
 Letter- writing could be one of the most 
 agreeable, and especially writing to you. 
 
 Poor Jenny Raban is declining fast to- 
 wards the grave, and as fast aspiring to the 
 skies. I expected to have heard yesterday 
 of her death ; but learned, on inquiry, that 
 she was better. Dr. Kerr has seen her, and, 
 by virtue I suppose of his prescriptions, her 
 fits, with which she was frequently troubled, 
 are become less frequent. J3ut there is no 
 reason, I believe, to look for her recovery. 
 Her case is a consumption, into which I saw 
 her sliding swiftly in tiie spring. There is 
 not much to be lamented, or tiiat ought to 
 be so, in the deatii of those that go to glory. 
 If you find many blots, and my writing 
 illegible, you must pardon them, in consider^ 
 ation of the cause. Lady Hesketh and Mrs. 
 Unwin are both talking as if they designed 
 to make themselves amends for the silence 
 they are enjoined while I sit translating 
 Homer. Mrs. Unwin is preparing the break- 
 fost, and, not having seen each other since 
 they parted to go to bed, they have conse- 
 ijucntly a deal to communicate. 
 
 I have seen Mr. Greatlieed, both in his 
 own house and here.f Prosperity sits well 
 on him, and 1 cannot find that this advan- 
 tageous change in his condition has made 
 anv alteration either in his views or his be- 
 havior. The winter is gliding merrily away, 
 while my cousin is with us. She annihilates 
 the diflerence between cold and heat, gloomv 
 skies and cloudless. I have written 1 know 
 not what, and with the despatch of legerde- 
 main ; but with t!ie utmost truth and con- 
 sciousness of what I say, assure you, my 
 dear friend, that I am 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 a peep at my old friend Vincent Bourne ; the 
 neatest of all men in his versification, thouo-h. 
 when I was under his ushership at We'st- 
 minster, the most slovenly in his person. 
 He was so inattentive to his boys, and so in- 
 different whether they brought him good or 
 bad exercises, or none at all, that he "seemed 
 determined, as he was the- best, so to be the 
 last Latin poet of the Westminster line ; a 
 plot which, I believe, he executed very suc- 
 cessfully, for I have not heard of any who 
 has deserved to be compared witli him. 
 
 We have had hardly any rain or snow since 
 you left us ; the roads are accordingly as dry 
 as in the middle of summer, and the opportu- 
 nity of walking much more favorable. We 
 have no season, in my nn'nd, so pleasant as 
 such a wmter ; and I account it particularly 
 fortunate, that such it proves, my cousin be- 
 ing with us. She is in good " health, and 
 cheerful, so are we all ; and this I say, know- 
 nig you will be glad to hear it, for you have 
 seen the time when this could not be said of 
 all your friends at Weston. We shall re- 
 joice to see you here at Christmas; but I 
 recollect, when I hinted such an excursion by 
 word of mouth, you gave me no great en- 
 couragement to expect you. Minds alter, 
 and yours may be of the number of those 
 that do so ; and, if it should, you will be en- 
 tirely welcome to us all. Were there no 
 other reason for your coming than merely the 
 pleasure it will afford to us, that reason alone 
 would be sufticient : but, after so many toils, 
 and with so many more in j)rospeet, it" seems 
 essential to your well-being that you should 
 allow yourself a respite, which perhaps you 
 can take as comfortably (I am sure as quietly) 
 here as anywhere. 
 
 The ladies beg to be remembered to you 
 with all possible esteem and regard ; they 
 are just come down to breakfast, and,being 
 at this moment extremely talkative, oblige 
 me to put an end to my letter. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, N'ov. 30, 1788. 
 My dear Friend, — Your letter accompany- 
 ing the books with which you have favored 
 me, and for which I return you a thousand 
 thanks, did not aVrive till yesterday. I fihall 
 have great pleasure in taking now and then 
 
 * Private correspoiulencf. 
 
 I -Mr. (Jreiitlieod wiis now residing at Newport-Pngiicl, 
 uid exercising his ministry there. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 Tlie Lodi^e, Dec. 6, 1788. 
 
 My dear Madam, — It must, if you please, 
 be a point agreed between us, that wo will 
 not make punctuality in writing the test of 
 our regard for each other, lest we should incur 
 the danger of pronouncing and suffeiing by 
 an unjust sentence, and' this mutually. 'l 
 have told you, I believe, that the half 'hour 
 before brcakfiist is my only letter-writing 
 opportunity. In summer I rise rather early, 
 and conse(juently at that season can find 
 more time for scribbling than at present. If 
 I enter my study now before nine, I find all 
 at si.xcs and sevens; for servants will t.ake. 
 in part at least, the liberty claimed by tiieii 
 ' Priviitc concspondence.
 
 324 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 masters. That you may not suppose us all 
 sluggards alike, it is necessary, however, that 
 I should add a word or two on this subject, 
 in justification of Mrs. Unwin, who, because 
 the days are too short for the important con- 
 cerns of knitting stockings and mending 
 them, rises generally by candle-light; a prac- 
 tice so much in the style of nil the ladies of 
 antiquity who were good for anything, that 
 it is impossible not to applaud it. 
 
 Mrs. Battison being dead, I began to fear 
 that you would have no more calls to Bedford; 
 but the marriage so near at hand, of the 
 young lady you mention with a gentleman of 
 that place, gives me hope again that you may 
 occasionally approach us as heretofore, and 
 that on some of those occasions you will 
 perhaps find your way to Weston. The 
 deaths of some and the marriages of others 
 make a new world of it every thirty years. 
 Within that space of time, the majority are 
 displaced, and a new generation has suc- 
 ceeded. Here and there one is permitted to 
 stay a little longer, that there may not be 
 wanting a few grave Dons like myself, to 
 make the observation. This thought struck 
 me very forcibly, the other day, on reading a 
 paper called the County Chronicle, which 
 came hither in the package of some books 
 from London. It contained news from 
 Hertfordshire, and informed me, among other 
 things, that at Great Berkhamstead, the place 
 of my birth, there is hardly a family left of 
 all those with whom, in my early days, I was 
 so familiar. The houses, no doubt, remain, 
 but the inhabitants are only to be found now 
 by tiieir grave-stones ; and it is certain that 
 I might pass through a town, in which I was 
 once a sort of principal figure, unknowing 
 and unknown. They are happy who have 
 not taken up their rest in a world fluctuat- 
 ing as the sea, and passing away with the 
 rapidity of a river. I wish to my heart that 
 yourself and Mr. King may long continue, as 
 you have already long continued, exceptions 
 from the general truth of this remark. You 
 doubtless married early, and the thirty-six 
 years elapsed may have yet other years to 
 succeed them. I do not forget that your re- 
 lation Mrs. Battison lived to the age of 
 eighty-six. T am glad of her longevity, be- 
 cause it seems to aiford some assurance of 
 yours ; and I hope to know you better yet 
 before you die. 
 
 I have never seen the Observer, but am 
 pleased with btiing handsomely spoken of by 
 an old school-fellow. Cumberland* and I 
 Doarded together in the same house at West- 
 minster. He was at that time clever, and I 
 suppose has given proof smficient to the 
 world that he is still clever : but of all that 
 he has written, it has never fallen in my way 
 
 * Aullior <>{ tlie " Observer," " the West Indian," and 
 of ae7«ral dniinatic pieces. 
 
 to read a syllable, except perhaps in a maga- 
 zine or review, the sole sources, at present, 
 of all my intelligence. Addison speaks of 
 persons who grow dumb in the study of elo- 
 quence, and 1 have actually studied Homer 
 till I am become a mere ignoramus in every 
 other province of literature. ' 
 
 My letter-writing time is spent, and I must 
 now to Homer. With my best respects to 
 Mr. King, I remain, dear madam. 
 
 Most afiectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 P. S. When I wrote last, I told you, 1 
 believe, that Lady Hesketh was with us. 
 She is with us now, making a cheerful winter 
 for us at Weston. The acquisition of a new 
 friend, and, at a late day, the recovery of the 
 friend of our youth, are two of the chief 
 comforts of which this life is susceptible. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. 9, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend, — That I may return you 
 the Latin manuscript as soon as possible,! I 
 take a short opportunity to scratch a few 
 hasty lines, that it may not arrive alone. J 
 have made here and there an alteration, 
 which appeared to me for the better ; but on 
 the whole, I cannot but wonder at your 
 adroitness in a business to which you have 
 been probably at no time much accustomed, 
 and which, for many years, you have not at 
 all practised. If, when you shall have writ- 
 ten the whole, you shall wish for a corrector 
 of the rest, so far as my own skill in the 
 matter goes, it is entirely at your service. 
 
 Lady Hesketh is obliged to you for the 
 part of your letter in which she is mentioned, 
 and returns her compliments. She loves all 
 my friends, and consequently cannot be in- 
 different to you. The Thi-ockmortons are 
 gone into Norfolk, on a visit to Lord Petre. 
 They will probably return this day fortnight, 
 
 Mr. F is now preacher at Ravenstone. 
 
 Mr. C still preaches here. The latter is 
 
 warmly attended. The former has heard 
 him, having, I suppose, a curiosity to know 
 by what charm he held his popularity ; but 
 whether he has heard him to his own edifi- 
 cation, or not, is more than I can say. Prob- 
 ably he wonders, for I have heard that he is 
 a sensible man. His successful competitor 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t We have aU-eady alluded to Mr. Van Lier, a Dutch 
 minister of the Reformed Church, to whom the perusal 
 of Mr. Newton's writings was made instrumental in lead- 
 ins his mind to clear and saving impressions of divine 
 truth. He communicated to Mr. Newton an interesting 
 account of this spiritual change of mind, in the Latin 
 manuscript here mentioned, which was transmitted to 
 Cowper, and afterward translated by him, and published 
 by Mr. Newton. It is entitled " The Power of Grace Illus- 
 trated," and will be more particularly adverted to in a 
 subsequent part of this book. 
 
 J
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 325 
 
 IS wise in nothing but his knowledge of the 
 gospel. 
 
 I am summoned to breakfast, and am, my 
 dear friend, with our best love to Mrs. New- 
 ton, Miss Catlett, and yourself. 
 
 Most affectionately yours, \V. C. 
 
 I have not the assurance to call this an 
 answer to your letter, in wiiich were many 
 things deserving much notice ; but it is the 
 best that, in the present moment, I am able 
 to send you. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 13, 1789. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I iiave taken since you went 
 away many of the walks which we have taken 
 together, and none of them, I believe, with- 
 out thoughts of you. I have, though not a 
 good memory in general, yet a good local 
 memory, and can recollect, by the lielp of a 
 tree or stile, what you said on that jjarticular 
 spot. For this reason I purpose, when the 
 summer is come, to walk with a book in my 
 pockets: what I read at my fireside I forget, 
 but what I read under a hedge, or at the side 
 of a pond, that pond and that hedge will al- 
 ways bring to my remembrance ; and this is 
 a sort of memoria technica, which I would 
 recommend to you, if I did not know that 
 yon have no occasion for it. 
 
 I am reading Sir John Hawkins, and still 
 hold the same opinion of his book as when 
 you were here.* There are in it undoubt- 
 edly some awkwardnesses of phrase, and 
 which is worse, here and there, some unequi- 
 vocal indications of a vanity not easily par- 
 donable in a man of his years; but on the 
 whole I find it amusing, and to me at least, 
 to whom everything tiiat has passed in the 
 literary world, within these five-jfhd-twenty 
 years, is new, sufficiently replete with infor- 
 mation. jMr. Throckmorton told me, about 
 three days since, that it was lately recom- 
 mended to him by a sensible man, as a book 
 that would give him great insight into the 
 history of modern literature, and modern 
 men of letters, a commendation which I 
 really think it merits. Fifty years hence, 
 perhaps, the world will feel itself obliged to 
 him. VV. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Tl\o Lodge, Jan. 24, 1789. 
 
 My dear Sir, — We have heard from my 
 
 cousin in Norfolk-street; she reached home 
 
 safely, and in good time. An observation 
 
 suggests itself, which, though I have but 
 
 little time for observation making, I must al- 
 
 * Sir John Hawkins is known as the anthor of four 
 ([uarlo voliuucs ou Uic ,;('M( r:il llislory of Music, and by 
 tL Lil'e of Johnson. The foiiner is now superseded bj 
 Burney'e, and the laUer by Boswell's. 
 
 low mysflf time to mention. Accidents, as 
 we call them, generally occur when there 
 seems least reason to expect them; if a 
 friend of ours travels far in different roads 
 and at an unfavorable season, we are reason- 
 ably alarmed for the safety of one in whom 
 we take so much interest, yet how seldom 
 do we hear a tragical account of such a jour- 
 ney ! It is, on the contrary, at home, in our 
 yard, or garden, perhaps in our parlor, that 
 disaster finds us ; in any place, in short, 
 where we seem perfectly out of the reach of 
 danger. The lesson inculcated by such a 
 procedure on the part of Providence towards 
 us seems to be that of perpetual dependence. 
 Having preached this sermon, I must 
 hasten to a close ; you know that I am not 
 idle, nor can I afford to be so; I would 
 gladly spend more time with you, but, by 
 some means or other, this day has hitherto 
 proved a day of hindrance and confusion. 
 
 W. C 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 29, 1789. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I shall be a better, at 
 least a more frequent correspondent, when I 
 have done with Homer. I am not forgetful 
 of any letters that I owe, and least of all 
 forgetful of my debts in that way to you; 
 on the contrary, I live in a continual state of 
 self-reproach for not writing more punctually; 
 but the old Grecian, whom I charge myself 
 never to neglect, lest I should never finish 
 him, has, at present, a voice that seems to 
 drown all other demands, and many to which 
 I could listen with more pleasure than even 
 to his Os rotundum. I am now in the 
 eleventh book of the Odyssey, conversing 
 with the dead. Invoke the muse in my be- 
 half, that I may roll the stone of Sisyphus 
 with some success. To do it as Homer has 
 done it is, I suppose, in our verse and lan- 
 guage, impossible ; but I will hope not to 
 labor altogether to as little purpose as Sisy- 
 phus himself did. 
 
 Though I meddle little with politics, and 
 can hnd but little leisure to do so, the pres- 
 ent state of things unavoidably engages a 
 share of my attention. But, as th(!y say, 
 Archiniides, when Syracuse was taken, was 
 found busy in the solution of a probletn, so, 
 come what may, I shall be found translating 
 Homer. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 29, i789. 
 ]My dear Madam, — This morning I said to 
 Mrs. Unwin, "I must write to Mrs. King: 
 her long silence alarms me — somethin<r has* 
 ♦ Private correapondence.
 
 326 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Happened." These words of mine proved 
 only a prelude to the arrival of your mes- 
 senger with his most welcome charge, for 
 which I return you my sineerest thanks. 
 You have sent me the very things I wanted, 
 and vvliich I should have continued to want, 
 had not you sent them. As often as the 
 wine is set on the table, I have said to my- 
 self, " This is all very well ; but I have no 
 bottle-stands ;" and myself as often replied, 
 " No matter ; you can make shift without 
 them." Thus I and myself have conferred 
 together many a day ; and you, as if you had 
 been privy to the conference, have kindly 
 supplied the deficiency, and put an end to the 
 debate forever. 
 
 When your messenger arrived, I was be- 
 ginning to dress for dinner, being engaged to 
 dine with my neighbor, Mr. Throckmorton, 
 from whose house I am just returned, and 
 snatch a few moments before supper to tell 
 you how much I am obliged to you. You 
 will not, therefore, find me very prolix at 
 present ; but it shall not be long before you 
 shall hear further from me. Your honest 
 old neighbor sleeps under our roof, and will 
 be gone in the morning before I shall have 
 seen him. 
 
 I have more items than one by which to 
 remember the late frost : it has cost me the 
 bitterest uneasiness. Mrs. Unwin got a fall 
 on the gravel-walk covered with ice, which 
 has confined -her to an upper chamber ever 
 since. She neither broke nor dislocated any 
 bones ; but received such a contusion below 
 the hip, as crippled her completely. She 
 now begins to recover, after having been 
 helpless as a child for a whole fortnight, but 
 so slowly at present, that her amendment is 
 even now almost imperceptible. 
 
 Engaged, however, as I am with my own 
 private anxieties, I yet find leisure to interest 
 myself not a little in the distresses of the 
 royal family, especially in those of the 
 Queen.* The Lord-Chancellor called the 
 other morning on Lord Stafford: entering 
 the room, he threw his hat into a sofa at the 
 fireside, and, clasping his hands, said, " I have 
 heard of distress, and I have read of it ; but 
 I never saw distress equal to that of the 
 
 * The unfortunate malady of George III. is here alluded 
 to, which first occurrod after a previous indisposition, 
 October 2'2ud, 1788. The nation was plunged in grief by 
 this calamitous <!vent, and a regency appointed, to the 
 exclusion of the Prince of Wales, which occasioned much 
 discussion in Parliament at that time. Happily the 
 King's illness was only of a few month's duration: his 
 recovery was announced to be complete, Feb. 27, 1789. 
 Few monarchs have been more justly venerated than 
 George the Third, or have left behind them more un- 
 questionable evidences of real personal piety. The fol- 
 lowing lines written to commemorate his recovery, merit 
 to be recorded. 
 
 Not with more grief did Adam first survey. 
 With doubts perplext, the sotting orb of day ; 
 Nor more his joy, th' ensuing morn, to view 
 That splendid orb its glorious course renew ; 
 Than was thy joy, Britannia, and thy pain, 
 When set thy smi, and wh'jn he rose again. 
 
 Queen." This I know from particular and 
 certain authority. 
 
 My dear madam, I have not time to en- 
 large at present on this subject, or to touch 
 any other. Once more, therefore, thanking 
 you for your kindness, of which I am truly 
 sensible ; and thanking, too, Mr. King for the 
 fjivor he has done me in subscribing to my 
 Homer, and at the same time begging you to 
 make my best compliments to him, I con- 
 clude myself, with Mrs. Unwin's acknowledg. 
 ments of your most acceptable present tc 
 her, 
 
 Your obliged and affectionate W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 March 12, 17€9, 
 
 My dear Madam, — I feel myself in no 
 small degree unworthy of the kind solicitude 
 which you express concerning me and my 
 welfare, after a silence so much longer than 
 I gave you reason to expect. I should in- 
 deed account myself inexcusable, had I not 
 to allege, in my defence, perpetual engage- 
 ments of such a kind as would by no means 
 be dispensed with. Had Homer alone been 
 in question, Homer should have made room 
 for you : but I have had other work in hand 
 at the same time, equally pressing and more 
 laborious. Let it suffice to say, that I have 
 not wilfully neglected you for a moment, and 
 that you have never been out of my thoughts 
 a day together. But I begin to perceive that, 
 if a man will be an author, he must live nei- 
 ther to himself nor to his friends so much as 
 to others, whom he never saw, nor shall see. 
 
 My promise to follow my last letter with 
 another speedily, which promise I kept so 
 ill, is not the only one which I am conscious 
 of having 'made to you, and but very indif- 
 ferently performed. I promised you all the 
 smaller pieces that I should produce, as fast 
 as occasion called them forth, and leisure 
 occurred to write them. Now the fact is, 
 that I have produced several since I made 
 that fair profession, of which I have sent you 
 hardly any. The reason is that, transcribed 
 into the body of a letter, they would leave 
 me no room for prose ; and that other con- 
 veyance than by the post I cannot find, even 
 after inquiry made among all my neighbors 
 for a traveller to Kiinbolton. Well, we 
 shall see you, I hope, in the summer ; and 
 then I will show you all. I will transcribe 
 one for you every morning before breakfast, 
 as long as they last ; and when you come 
 down, you shall find it laid on your n; pkin. 
 I sent one last week to London, whii it by 
 some kind body or another, I know not 
 whom, is to be presented to the Queen. 
 The subject, as you may guess, is the King'g 
 
 * Private correspondenco.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 327 
 
 recovery; a theme that might make a bad 
 poet a good one, and a good one excel him- 
 self. This, too, you shall see when we meet, 
 unless it should bounce upon you before, 
 from some periodical register of all such 
 matters. 
 
 I shall commission my cousin, who lately 
 left us, to procure for me the book you men- 
 tion. Being, and having long been, so deep 
 in the business of translation, it was natural 
 that I should have many thoughts on that 
 subject. I have accordingly had as many as 
 would of themselves, perhaps, make a vol- 
 ume, and shall be glad to compare them with 
 those of any other writer recommended by 
 Mr. Martyn. When you write next to that 
 gentleman, I beg you, madam, to present my 
 compliments to him, with thanks both for 
 the mention of Mr. Twining's* book, and 
 for the honor of his name among my sub- 
 scribers. 
 
 I remain always, my dear madam, 
 
 Your aflectionate W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 The Lodge, April 22, 1789. 
 My dear Madam, — Having waited hitherto 
 m expectation of the messenger whom, in 
 your last, you mentioned a design to send, I 
 have at length sagaciously surmised that you 
 delay to send him, in expectation of hearing 
 first from me. I would that his errand hither 
 were better worthy the journey. I shall 
 have no very voluminous packet to charge 
 him with when he comes. Such, however, 
 as it is, it is ready ; and has received an ad- 
 dition in the interim of one copy, which 
 would not have made a part of it, had your 
 Mercury arrived here sooner. It is on the 
 subject of the Queen's visit to London on 
 the night of the illuminations. Mrs. Unwin, 
 knowing the burden that lies on my back 
 too heavy for any but Atlantean shoulders, 
 has kindly performed the copyist's part, and 
 transcribed all that I had to send you. Ob- 
 serve, madam, I do not write this to hasten 
 your messenger hither, but merely to account 
 for my own silence. It is probable that the 
 later he arrives, the more he will receive 
 when he comes ; for I never fail to write 
 when I think I have found a favorable sub- 
 jectj 
 
 * The author of the translation of Aristotle. 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 i We insert these verses, as expressive of the loyal 
 feel Jigs of Cowper. 
 
 ON THE queen's VISIT TO LONDON. 
 
 The jYiffht of the Tenth of March, 17S9. 
 
 V^hen, long seqiiester'd from his throne, 
 
 (leorge took liis scat again. 
 By ritflit of worth, not blood alone, 
 
 Entitled here to reign ! 
 
 Then liovally, with all her lamps. 
 New trimm'd, a gallant show, 
 
 We mourn that we must give up the hope 
 of seeing you and Mr. King at Weston, 
 Had our correspondence commenced sooner; 
 we had certainly found the means of meet- 
 ing; but it seems that we were doomed tc 
 
 Chasing the darkness and the damps. 
 Set London in a glow. 
 
 'Twas hard to tell, of streets, of squares. 
 Which form'd the chief display. 
 
 These most resembling chister'd stars, 
 Those the long milky way. 
 
 Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, 
 
 And rockets flew, self-driven. 
 To hang their momentary (ires 
 
 Amid the vault of heaven. 
 
 So, fire with water to compare, 
 
 The ocean serves on high, 
 Up-spouted by a whale in air, 
 
 To express unwieldy joy. 
 
 Had all the pageants of the world 
 
 In one procession join'd, 
 And all the banners been iinfurl'd 
 
 That heralds e'er design'd. 
 
 For no such sight had England's Queen 
 
 Forsaken hor retreat. 
 Where George recover'd made a scene 
 
 Sweet always, doubly sweet. 
 
 Yet glad she came that night to prove, 
 
 A witness undescried. 
 How much the object of her love 
 
 Was lov'd by all beside. 
 
 Darkness the skies had mantled o'er 
 
 In aid of her design — 
 Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er caU'd before 
 
 To veil a deed of thine ! 
 
 On borrow'd wheels away she flies, 
 
 Resolved to bo unknown. 
 And gratify no curious eyes 
 
 That night except her own. 
 
 Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees. 
 
 And hears the million hum ; 
 As all by instinct like the bees, 
 
 Had known tlieir sovereign come. 
 
 Pleas'd she beheld aloft portray'd. 
 
 On many a splendid wall, 
 Emblems of health and heav'nly aid. 
 
 And George the theme of all. 
 
 Unlike the enigmatic line. 
 
 So diflicult to spell, 
 Which shook Belshazzar at his wine, 
 
 The night his city fell. 
 
 Soon watery grew her eyes, and dim, 
 
 But with a joyful tear! 
 None else, except in prayer for him, 
 
 George ever drew from her. 
 
 It was a scene in cveiy part 
 
 Like that in fable feign'd, 
 And seem'd by some magician's art 
 
 Created and sustain'd. 
 
 But other imigic there she knew 
 
 Had been i^xerted none, 
 To raise such wonders to her view. 
 
 Save love to George alone. 
 
 That cordial thouijht her spirit choer'd, 
 And, through llie cumbVous throng, 
 Not else unworthy to be fetu-'d, 
 Convey'd her calm along. 
 
 So, ancient poets say, serene 
 
 The sea-maid rides the waves. 
 And, fearless of the billowy scene, 
 
 Her peaceful bosom laves. 
 
 With more than astronomic eyes 
 She viewed the sparkling show; 
 
 One Georgian sUir adorns the skies, 
 She myriads fouml below. 
 
 Yet let the glories of a night 
 
 Like that, onoe seen, suthcc ! 
 Heaven grant us ik) such fuiure sighV— 
 
 Such precious woe the price !
 
 328 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 know each other too late for a meeting in 
 th's world. May a better world make us 
 amends, as it certainly will, if 1 ever reach a 
 better! Our interviews here are but imper- 
 fect pleasures at the best ; and generally 
 from such as promise us most gratification 
 we receive the most disappointment. But 
 disappointment is, I suppose, confined to the 
 planet on which we dwell, the only one in 
 tiie universe, probably, that is inhabited by 
 sinners. 
 
 I did not know, or even suspect, that when 
 I received your last messenger, I received so 
 eminent a disciple of Hippocrates ; a physi- 
 cian of such absolute control over disease 
 and the human constitution, as to be able to 
 put a pestilence into his pocket, confine it 
 there, and let it loose ax his pleasure. We 
 are much indebted to him that he did not 
 give us here a stroke of his ability. 
 
 I must not forget to mention that I have 
 received (probably not without your privity) 
 Mr. Twining's valuable volume.* For a 
 long time I supposed it to have come from 
 my bookseller , who now and then sends 
 me a new publication ; but I find, on inquiry, 
 that it came not from him. I beg, madam, 
 if you are aware that Mr. Twining himself 
 sent it, or your friend Mr. Martyn, that you 
 will negotiate for me on the occasion, and 
 contrive to convey to the obliging donor my 
 very warmest thanks. I am impatient till 
 he receives them. I have not yet had time 
 to do justice to a writer so sensible, elegant, 
 and entertaining, by a complete perusal of 
 his work ; but I have with pleasure souglit 
 out all those passages to which Mr. Martyn 
 was so good as to refer me, and am delighted 
 to observe the exact agreement in opinion on 
 the subject of translation in general, and on 
 that of Mr. Pope's in particular, that subsists 
 between Mr. Twining and myself 
 
 With Mrs. Unwin's best compliments, I 
 remain, my dear madam. 
 
 Your obliged and affectionate, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 April 30, 1789. 
 My dear Madam, — I thought to have sent 
 you, by the return of your messenger, a let- 
 ter; at least, something like one: but in- 
 stead of sleeping here, as I supposed he 
 would, he purposes to pass the night at La- 
 vendon, a villag'e three miles off. This de- 
 sign of his is but just made known to me, 
 and it is now near seven in the evening. 
 Therefore, lest he should be obliged to feel 
 out his way, in an unknown country, in the 
 dark, I am forced to scribble a hasty word 
 or two, instead of devoting, as I intended, 
 the whole evening to your service. 
 
 * Th(! translation of Aristotle. 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 A thousand thanks for your basket, and 
 all the good things that it contained ; par- 
 ticularly for my brother's Poems,* whose 
 hand-writing struck me the moment I saw 
 it. They gave me some feelings of a mel- 
 ancholy kind, but not painful. 1 will return 
 tliera to you by the next opportunity. I wish ■ 
 that mine, which I send you, may prove half 
 as pleasant to you as your excellent cakes 
 and apples have proved to us. You will then 
 think yourselves sutticiently recompensed for 
 your obliging present. If a crab-stock can 
 transform a pippin into a nonpareil, what 
 may not I effect in a translation of Homer 1 
 Alas! I fear nothing half so valuable. 
 
 I have learned, at length, that I am indebt- 
 ed for Twining's Aristotle to a relation of 
 mine. General Cowper. 
 
 Pardon me that I quit you so soon. It is 
 not willingly ; but I have compassion on your 
 poor messenger. 
 
 Adieu, my dear madam, and believe me, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C ' 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, May 20, 1789. 
 
 IMy dear Sir, — Finding myself, between 
 twelve and one, at the end of the seventeenth 
 book of the Odyssey, I give the interval be- 
 tween the present moment and the time of 
 walking, to you. If I write letters before I 
 sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits too flat 
 for poetry, and too flat for letter-writing if I 
 address myself to Homer first ; but the last I 
 choose as the least evil, because my friends 
 will pardon my dullness, but the public will 
 not. 
 
 I iiad been some days uneasy on your ac- 
 count when yours arrived. We should have 
 rejoiced to have seen you, would your engage- 
 ments have permitted; but in the autumn, I 
 hope, if not before, we shall have the pleasure 
 to receive you. At what time we may expect 
 Lady Hesketh, at present, I know not; but 
 imagine that at any time after the month of 
 June you will be sure to find her with us, 
 which I mention, knowing that to meet you 
 would add a relish to all the pleasures she can 
 find at Weston. 
 
 When 1 wrote these lines on the Queen's 
 visit, I thought I had performed well ; but it 
 belongs to me, as I have told you before, to 
 dislike whatever I write when it has been 
 written a month. The performance was there- 
 fore sinking in my esteem, when your appro- 
 bation of it, arriving in good time, buoyed it 
 up again. It will now keep possession of the 
 place it holds in my good opinion, because it 
 has been favored with yours ; and a copy will 
 certainly be at your service whenever you 
 choose to have one. 
 
 * We regret that we have not succeeded in procuring 
 any traces of these poems of Uowper'a brothej
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 329 
 
 Notliing is more certain than that when I 
 wrote the line, ' 
 
 God made the country, and man made the town, 
 
 I had not the least recollection of that very 
 similar one, which you quote from Hawkins 
 Brown. It convinces me tliat critics (and 
 none more than Warton, in his notes on 
 Milton's minor poems) have often charged 
 antiiors with borrowing what they drew from 
 their own fund. Brown was an entertaining 
 companion when he had drunk his bottle, but 
 not before : tliis proved a snare to him, and he 
 would sometimes drink too much ; but I know 
 not that he was chargeable with any other 
 irregularities. He had those among his inti- 
 mates, wiio would not have been such had he 
 been otherwise viciously inclined; the Dun- 
 combs, m particular, father and son, who were 
 of unblemished morals. W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 The Lodge, Jlay 30, 1789. 
 
 Dearest Madam, — Many thanks for your 
 kind and valuable despatches, none of which, 
 except your letter, I have yet had time to read ; 
 for true it is, and a sad truth too, that I was 
 in bed when your messenger arrived. He 
 waits only for my answer, for which reason I 
 answer as speedily as I can. 
 
 I am glad if my poetical packet pleased 
 you. Those stanzas on the Queen's visit 
 were presented some time since, by Miss 
 Goldsworthy,f to tlie princess Augusta, who 
 has probably given them to the Queen ; but 
 of their reception I have heard nothing. I 
 gratified myself by complimenting two sover- 
 eigns whom I love and honor ; and that grati- 
 fication will be my reward. It would, indeed, 
 be unreasonable to expect that persons who 
 keep a Laureat in constant pay, should have 
 either praise or emolument to spare for every 
 volunteer who may choose to make them his 
 subject. 
 
 I will take the greatest care of the papers 
 with whicii you have entrusted me, and will 
 return them by the next opportunity. It is 
 very unfortunate tiiat the people of Bedford 
 sliould ciioose to have the small-pox, just at 
 the season when it would be sure to prevent 
 aur meeting. God only knows, madam, when 
 we sliall meet, or wiietherat all in tliis world; 
 3ivt certain it is, that whether we meet or not, 
 I am most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, June 5, 1789. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am going to give you a 
 
 deal of trouble, but London folks must be 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t Tlie diitighter of General Goldsworthy. 
 
 content to be troubled by country folks ; for 
 in London only can our strange necessities be 
 supplied. You must buy for me, if you please, 
 a cuckoo clock; and now I will tell you where 
 they are sold, which, Londoner as you are, it 
 is possible you may not know. They are 
 sold, I am informed, at more houses than 
 one in that narrow part of Holborn which 
 leads into Broad St. Giles'. It seems they are 
 well-going clocks and cheap, which are the 
 two best recommendations of any clock. 
 They are made in Germany, and such num- 
 bers of them are annually imported, that they 
 are become even a considerable article of 
 commerce. 
 
 I return you many thanks for Boswell's 
 Tour.* I read it to Mrs. Unwin after supper, 
 and we find it amusing. There is much trash 
 in it, as tiiere must always be in every nar- 
 rative that relates indiscriminately all that 
 passed. But now and then the Doctor speaks 
 like an oracle, and that makes amends for all. 
 Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not 
 less a coxcomb, though of another kind. I 
 fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his 
 friends, and they in return made him a cox- 
 comb ; for, with reverence be it spoken, such 
 he certainly was, and flattered as he was he 
 was sure to be so. 
 
 Thanks for your invitation to London, bat 
 unless London can come to me, I fear we shall 
 never meet. I was sure that you would love 
 my friend when you should once be well ac- 
 quainted with him,f and equally sure that he 
 would take kindly to you. 
 
 Now for Homer. W. C 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER HAGOT. 
 
 Weston, June 16, 1789. 
 My dear Friend, — You will naturally sup- 
 pose that the letter in which you announced 
 your marriage occasioned me some concern, 
 thougii in my answer I had the wisdom to 
 conceal it. The account you gave me of the 
 object of your choice was such as left me at 
 liberty to form conjectures not very comfort- 
 able to myself, if my friendsiiip for you were 
 indeed sincere. I have since, however, been 
 sutiieiently consoled. Your brother Chester 
 has informed me that you have married not 
 only one of the most agreeable, but one of 
 the most accomplished, women in the king- 
 dom. It is an old maxim, that it is better to 
 exceed expectation than to disappoint it ; and 
 with this maxim in your view it was, no doubt, 
 that you dwelt only on circumstances of dis- 
 advantage, and would not treat me with a re- 
 cital of others which abundantly overweigh 
 them. I now congratulate not you only but 
 myself, and truly rejoice that my friend has 
 chosen for his fellow-traveller, through the re- 
 
 * Tour to the Ifebrides. 
 t Rev. John Xewtou.
 
 330 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 maining stages of his journey, a companion 
 who will do honor to his discernment, and 
 make his way, so far as it can depend on a 
 wife to do so, pleasant to the last. 
 
 My verses on the Queen's visit to London 
 either have been printed, or soon will be, in 
 the " World." Tlie finishing to which you 
 objected I have altered, and have substituted 
 two new stanzas instead of it. Two others 
 also I have struck out, another critic having 
 objected to tliem. I think I am a very tract- 
 able sort of a poet. Most of ray fraternity 
 would as soon shorten the noses of their 
 children because they were said to be too long, 
 as thus dock their compositions in compliance 
 with the opinions of others. I beg that when 
 my life shall be written hereafter, my author- 
 ship's ductibility of temper may not be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 I am, my dear friend. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, June 20, 1789. 
 
 Amico Mio, — I am truly sorry that it must 
 be so long before we can have an opportunity 
 to meet. My cousin in her last letter but one 
 inspired me with other expectations, express- 
 ing a purpose, if the matter could be so con- 
 trived, of bringing you with her : I was willing 
 to believe that you had consulted together on 
 the subject, and found it feasible. A month 
 was formerly a trifle in my account, but at my 
 present age I give it all its importance, and 
 grudge that so many months should yet pass 
 in which I have not even a glimpse of those I 
 love, and of whom, the course of nature con- 
 sidered, I must ere long take leave forever — 
 but I shall live till August. 
 
 Many thanks for the cuckoo which arrived 
 perfectly safe and goes well, to the amusement 
 and amazement of all who hear it. Hannah 
 lies awake to hear it, and I am not sure that 
 we have not others in the house that admire 
 his music as much as she. 
 
 Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I 
 now think myself as much a master of John- 
 son's character as if I had known him per- 
 sonally, and cannot but regret that our hards 
 of other times found no such biographers as 
 these. They have both been ridiculed, and 
 the wits have had their laugh ; but such a his- 
 tory of Milton or Shaksjjeare as they have 
 given of Johnson — O how desirable !* 
 
 W. C. 
 
 * The distinguished merit of Boswell's Life of Dr. 
 Johnson is precisely what Cowper here states. In pe- 
 rusing it we become intimately acquainted with his 
 manner, habits of life, and sentiments on eveiy subject. 
 We are introduced to the great wits of the age, and see 
 a lively portraiture of the literary characters of those 
 times. However minute and even frivolous some of the 
 remarks may be, yet Boswell's Life will never fail to 
 awaken interest, and no library can be considered to be 
 complete without it. 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
 
 July 18, 1789. 
 
 Many thanks, my dear madam, for youi 
 extract from George's letter. I retiiin but 
 little Italian, yet that little was so forcibly 
 mustered by the consciousness that I was 
 myself the subject, that I presently became 
 master of it. I have always said that George 
 is a poet, and I am never in his company but 
 I discover proofs of it, and the delicate address 
 by which he has managed his complimentary 
 mention of me convinces me of it still more 
 than ever. Here are a thousand poels of us 
 who have impudence enough to write for the 
 public; but amongst the modest men who 
 are by diffidence restrained from such an en- 
 terprise are those who would eclipse us all. 
 I wish that George would make the experi- 
 ment, I would bind on his laurels with my 
 own hand.* 
 
 Your gardener has gone after his wife, but, 
 having neglected to take his lyre, alias fiddle, 
 with him, has not brought home his Eury- 
 dice. Your clock in the hall has stopped, and 
 (strange to tell !) it stopped at sight of the 
 watchmaker : for he only looked at it, and it 
 has been motionless ever since. Mr. Greg- 
 son is gone, and the Hall is a desolation. 
 Pray don't think any place pleasant that you 
 may find in your rambles, that we may see 
 you the sooner. Your aviary is all in good 
 health ; I pass it every day, and often inquire 
 at the lattice; the inhabitants of it send their 
 duty, and wish for your return. I took no- 
 tice of the inscription on your seal, and had 
 we an artist here capable of furnishing me 
 with another, you should read on mine, " En- 
 core une lettre." 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 The importance of improving the early 
 hours of life, which, once lost, are never re- 
 covered, is profitably enforced in the succeed- 
 ing letter. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, July 23, 1789. 
 
 You do well, my dear sir, to improve your 
 opportunity; to speak in the rural phrase, 
 this is your sowing time, and the sheaves 
 you look for can never be yours unless you 
 make that use of it. The color of our whole 
 
 "Homer," says a popular critic, "is not more de- 
 cidedly the first of heroic poets— Shakspeare is not more 
 decidedly the first of dramatists— Demosthenes is not 
 more decidedly the first of orators, than BosweU is the 
 tirst of biographers." , . , , 
 
 " A book," observes Mr. Croker, " to which the world 
 refers as a manual of amusement, a reposilory of wit, 
 wisdom, and morals, and a lively and faithful history of 
 the manners and literature of England, during a period 
 hardly second in brilliancy, and superior m importance 
 even to the Augustan age of Anne. 
 
 * This truly amiable and accomplished person after- 
 wards became Sir George Throckmorton, Bart
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 331 
 
 life is generally such as the three or four 
 first years in which we are our own masters 
 make it. Then it is that we may be said to 
 shape our own destiny, and to treasure up 
 'or ourselves a series of future successes or 
 disappointments. Had I employed my time 
 as wisely as you, in a situation very similar 
 to yours, I had never been a poet perhaps ; 
 but I might by this time have acquired a 
 character of more importance in society, and 
 u situation in wliich my friends would have 
 been better pleased to see me. But three 
 years misspent in an attorney's office, were 
 almost of course followed by several more 
 equally misspent in the Temple, and the con- 
 sequence has been, as the Italian epitaph 
 says, " Sto qui." The only use I can make 
 of myself now, at least the best, is to serve 
 in ierrorem to others, when occasion may 
 happen to offer, that they may escape (so far 
 as my admonitions can have any weight with 
 them) my folly and my fate. Wiicn you 
 feel yourself tempted to relax a little of the 
 strictness of your present discipline, and to 
 indulge in amusement incompatible with 
 your future interests, think on your friend at 
 Weston. 
 
 Having said this, I shall next, with my 
 whole heart, invite you hither, and assure 
 you that I look forward to approaching Au- 
 gust with great pleasure, because it prom- 
 ises me your company. After a little time 
 (which we shall wish longer) spent with us, 
 you will return invigorated to your studies, 
 and pursue them with more advantage. In 
 the meantime, you have lost little, in point 
 of season, by being confined to London. In- 
 cessant rains and meadows under water have 
 given to the summer the air of winter, and 
 the country has been deprived of half its 
 beauties. 
 
 It is time to tell you that we are all well, 
 and often make you our subject. Tliis is 
 the third meeting that my cousin and we have 
 had in this country, and a great instance of 
 good fortune I account it in such a world as 
 this to have expected such a pleasure thrice, 
 without being once disappointed. Add to 
 this wonder as soon as you can by making 
 yourself of the party. 
 
 W.C. 
 
 TO MKS, KING.* 
 
 Ancust 1, 1789. 
 My dear Madam, — The post brings me no 
 letters that do not grumble at my silence. 
 Had not you, therefore, taken me to task as 
 roundly as others, I should have concluded 
 you perhaps more indifferent to my epistles 
 than the rest of my correspondents ; of wiiom 
 one say?, — "I shall be glad when you have 
 finished Homer ; tlien possibly you will find 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 a little leisure for an old friend." Another 
 says — " I don't choose to be neglected, unless 
 you equally neglect every one else." Thus 
 I hear of it with both ears, and shall, till I 
 appear in the shape of two gieat tjuarto vol- 
 umes, the composition of which, I confess, 
 engrosses me to a degree that gives my 
 friends, to whom I feel myself much obliged 
 for their anxiety to hear from me, but too 
 much reason to complain. Johnson told Mr. 
 ilartyn the truth, but your inference from 
 that truth is not altogether so just as most 
 of your conclusions are. Instead of finding 
 myself the more at leisure because my long 
 labor draws to a close, I find myself the more 
 occupied. As when a horse approaches the 
 goal, he does not, unless he be jaded, slacken 
 his pace, but quickens it; even so it fares 
 with me. The end is in view ; I seem almost 
 to have reached the mark, and the nearness 
 of it inspires me with fresh alacrity. But, 
 be it known to you, that I have still two 
 books of the Odyssey before me, and when 
 they are finished, shall have almost the whole 
 eight-and-forty to revise. Judge then, ray 
 dear madam, if it is yet time for me to play, 
 or to gratify myself with scribbling to those 
 I love. No : it is still necessary that waking 
 I should be all absorbed in Homer, and that 
 sleeping I should dream of nothing else. 
 
 I am a great lover of good paintings, but 
 no connoisseur, having never had an oppor- 
 tunity to become one. In the last forty 
 years of my life, I have hardly seen six pic- 
 tures that were worth looking at ; for I was 
 never a frequenter of auctions, having never 
 had any spare money in my pocket, and the 
 public exhibitions of them in London had 
 hardly taken place when I left it. My cousin, 
 who is with us, saw the gentleman whose 
 pieces you mention, on the top of a scaffold, 
 copying a fiimous picture in the Vatican. 
 She has seen some of his performances, and 
 much admires them. 
 
 You have had a great loss, and a loss that 
 admits of no consolation, except such as will 
 naturally suggest itself to ijoii^ such, I mean, 
 as the Scripture furnishes. We must all 
 leave, or be left; and it is the circumstance 
 of all others that makes a long life the least 
 desirable, that others go while we stay, till 
 at last we find ourselves alone, like a tree on 
 a hill-top. 
 
 Accept, my dear madam, mine and Mrs. 
 Unwin's best compliments to yourself and 
 Mr. King, and believe me, however unfre- 
 quent in telling you that I am so, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, August 8, 17?9. 
 My dear Friend, — Come when you will, or 
 when you can, you cannot come at a .t. njj 
 
 _-l
 
 332 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 time ; but we shall expect you on the day 
 mentioned. 
 
 If you have any book that you think will 
 make pleasant evening reading, bring it with 
 you. I now read Mrs. Piozzi's* Travels to 
 the Iadie= after supper, and shall probably 
 have finished them before we s!iall have the 
 pleasure of seeing you. It is the fashion, I 
 understand, to condemn them. But we, who 
 make books ourselves, are more merciful to 
 book-makers. I would that every fastidious 
 judge of authors were himself obliged to 
 write : there goes more to the composition 
 of a volume than many critics imagine.f I 
 have often wondered that the same poet who 
 wrote the " Dunciad," should have written 
 these lines, 
 
 The mercy I to others show, 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy he showed to 
 others, was the measure of mercy he re- 
 ceived! He was the less pardonable, too, 
 because experienced in all the difficulties of 
 composition. 
 
 I scratch this between dinner and tea : a 
 time when I cannot write much without dis- 
 ordering my noddle and bringing a flush into 
 my face. You will excuse me therefore, if, 
 through respect for the two important con- 
 siderations of health and beauty, I conclude 
 myself, 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.J 
 
 August 12, 1789. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and 
 Mrs. Hill are so agreeably occupied in your 
 retreat.^ August, I hope, will make us 
 amends for the gloom of its many wintry 
 predecessors. We are now gathering from 
 our meadows, not hay, but muck ; such stuff 
 as deserves not the carriage, which yet it 
 must have, that the after-crop may have 
 leave to grow. The Ouse has hardly deigned 
 to run in his channel since the summer 
 began. 
 
 * Formerly Mrs. Thrale, the well-known friend of Dr- 
 Johnson, and resident at Streatham. Her second mar- 
 ria','e was considered to be imprudent. She wrote Anec- 
 dotes of Dr. Johnson, and was also the authoress of the 
 oeautlful tale entitled, "The Three Warnings," begin- 
 ning, 
 
 " The tree of deepest root is found 
 Unwilling most to leave the ground," &c. &c. 
 
 t It cost Lord Lyttleton twenty years to write the Life 
 and History of Henry II. The historian Gibbon was 
 twelve years in completing his "Decline and Fall of the 
 Roman "Empire," and Adam Smith occupied ten years in 
 producing his "Wealth of Nations." 
 
 A stronger instance can scarcely be quoted of the men- 
 tal labor employed in the composition of a work, than 
 What is recorded of Boileau, who occupied eleven months 
 tn writing his " Equivoque," consisting only of 346 lines, 
 wid aflenvards spent three years in revising it. 
 
 Ccwper sometimes wrote only five or six lines iaaday. 
 
 { Private correspondence. 
 
 $ At Wargrave, neai- Henley-on-Thames. 
 
 My Muse were a vixen if she were not al« 
 ways ready to fly in obedience to your com- 
 mands. But what can be done 1 I can 
 write nothing in the few hours that remain 
 to me of this day that will be fit for your 
 purpose, and unless I could dispatch what I 
 write by to-morrow's post, it would not reach 
 you in time. I must add, too, that my 
 friend, the vicar of the next parish,* engaged 
 me, the day before yesterday, to furnish him 
 by next Sunday with a hymn, to be sung oa 
 the occasion of his preaching to the children 
 of the Sunday-school :f of which hymn I 
 have not yet produced a syllable. I am 
 somewhat in the case of lawyer Dowling, in 
 " Tom Jones ;" and could I split myself into 
 as many poets as there are muses, could find 
 employment for them all. 
 Adieu, my dear friend. 
 
 I am ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.J 
 
 August 16, 1789. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Mrs. Newton and you 
 are both kind and just in believing that I do 
 not love you less when I am long silent. 
 Perhaps a friend of mine, who wishes me to 
 have him always in my thoughts, is never so 
 effectually possessed of the accomplishment 
 of that wish as when I have been long his 
 debtor; for then I think of him not only 
 every day, but day and night, and all day long. 
 But I confess at the same time that my 
 thoughts of you will be more pleasant to 
 myself when I shall have exonerated my 
 conscience by giving you the letter so long 
 your due. Therefore, here it comes : little 
 worth your having, but payment, such as it is, 
 that you have a right to expect, and that is 
 essential to my own tranquillity. 
 
 That the Iliad and the Odyssey should 
 have proved the occasion of my suspending 
 my correspondence with you, is a proof how 
 little we foresee the consequences of what 
 we publish. Homer, I dare say, hardly at all 
 suspected that at the fag-end of time two 
 personages would appear, the one ycleped 
 Sir Newton and the other Sir Cowper, who, 
 loving each other heartily, would nevertheless 
 suffer the pains of an interrupted intercourse. 
 
 * Olney. 
 
 t We subjoin an extract from this Sunday-school 
 hymn, for the benefit of our younger readers. 
 
 " Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer. 
 In heaven, thy dwelling-place. 
 From infants, made the public care. 
 And taught to seek thy face ! 
 
 "Thanks for thy word, and for thy day ; 
 And grant us, we implore. 
 Never to waste in sinful play 
 Thy holy Sabbaths more. 
 
 "Thanks that we hear— but, oh! impart 
 To each desires sincere. 
 That we may listen with our heart, 
 And learn, as well as hear." 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 nis poems the cause. So, however, it has 
 happened ; and though it would not, I sup- 
 pose, extort from the old bard a single sigh, 
 if he knew it, yet to me it suggests the seri- 
 ous reflection above-mentioned. An author 
 by profesaion had need narrowly to watch his 
 pen, lest a line should escape it which by possi- 
 hi.ily may do mischir-f, when he has been long 
 dead and buried. What we have done, when 
 we have written a book, will never be known 
 till the day of judgment : then the account 
 will be liquidated, and all the good that it 
 has occasioned, and all the evil, will witness 
 either for or against us. 
 
 I am now in the last book of the Odyssey, 
 yet have still, I suppose, half a year's work 
 before me. The accurate revisal of two such 
 voluminous poems can hardly cost me less, 
 f rejoice, however, that the goal is in pros- 
 pect ; for, though it has cost me years to 
 run this race, it is only now that I begin to 
 have a glimpse of it. That I shall never re- 
 ceive any proportionable pecuniary recom- 
 pense for my long labors is pretty certain ; 
 and AS to any fame that I mny possibly gain 
 by it, that is a commodity that daily sinks in 
 value, in measure as the consummation of all 
 things approaches. In the day when the lion 
 sliall dandle the kid, and a little child shall 
 lead them, the world will have lost all relish 
 for the fabulous legends of antiquity, and 
 Homer and his translator may budge off the 
 stage together. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 Cowper's remarks on the subject of au- 
 thors, in the above letter, are truly impressive 
 and demand attention. If it indeed be true, 
 that authors are responsible for their writ- 
 ings, as well as for their personal conduct, (of 
 which we presume there can be no reason- 
 able doubt,) how would the tone of literature 
 be raised, and the pen often be arrested in 
 its course, if this conviction were fully re- 
 alized to the conscience! Their writings 
 are, in fact, the record of tlu- operations of 
 their minds, and are destined to survive, so 
 far as metallic types and literary talent can 
 ensure durability and success. Nor is it less 
 true that the character of a natiou will gen- 
 erally be moulded by the spirit of its autlmrs. 
 Allowing, therefore, the extent of this power- 
 ful influence, we can conceive the possibility 
 of authors, at the last great day, undergoing 
 the ordeal of a solemn judicial inquiry, when 
 the subject for investigation will be, how far 
 their writings have enlarged the bounds of 
 useful knowledge, or subserved the cause of 
 piety and truth. If, instead of those great 
 ends being answered, it shall appear that the 
 foundations of religion have been under- 
 mined, the cause of virtue weakened, and the 
 heart made more accessible to error ; if, too, 
 a dread array of witnesses shall stand forth. 
 
 tracing the guilt of their lives and the ruir 
 of their hopes to the fatal influence of the 
 books which they had read, what image c.f 
 horror can equal the sensation of such a mo- 
 ment, save the despair of hearing the irrevo- 
 cable sentence, « Depart from me, ye workers 
 of iniquity ; I never knew you !" 
 
 TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Sept. S'l, 176;). 
 
 My dear Friend,— You left us exactly at 
 the wrong time ; had you stayed till now, you 
 would have had the pleasure of hearing even 
 my cousin say— "I am cold,"— and the still 
 greater pleasure of being warm yourself; for 
 1 have had a fire in the study ever since you 
 went. It is the fault of our summers that 
 they are hardly ever warm or cold enough. 
 Were they warmer we should not want a fire, 
 and were they colder we should have one. 
 
 I have twice seen and conversed with IMr. 
 
 J ; he is witty, intelligent, and agreeable 
 
 beyond the common measure c^ men who 
 are so. But it is the constant efl^ect of a 
 spirit of party to make those hateful to each 
 other who are truly amiable in themselves. 
 
 Beau sends his love ; he was melancholy 
 tho whole day after your departure. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The power of poetry to embellish the most 
 simple incident is pleasingly evinced in the 
 following letter, by the Homeric muse of 
 Cowper. 
 
 TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ, 
 
 Weston, Oct. 4, 1789. 
 My dear Friend,— The hamper is come, and 
 come safe; and the contents I can affirm, 
 on my own knowledge, are excellent. It 
 chanced that another hamper and box came 
 by the same conveyance, all which I un- 
 packed and expounded in the hall, my cousin 
 sitting meantime on the stairs, spectatress of 
 the business. We diverted ourselves with 
 imagining the manner in which Homer would 
 have described the scene. Detailed in his 
 circumstantial way, it would have furnished 
 materials for a paragraph of considerable 
 length in an Odyssey. 
 
 Thf! straw-stufT'd hamper with his ruthless steel 
 Ho opcn'cl cutting sheer th' inserted cords, 
 Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came 
 The rustlinir package first bright straw of wheat 
 Or oats, or barley ; next a bottle green 
 Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd 
 Drop atkr drop odoroas, by the art 
 Of the fair mother of his friend— the Rose. 
 
 And so on. 
 
 I should rejoice to be the hero of such a ta « 
 in the hands of Homer.
 
 534 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Vou will rcnieinLer. T trust, that, when the 
 state of your healtl. or spirits calls for rural 
 %valks and fresh air, you have always a re- 
 treat at Weston. , 
 
 We are all well ; all love you, down to 
 the very dog : and shall be glad to hear that 
 you have exchanged languor for alacrity, and 
 the debility that you mention for indefatiga- 
 ble vigor. 
 
 Mr. Tlirockmorton has made me a hand- 
 some present ; Villoison's edition of the Iliad, 
 elegantly bound by Edwards.* If I live long 
 enough, by tiie contributions of my friends I 
 shall once more be possessed of a library. 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 My dear Walter, — I know that you are 
 too reasonable a man to expect anything like 
 punctuality of correspondence from a trans- 
 later of Homer, especially from one who is 
 a doer also^of many other things at the same 
 time ; for I labor hard not only to acquire a 
 little fame for myself, but to win it also for 
 others, men of whom I know nothing, not 
 even their names, who send me their poetry, 
 that by translating it out of prose into verse, 
 I may make it more like poetry than it was. 
 Having heard all this, you will feel yourself 
 not only inclined to pardon my long silence, 
 but to pity me also for the cause of it. You 
 may if you please believe likewise, for it is 
 true, that I have a faculty of remembering my 
 friends even when I do not write to them, and 
 of loving them not one jot the less, though I 
 leave them to starve for want of a letter from 
 me. And now I think you have an apology 
 both as to style, matter, and manner, alto- 
 gether unexceptionable. 
 
 Why is the winter like a backbiter ? Be- 
 cause Solomon says that a backbiter separ- 
 ates between chief friends, and so does the 
 winter ; to this dirty season it is owing that 
 I see nothing of the valuable Chesters, whom 
 indeed I see less at all times timn serves at 
 all to content me. I hear of them indeed 
 occasionally from my neighbors at the Hall, 
 but even of that comfort I have lately en- 
 joyed less than usual, Mr. Throckmorton 
 having been hindered by his first fit of the 
 gout from his usual visits to Chicheley. The 
 gout however has not prevented his making 
 me a handsome present of a folio edition of 
 the Iliad, published about a year since at 
 Venice, by a literato, who calls himself Vil- 
 loison. It is possible that you have seen it, 
 and that if you have it not yourself, it has at 
 least found its way to Lord Bagot's library. 
 If neither should be the case, when I write 
 &ext (for sooner or later I shall certainly 
 
 • The character of this work is given by Cowper him- 
 lelf iu a subsequent letter to his friend Walter Bagot. 
 
 write to you again if I live) I will send you 
 
 some pretty stories out of his Prolegomena, 
 which will make your hair stand on end, as 
 mine has stood on end already, they so hor- 
 ribly affect, in point of authenticity, the credit 
 of the works of the immortal Homer. 
 
 Wishing you and Mrs. Bagt)t all the hap- 
 piness that a new year can possibly bring 
 with it, I remain, with Mrs. Unwin's best re- 
 spects, yours, my dear friend, with all sin- 
 cerity, ' W. C. 
 
 My paper mourns for the death of Lord 
 Cowper, my valuable cousin, and much my 
 benefactor. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am a terrible creature 
 for not writing sooner, but the old excuse 
 must serve ; at least I will not occupy paper 
 with the addition of others unless you should 
 insist on it, in which case I can assure you 
 that I have them ready. Now to business. 
 
 From Villoison I learn that it was the 
 avowed opinion and persuasion of Callima- 
 chus (whose hymns we both studied at West- 
 minster) that Homer was very imperfectly 
 understood even in his day ; that his admir- 
 ers, deceived by the perspicuity of his style, 
 fancied themselves masters of his meaning, 
 when in truth they knew little about it. 
 
 Now we know that Callimachus, as I have 
 hinted, was himself a poet, and a good one ; 
 he was also esteemed a good critic ; he 
 almost, if not actually, adored Homer, and 
 imitated him as nearly as he could. 
 
 What shall we say to this 1 I will tell you 
 what I say to it. Callimachus meant, and he 
 could mean nothing more by this assertion, 
 than that the poems of Homer were in fact 
 an allegory ; that under the obvious import 
 of his stories lay concealed a mystic sense, 
 sometimes philosophical, sometimes religious, 
 sometimes moral; and that the generality 
 either wanted penetration or industry, or had 
 not been properly qualified by their studies 
 to discover it. This I can readily believe, 
 for I am myself an ignoramus in these points, 
 and, except here and there, discern nothing 
 more than the letter. But if Callimachus 
 will tell me that even of that I am ignorant, 
 I hope soon by two great volumes to con- 
 vince him of the contrary. 
 
 I learn also from the same Villoison, that 
 Pisistratus, who was a sort of Maecenas in 
 Athens, where he gave great encouragement 
 to literature, and built and furnished a public 
 library, regretting that there was no complete 
 copy of Homer's works in the world, resolved 
 to make one. For this purpose, he advertised 
 rewards in all the newspapers to those, who 
 being possessed memoriler of any part or par- 
 cel of the poeins of that bard, would resort
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 335 
 
 lo his house, and repeat them to his secre- 
 taries, that they might write tiiem. Now, it 
 happened that more were desirous of the re- 
 ward tiian quahfied to deserve it. The con- 
 sequence was, that the non-qualified persons, 
 having many of them a pretty knack at versi- 
 fication, imposed on tlie generous Athenian 
 most egregiously, giving him, instead of 
 Homer's verses, which they liad not to give, 
 ver.scs of their own invention. He, good 
 creature, suspecting no such fraud, took 
 them all for gospel, and entered them into 
 his volume accordingly. 
 
 Now, let him believe tiie story who can. 
 Tiiat Homer's works were in tiiis manner 
 corrected, I can believe; but, that a learned 
 Athenian could be so imposed upon, with 
 sufficient means of detection at hand, I can- 
 not.. Would he not be on In's guard ? Would 
 not a ditlerence of style and manner have oc- 
 curred ? Would not tiiat difierence have ex- 
 cited a suspicion ? Would not tiiat suspicion 
 have led to inquiry, and would not that in- 
 quiry have issued in detection? For how 
 easy was it in the multitude of Homer-con- 
 ners to find two, ten, twenty, possessed of 
 the questionable passage, and, by confronting 
 him with the impudeiit impostor, to convict 
 him. Aheas ergo in rnnicnn rnn cum istis 
 tuis hallucinationihus, ViLloisone !* 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Wes(on, Dec. 1, 1789. 
 My dear Friend, — On this fine first of De- 
 cember, under an unclouded sky, and in a 
 room full of sunshine, I address myself to the 
 payment of a debt long in arrear, but never 
 forgotten by me, however I may have seemed 
 to forget it. I will not waste time in apolo- 
 gies. I have but one, and tiiat one w'ill sug- 
 gest itself unmeiitioned. I will only add, 
 that you are the first to whom I write, of 
 several to whom I have not written many 
 montiis, wlio all have claims upon me; and 
 who, I Hatter myself, are all grumbling at 
 my silence. In your case, perliaps, I have 
 been less anxious than in tlie case of some 
 others ; because, if you have not heard from 
 myself, you have heard from Mrs. Unwin. 
 From lier you have learned that I live, that 
 I am as well as usual, and that I translate 
 Homer: — three short itera.s, but in which is 
 
 * Tlio i-cvorios of learned men are amusinir, but inju- 
 rious to true tiiste ami soiuid literature. Uisliop War- 
 birrtou's labored attempt to prove that the descent of 
 ^neas into hell in the lUh book of the yEneid, is in- 
 tended to convey a representation of the Eleusiniaii mys- 
 torieiJ, is of this deserijilion ; when it is obviously an 
 imitation of a similar event, recorded of Ulysses. (!euius 
 Bhould ijuard ai;airist a fondness for speculative discur- 
 Bion, which often leads from the simplicity of truth to the 
 establishment of danfjerous errors. We consider specu- 
 lative inquiries to form one of the features of the j)reseut 
 times, agiinst which we have need to be viirilantly on 
 Dur guard. \ Private correspondence. 
 
 comprised the whole detail of my present 
 history. Thus I fared when you were here ; 
 thus 1 have fired ever since you were here; 
 and thus, if it please God, I siiall continue to 
 fiire for some tim'e longer: for, though the 
 work is done, it is not finished: a riddle 
 which you, who are a brother of the press, 
 will solve easily.* I have also been tlie less 
 anxiou.s, because I have had frequent oppor- 
 tunities to hear of you; and have always 
 heard that you are in good health and happy. 
 Of Mrs. Newton, too, I have heard more fa- 
 vorable accounts of late, which have given us 
 both the sincerest pleasure. Mrs. Unwin's 
 case is, at present, my only subject of uneasi- 
 ness, tliat is not immediately personal, and 
 properly my own. She has almost constant 
 headaches; almost a constant pain in her 
 side, wiiicii nobody understands; and her 
 lameness, witliin the last lialf year, is very 
 little amended. But her spirits are good, 
 because supported by comforts which depend 
 not on the state of the body ; and I do not 
 know that, with all these pains, lior looks are 
 at all altered since we had the happiness to 
 see you here, unless, perhaps, they are al- 
 tered a little for the better. I have thus 
 given you as circumstantial an account of 
 ourselves as I could; the most interesting 
 matter, I verily believe, with which I could 
 have filled my paper, unless I could have 
 made spiritual mercies to myself the subject. 
 In my next, perhaps, I shall find leisure to 
 bestow a few lines on what is doing in 
 France, and in the Austrian Netherlands ;f 
 though, to say the trutli, 1 am much better 
 qualified to write an essay on the siege of 
 Troy than to descant on any of these modern 
 revolutions. I question if, in either of the 
 countries just mentioned, full of bustle and 
 tumult as they are, there be a single charac- 
 ter whom Homer, were he living, would 
 deign to make his hero. The populace are 
 the heroes now, and the stuff of w'hich gen- 
 tlemen heroes are made seems to be all ex- 
 pended. 
 
 I will endeavor that my next letter shall 
 not follow this so tardily as this lias followed 
 the last; and, with our joint affectionate re- 
 membrances to yourself and Mrs. Newton, 
 remain as ever, 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 My 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 18, 1789. 
 dear Friend, — The present appears to 
 
 * Revision is no small part of Uie literary labors of an 
 author. 
 
 t The French revolution, that great event which exei^ 
 cised so i)owerful an influence not only on Europepji 
 governnieiits but on the world at larL,'e, aiid lh(^ effects cf 
 which are experienced at the present moment, had just 
 commenced. The .\ustrian Netherlands had also re- 
 volted, and Brussels and most of the principal towns 
 and cities were in the hands of Uie insurKeuts.
 
 me a wonderful period in the iiistory of man- 
 kind. Tiiat nations so long contentedly 
 slaves should on a sudden become enamored 
 of liberty, and ui.derstand as suddenly their 
 own natural right to it, feeling themselves at 
 the same time inspired with resolution to as- 
 sert it, seems difficult to account for from 
 natural causes. With respect to the final is- 
 sue of all this, I can only say that if, having 
 discovered the value of liberty, they should 
 next discover the value of peace, and lastly 
 the value of the word of God, they will be 
 happier than they ever were since the rebel- 
 lion of the first pair, and as happy as it is 
 possible they should be in the present life. 
 Most sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 The French revolution, to which we have 
 now been led by the correspondence of Cow- 
 per, whether we consider its immediate or 
 ultimate consequences, was one of the most 
 extraordinary events recorded in the history 
 of modern Europe. It fixed the contempla- 
 tion of the politician, the philosopher, and 
 the moralist. By the first, it was viewed ac- 
 cording to the political bias which marks the 
 two great divisions of party established in 
 this country. Mr. Fox designated it as one 
 of the noblest fiibrics ever erected by human 
 liberty for the happiness of mankind. Mr. 
 Burke asserted that it was a system of de- 
 molition, and not of reparation. Tiie French 
 revolution might possibly have merited the 
 eulogium of Mr. Fox, if its promoters had 
 known when to pause, or how to regulate its 
 progress. But uniiappily the spirit of dem- 
 ocracy was let loose, and those wlio first en- 
 gaged in the work (infiuenced no doubt by 
 the purest motives) were obliged to give 
 way to men of more turbulent passions ; 
 demagogues, who were willing to go all 
 lengths; who Imd nothing to lose, and every- 
 thing to gain; and in whose eyes modera- 
 tion was a crime, and the fear of spoliation 
 and carnage an act of ignoble timidity. Con- 
 tending fixctions succeeded each other like the 
 waves of the sea, and were borne along with 
 the same irresistible power, till their fury 
 was spent and exhausted. 
 
 The sequel is well known. Property was 
 confiscated. Whatever was venerable in vir- 
 tue, splendid in rank, or sacred in religion, 
 became the object of popular violence. The 
 throne and the altar were overturned; and 
 an amiable and inoffensive monarch, whose 
 only crime was the title that he sustained, 
 was led in triumph to the scaffold, amidst the 
 acclamations of his people; and, as if to 
 make death more terrible, the place selected 
 for his execution was in view of the very 
 palace which had been the scene of his for- 
 mer greatness.* 
 
 * Hiec Ilnis Priarai fatorum ; hie exitus ilium 
 Sorte tulit, Trojam iuceuaam et prolapsa videntem 
 
 The features which distinguished the revo- 
 lution in France from that of England in 1688 
 are tims finely drawn by Mr. Burke. 
 
 " In truth, the circumstances of our revolu- 
 tion (as it is called) and tiiat of France are 
 just the reverse of each other in almost every 
 particular, and in the whole spirit of the trans- 
 action. With us it was the case of a legal 
 monarch attempting arbitrary power. In 
 France it is the case of an arbitrary mon- 
 arch, beginning, from whatever cause, to le- 
 galize his authority. The one was to be re- 
 sisted, the other was to be managed and 
 directed; but in neither case was the order 
 of the state to be changed, lest government 
 might be ruined, which ought only to be 
 corrected and legalized. 
 
 "What we did was, in truth and substance, 
 and in a constitutional light, a revolution, not 
 made, hut prevented. We took solid securi- 
 ties; we settled doubtful questions; we cor- 
 rected anomalies in our law. In the stable, 
 fundamental parts of our constitution we 
 made no revolution ; no, nor any alteration 
 at all. We did not impair the monarchy. 
 
 "The nation kept the same ranks, the same 
 orders, the same privileges, the same franchi- 
 ses, the same rules for property, the same 
 subordinations, the same order in the law, 
 in tiie revenue, and in the magistracy: the 
 same lords, the same commons, the same cor- 
 porations, the same electors.'"* 
 
 That we should have been so graciously 
 preserved in such a period of political con- 
 vulsions, will ever demand our gratitude and 
 praise. We owe it not to our arms, or to our 
 councils, but to the goodness and mercy of 
 God. We heard tiie loud echo of the thun- 
 der, and the bowlings of the storm. We 
 even felt some portion of the heavings of the 
 earthquake ; but we were spared from fall- 
 ing into the abyss; we survived the ruin 
 and desolations. We trust we shall still be 
 preserved, by the same superintending Prov- 
 idence, and that we may say, in the language 
 of Burke, — 
 
 " We are not the converts of Rousseau ; we 
 are not the disciples of Voltaire ; Helvetius 
 has made no progress amongst us. Atheists 
 are not our preachers ; madmen are not our 
 lawgivers." 
 
 But, if history be philosophy teaching by 
 example, what, we may ask, were the politi- 
 cal and moral causes of that extraordinary 
 convulsion in France, of which we are speak- 
 ing ? They are to be traced to that spirit of 
 ambition and conquest, which, however splen- 
 did in military prowess, ultimately exhausted 
 the resources of the -state, and oppressed the 
 people with imposts and taxation. They are 
 
 Fergama; tot quondam populis, terrisque, superbum 
 Regnatorem Asiie. Jacet ingens littoie ti'uiicus, 
 Avulsiimquu humeris caput, et sine nomine corpus. 
 * Burke'B Reflections on the Revolution in France.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 331 
 
 lo be found in the system of peculation and 
 extnivagance tJiat pervaded every departmer; t 
 of the i,'-overnn]ent; in the profligacy of the 
 court; in tiie luxurious pomp and pride of 
 the noblesse ; and in the universal corruption 
 that infected the wiioie mass of society. To 
 the above may be added, the zeal with which 
 infidel principles were propagated, and the 
 syste.natic attempts to undermine the whole 
 fabric of civil society through the agency of 
 the press. The press became imj)ious to- 
 wards God, and disloyal towards kings; and 
 unfortunately the church and the state, being 
 enfeebled by corruption, opposed an inefleet- 
 ual resistance. Religion had lost its hold on 
 the public mind. Men were required to be- 
 lieve too much, and believed nothing. The 
 consequences were inevitable. When men 
 have once cast viT the fear of God, it is an 
 easy transition to forget reverence to the au- 
 thority of kings, and obedience to the majes- 
 ty of law. li i^ curious to observe how the 
 effects of this antisocial conspiracy were dis- 
 tinctly foreseen and predicted. "I hold it 
 impossible," said Rousseau, " that the great 
 monarchies of Europe can subsist much lon- 
 ger." " The high may be reduced low, and 
 the rich become poor, and even the monarch 
 dwindle into a subject.''* The train was laid, 
 the matcii alone was wanting to produce the 
 explosion. 
 
 The occasion was at length presented. 
 The immediate cause of the French revolu- 
 tion! must be sought in the plains of Ameri- 
 ca. When Great Britain was involved with 
 her American colonies, France ungraciously 
 interposed in the (juarrel. She paid the price 
 of her interference in a manner that slie little 
 anticipated. Tlie Marquis de la Fayette there 
 first acquired his ardor for the cause of liber- 
 
 * In liis •' Kmilif." The memorable remarlc of Miulame 
 (Ic Poiiijiinloiii' will not soon be forirotten ; " Apres nous 
 le Delitue," '■ Al'lc^r iis, the Deluge." 
 
 t Rousseau's prophecy of this great catash-ophe has 
 oeen alrej.ly inserted ; but the most remarkable predic- 
 tion, specif) iug even the |)recise period of its fulfilment, 
 is to be founil in t'leming's "Apocalyptic Key," |)ub- 
 lished so far back as the year 1701. In this work is the 
 following passage. "Perhaps the French manarclnj may 
 begin to be consideral)ly humbled about that time : that 
 wliere^Ls Ihe presjnl l-'reneh King (l^ewis XIV.) takes 
 the Sun for his rmli'mt, and this for his motto, 'nee plu- 
 ribus impar,' he may at length, or rather his successors, 
 and the monarchy itself, «« icaxt brforc the year 1794, be 
 forced lo aclcnowlelge that in respect to neighboring 
 potentates, he is even .•singulis impar.'"''* 
 
 We add one more very curious prediction. 
 
 "Yes; that Versailles, which thou hast made for the 
 glory of thy names. I will throw to the ground, and all 
 your insolent in-;;riptions, ligures, abominable pictures. 
 And Pari-< ; Pari", l!ia[ im|)erial cily, 1 will alllict it 
 dreadfully. V"s, I will alllict Ihe Koyal Family. Yes, I 
 will avenge the ini()iiity of the King upon his grand- 
 children." — t.ar.ii's I'rujthctic IVarnings, London, 1707, 
 p. 42. 
 
 * By referring to Revelation xvi. 8, it will be Been that 
 the fourth vial is poured out on the .Si/n, which is inter- 
 piT;t(!d as deuoliug ; <! humiliation of some I'minent po- 
 tentates of th' Romish communion, and therefore prin- 
 cinally lo he imderstood of Ihe House of Bourbon, which 
 tiikes precedence of them aU. 
 
 ty ; and, crossing the Atlantic, carried back 
 with him the spirit into France, and in a 
 short time lighted up a flame which has since 
 spread so great a conflagration. 
 
 But whence sprung the revolution in Amer- 
 ica? 
 
 To solve this momentous question, we 
 must overlook the more immediate causes, 
 and extend ourinquiry to the political and re- 
 ligious discussions of the times of James I. 
 and Charles I. and II. It is in that unfortu- 
 nate period <>{ pf'Iomical controversy and ex- 
 citemeii!, that the fotmdalion of events was 
 laid \\hich have not even yet spent their 
 strength ; and that the philosophical inquirer, 
 who.-e sole object is the attainment of truth, 
 will find it. 
 
 The Puritans proposed to carry forth the 
 principle of the ReiV r' ^ation to a still further 
 extent. The propo ,ition was icj cled, their 
 views were impugned, and the freec'oin of re- 
 ligious inquiry was impeded by vexatious ob- 
 structions. They found no Jisylura at home; 
 they sought it abroad, and on the American 
 continent planted tlie standard of civil and 
 religious liberty. The times of Charles I. 
 followed. There was the same spirit, and 
 the same results. The Star Chamber and 
 the High Commission Court supplied new 
 victims to swell the tide of angry feeling be- 
 yond the Atlantic. It was persecution that 
 first peopled America. Time alone was want- 
 ing to mature the fruits. The reign of Charles 
 II. completed the eventful crisis. The Act 
 of Uniformity excluded, in one day, two thou- 
 sand ministers (many of whom were distin- 
 gni.shed for profound piety and learning) from 
 the bosom of the Church of England;- and 
 thus, by the acts of three successive reigns, 
 the spirit of independence was established 
 in America, and dissent in England, from 
 which such mighty results have since fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 We have indulged in these remarks, be- 
 cause we wish to show the tendency of that 
 high feeling, which, originating, as we sin- 
 cerely believe, in a cordial attachment to our 
 Church, endangers, by mistaking the means, 
 the .stability of the edifice which it seeks to 
 support. We think this feeling, though 
 abated in its intenseness, still exists; and, 
 cast as we now are into perilous times, when 
 Churches and States are undergoing a most 
 scrutinizing inquiry, we are deeply solicitous 
 that the past should operate as a beacon for 
 the future. If the Church of England is to 
 be preserved as a component part of our in- 
 stitutions, and in its ascendancy over the pub- 
 lic mind, the members of that Church must 
 not too incautiously resist the spirit of the 
 age, but seek to guide what they cannot ar- 
 rest. Let the viilue and necessity of an Es- 
 tablished Church be recognized by the evi- 
 dence of its usefulness ; let the pure doctrinea 
 22
 
 338 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of the Gospel be proclaimed in our pulpits ; 
 and a noble ardor and co-operation be mani- 
 fested in the prosperity of our great Institu- 
 tions, — our Bible, Missionary, and Jewish so- 
 cieties. She will tlien attract tiie favor, tlie 
 love and the veneration of the poor, and dif- 
 fuse a holy and purifying influence among all 
 classes in the community. Her priests will 
 thus be clothed with rigliteousness, and her 
 saints shout for joy. To her worshippers we 
 may then exclaim with humble confidence 
 and joy, " Walk about Zion, and go round 
 about her; tell the towers tlien-of. Mark 
 /e well her bulwarks, consider her palaces, 
 that ye may teil it to the gcneralicn fol- 
 lowing. For this God is our God forever 
 and ever; he will be our guide even unto 
 death."* 
 
 We now resume the correspondence of 
 Cowper. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 3, 1790. 
 
 My dear Sir, — I have been long silent, but 
 you have had the charity, I hope and believe, 
 not to ascribe my silence to a wrong cause. 
 The truth is, I liave been too busy to write to 
 anybody, having been obliged to give my 
 early mornings to the revisal and correction 
 of a little volume of Hymns for Children, 
 written by I know not whom. This task I 
 finished but yesterday, and while it was in 
 hand wrote only to my cousin, and to her 
 rarely. From her, however, I knew that you 
 would hear of my well-being, which made me 
 less anxious about ray debts to you than I 
 could have been otherwise. 
 
 I am almost the only person at Weston 
 known to you who have enjoyed tolerable 
 health this winter. In your next letter give 
 us some account of your own state of health, 
 for I have had many anxieties about you. 
 The winter has been mild; but our winters 
 are in general such, that, when a friend 
 leaves us in the beginning of that season, I 
 always feel in my heart a perhaps, importing 
 that we have possibly met for the last time, 
 and that the robins may whistle on the 
 grave of one of us before the return of 
 summer. 
 
 I am still thrumming Homer's lyre ; that 
 IS to say, I am still employed in my last re- 
 visal ; and, to give you some idea of the in- 
 tenseness of my toils, I will inform you that 
 it cost me all the morning yesterday, and all 
 the evening, to translate a single simile to 
 my mind. The transitions from one member 
 of the subject to another, though easy and 
 natural in the Greek, turn out often so "intol- 
 erably awkward in an English version, that 
 almost endless labor and no little address are 
 
 * Psalm xlviii. 13—14. 
 
 requisite to give them grace and elegance. I 
 f >rget if I told you that your Gei-man Clavia 
 has been of considerable use to me. I am 
 indebted to it for a right understanding of 
 the manner in whicli Achilles prepared pork 
 mutton, and goat's flesh, for the entertain- 
 ment of his friends, in the niglit when they 
 came deputed by Agamemnon to negotiate 
 a reconciliation. A passage of which no- 
 body in the world is perfectly master, my- 
 self orfly, and Slaukenbergius excepted, nor 
 ever was, excep;; when Greek Avas a live lan- 
 guage. 
 
 I do not know whether my ceusin hap told 
 you ( r not how I brag in my letters to her 
 concerning my Translation; perhaps her 
 modesty feels more for me than mine for 
 myself, and she would ^ lush to let even you 
 know the degree of my self-conceit on that 
 subject. I will tell you, however, expressing 
 myself as decently as my vanity will permit, 
 that it has undergone such a change for the 
 better in this last revisal, that I have much 
 warmer hopes of success than formerly. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS KING.^ 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 4, 1790. 
 
 My dear Madam, — Your long silence has 
 occasioned me to have a thousand anxious 
 thoughts about you. So long it has been, 
 that, whether I now write to a Mrs. King at 
 present on eartJi, or already in heaven, I 
 know not. I have friends whose silence 
 troubles me less, though I have known them 
 longer; because, if I hear not from them- 
 selves, I yet hear from others that tliey are 
 still living, and likely to live. 13ut if your 
 letters cease to bring me news oF your wel- 
 fare, from \Ahom can I gain the desired in- 
 telligence ? The birds of the air will not 
 bring it, and third person there is none be- 
 tween us by whom it might be conveyed. 
 Nothing is plain to me on this subject, but 
 that either you are dead, or very much indis- 
 posed ; or, which would affect me with per- 
 haps as deep a concern, thougli of a different 
 kind, very much ofll-nded. The latter of 
 these suppositions I think the least probable, 
 conscious as I am of an habitual desire to 
 offend nobody, especially a lady, and es- 
 pecially a lady to whom I have many obliga- 
 tions. But all the three solutions above 
 mentioned are very uncomfortable; and if 
 you live, and can send me one that will 
 cause me less pain than either of them, J 
 conjure you by the charity and benevolence 
 which I "know influence you upon all occa- 
 sions, to communicate it without delay. 
 
 It is possible, notwithstanding appear- 
 ances to the contrary, that you are not be- 
 
 * Private correspondence
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 339 
 
 come, perfectly indifferent to ni2 and to what 
 concerns me. I will tiierefore add a word or 
 two on a subject which once interested you, 
 and which is, for that renson worthy to be 
 mentioned, tliough truly for no oiher — mean- 
 ing myself I am well, and have been '•'"••, 
 (uneasiness on your account excepted,) LotJ 
 in mind and body, ever since I wrote to you 
 last, I have still the same emj)loynuiit. 
 Homer in the morning, and Homer in the 
 evening, as constant as the day goes rouiid. 
 In the spring I hope to send the Iliad ana 
 Odyssey to tlie press. So much for me and 
 my occupations. Poor I\Irs. Unwin has 
 hitherto had but an unpleasant winter; un- 
 pleasant as constant pain, either in the head 
 or side, could make it. She joins me in af- 
 fectionate compliments to yourself and Mr. 
 King, and in earnest wishes that you will 
 soon favor me witli a line that shall relieve 
 me from all my 2)erplexities. 
 I am, dear madam. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 Tlie Lodge, Jan 1?, HM. 
 
 My dear 3Iadam, — The sincerest thanks 
 attend you, both from Mrs. Unwin :aid my- 
 self, for many good things, on some of which 
 I have already regaled with an atfectionate 
 remembrance of the giver. 
 
 The report that informed you of inquiries 
 made by Mrs. Unwin after a house at Hunt- 
 ingdon was unfounded. We have no thought 
 of quitting Weston, unless tlie same Provi- 
 dence that led us hither should lead us away. 
 It is a situation iierfectly agreeable to us 
 both ; and to me in particular wlui write 
 much, and walk much, and consequently 
 love silence and retirement, one of the most 
 eligible. If it has a fault, it is that it seems 
 to threaten us with a certainty of never see- 
 ing you. But may we not hope that, when 
 a milder season shall have improved your 
 health, we may yet, notwithstanding the dis- 
 t;ince, be fivored with !Mr. King's and your 
 company? A better season will likewise 
 improve the roads, and, exactly in proportion 
 as it does so, will, in elTect, lessen the inter- 
 val between us. I knov/ not if i\rr. ilartyn 
 be a mathematician, but most probably he is 
 a good one, and he can tell you that this is 
 a proposition mathematically true, though 
 rather paradoxical in appearance. 
 
 I am obliged to that geutlem i u and iniicli 
 obliged to him for his favorable opinion of 
 my translation. What parts of Homer are 
 particularly intended by the critics as those 
 in which I shall probably fall short. T know 
 not; but let me fail where I may, 1 shall fail 
 nowhere through want of endeavors to avoid 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 it. The under parts of the poems (those I 
 mean which are merely narrative) I find the 
 most difficult. These can only be supported 
 by the diction, and on these, for that reason, 
 I have bestowed the most abundant labor, 
 I Fine similes and tine speeches take care of 
 I themselves : but the exact process of slaying 
 I a sheep, and dressing ir, it is not so easy to 
 j dignify in our language, and in our measure. 
 I But I shall have the comfort, as I said, to re- 
 i fleet, that, whatever may be hereafter laid to 
 I mj charge, the sin of idleness will not. 
 I Justly, at least, it never will. In the mean- 
 ; time, ray dear madam, I whisper to you a 
 ! secret; — not to fall short of the original in 
 everything is impossible. 
 ! I send you, I believe, all my pieces that 
 ! you hivve never seen. Did I not send you 
 " Catharina?" If nDt, you shall have it here- 
 after. 1 am, dear madam, ever, ever in haste, 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 We are here first introduced to the notice 
 of the Rev. John Johnson, the cousin of 
 Cowper, by the maternal line of the Donnes. 
 The poet often used familiarly to call him 
 " Johnny of Norfolk." His nam.e will fre- 
 quently appear in the course of the ensuing 
 correspondence. It is to his watchful and 
 affectionate care that the poet was indebted 
 for all the solace that the most disinterested 
 regard, and highly conscientious sense oi 
 duty, could administer, under circumstances 
 the most afflicting. Nor did he ever leave 
 his beloved bard, till he had closed his eyes 
 in death, and paid the la'st sad ollices, due to 
 departed worth and genius. His acquaints 
 ance with Cowper commenced about this time, 
 by a voluntary introduction, on his own part, 
 lie has i-ecorded the particulars of this first 
 interview and visit in a poem, entitled " Rec- 
 ollections of Cowper." We trust that his 
 estimable w idow may see fit to communicate 
 it to the public, who we have no doubt will 
 feel a lively interest in a subject, issuing from 
 the kinsman of Cowper. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Jan. 22, 1790. 
 My dear Coz., — I had a letter yesterday 
 from the wild boy Johnson, for whom I have 
 conceived a great afl'ection. Jt was just such 
 a letter as I like, of the true helter-skelter 
 kind ; and, though he writes a remarkably 
 good hand, scribbled with such rapidity, that 
 it was barely legible. He gave me a droll 
 account of the adventures of Lord Howard's 
 note, and of his own pursuit of it. The 
 poem he brought me came as from Lord 
 Howard, with his Lordship's request that I 
 would revise it. It is in the form of a pas- 
 toral, and is entitled, " The Tale of the Lute, 
 or the Beauties of Audley End."' I read it 
 attentively, was much pleased with part of it.
 
 340 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and part of it I equally disliked. I told Iiiiii 
 so, and in such terms as one naturally uses 
 when there seems to be no occasion to qual- 
 ify or to alleviate censure. I observed him 
 afterwards somewhat more thoughtful and 
 silent, but occasionally as pleasant as usual ; 
 and in Kilvvick-wood, where we waiked the 
 next day, the truth came out — that he was 
 himself the author, and that Lord Howard, 
 not approving it altogether, and several 
 friends of his own age, to whom he had 
 shown it, differing from his Lordship in 
 opinion, and being highly pleased with i't, he 
 had come at last to a resolution to abide by 
 my judgment; a measure to which Lord 
 Howard by all means advised him. He ac- 
 cordingly brought it, and will bring it again 
 in the summer, when we shall lay our heads 
 together and try to mend it. 
 
 I have lately had a letter also from Mrs. 
 King, to whom I nad written to inquire 
 whether she were living or dead : she tells 
 me the critics expect from my Homer every- 
 thing in some parts, and that in others I 
 shall fall short. These are the Cambridge 
 critics ; and she has her intelligence from the 
 botanical professor, Marty n. That gentle- 
 man in reply answers them, that I shall fall 
 short in nothing, but shall disappoint them 
 all. It shall be my endeavor to do so, and I 
 am not without hope of succeeding. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 2, 1790. 
 My dear Friend, — Should Heyne's* Homer 
 appear before mine, which I hope is not 
 probable, and should he adopt in it the opin- 
 ion of Bentley, that the whole of the last 
 Odyssey is spurious, I will dare to contradict 
 both him and the Doctor. I am only in part 
 of Bentley's mind (if indeed his mind were 
 such) in this matter, and, giant as he was in 
 learning, and eagle-eyed in criticism, am per- 
 suaded, convinced, am sure (can I be more 
 positive?) that, except from the moment 
 when the Ithacans began to meditate an at- 
 tack on the cottage of Laertes, and thence 
 to the end, that book is the work of Homer. 
 From the moment aforesaid, I yield the point, 
 or rather, have never, since I had any skill in 
 Homer, felt myself at all inclined to dispute 
 it-t But I believe perfectly at the same 
 
 * A German critic, distinguished by his classical erudi- 
 tion and profound learning. 
 
 t In this laboriwis undertaking, Cowper was assisted 
 by the following editions of that great poet. 
 
 1st. That of Clark, 1720—1754. 4 vols. Gr. et Lat. 
 
 This is the most popiUar edition of Homer, and the 
 basis of many subsequent editions. The text is formed 
 on that of Schre velius and of Barnes. The notes are gram- 
 matical and philological, with numerons quotations from 
 Virgil of parallel passages. The want of the ancient 
 Gre'ik Scholia is the principal defect. 
 
 2\idly. That of Villoison. Venice. 1788. Gr. 
 
 This edition is distinguished by a fac-simile of the text 
 
 time, that Homer himself alone excejited, the 
 Greek poet never existed, who could have 
 written the speeches made by the shade of 
 Agamenmon, in which there is more insight 
 into the iuiman heart discovered, than I ever 
 saw in any other work, unless ia Shak- 
 speare's. I am equally disposed to lighi for 
 the whole passr.ge that describes Laertes, 
 and the interview between him and Ulysses. 
 Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and i will 
 shake hands with him as to all the rest. The 
 battle with which the book concludes is, I 
 think, a paltry battle, and there is a huddle 
 in the management of it altogether unworthy 
 of my favorite, and the favorite of all ages. 
 
 If you should happen to fall into company 
 with Dr. Warton* again, you will not, I darn 
 say, forget to make him my respectful com- 
 pliments, and to assure him that I felt my- 
 self not a little flattered by the fav.'vablo 
 mention he was pleased to make ..f me and 
 my labors. The poet who pleases a man 
 like him has nothing left to wish for. I am 
 glad that you were pleased with my young 
 cousin Johnson ; he is a boy, and bashful, 
 but has great merit in respect both of char- 
 acter and intellect. So far at least as in a 
 week's knowledge of him 1 could possibly 
 learn, he is very amiable and very sensible, 
 and inspired me with a warm wish to know 
 him better. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHM NEWTON.f 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Your kind letter de- 
 served a speedier answer, but you know my 
 excuse, which, were I to repeat always, my 
 letters would resemble the fag-end of a news- 
 paper, where we always find the price of 
 stocks, detailed with little or no variation. 
 
 and scholia of a MS. of Homer, in the tenth century, 
 found in the library of St. Mark, Venice. The Preface 
 abounds in h'arned and interesting matter, and is in high 
 estimation among scholars. Wolf, Heyne, and the (iix- 
 ford, or Grenville edilion, have profited largely by Vil- 
 lois(jn's lalwrs. His ujuhisirious search after valuable 
 MSS. and care in coUaling tlifiu with received editions: 
 his critical acumen, sound scholarship, and profound 
 erudition, entitle him to the gratitude and praise of the 
 classical student. He died in 1805. 
 
 3rdly. That of Heyne. Leipsick. 1802, 8 vols. Gr. et 
 Lat. 
 
 The text is formed on that of Wolf. The editor was 
 assisted in tliis undertaking by a copy of Bentley's 
 Homer, in which that celebrated critic restores the long- 
 lost diganuna; and by an ancient and valuable MS. be- 
 longing to Mr. Towneiey. 
 
 Of tiiis edition it has been observed that "the work 
 of Profe5S(ir Heyne will in a great cieasure preclude 
 the necessity of farther collations, from which nothing of 
 consequence can be expected. V,Tien the Greek lan- 
 guage is better understood than it is at present, it will be 
 resorted to as a rich repository of philological informa- 
 tion."— i^^Z/nftHrirA llciuew, July, 180:!. 
 
 * Dr. Warton (Joseph) head master of Winchester 
 School, ujiwards of thirty years, where he presided with 
 high reputation ; author of '• Essay on the Writings and 
 Genius of I'ope," and of an edition of the Works of Pope, 
 in 9 vols. 8vo. He was brother to Thomas Warton, well 
 known for his History of English Poetry. Died in 1800, 
 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 34 1 
 
 When January returns, you have your feel- 
 'n/Ts concerning- nie, and -^uch as pro\e (he 
 faithfulness of your friendship* I have mine 
 also concerning- myself, but they are of a cast 
 diircrent from yours. Yours have a mixture 
 of sympathy and tender solicitude, which 
 makes them, perhaps, not altogether un- 
 pleasant. Mine, on the contrary, are of an 
 unmixfd naiure, and consist, simply and 
 merely, of the most alarming apprehensions. 
 Twice ];n- thf.t month returned upon me, ac- 
 comp;iriied Ly such horrors as I have no rea- 
 son to >JUpp-:-so aver made part of the expe- 
 rie'ice *!' nny oincr man. 1 accordingly look 
 forward to it, and meet it, with a dread not 
 to be imagined. I number the nights as 
 they pass, and in tiie morning bless myself 
 that another night is gone, and no harm has 
 iiappcned. This may argue, perhaps, some 
 imbecility of mind, and no small degree of 
 it; but it is natural, I believe, and so natural 
 as to be necessarv and unavoidable. I know 
 that God is not governed by secondary causes, 
 in any of his opi.;rations, and that, on the con- 
 trary, tlu'y are all so many agents in his 
 hand, which strike oidy when he bids them. 
 I know consequently that one month is as 
 dangerous to me as another, and that, in the 
 middle of summer, at noonday, and in the 
 clear sunshine, I am in reality, unless guard- 
 ed by him, as much exposed as when fast 
 asleep at midnight, and in midwinter. But 
 we are not always the wiser for our knowl- 
 edge, and I can no more avail myself of 
 mine, than if it were in the head of another 
 man, and not in my own. I have heard of 
 bodily aches and ails, that have been particu- 
 larly troublesome when the season returned 
 in which the hurt that occasioned them was 
 received. The mind, I believe (with my own, 
 however, I am sure it is so), is liable to simi- 
 lar periodical affection. But February is 
 come, my terror is passed, and some shades 
 of tiie gloom that attended his presence have 
 passed with him. I look forward with a lit- 
 tle cheerfulness to the buds and the leaves 
 that will .soon appear, and say to myself, till 
 they turn yellow I will make myself easy. 
 The year will go round, and January will 
 approach. I shall tremble again, and I know 
 it; but in the meantime I will be as comfort- 
 able as I can. Thus, in respect to peace of 
 mind, such as it is that I enjoy, I subsist, as 
 the poor are vulgarly said to do, from hand 
 to mouth ; and of a Christian, such as you 
 once knew me, am, by a strange transforma- 
 tion, become an Epicurean philosopher, bear- 
 ing this motto on my mind, — Quid sil fuiu- 
 rum cras,fuge quairere. 
 
 I have run on in a strain that the begin- 
 ning of your letter suggested to me, with 
 
 * Jamiiiry was a season of Itie year when the norvoiis 
 Jeprcssion under which Cowper labored was generally 
 wie most severe. 
 
 such impetuosity, that I have not left mysell 
 opportunity to write more by the present 
 post; and, being unwilling that you should 
 wait longer for what will be worth nothing 
 when you get it, will oidy express the great 
 pleasure we feel on hearing, as we did lately 
 from Mr. Bull, that Mrs. Newton is so much 
 better. 
 
 Truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETir. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 9, 1790. 
 
 T have sent you lately scraps instead of 
 letters, having had occasion to answer imme- 
 diately on the receipt, which always happens 
 while I am deep in Homer. 
 
 I knew when I reconnnended Johnson to 
 you, that you would find some way to serve 
 him, and so it has happened ; for, notwith- 
 standing your own apprehensions to the con- 
 trary, you have adready procured him a chap- 
 iainship:* this is pretty well, considering 
 that it is an early day, and that you have but 
 just begun to know that there is such a man 
 under heaven. I had rather myself be pa- 
 tronized by a person of small interest, with 
 a heart like yours, than by the Chancellor 
 himself, if he did not care a farthing for me. 
 
 If I did not desire you to make my ac- 
 knowledgments to Anonymous, as I be- 
 lieve I did not, it was because I am not 
 aware that I am warranted to do so. But 
 the omission is of less consequence, because, 
 whoever he is, though he has no objection to 
 doing the kindest things, he seems to have 
 an aversion to the thanks they merit. 
 
 You must know that two odes composed 
 by Horace have lately been discovered at 
 Rome.f I wanted them transcribed into the 
 blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and 
 Mrs. Throckmorton performed that service 
 
 * The poet's kinsman was made chaplain to Dr. Spen- 
 cer Madan, the Bishop of Peterborough. 
 
 t These Odes proved to l)e forgeries. They were re- 
 I)orted to have been found in the Palatine Librarv, and 
 communicated to the jiublic by Caspar Pallavicini, the 
 sub-librariau. We have room only for the following :— 
 
 AD SALIUM FLORUM. 
 
 Discolor prandem gravat uva ramum ; 
 Instat Autuinnus ; glacialis anno 
 Mox hyems volvente adiret, capillis 
 Harrida canis. 
 
 Jam licet Xymph:is trepide fugaces 
 Insecpii, lento pede delinendas, 
 Et labris captiB, simulantis irara, 
 Oscula figi. 
 
 Jam licit vino madidos vetusto 
 Dc die lastum recinare carmen ; 
 Flore, 8i te des hilarum, licebit 
 
 Suniere noctem 
 
 Jam vide curas Aquilone sparsas 
 Mens viri fortis sibi constat, utrura 
 Serius lethi citiusve tristis 
 
 Advolat hora. 
 
 Thrro is a false quantity in the first stanza, whicb 
 affords presumptive evidence of forgery. 
 The title of the second Ode is, " Ad Libr im Saum.''
 
 342 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 for me ; in a blank leaf, therefore, of the same 
 book, I wrote the following : — 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, 
 
 On her beautiful' Transcript of Horace's Ode, 
 
 AD LIBRUM SUUM. 
 
 Maria, could Horace have guess'd 
 
 What honors awaited his ode, 
 To his own little volume address'd, 
 
 The honor which you have bestow'd. 
 Who have traced it in characters here. 
 
 So elegant, even, and neat ; 
 He had laugh'd at the critical sneer, 
 
 Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 
 
 And sneer if you please, he had said. 
 
 Hereafter a nymph shall arise. 
 Who shall give me, when you are all dead. 
 
 The glory your mahce denies. 
 Shall dignity give to my lay, 
 
 Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
 And even a poet shall say. 
 
 Nothing ever was written so well. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 26, 1790. 
 
 You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, 
 so far as you are yourself the object of its 
 anxieties. What other troubles it feels can 
 be cured by God alone. But you are never 
 silent a week longer than usual, without giv- 
 ing an opportunity to my imagination (ever 
 fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to tease 
 me with them day and night. London is in- 
 deed a pestilent place, as you call it ; and I 
 would, with all my heart, that thou hadst less 
 to do with it ; were you under the same roof 
 with me, I should know you to be safe, and 
 should never distress you with melancholy 
 letters. 
 
 I feel myself well enough inclined to the 
 measure yovi propose, and will show to your 
 new acquaintance, with all my heart, a sam- 
 ple of my translation, but it shall not be, if 
 you please, taken from the Odyssey. It is a 
 poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, 
 and, as I propose to carry her by a coup de 
 main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamemnon, 
 and the two armies of Greece and Troy in 
 my service. I will accordingly send you in 
 the box that I received from you last night 
 the two first books of the Iliad for that lady's 
 perusal ; to those I have given a third revisal ; 
 for them therefore I will be answerable, and 
 am not afraid to stake the credit of my work 
 upon them with her, or with any living wight, 
 especially one who understands the original. 
 I do not mean that even they are finished, 
 for I sliall examine and cross-examine them 
 yet again, and so you may tell her ; but I 
 know that they will not disgrace me : where- 
 as it is so long since I have looked at the 
 Odyssey, that I know nothing at all about it. 
 
 They shall set sail from Olney on Monday 
 morning in the diligence, and will rercli you, 
 I hope, in the evening. As soon as she has 
 done with them, I shall be glad to have them 
 again, for the time draws near when I shall 
 want to give them tiie last touch. 
 
 I am delighted with jMrs. Bodham's* kind- 
 ness in giving me the only picture of my mo- 
 ther that is to be found, I suppose, in all the 
 world. I had rather possess it than the rich- 
 est jewel in the British crown, for I loved 
 her with an affection that her death, fifty-twc 
 years since, has not in the least abated. I 
 remember her too, young as I was when she 
 died, well enougli to know that it is a very 
 exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to 
 me invaluable. Everybody loved her, ana 
 with an amiable character so impressed upoi 
 all lier features, everybody was sure to do so. 
 
 I have a very affectionate and a very clever 
 letter from Johnson, who promises me the 
 transcript of the books entrusted to him in a 
 few days. I have a great love for that y oung 
 man ; he has some drops of the same stream 
 in his veins that once animated the original 
 of that dear picture.f W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. BODHAM. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 27, 1790. 
 
 My dearest Rose,]; — Whom I thought 
 withered and fallen from the stalk, but whom 
 I find still alive : nothing could give me greater 
 pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from 
 yourself. I loved you dearly when you were 
 a child, and love you not a jot the less for 
 having ceased to be so. Every creature that 
 bears any aftinity to my mother is dear to me, 
 and you, the daughter of her brother, are but 
 one remove distant from her : I lovo you there- 
 fore, and love you much, both for her sake 
 and for your own. The world could not have 
 furnished you with a present so acceptable to 
 me as the picture which you have so kindly 
 sent me. I received it the night before last, 
 and viewed it with a trepidation of nerves 
 and spirits somewhat akin to what I should 
 liave felt, had the dear original presented hei - 
 self to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung 
 it where it is the last object that I see at night, 
 and, of course, the first on wliich I open my 
 eyes in the morning. She died when I had 
 completed my sixth year, yet I remember her 
 well, and am an ocular witness ol the great 
 fidelity of the copy. I remember too a mul- 
 titude of the maternal tendernesses which I 
 received from her, and which have endeared 
 
 * Mrs. Bodham was a cousin of Cowper's, connected 
 with him by his maternal liiniily, the Donnes. 
 
 t The manner in which Cowper speaks of his kinsman 
 is uniformly the same— kind, affectionate, and endearing. 
 
 1 Mrs. Bodham was always addressed by Cowper in 
 this playful and complimentary style, though her Chris- 
 tian name was Ann. 
 
 Ill
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 343 
 
 ;ier memory to me beyond expression.* There 
 is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than 
 the Cowper, and though I love all of both 
 names, and have a thousand reasons to love 
 those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of 
 nature draw me vehemently to your side. I 
 was thought, in the days of my childhood, 
 much to resemble my mother, and in my natu- 
 ral temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight 
 I must bo supposed a competent judge, can 
 trace both her and my late uncle, your father. 
 Somewhat of his irritability, and a little I 
 
 would hope both of his and of her , 
 
 I know not what to call it without seerainff 
 to praise myself, which is not my intention, 
 but speaking to yoji, I will even speak out, 
 and say gof>d nature. Add to all this, I deal 
 much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, 
 t'hc Dean of St. Paurs,t and I think I shall 
 have proved myself a Donne at all points. 
 The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you 
 all. 
 
 I account it a happy event that brought the 
 dear boy, your nepliew, to my knowledge, and 
 that, breaking through all the restraints which 
 his natural bashfuhiess imposed on liim, he 
 determined to find me out. He is amiable to 
 a degree that I have seldom seen, and I often 
 long with impatience to see him again. 
 
 ■My dearest cousin, what shall I say in an- 
 swer to your affectionate invitation? I 7misl 
 say this, I cannot come now, nor soon, and I 
 wish with all my heart I could. But I will 
 tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it 
 will answer to us just as well : you and Mr. 
 Bodham can come to Weston, can you not ? 
 The summer is at hand, there are roads and 
 wlieels to bring you, and you are neither of 
 you translating Homer. I am crazed that I 
 
 * No presnnt could possibly have been more acceptable 
 M Cowper thiiii the nn^cipt of his molher's picture. Ilo 
 composed the beautiful verses, on this occasion, so ten- 
 derly descriptive of the impression made on his youthful 
 imagination by tlie remembrance of her virtues. We 
 extract the followin'^ passage : — 
 
 My moiner ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed V 
 iiover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowin'^ son, 
 M'retch even then, life's journey just^ bei^un? 
 Perhaps thou fravcst me, thouoih unfelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toU'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turniny; from my nursery-window, drew 
 A Ions;, loni; sii;h, and wept a last adieu! 
 But was it such V— It .-a-s. Where thou art gone, 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I hut meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The partint; word shall pass tny lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens, i;riev"d themselves at my concern, 
 Oft ijavi! me iiromise oflliy quick return. 
 What ardently I wish'd. I lony believed, 
 And, disappciiiited still, was still deceived ; 
 By expectation every day besuiled. 
 Dupe of to-iiiin-riiw, even from a cliild. 
 Thus many a s:wl t.Muorrow came and went. 
 Till, all my Rto(,k o'' infant sorrow spent, 
 I learn d at liLst submission to my lot, 
 Bui, tiuniyh I less deplored th «, ne'er forgot. 
 t Dr. .John Donne, an eminent and learned divine, 
 whose life is written by Iziuak Walton. Horn 1573, died 
 1031. 
 
 cannot ask you all together for want of house 
 room, but for Mr. Bodham and yourself we 
 have good room, and equally good for any 
 third in tiie siiape of a Donne, whether named 
 Hewitt,* Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or by 
 whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt 
 has particular claims upon me ; she was my 
 playfellow at Berkhamstead, and has a share 
 in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so ! 
 Neither do I at all forget my cousin Harriet. 
 Site and I have been many a time merry at 
 Catfield, and have made the parsonage ring 
 with laughter : — Give my love to her. Assure 
 yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall re- 
 ceive you, as if you were my sister, and Mrs. 
 Unwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the 
 same. When she has seen you she will love 
 you for your own. 
 
 I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his 
 kindness to my Homer, and with my love to 
 you all, and with Mrs. Unwin's kind respects, 
 am, 
 
 My dear, dear Rose, ever yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 P. S. — I mourn the death of your poor 
 brother Castress, whom I should have seen 
 had he lived, and should have seen with the 
 greatest pleasure. He was an amaible boy, 
 and I was very fond of him. 
 
 Slill another P. S. — I find on consultino' 
 J\lrs. Unwin that I have underrated our capa- 
 bilities, and that we have not only room for 
 you and Mr. Bodham, but for two of your sex, 
 and even for your nephew into the bargain. 
 We shall be happy to have it all so occupied. 
 
 Your nephew tells me that his sister, in the 
 qualities of the mind, resembles you; that is 
 enough to make her dear to me, and I beg you 
 will assure her that she is so. Let it not be 
 long before I hear from you. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 28, 1790. 
 
 My dear Cousin John, — I have much wished 
 to hear from you, and, though you are wel- 
 come to write to Mrs. (Jnwin as often as you 
 please, I wisli myself to be numbered among 
 your correspondents. 
 
 I shall find time to answer you, doubt it 
 not ! Be as busy as we may, we can always 
 find time to do what is agreeable to us. By 
 the way, had you a letter from Mrs. Unwin ? 
 I am witness that she addressed one to you 
 before you went into Norfolk, but yourmathe- 
 matico-poetical head forgot to acknowledge 
 the receipt of it. 
 
 I was never more pleased in my life than 
 to learn from herself, tliat my dearest Rosef 
 is still alive. Had she not engaged me to 
 love her by the sweetness of her charactef 
 
 * The Rev. ,J. Johnson's sister, 
 t Mrs. Ann Bodhum.
 
 344 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 when a child, she would have done it effectu- 
 ally now by making me the most acceptable 
 present in the world, my own dear motiier's 
 picture. I am perhaps the only person living 
 who remembers her, but I remember her well, 
 and can attest on my own knowledge tlie 
 truth of the resemblance. Amiable and ele- 
 gant as the countenance is, such exactly was 
 her own ; she was one of the tenderest pa- 
 rents, and so just a copy of her is therefore 
 to me invaluable. 
 
 I wrote yesterday to my Rose, to tell her 
 all this, and to thank her for her kindness 
 in sending it. Neither do I forget your kind- 
 ness, who intimated to her that I should be 
 happy to possess it. 
 
 She invites me into Norfolk, but alas ! she 
 might :-)s well invite the house in which I 
 dwell; for, all other considerations and im- 
 pediments apart, how is it possible that a 
 translator of Homer should lumber to such a 
 distance ! But, though I cannot comply with 
 her kind invitation, I have made myself tiie 
 best amends in my power, by inviting her and 
 all the family oi Donnes to Weston. Perhaps 
 we could not accommodate them all at once, 
 but in succession w'e could, and can at any 
 time find room for live, three of them being 
 females, and one a married one. You are a 
 mathematician ; tell me then how five persons 
 can be lodged in three beds (two males and 
 three females) and I shall have good hope that 
 you will proceed a senior optime. It would 
 make me happy to see our house so furnished. 
 As to yourself, whom I know to be a subsca- 
 larian, or a man that sleeps under the stairs,* 
 I should ha\e no objection at all, neither could 
 you possibly have any yourself to the garret, 
 as a place m which you might be disposed of 
 with great felicity oi* accommodation. 
 
 I thank you much for your services in the 
 transcribing Wc.y, und would by no means have 
 you despair of an opportunity to serve me in 
 the same way yet again ; — write to me soon, 
 and tell me when I snail see you. 
 
 I have not said the half that I have to say, 
 but breakfast is at hand, which always termi- 
 nates my epistles. 
 
 Wiiat have you done with your poem ? 
 The trimming that it procured you here has 
 not, ] hope, put you out of conceit with it 
 entirely; you are more tlian equal to the al- 
 teration that it needs. Only remember that 
 in writing, perspicuity is always more than 
 half the battle ; the want of it is the ruin of 
 more than half the poetry that is published. 
 A meaning that does not stare you in the face 
 is as bid as no meaning, because nobody will 
 take the pains to poke for it. So now adieu 
 for the present. Beware of killing yourself 
 with problems, for, if you do, you will never 
 live to be another Sir Isaac. 
 
 * This exiiression alludes to the situation of the rooms 
 Kxupied by him at Caius College, Cambridge. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin's affectionate remembrancea 
 attend you; Lady Hesketh is mucli disjiosed 
 to love you; perhaps most who know you 
 have some little tendency the same way. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, March 8, 3790. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — I thank ihee much 
 and oft, for negociating so well this poetical 
 
 concern with Mrs. , and for sending me 
 
 her opinion in her own hand. I should be 
 unreasonable indeed not t,o be higlily gratified 
 by it, and I like it the better for being mod- 
 estly expressed. It is, as you know, and it 
 shall be some months longer, my daily business 
 to polish and improve what is done, that when 
 the whole shall appear she may find her ex- 
 pectations answered. I am glad also that 
 thou didst send her the sixteenth Odyssey, 
 though, as I said before, I know not at all at 
 present whereof it is made ; but I am sure 
 that thou wouldst not have sent it, hadst thou 
 not conceived a good opinion of it thyself, 
 and thought that it would do me credit. It 
 was very kind in thee to sacrifice to this Mi- 
 nerva on my account. 
 
 For my sentiments on the subject of the 
 Test Act, I cannot do better than refer thee 
 to my poem, entitled and called " Expostula- 
 tion." I have there expressed myself not 
 much in its fovor, considering it in a religious 
 view ; and in a political one, I like it not a 
 jot the better.* I am neither Tory nor high 
 Churchman, but an old Whig, as my father 
 was before me ; and an enemy, consequently, 
 to all tyrannical impositions. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin bids me return thee many 
 thanks for thy inquiries so kindly made con- 
 cerning her health. She is a little better than 
 of late, but has been ill continually ever since 
 last November. Everything that could try 
 patience and submission she has had, and hei 
 submission and patience have answered in 
 the trial, though mine, on her account, have 
 often failed sadly. 
 
 I have a letter from Johnson, who tells me 
 that lie has sent his transcript to you, begging 
 at the same time more copy. Let him have 
 it by all means; he is an industrious youth, 
 and" I love him dearly. I told him that you 
 
 * The following is the passage alluded to. 
 Il!i-!t thuu hv statute shoved from its design 
 The Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and wme, 
 And made the symbols of atoning grace 
 An office-key, a picklock to a place ? 
 That infidels may prove their title good. 
 By an oath diiip'd in sacramental blood? 
 A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
 Of all that grave apologists may wril« : 
 And, tlioui,'h a biel*;, toil t.j cleanse the stain. 
 He wijA-s and scours the silver cup in vam. 
 And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
 Till nr^rjurifs are common as bad pence, 
 Whiio thousands, careless of the damning sin. 
 Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within? 
 
 Expostulatim. 
 The Test Act is now repealed.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 34£ 
 
 are disposed to love him a little. A new 
 poem is born on the receipt of my mother's 
 picture : — thou shalt have it. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, March 11, 1790. 
 My dear Friend, — I was glad to liear from 
 you, for a line from you gives nie always 
 much pleasure, but was not much gladdened 
 by the contents of your letter. The state of 
 your health, which IJiave learned more accu- 
 rately perhaps from my cousin, except in this 
 last instance, than from yourself has alarmed 
 me, and even she has collected her informa- 
 tion upon that subject more from your looks 
 than from your own ackno\vledgm(!nts. To 
 eomplain much and often of our indisposi- 
 tions does not always insure the pity of the 
 hearer, perhaps sometimes forfeits it; but to 
 dissemble them altogether, or at least to sup- 
 press the worst, is attended ultinnitely with 
 an iiiconvenien.te greater still ; the secret will 
 out at last, and our friends, unprepared to re- 
 ceive it, are doubly distressed about us. In 
 saying this, I squint a little at Mrs. Unwin, 
 who will read it; it is with her, as with you, 
 the only subject on which she practices any 
 dissimulation at all; the consequence is, that, 
 when she is much indisposed, 1 never believe 
 myself in possession of the whole truth, live 
 in constant expectation of hearing something 
 worse, and at tiie long run am seldom disap- 
 pointed. It seems, therefore, as on all other 
 occasions, so even in this, the better course 
 on the whole to appear what we are ; not to 
 lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful 
 looks, which do not probably belong to us, or 
 by letters written as if we were well, when 
 in fact we are very much otherwise. On 
 condition, however, that you act differently 
 towards me for the future, I will pardon the 
 past, and she may gather from my clemency 
 shf^wn to you some hopes, on the same con- 
 ditions, of similar clemency to herself 
 
 VV. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 Woston, March 12, 1700. 
 
 My dear Madam, — I live in such a nook, 
 have so few opportunities of hearing news, 
 and so little time to read it, that to me to 
 begin a letter seems always a sort of forlorn 
 hope. Can it be possible, I say to myself, 
 that I should have anything to counnunicate 1 
 These misirivings have an ill effect, so far as 
 my punctuality is concerned, and are apt to 
 deter me from the business of letter-writ- 
 jng, as from an enterprise altogether imprac- 
 Uciib". 1 
 
 I wi'il not say that you are more pleased 
 
 * Pri^■ate correspondence 
 
 with my trifles than they deserve, lest I should 
 seem to call your judgment in question; but 
 I suspect that a little partiality to the brother 
 of my brother enters into the opinion you 
 form of them. No matter, however, by what 
 you are influenced, it is for my interest that 
 you should like them at any rate, because, 
 such as they are, they are the only return I 
 can make you for all your kindness. This 
 consideration will have two effects; it will 
 have a tendency to make me more industri- 
 ous in the production of such pieces, and 
 more attentive to the manner in which I write 
 them. This reminds me of a piece in your 
 possession, which I will entreat you to com- 
 mit to the flames, because I am somewhat 
 ashamed of it. To make you amends, I 
 hereby promise to send you a new edition of 
 it when time shall serve, delivered from the 
 passages that I dislike in the first, and in other 
 respects amended. The piece that I mean, is 
 one entitled — " To Lady Hesketh on her 
 furnishing for me our house at Weston" — 
 or, as the huvyers saj-, words to that amount. 
 I have, likewise, since I sent you the la.st 
 packet, been delivered of two or three other 
 brats, and, as the year proceeds, shall prob- 
 ably add to the number. All that come 
 shall be basketed in time, and conveyed to 
 your door. 
 
 I have lately received from a female cousin 
 of mine in Norfolk, whom I have not seen 
 these five-and-tliirty years, a picture of my 
 own mother. She died when I wanted two 
 days of being six years old ; yet I remember 
 her perfectly, find the picture a strong like- 
 ness of her, and, because her memory has 
 been ever precious to me, have written a poem 
 on the receipt of it : a poem which, one ex- 
 ce[)ted, I had more pleasure in writing than 
 any that I ever wrote. That one was ad- 
 dressed to a lady whom I expect in a few 
 minutes to come down to breakfast, and who 
 has supplied to me the place of my own 
 mother — my own invaluable mother, these 
 six-and-twenty years. Some sons may be 
 said to have had many fathers, but a plurali- 
 ty of mothers is not common. 
 
 Adieu, my dear madam ; be assured that I 
 always think of you with much esteem and 
 affection, and am, with mine and Mrs.Unwin's 
 best compliments to you and yours, most un- 
 feignedly your friend and humble servant, 
 
 W. C 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
 
 The Lodge, March 21, 1790. 
 
 My dearest Madam, — I shall only observe 
 
 on the subject of your absence, that you liave 
 
 stretched it since you went, and have made it 
 
 a week longer. Weston is sadly unked* 
 
 * A common provincialism in Bucliinghamshi'-e, prob- 
 ably a corruption of uncouth.
 
 346 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 without you ; and here are two of us, who 
 will be heartily glad to see you again. I be- 
 lieve you are happier at home than anywhere, 
 Vhich is a comtbrtable belief to your neigh- 
 bors, because it affords assurance that, since 
 you are neither likely to ramble for pleasure, 
 nor to meet with any avocations of business, 
 while Weston shall continue to be your home, 
 it will not often want you. 
 
 The two first books of my Iliad have been 
 submitted to the mspection and scrutiny of a 
 great critic of your sex, at the instance of my 
 cousin, as you may suppose. The lady is 
 mistress of more tongues than a few (it is to 
 be hoped she is single) ; and particularly she 
 is mistress of the Greek.* She returned 
 them with expressions, that, if anything could 
 make a poet prouder than all poets naturally 
 are, would have made me so. I tell you this, 
 because I know that you all interest your- 
 selves in the success of the said Iliad. 
 
 My periwig is arrived, and is the very per- 
 fection of all periwigs, having only one fault; 
 which is, that my head will only go into the 
 first half of it, the other half, or the upper 
 part of it, contiouing still unc^cnpied. My 
 artist m this way at Olney has, however, un- 
 dertaken to make the whole of it tenantable, 
 and then I 3i1a.l1 be twenty years younger 
 than you have ever seen me. 
 
 I heard of your birth-day very early in the 
 morning; the news came from the steeple. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The following letter is interesting as re- 
 cording his opinion of thr, style best adapted 
 to a translation of Homer. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, March 22, 1790. 
 
 I rejoice, my dearest cousin, that my MSS. 
 have roamed the earth so successfully, and 
 have met with no disaster. The single book 
 excepted, that went to the bottom of the 
 Thames, and rose again, they have been for- 
 tunate without exception. I am not super- 
 stitious, but have, nevertheless, as good a 
 right to believe that adventure an omen, and 
 a favorable one, as Swift had to interpret as 
 he did the loss of a fine fish, which he had no 
 s6oner laid on the bank tlian it flounced into 
 the water again. This, he tells us himself, 
 he always considered as a type of his future 
 disappointments ; and why may not I as well 
 consider the marvellous recovery of my lost 
 book from the bottom of the Thames as typi- 
 cal of its future prosperity ? To say the 
 truth, I have no fears now about the success 
 of my translation, though in time past I have 
 had many. I knew there was a style some- 
 where, could I but find it, in which Homer 
 ought to be rendered, and which alone would 
 
 * Mrs. Carter. 
 
 suit him. Long time I blundered about it, 
 ere I could attain to any decided judgment 
 on the matter ; at first, I was betrayed by a 
 desire of accommodating my language to the 
 simplicity of his into much of the quaintness 
 that belonged to our writers of the fifteenth 
 century. In the course of many revisals 1 
 have delivered myself from this evil, I believe, 
 entirely ; but I have done it slowly, and as a 
 man separates himself from his mistress when 
 he is going to marry. I had so strong a pre- 
 dilection in fovor of this style at first, that I 
 was crazed to find that others were not as 
 much enamored with it as myself At every 
 passage of that sort which I obliterated, I 
 groaned bitterly, and said to myself, I am 
 spoiling my work to please those who hav) 
 no taste for the simple graces of antiquity. 
 But, in measure as I adopted a more modem 
 phraseology, I became a convert to tlieir 
 opinion, and, in the last revisal, which I am 
 now making, am not sensible of having 
 spared a single expression of the obsolete 
 kind. I see my work so much improved by 
 this alteration, that I am filled with wonder 
 at my own backwardness to assent to the 
 necessity of it, and the more when I consider 
 that Milton, with whose manner I account 
 myself intimately acquainted is never quaint, 
 never twangs througli the nosv., but is every- 
 where grand and elegant, without resorting 
 to musty antiquity for his beauties. On tht 
 contrary, he took a long stride forward, left 
 the language of his own day far behind him, 
 and anticipated the expressions of a century 
 yet to come. 
 
 I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt 
 of the event, but I will give thee a shilling 
 if thou wilt tell me what I shall say in my 
 Preface. It is an atlair of much delicacy, and 
 I have a« many opinions about it as there are 
 whims in a weathercock. 
 
 Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. 
 In a day or two I shall enter on the last Iliad ; 
 when I have finished it I shall give the 
 Odyssey one more reading, and shall there- 
 fore shortly have occasi'on for the copy in thy 
 possession, but you see that there is no need 
 to hurry. 
 
 I leave the little space for Mrs. Unwin's 
 use, who means, I believe, to occup)'' it. 
 And am evermore thine most truly, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Postscript, in the hand of Mrs. Unwin. 
 
 You cannot imagine how much your '.ady- 
 ship would oblige your unworthy serva it, if 
 you would be so good to let me know in 
 what point I dififer from you. All that at 
 present I can say is, that I will readily sacr.. 
 fice my own opinijn, unless I can give y u • 
 substantial reason for adhering to it.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 34T 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, iMaich 23, 1790. 
 Your I\ISS. arrived safe in New Norfolk- 
 street, ai)d I am much obliged to you for 
 your labors. Were you now at Weston, I 
 •ould furnish you with employment for some 
 veeks, and shall perliaps be equally able to 
 do it in summer, for 1 have lost my best 
 amanuensis in this pince, Mr. G. Throckmor- 
 ton, who is gone to Bath. 
 
 You are a man to be envied who have 
 never read the Odyssey, which is one of the 
 most amusing story-books in the world. 
 There is also mucli of the finest poetry in 
 the world to be found in it, notwithstanding 
 all tliat Longinus has insinuated to the con- 
 trary.* His comparison of the Iliad and 
 Odysst-y to tlie meridian and to the declining 
 sun is pretty, but, 1 am persuaded, not just. 
 Tlie prettiness of it seduced him : lie was 
 otherwise too judicious a reader of Homer to 
 have made it. I can find in the latter no 
 symptoms of impaired ability, none of the 
 etfects of age ; on the contrary, it seems to 
 me a certainty, that Homer, had he written 
 the Odyssey in his youth, could not have 
 written it better; and if the Iliad in his old 
 age, that he would have written it just as 
 well. A critic would tell me that, instead 
 of written, I should have said composed. Very 
 likely — but I am not writing to one of that 
 snarling generation. 
 
 My boy, I lorg to see thee again. It has 
 happened seme way or other, that Mrs. Un- 
 win and I have conceived a great atfection 
 for thee. That I should is tlie less to be 
 wondered ■•t,, (because thou art a shred of 
 my own nji'lher;) neither is the wonder 
 gi-eat, that she should fall into the same pre- 
 dicament ; for she loves everything that I 
 love. You will o^isox 'e that your own per- 
 sonal right to be beloved makes no part of 
 the consideration, 'i'here is nothing that I 
 toucli with so much tenderness as the vanity 
 of a young man ; because, I know how ex- 
 tremely suscejjtible he is of impressions that 
 might "hurt him in that particular part of 
 his composition. If you should ever prove a 
 coxcomb,! from which cliiiracter you stand 
 just now at a greater distance tlian any 
 young man 1 know, it shall never be said 
 that I have made you one ; no, you will gain 
 notliing by me but the honor of being much 
 valued by a poor poet, who can do you no 
 good while he lives, and has nothing to leave 
 you when he dies. If you can be contented 
 to be dear to me on these conditions, so you 
 shall ; but other terms more Jidvantagcous 
 than these, or more inviting, none have I to 
 propose. 
 
 * I.oii?inus compares tlie Odyssoy to the si'ttinp; sun, 
 ami the lUad, as moiu clmrack-ristic of tlie lol'linuss of 
 Homer's Keniiiis, to llie sploiulor of the risiii',' sun. 
 
 ■| No man ever possessed a happier exemption, through- 
 out lift, from such a title. 
 
 Farewell. Puzzle not yourself about a 
 subject when you write to either of us : every 
 thing is subject enough from those we love. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 7" :OKN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Westou, April 17, 1790. 
 
 Y^our letter, th.N,t now lies before me, is al 
 most three weeks old, and therefore of ful 
 age to receive an answer, which it shall have 
 without delay, if tlie interval between the 
 present moment and that of breakfast should 
 prove sulKcient ten tlie purpose. 
 
 Yours to Mrs. Unwin was received yester- 
 day, for which she v,ill thank you in due time. 
 I have also seen, and have now in my desk, 
 your letter to Lady Hesketh; she sent it 
 thinking that it would divert me; in which 
 she was not mistaken. I shall tell her when 
 I write to her next, that you long to receive 
 a line from her. Give yourself no trouble 
 on the subject of the politic device you saw 
 good to recur to, when you presented me 
 with your manuscript;* it was an innocent 
 deception, at least it could harm nobody save 
 yourself; an etfect which it did not fail to 
 produce; and, since the punishment followed 
 it so closely, by me at least it may very well 
 be forgiven. You ask, how I can tell that 
 you are not addicted to practices of the de- 
 ceptive kind? And certainly, if the little 
 time that I have had to study you were alone 
 to be considered, the question would not be 
 unreasonable; but in general a man who 
 reaches my years finds 
 
 " That long experience does attain 
 To something like prophetic strain." 
 
 I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and 
 persuaded that faces arc as legible as books, 
 only with these circumstances to recommend 
 them to our perusal, that they are read in 
 much less time, and are much less likely to 
 deceive us. Yours gave me a favorable im- 
 pression of you the moment I beheld it, and, 
 though I shall not tell you in particular what 
 I sav/ in it, for reasons mentioned in my last, 
 I will add, that I have observed in you no- 
 thing since that has not confirmed the opin- 
 ion 1 then formed in your favor. In fact I 
 cannot recollect that my skill in physiognomy 
 has ever deceived me, and I should add more 
 on this sul>ject had I room. 
 
 When you have shut up your mathematical 
 books, you must give yourself to the study 
 of Greek ; not merely that you may be able 
 to read Homer and the other Greek classics 
 with ease, but the Greek Testament and the 
 Greek fathers also. Thus qualilied, and by 
 the aid of you» fiddle into the bargain, to- 
 gether with some portion of the grace of God 
 
 * The poem on Audley End, alluded to in a former 
 letter to Lady Hesketh.
 
 B48 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 (without which nothing can be donfi) to en- 
 able you to look well to your flock, when you 
 shall get one, you will be set up for a parson. 
 In which character, if I live to see you in it, I 
 shall expect and hope that you v.ill make a 
 very different figure from most of your frater- 
 nity.* Ever yourp, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY iies::eth. 
 
 The Lodge, April 19, 1790. 
 
 My dearest Coz., — I thank thee for my 
 cousin Johnson's letter, which diverted me. 
 1 had one from him lately, in which he ex- 
 pressed an ardent desire of a line from you, 
 and the delight he would feel in receiving it. 
 I know not whether you will have the charity 
 to satisfy his longingj, but mention the mat- 
 ter, tiiinking it possible that you may. A 
 letter from a lady to a youth iiumersed in 
 mathematics must be singularly ple»;sant. 
 
 I am finishing Homer backward, having 
 begun at the last book, and designing to per- 
 severe in that crab-like fashion till I arrive at 
 the first. This may remind you perhaps of a 
 certain poet's prisoner in the Bastille (thank 
 Heaven ! in the Bastille now no more) count- 
 ing the n.ails in the door, for variety's sake, 
 in all direetions.f I find so little to do in the 
 last revisal, that I shall soon reach the Odys- 
 sey, and soon want those books of it which 
 are in thy possession ; but the two first of the 
 Iliad, which are also in thy possession, K.dch 
 sooner ; thou mayst therefore send them by 
 the first fivir opportunity. I am ia high spirits 
 on this subject, and think that I have at last 
 licked the clumsy cub into a shape that will 
 secure to it the favorable notice of the public. 
 
 Let not retard me, and I shall hope to 
 
 get it out next winter. 
 
 I am glad that thou hast sent the General 
 those verses on my mother's picture. They 
 will amuse him — only I hope that he will not 
 miss my mother-in-law, and think that she 
 ought to have made a third. On such an oc- 
 casion it was not possible to mention her 
 with any propriety. I rejoice at the General's 
 recovery ; may it prove a perfect one. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LArY :i:i!iKETH. 
 
 "Weston, April 30, 1790. 
 
 To my old friend, Dr. Madan.t thou couldst 
 
 * Cowper is often very sarciijtic hthu tlie clergy. We 
 fftist that these censures E^-e not be nioriteil in these times 
 »f reviving; piety. 
 
 t We suljjoiu the lines to which O.'iwper refers : — 
 
 "To wear out time in numbVin;: to and fro 
 The .?tHds, that thicif embo-^s his iron door; 
 Then downward and then upwaj-d, then aalact, 
 And then alternate; witu tieickiy hope 
 By dint of change to give hir. tasteless task 
 Some relish ; till the au:n, exactly found 
 In all directions, he begins again." 
 
 Book V. — IVinter Morning's Walk. 
 X The Bishop of Peterborough. 
 
 not have spoken better than thou didst. Tell 
 him, I beseech you, <,hat I have not forgotten 
 him; tell him also, that to my hear! and 
 home he will be always welcome; nor he 
 only, but all that are his. His judgment of 
 my translation gave me the highest satisfac- 
 tion, because I know him to be a rare old 
 Grecian. 
 
 The General's approbation of my picture 
 verses gave me also much pleasure. I wrote 
 them not without tears, therefore I presume 
 it may be that they are felt by others. Should 
 he offer me my fjither's picture I .shall gladly 
 accept it. A melancholy pleasure is better 
 than none, nay, verily, better than most. He 
 had a sad task imposed on him, but no man 
 could acquit himself of such a one with more 
 discretion or with more tenderness. The 
 death of the unfortunate young man remind- 
 ed me of those lines in Lycidas, 
 
 " It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 
 Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 
 That sunk so low tUat sacred head of thine !" 
 
 How beautiful ! 
 
 W.C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 The Lodge, May 2, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am still at the old 
 sport — Homer all the morning, and Homer 
 ail the evening. Thus have I been held in 
 constant employment, I know not exactly 
 how many, but I believe these six years, an 
 interval of eighth months excepted. It is 
 now become so famili.ar to me to tako Homer 
 from my shelf at a certain hour, that I shall 
 no doubt continue to take him f.om my shelf 
 at the same time, even after I liave ceased to 
 want him. That period is not far distant, 
 I am now giving the last touches to a work, 
 which, had I foreseen the difficulty of it, I 
 should never have meddled with ; but which, 
 having at length nearly finished it to my 
 mind, I shall discontinue with regret. 
 
 IMy very best compliments attend Mrs. 
 Hill, whom I love, " unsight unseen," as they 
 say, but yet truly. 
 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
 
 The Lodge, May 10, 1790. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Frog,t — You have by this 
 time (I presume) heard from the Doctor, 
 whom J desired to present to you our best 
 affections, and t,o tell you that we are well. 
 He sent an urchin, (I do not mean a hedge- 
 hog, commonly called an urchin in old times, 
 but .T. bey, commonly so called at present,) 
 expecting that he would find you at Buck- 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The sportive title generally bestowed by Cowper on 
 his amiable fiiends the Throckmortons.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 349 
 
 .and's, whither he supposed you gone on 
 Thursday. He sent hiin cliarged with divers 
 articles, and among others with letters, or at 
 least with a letter; which I mention, that, if 
 the boy should be lost, together with his 
 despatches, past all possibility of recovery, 
 you may yet know that the Doctor stands 
 acquitted of not writing. That he is utterly 
 lost (that is to say, the boy — for, the Doctor 
 being the last Jintecedent, as the grammarians 
 say, you nji£-ht oth irwise suppose that he 
 was intended) is the more probable, because 
 he was rever I'ovj" miles from his home be- 
 fore, having only travelled at the side of a 
 f ough-team; and when the Doctor gave 
 him his direction to Buckland's,* he asked, 
 very naf.'jr.ully, if that place was in England. 
 So, wfiiit has become of him Heaven knows ! 
 
 I do not know that any adventures have 
 presented themselves since your departure 
 worth mentioning, except that the rabbit that 
 infested your wilderness has been shot for de- 
 vouring your carnations ; and that I myself 
 have been in some danger of being devoured 
 in like manner by a great dog, viz., Pcirson's. 
 But I wrote him a letter on Friday, (I mean 
 a letter to Pearson, not to his dog, which I 
 mention to prevent mistakes — for the said 
 last antecedent might occasion them in this 
 place also,) informing him, that, unless he 
 tied up his great mastiff in the day-time, I 
 would send him a worse thing, commonly 
 called and known by the name of an attorney. 
 When I go forth to ramble in the fields, ] do 
 not sally (like Don Quixote) with a purpose 
 of encountering monsters, if any such can be 
 found ; but am a peaceable, poor gentleman, 
 and a poet, who mean nobody any harm, the 
 fo.v-hunters and the two universities of this 
 land excepted. 
 
 I cannot learn from any creature whether 
 the Turnpike Bill is alive or dead — so igno- 
 rant am I, and by such ignoramuses sur- 
 rounded. But, if I know little else, this at 
 least I know, that I love you, and .Mr. Frog; 
 that I long for your return, ;>.nd that I am, 
 with Mrs. Unwin's best affections, 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lo(li,'e, May 28, 1790. 
 My dearest Co/.., — ! thank thee for the 
 «ffer of thy best services on this occasion. 
 But Heaven guard my bro^vs from the wreatli 
 you mention, whatever wreath beside may 
 hereafter adorn them! It would be a leaden 
 extinguisher clapped on all the tire of my 
 genius, and I should never more produce a 
 line worth reading. To speak seriously, it 
 would make me miserable, and therefore I 
 
 * The residence of the Throckmorton family in Berk- 
 sLire. 
 
 am sure that thou, of all my friends, wouldst 
 least wish me to wear it.* 
 Adieu, 
 Ever thine — in Homer-hurry, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, June 3, 1790. 
 
 You will wonder, when I tell you, that I; 
 even I, am considered by people, who live at 
 a great distance, as having interest and influ- 
 ence sufficient to procure a place at court, 
 for those who may happen to want one. I 
 have accordingly been api)lied to within these 
 few days by a Welchman, with i -^'ife and 
 m.T,ny children, to get him made Pofc Laureat 
 as fast as possible. If thou wouldst wish to 
 make the world merry twice a year, thou 
 canst not do better 1'ian procure the office 
 for him. I will promise thee that he shall 
 afford thee a hearty laugh in return every 
 birth-day and every new year. He is an 
 honest man. Adieu ! W, C. 
 
 The poet's kinsman, having consulted him 
 on the subject of his future plans and studies, 
 receives the following reply. The letter is 
 striking, but admits of doubt as to the just- 
 ness of some of its sentiments. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 7, 1790. 
 
 My dear John, — You know my engage- 
 ments, and are consequently able to account 
 for ray silence. I will not therefore waste 
 time and paper in mentioning them, but will 
 only say, that, added to those with which you 
 are acquainted, I have had other hindrances, 
 such as business and a disorder of my spirits, 
 to which I have been all my life subject. At 
 present I am, thank God ! perfectly well both 
 in mind and body. Of you I am always 
 mindful, whether I write or not, and very de- 
 sirous to see you. You will remember, I 
 hope, that you are under engagements to us, 
 and as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare 
 you, will fulfil them. Give us all the time 
 you can, and all that they can s])are to ns ! 
 
 You never pleased me more than when 
 you told me you had abandoned your mathe- 
 matical pursuits. It grieved me to think, that 
 you were wasting your time merely to gain 
 a little Cambridge fame, not worth your hav- 
 ing. I cannot be contented, that your re- 
 nown should thrive nowhere but on the 
 banks of the Cam. Conceive a nobler ambi- 
 tion, and never let your honor be circum- 
 
 * Lady Hesketh sucsewted the appointment of tne 
 office ol" I'oet Liuireat to CowpiT, wliicli had become va- 
 cant by the death of Warton in 1790. The pi et declined 
 the offer of her services, and Henry James Pje, Esq., wa» 
 nominated the successor.
 
 350 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Bcribed by the paltry dimensions of a univer- 
 sity! It is well that you have already, as 
 you observe, acquired suficient information 
 in that science to enable u to pass credita- 
 bly such examinations as I suppose you must 
 hereafter underffo. Keen what you have 
 gotten, and be content. More is needless.* 
 
 You could not apply to a worse than I am 
 to advise you concerning your studies. I 
 was never a regular student myself, but lost 
 the most valuable years of my life in an at^ 
 torney's oftice and in the Temple. I will not 
 therefore give myself airs, and affect to know 
 what I know not. The affair is of great im- 
 portance to you, and you should be directed 
 in it by a wiser than I. To speak however 
 in very general terms on the subject, it 
 seems to me that your chief concern is with 
 history, natural philosophy, logic, and divin- 
 ity. As to metaphysics, I know little about 
 them. But the very little that I do know 
 has net taught me to admire them. Life is 
 too short to afford time even for serious trifles. 
 Pursue tvhat you know to be attainable, make 
 truth your object, and your studies will make 
 you a wise man ! Let your divinity, if I may 
 advise, be the divinity of the glorious Reforma- 
 tion : I mean in contradiction to Arminiunism, 
 and all the isms that were ever broached in this 
 world of error and ignorance. 
 
 * To Cowper's strictures on the University of Cam- 
 bridge, and iiis remark that the fame there acquired is 
 not worth having, we by no means subscribe. We think 
 no youth ougiit to be insensiisle to the honorable ambi- 
 tion of obtaining its distinctions, and that they are not 
 mifrequently the precursors of subsequent eminence in 
 the Church, the Senate, and at the Bar. We have been 
 informed lliat, out of fifteen judges recently on the bench, 
 eleven had obtained honors at our two Universities. 
 Whether the system of education is not susceptible of 
 much improvement is a subject worthy of deep con- 
 sideration. There seems to be a growing persuasion 
 that, at the University of Camliridge, the mode of study 
 is too exclusively mathematical ; and that a more com- 
 prehensive plan, embracing the various departments of 
 general knowledge and literature, would be an accession 
 to the cause of learning. We admit that the University 
 fully affords the means of acquiring this general informa- 
 tion, but there is a penalty attached to the acquisition 
 which operates as a prohibition, because the prospect of 
 obtaining honors must, in that case, be renounced. By 
 adopting a more comprehensive system, the stimulants 
 to exertion would be multiplied, and the end of educa- 
 tion apparently more fully attained. 
 
 When we reflect on the singular character of the pres- 
 ent times, the instability of governments, and the disor- 
 ganized state of society, arising from conflicting prin- 
 ciples and opinions, the question of education assumes a 
 momentous interest. We are firmly persuaded that, im- 
 less the minds of youth be enlarged by useful knowledge, 
 i:nd fortified by right principles of religion, they will not 
 be fitted to sustain the duties and responsibilities that 
 must soon devolve upon them ; nor will they be qualified 
 to meet the storms that now threaten the political and 
 moral horizon of Europe. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, in enumerating the advantages resulting 
 from a imiversity education, specifies the following as 
 calculated to operate powerfully on the mind of the stu- 
 dent. 
 
 " There is at least one very powerful incentive to learn- 
 ing ; 1 mean the Genius of the place. It is a sort of in- 
 spiring Deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and 
 ihgenious disposition created to himself, by reflecting that 
 he is placed under those venerable walls where a Hooker 
 »nd a Hammond, a Bacon and a Newton, once pursued 
 fhe same course of science, and from whence they soared 
 to the most elevated heights of literary fame." — Tlte 
 Idler, No. 33. 
 
 The divinity of the Reformation is called 
 Calvinism, but injuriously. It has been that 
 of the church of Christ in all ages. It is the 
 divinity of iSt. Paul, and of St. Paul's Mas- 
 ter, icho met him in his way to Damascus. 
 
 I have written in great haste, that I might 
 finish, if possible, before breakfast. Adieu I 
 Let us see you soon ; the sooner the better. 
 Give my love to the silent lady, the Rose, 
 and all my friends around you ! W. C. 
 
 There is an impressive grandeur and sub- 
 limity in the concluding part of the above 
 letter, which entitles it to be written in char- 
 acters of gold. May it be engraven on the 
 heart of every minister! The divinity of the 
 glorious Reformation, as illustrated in the 
 works of Cranmer, Jewel, Latimer, and Rid- 
 ley, are in fact the essential doctrines of the 
 gospel, as distinguished from a mere system 
 of moral ethics. It is in proportion only as 
 these great and fundamental truths are clearly 
 understood, and fully, freely, and faithfully 
 declared, that religion can acquire its holy 
 ascendancy over the heart and practice. Moral 
 preaching may produce an external reforma- 
 tion, but it is the gospel alone that can 
 change the heart. The corruption and lost 
 state of man, the mercy of God in Christ, the 
 necessity of a living faith in the Saviour, the 
 office of the Holy Spirit, in his enlightening, 
 converting, and sanctifying influences ; — 
 these are the grand themes of the Christian 
 ministry. Whenever they are urged with 
 the prominence that their incalculable im- 
 portance demands, and accompanied by a 
 divine influence, signal effects will never fail 
 to follow. The careless will be roused, the 
 lover of pleasure become the lover of God, 
 and the oppressed heart find pardon and 
 peace. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, June 8, 1790. 
 i\Iy dear Friend, — Among the many who 
 love and esteem you, there is none who re- 
 joices more in your fehcity than myself. 
 Far from blaming, I commend you much for 
 connecting yourself, young as you are, with 
 a well-chosen companion for life. Entering 
 on the state with uncontaminated morals, 
 you have the best possible prospect of hap- 
 piness, and will be secure against a thousand 
 and ten thousand temptations to which, at an 
 early period of life, in such a Babylon as you 
 must necessarily inliabit, you would other- 
 wise have been exposed. I see it too in the 
 light you do, as likely to be advantageous to 
 you in your profession. Men of business 
 have a better opinion of a candidate for em- 
 ployment, who is married, beca.use he has 
 given bond to tlie world, as you observe, and 
 to himself, for diligence, industry, and atten-
 
 LIFE OF COWPUR. 
 
 351 
 
 tion. It is altogether therefore a subject of 
 much congratuhition ; and mine, to wiiich I 
 add Mrs. Unwin's, is very sincere. Samson, 
 at his marriage, proposed a riddle to the 
 Philistines. I am no Samson, neither are 
 you a Philistine. Yet e.xpound to me the 
 following if you can ! 
 
 Whaf. are they which stand at a distance 
 from each other, and meet ivithout ever mov- 
 ing ?* 
 
 Siiould you be so fortunate as to guess it, 
 you may propose it to tlie company, when 
 you celebrate your nuptials ; and. if you can 
 win tliirty ciianges of raiment by it, as Sam- 
 son did by his, lot me tell you, they will be i 
 no contemptible acquisition to a young be- 
 ginner. 
 
 You will not, I hope, forget your way to 
 Weston, in consequence of your marriage, 
 wliere you and yours will always be wel- 
 come. W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 Tlie Lodw, Juiu! 14, 1790. 
 My dear Madam, — I ha\e hardly a scrap 
 of paper belonging to me tliat is not scrib- 
 bled over with blank verse ; and, taking out 
 your letter from a bundle of others, tiiis mo- 
 ment, I tind it tlius inscribed on the seal- 
 side : — 
 
 Meantime his steeds 
 Snorted, by Myrmidons detain'd. and loosed 
 From their own master's chariot, Ibam'd to ily. 
 
 You will easily guess to what they belong ; 
 and I mention t!ie circumstance merely in 
 proof of my perpetual engagement to Homer, 
 whether at home or abroad; for, when I 
 committed these lines to the back of your 
 letter, I was rambling at a considerable dis- 
 tance from home. I set one fooi on a mole- 
 hill, placed my hat, with the crown upward, 
 on my knee, laid your letter upon it, and 
 with a pencil wrote the fragment that I have 
 sent you. In the same posture I have writ- 
 ten maify and many a passage of a work 
 which I hope soon to have done with. But 
 all this is foreign to what I intended when I 
 first took pen in hand. My purpose then 
 was, to excuse my long silence as well as I 
 could, by telling you that I am, at present, 
 not only a laborer in verse, but in prose also, 
 liaving been requested by a friend, to whom 
 I could not refuse it, to translate for him a 
 series of Latin letters, received from a Dutch 
 minister of the Cape of Good IIope.| With 
 this additional occupation you will be sensi- 
 
 * Tills t'liiirniu is (.'xplaiiieJ in a subsequent letter. 
 Private! ciin-es])iiii(l('iice. 
 
 t Tlie Uiiteli luinisler licre mentioiiod, was Mr. Van 
 Lier, wlio recorded Uie reinarkalile account of the great 
 •liiritual clian:;e produced in liis mind, liy readint; the 
 works of Mr. Newton. The letters were written in Latin, 
 and translated by Cowper at the request of his clerical 
 Weua. 
 
 ble that my hands are full ; and it is a truth 
 that, except to yourself, I would, just at this 
 time, have written to nobody. 
 
 I felt a true concern for what you told me 
 in your last, respecting the ill state of health 
 of your much-valued friend, Mr. Martyn. 
 You say, if I knew half his worth, I should, 
 with you, wish his longer continuance be- 
 low. Now you must understand, that, igno- 
 rant as I am of IMr. Martyn, except by your 
 report of him, I do nevertheless sincerely 
 wish it — and that, both for your sake and 
 my own ; nor less for the sake of the pub- 
 lic* For your sake, because you love and 
 esteem him highly ; for the salje. of the pub- 
 lic, because, should it please God to take 
 him before he has completed his great bo- 
 tanical work, I suppose no other person will 
 be able to finish it so well ; and for my own 
 sake, because I know he has a kind and fa- 
 vorable opinion beforehand of my transla- 
 tion, and, con.sequently, should it justify his 
 prejudice when it appears, he will stand my 
 Iriend against an army of Cambridge critics. 
 It would have been strange indeed it' self had 
 not peeped i.ut on this subject. I beg you 
 will present my best respects to him, "and 
 assure him that, were it possible he could 
 visit Weston, I should be most happy to re- 
 ceive him. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin would have been employed 
 in transcribing ray rhymes for you, would 
 her health have permitted; but it is very 
 seldom that she can write without being 
 much a sufferer by it. She has almost ;i 
 constant pain in her side, which forbids it. 
 As soon as it "leaves her, or much abates, 
 she will be glad to work for you. 
 
 I am, like you and Mr. King, an admirer 
 of clouds, but only when there are blue in- 
 tervals, and pretty wide ones too, between 
 them. One cloud is too much for me, but a 
 hundred are not too many. So with this 
 riddle and with my best respects to 
 King, to which 1 add Mrs. Unwin's to 
 both, — I remain, mv dear madam. 
 
 Truly yours, W. C. 
 
 you 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The L<)d,!,'e, .June 17, 1790. 
 My dear Coz., — Here am I, at eight in the 
 mornino-, in full dress, going a-visiting to 
 Chiche.cy. We are a strong ptirty, and fill 
 two chaises ; Mrs. F. the elder, and Mrs. G. 
 in one ; Mrs. F. the younger, and myself in 
 another. Were it not that I shall find Ches- 
 ters at the end of my journey, I should bo 
 inconsolable. That expectation alone sup- 
 ports my spirits : and, ^\en with this pros- 
 
 * Professor Martyn lived to an advanced old ;ure, en 
 deared to liis family, resjiecled and esteemed by the pub 
 lie, and supported in his last moments by the consols 
 tions and hopes of the gospel.
 
 35-2 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 pect before me, when I saw this moment a 
 poor old woman coming- up the l:me, oppo- 
 site my window, I could not help sighing-, 
 and saying to myself, " Poor, but happy old 
 woman ! Th ,u art oxcm.ptcd by thy situa- 
 tion in life from, riding- in cliaises, and mak- 
 ing thyself fine in a morning- : happier there- 
 fore in my recount than I, who am under the 
 cruel necessity of doing both. Neither dost 
 thou write verses, r^.^ithcr hast thou ever 
 heard of the name of Homer, whom I am 
 miserable to abandon for a whole morning!" 
 This, and more of the same sort, passed in 
 my mind on seeing the old woman above- 
 said. 
 
 The troublesome biisiness with v/hich I 
 filled my last letter is, I hope, by this ti;n3 
 concluded, and Mr. Archdeacon satisfied. I 
 can, to be sure, but ill afTbrd to pay fifty 
 pounds for another man's negligence, but 
 would be happy to pay a hundred rather 
 than be treated as if I were insolvent ; threat- 
 ened with attorneys and bums. One would 
 think that, living where I live, I might be 
 exempted from trouble. But alas! as the 
 philosophers often affirm, there is no nook 
 under heaven in which trouble cannot enter ; 
 and perhaps, had there never been one phi- 
 losopher in the world, this is a truth that 
 would not have been always altogether a 
 secret. 
 
 I have made two inscriptions lately, at the 
 request o? Thomas Gilford, Esq., who is 
 sowing Lv.\:nty acres with acorns on one side 
 of his house, and twenty acres with ditto on 
 the other.* He c-ecii two memorials of 
 stone on the occasion, that, when posterity 
 shall be curious to know the age of the oaks, 
 their curiosity may be gratified. 
 
 ]. 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 Other stcr.ps the era tell 
 When some feeble mortal fell. 
 I stauJ here to date the oirth 
 Of these hardy sons of earth. 
 
 Anno 1790. 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 Reader ! Behold a monument 
 TL:it aslxj no sigh or tear, 
 
 Though it perpetuate the event 
 Of a great burial here. 
 
 Anno 1791. 
 
 My works therefore will not all perish, or 
 will not all perish soon, for he has ordered 
 his lapidary to cut the characters very deep, 
 and in stone exf.rcmely hard. It is not in 
 vain, then, that i have so long exercised the 
 business of a poet. I shall at last reap the 
 reward of my labors^ and be immortal prob- 
 ably for many years. 
 
 Ever thine, W, C. 
 
 ♦ At Chillington, Bucks. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, June 22, 1700. 
 My dear Friend, — 
 
 Villoison makes no mention of the ser- 
 pent, whose skin or bowels, or perhaps both, 
 were honored with the Iliad and the Odyssey 
 inscribed upon them. But I have conversed 
 with a living eye-witness of an African ser- 
 pent long enough to have afforded skin and 
 guts for the purpose. In Africa there are 
 antu also wliich frequently destroy these 
 monsters. They are not much larger than 
 ;>;3rs, but tliey travel in a column of immense 
 length, and eat through everything that op- 
 poses them. Their bite is like a spark of 
 fire. When these serpents have killed their 
 prey, lion or tiger, or any other large animal, 
 before they swallow him, they take a consid- 
 erable circuit round about the carcass, to see 
 if the ants are coming, because, when they 
 have gorged their prey, they are unable to 
 escape them. They are nevertheless some- 
 times surprised by them in their unwieldy 
 state, and the ants make a passage through 
 them. Now if you thought your own story 
 of Homer, bound in snake-skin, worthy of 
 three notes of admiration, you cannot do less 
 than add six to mine, confessing at the same 
 time, that, if I put you to the expense of a 
 letter, I do not make you pay your money 
 for notliing. But this account I had from a 
 person of mf)st unimpeached veracity. 
 
 I rejoice with yon in the good Bishop's re- 
 moval to St. Asaph,* and especially because 
 the Norfolk parsons much more resemble the 
 ants above-mentioned than he the serpent. 
 He is neither of vast size, nor unwieldy, nor 
 voracious ; neither, I dare say, does he sleep 
 after dinner, according to the practice of the 
 siiM serpent. But, harmless as he is, I am 
 mista,':.en if his mutinous clergy did not 
 sonieiU'ies disturb his rest, and if he did not 
 fina their DiV"-. though they could not actually 
 eat tliroiigh mm, in a degree resembling fire. 
 Good men like him, £.\\d peaceable, should 
 have good and peaceable folks to deal with; 
 and I heartily wish him such in his new 
 diocese. But if he will keep the clergy to 
 thsir biii:inoss, he shall have trouble, let him 
 gc v^'iere he may ; and this is boldly spoken, 
 con:?idering that I speak it to one of that 
 rev ore: id body. Bat ye r.ro like .Tercmiah's 
 ba-ikut g: figs : sorje of you cannot be bet- 
 ter: -^iid some of you are stark naught. Ask 
 tho bishop himself if this be not true. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. BODHAM. 
 
 Weston, June 29, 1700. 
 My dearest Cousin, — ^It is true that I did 
 sometimes complain to Mrs. Unwin of your 
 
 * Dr. Lewis Bagot, previously Bishop of Norwich.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 35^ 
 
 IrMiT silence. But it is likewise true tliat I 
 n:ide many excuses for you in my own mind, 
 and did not feel myself at all inclined to be 
 asigry, not even much to wonder. There is 
 an awkwardness and a difficulty in writing 
 to those whom distance and length of time 
 have made in a manner new to us, that nat- 
 urally gives us a check, when you would 
 otherwise be glad to address them. But a 
 time, I hope, is near at hand when you and I 
 shall be efFectually delivered from all such 
 constraints, and correspond as iluently as if 
 our intercourse had suffered much less inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 You must not suppose, my dear, that 
 though I may be said to have lived many 
 years with a pen in my hand, I am myself 
 altogether at my ease on this tremendous oc- 
 casion. Imagine rather, and yon will come 
 nearer the truth, that when I placed this 
 sheet before me, 1 asked myself more than 
 once, " How .;hall I fill it? One subject in- 
 deed presents itself, the pleasant prospect 
 that opens upon me of our coming once 
 more together but, that once exhausted, 
 with what shall 1 proceed?" Thus I ques- 
 tioned myself: but finding neither end nor 
 profit of sucii questions, I bravely resolved 
 to dismiss them al; at once, and to engage in 
 the great enterprise of a letter to my quon- 
 dam Rose al a venture. There is great 
 truth in a rajt of Nat Lee's, or of Dryden's, 
 [ know noc which, who makes an enamoured 
 yo'Ul^ «iiy to his mistress, 
 
 And nonsense shall be eloquence m love. 
 
 For certain it is, that they who truly love 
 one another are not very nice examiners of 
 each other's style or matter; if an epistle 
 comes, it is always welcome, though it be 
 perhaps neither so wise, nor so witty, as one 
 might have wished to make it. And now, 
 my cousin, let me tell thee how much I feel 
 myself obliged to Mr. Bodham for the readi- 
 ness he expresses to accept my invitation. 
 Assure him that, stranger as he is to me at 
 present, and natural as the dread of strangers 
 has ever been to me, I shall yet receive him 
 with open arras, because he is your husband, 
 and loves you dearly. That consideration 
 alone will endear him to me, and 1 dare say 
 that I shall not find it his only reconunenda- 
 tion to my best atTections. May the health 
 of his relation (his mother, I suppose) be 
 soon restored, and long continue-i. and m:iy 
 nothing melancholy, of what kind so'.ner, in- 
 terfere to prevent our joyful meeting. Be- 
 tween the present moment and Si-jd ember 
 our house is clear for your reieptioii. and 
 you have nothing to do but to give us a day 
 or two's notice of your coming. In L-cjHcin- 
 ber we expect Lady Hesketh, and 1 only 
 regret that our house is not larpe enough 
 
 to hold all together, for, were it possible 
 that you could meet, you would Jove each 
 other. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin bids me ovicr you her best 
 love. She is never well, bur, ni-A'ays patient 
 and d'Aays t.!icer|u!, and i'?r-\> beforehand 
 that she shall be ioatii to part with you. 
 
 My love to all the dear Donnes of every 
 name ! — write soon, no matter about what. 
 
 W. C 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, July 7, 17P0. 
 
 Instead of beginning with the saffron, 
 vested morning, to which Homer invites me, 
 on a morning that has no saffron vest to 
 boast, I shall begin with you. 
 
 It is irksome to us both to wait so longf as 
 we must for you, but we are willing to hope 
 that by a longer stay you will make us 
 amends for all this tedious procrastination. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole 
 case to Mr. Gregson, whose opinion of it has 
 been very consolatory to me. He says in- 
 deed it is a case perfectly out of the reach of 
 all physical aid, but at the same time not at 
 all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad griev- 
 ance, whatever part is affected, and she is 
 hardly ever free from an aching head, as well 
 as an uneasy side, but patience is an anodyne 
 of God's own preparation, and of that he 
 gives her largely. 
 
 The French, who like all lively folks are 
 extreme in everything, are such in their zeal 
 for freedom, and if it were possible to make 
 so noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of 
 promoting it could not fiiil to do so. Princes 
 and peers reduced to plain gentlemanship, 
 and gentles reduced to a level with their own 
 lacqueys, are excesses of which they will re- 
 pent hereafter.* Difference of rank and sub- 
 ordination are, I believe of God's appoint- 
 ment, and consequently essential to the well- 
 being of society : but what we mean by 
 fanaticism in religion is exactly that which 
 animates their politics, and unless time 
 should sober them, they will, after all, be an 
 unhappy people. Perhaps it deserves not 
 much to be wondered at, that, at their first 
 escape from tyrannical shackles, they should 
 act extravagantly, and treat their kings as 
 they have sometimes treated their idols. To 
 these however they are reconciled in due 
 time again, but their respect for monarchy is 
 at an end. They want nothing now but a 
 little English sobriety, and that they v.'ant 
 extremely. I heartily wish them some wit 
 in their anger, for it were great pity that so 
 miuiy millions should be miserable for want 
 of it. 
 
 * The disiinctions of ranlc were abi>li:hed during tha 
 French RevohiUon, and the title of citizen considered to 
 be the only legal uud honorable appelUiion. 
 
 23
 
 354 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 8, 1790. 
 
 My dear Johnny, — You do well to perfect 
 yourself on the violin. Only beware that an 
 amusement so very bewitching as music, es- 
 pecially when we produce it ourselves, do 
 not steal from you all those hours that 
 should be given to study. I can be well 
 content that it should serve you as a refresh- 
 ment after severer exercises, but not that it 
 shouJd engross you wholly. Your own good 
 sense will most probably dictate to you this 
 precaution, and 1 might have spared you the 
 trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for 
 your proficiency in more important pursuits, 
 that would not suffer me to suppress it. 
 
 Having delivered my conscience by giving 
 you this sage admonition, I will convince you 
 that I am a censor not over and above severe, 
 by acknowledging in the next place that I 
 have known very good performers on the 
 violin, very learned also ; and my cousin. Dr. 
 Spencer Madan, is an instance. 
 
 I am delighted that you have engaged your 
 sister to visit us ; for I say to myself, if John 
 be amiable what must Catharine be 1 For 
 we males, be we angelic as we may, are al- 
 ways surpassed by the ladies. But know 
 this, that I shall not be in love with either 
 of you, if you stay with us only a few days, 
 for you talk of a week or so. Correct this 
 erratum, I beseech you, and convince us, by 
 a much longer continuance here, that it was 
 one. W. C. 
 
 Mrs. Unwln has never been well since you 
 saw her. You are not passionately fond of 
 letter-writing, I perceive, who have dropped 
 a lady ; but you will be a loser by the bar- 
 gain; for one letter of hers, in point of real 
 utility and sterling value, is worth twenty of 
 mine, and you will never have another from 
 Uer till you have earned it. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 The Lodge, July 16, 1790. 
 i\ly dear Madam, — Taking it for granted 
 that this will find you at Perten-hall, I follow 
 you with an early line and a hasty one, to 
 tell you how much we rejoice to have seen 
 yourself and Mr. King; and how much re- 
 gret you have left behind you. The wish 
 that we expressed when we were together, 
 Mrs. Unwin and I have more than once ex- 
 pressed since your departure, and have al- 
 ways felt it — that it had pleased Providence 
 to appoint our habitations nearer to each 
 other. This is a life of wishes, and they only 
 are happy who have arrived where wishes 
 cannot enter. We shall live now in hope of 
 a second meeting and a longer interview; 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 which, if it please God to continue to yoa 
 and to Mr. King your present measure tif 
 health, you will be able, I trust, to contrive 
 hereafter. You did not leave us without en- 
 couragement to expect it ; and I know that 
 you do not raise expectations but with a 
 sincere design to fulfil them. 
 
 Nothing siiall be wanting, on our part, to 
 accomplish in due time a journey to Perten- 
 hall. But I am a strange creature, who am 
 less able than any man living to project any- 
 thing out of the common course, with a rea- 
 sonable prospect of performance. I have 
 singularities, of which, I believe, at present 
 you know nothing ; and which would fill yeu 
 with wonder, if you knew them. I will add, 
 however, in justice to myself, that they would 
 not lower me in your good opinion ; though, 
 perhaps, they might tempt you to question 
 the soundness of my upper story. Almost 
 twenty years have I been thus unhappily cir- 
 cumstanced; and the remedy is in the hand 
 of God only. That I make you this partial 
 communication on the subject, conscious, at 
 the same time, that you are well worthy to 
 be entrusted with the whole, is merely be- 
 cause the recital would be too long for a let- 
 ter, and painful both to me and to you. But 
 all this may vanish in a moment ; and, if it 
 please God, it shall. In the meantime, my 
 dear madam, remember me in your prayers, 
 and mention me at those times, as one whom 
 it has pleased God to afflict with singular 
 visitations. 
 
 How I regret, for poor Mrs. Unwin's sake, 
 your distance ! She has no friend suitable 
 as you to her disposition and character, in 
 all the neighborhood. Mr. King, too, is just 
 the friend and companion with whom I could 
 be happy ; but such grow not in this coun- 
 try. Pray tell him that I remember him 
 with much esteem and regard; and believe 
 me, my dear madam, with the sincerest af- 
 fection, 
 
 Yours entirely, W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, EoQ. 
 
 Weston, July 31, 1790. 
 
 You have by this time, I presume, an- 
 swered Lady Hesketh's letter ? If not, an- 
 swer it without delay, and this injunction I 
 give you, judging that it may not be entirely 
 unnecessary, for, though I have seen you but 
 once, and only for two or three days, I have 
 found out that you are a scatter-brain.* I 
 made the discovery perhaps the sooner, be- 
 cause in this you very much resemble myself, 
 who, in the course of my life, through mere 
 carelessness and inattention, lost many ad- 
 vantages; an insuperable shyness has also 
 deprived me of many. And here again there 
 * This title was not long merited.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 355 
 
 IS a resemljlance between us. You will do 
 \yell to guard against both, for of both, I be 
 lieve, you have a considerable share as well 
 as myself. 
 
 We long to see you again, and are only 
 concerned at the short stay you propose to 
 make with us. If time should seem to you 
 as short at Weston, as it seems to us, your 
 visit here will begone " as a dream when one 
 awaketh, or as a watch in the night." 
 
 It is a life of dreams, but the pleasantest 
 one naturally wishes longest. 
 
 I shall find employment for you, having 
 made already some part of the fliir copy of 
 the Odyssey a foul one. I am revising it for 
 the last time, and spare nothing that I can 
 mend. The Iliad is finished. 
 
 If you have Donne's poems, bring them 
 with you, for I have not seen them many 
 years, and should like to look them over.* 
 
 You may trust us, too, if you please, with 
 a little of your music, for I seldom hear any, 
 and delight much in it. You need not fear 
 a rival , for we have but two fiddles in the 
 neighborhood — one a gardener's, the other a 
 tailor's : terrible performers both ! 
 
 W. 
 
 c. 
 
 Mrs. Newton was at this time in very de- 
 clining health. It is to this subject that 
 Cowper alludes in the following letter. 
 
 * Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's, and Chaplain to King 
 James the First, belonged to that class of writers, whom 
 Johnson, in his Life of Cowley, describes as metaphysical 
 poets. Their gvent object seemed to be to display their 
 wit and learning, and to astonish by what was brilliant, 
 rather than to iilease by what was natural and simple. 
 Notwithstanding this defect, the poetry of Donne, though 
 harsh and unmusical, abounds in powerful thoughts, and 
 disco^'ers a considerable share of learning. His divinity 
 was drawn from the pure fountain of Revelation, of 
 which he drank copiously and freely. Of his fervent zeal 
 and piety, many instances are recorded in that inimitable 
 piece of biography, I/.aak Walton's Lives. We sulyoin a 
 specimen of his iioetry, composed during a severe fit of 
 sickness, and which, on his recovery, was set to music, 
 and used to be often sung to the organ by the choristers 
 of St. Paul's, in his own hearing. j 
 
 nVM.V TO GOD THE FATHER. 
 1. 
 
 Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
 Which was my sin, though it were done before .' 
 Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, 
 And do run still, though still I do deplore .' 
 When thou hast done, thou hast not done. 
 For I have more. 
 
 2. 
 Wilt thou forgive that sin which T have won 
 Others to sin, and made ray sin their door .' 
 AVilt thou I'nrgive that sin which I did shun 
 A year or two, but wallow'd in a score ? 
 When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 
 For I have more. 
 
 I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 
 My last thread, I shall i)erish on the shore 
 But swear by thyself that, at my death, thy Son 
 Shall shine, as he shines now, and heretofore. 
 And having done that thou hast done, 
 I fear no more. 
 
 Divine Poema 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON,* 
 
 Tlie Lodge, Aug. 11, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend,— That I may not seem 
 unreasonably tardy in answering your last 
 kind letter, I steal a few minutes from my 
 customary morning- business, (at present the 
 translation of Mr. Van Lier's Narrative,) to 
 inform you that I received it safe from' the 
 hands of Judith Hughes, whom we met in 
 the middle of Hill-field. Desirous of gain- 
 ing the earliest intelligence possible concern- 
 ing Mrs. Newton, we were going to call on 
 her, and she was on her way to us. It 
 grieved us much that her news on that sub- 
 ject corresponded so little with our earnest 
 wishes of Mrs. Newton's amendment. But 
 if Dr. Benamerf still gives hope of her re- 
 covery, it is not, I trust, without substantial 
 reason for doing so; much less can I sup- 
 pose that he would do it contrary to his own 
 persuasions, because a thousand reasons, that 
 must influence, in such a case, the conduct 
 I of a humane and sensible physician, conciu- 
 to forbid it. If it shall please God to restore 
 her, no tidings will give greater joy to us. 
 In the meantime, it is our comfort to know, 
 that in any event you will be sure of sup 
 ports invaluable, and that cannot fail you; 
 though, at the same time, I know well that, 
 v/itii your feelings, and especially on so af- 
 fecting a subjiu-t, you will have need of the 
 full exercise of all your laith and resignation. 
 To a greater trial no man can be called, than 
 that of being a helpless eye-witness of the 
 sufferings of one he loves and loves tenderly. 
 This I know by experience ; but it is' long 
 since I had any experience of those commu° 
 nications from above, which alone can enable 
 us to acquit ourselves, on such an occasion, 
 as we ought. JJut it is otherwise with you, 
 and I rejoice tiiat it is so. 
 
 With respect to my own initiation into the 
 secret of animal magnetism, I have a thou- 
 sand doubts. Twice, as you know, I have 
 been overwhelmed with the blackest despair : 
 and at those times everything in which I have 
 been at any period of my life concerned has 
 afibrded to the enemy a handle against me. 
 I treinble, therefore, almost at every step I 
 take, lest on some future similar occasion it 
 should yield him opportunity, and furnish 
 him y,ith means to torment me. Decide for 
 me, if you can ; and in the raeauiime, present, 
 if ymi please, my respectful comuliments and 
 very best thanks to Mr. Hollowav, for his 
 most obliging offer.J 1 am, perhaps, the 
 only man living who would hesitate a mo- 
 :ae:it, whether, on such easy terms, he should 
 •• Private correspondence. 
 
 r Dr. Ronamer was a pious and excellent m.an, whobu 
 House was the resort of n-hgious persons at that time, 
 wn , went llu-iv lur Ihe purpose of editication. Air. New- 
 ton was a regular afl.'iidant on these occasions. 
 
 I No^-lon had suggested the propriety of Cowper trying 
 the . U'Ctol animal magnetism, in ihe hopes ol' mitigalinK 
 his disorder, !)ul he declined the offer.
 
 356 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 or should not accept it. But if he finds an- 
 other like me, he will make a greater discov- 
 ery than even that which he has already 
 made of the principles of this wonderful art. 
 for I take it for granted, that he is the gen- 
 tleman whom you once mentioned to me as 
 indebted only to his own penetration for the 
 knowledge of it. 
 
 I shall proceed, you may depend on it, 
 with all possible despatch in your business. 
 Had it fallen into my hands a few months 
 later, I should have made a quicker riddance ; 
 for, before the autumn shall be ended, I hope 
 to have done with Homer. But my first 
 morning hour or two (now and then a let- 
 ter which must be written excepted) shall 
 always be at your service till the whole is 
 finished. 
 
 Commending you and Mrs. Newton, with 
 all the little power I have of that sort, to 
 His fatherly and tender care in whom you 
 have both believed, in M'hich friendly ofiBce I 
 am fervently joined by ^Irs. Unwin, I re- 
 main, with our sincere love to you both, and 
 to Miss Catlett, my dear friend, most affec- 
 tionately yours, W. C. 
 
 The termmation of a laborious literary un- 
 tertaking is an eventful period in an author's 
 life. The following letter announces the 
 termination of Cowper's Homeric version, 
 and its conveyance to the press. 
 
 TO MRS. BODHAM. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. 
 My dearest Cousin, — I am truly sorry to 
 be forced after all to resign the hope of see- 
 insr you and Mr. Bodham at Weston this 
 year; the next may possibly be more propi- 
 tious, and I heartily wish it may. Poor 
 Catharine's* unseasonable indisposition has 
 also cost us a disappointment which we much 
 regret. And, were it not that Johnny has 
 made shift to reach us, we sliould tliink our- 
 selves completely unfortunate. But him we 
 have, and him we will hold as long as we 
 can, so expect not very soon to see him in 
 Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gen- 
 tle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely 
 at my ease with him, that I cannot surrender 
 him without a needs must, even to those who 
 have a superior claim upon him. He left us 
 yesterday morning, and whither do you think 
 he is gone, and on what errand ? Gone, as 
 isure as you are alive, to London, and to con- 
 vey my Homer to the bookseller's. But he 
 will return the day after to-morrow, and I 
 mean to part with him no more till necessity 
 shall force us asunder. Suspect me not, my 
 cousin, of being such a monster as to have im- 
 posed this task myself on your kind nephew, 
 
 * The Rev. J. Johnson's sister. 
 
 or even to have thought of doing it. It hap- 
 pened that one day, as we chatted by the fire- 
 side, I expressed a wish tliat I could henr of 
 some trusty body going to London, to whose 
 care I might consign my voluminous laburs, 
 the work of five years. For I purpose never 
 to visit that city again myself, and should 
 have been uneasy to have left a charge, uf 
 so much importance to me, altogether to the 
 care of a stage-coachman. Johnny had no 
 sooner heard my wish than, offering himself 
 to the service, he fulfilled it; and his offer 
 was made in such terms, and accompanied 
 with a countenance and manner expressive 
 of so much alacrity, that, unreasonable as I 
 thought it at first to give him so much trou- 
 ble, I soon found that I should mortify him 
 by a refusal. He is gone tlierefore with a 
 box full of poetry, of which I think nobody 
 will plunder him. He has only to say what 
 it is, and there is no commodity I think a 
 freebooter would covet less. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The marriage of his friend, Mr. Rose, was 
 too interesting an event not to claim Cowper'a 
 warm congratulations. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Tho I...dge, Sept. 1.3, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Your letter was particu- 
 larly welcome to me, not only becau.se it came 
 after a long silence, but because it brought 
 me good news — news of your marriage, and 
 consequently, I trust, of your happiness. 
 May that happiness be durable as your lives, 
 and may you be the Fdices ler et ampUiis of 
 whom Horace sings so sweetly I This is my 
 sincere wish, and, though expressed in prose, 
 shall serve as your epithalamium. You c( m- 
 fort me when you say that your marriage will 
 not deprive us of the sight of you hereafter. 
 If you do not wish that I should repret your 
 union, you must make that assurance good as 
 often as you have opportunity. 
 
 After perpetual versification during five 
 years, I find myself at last a vacant man, and 
 reduced to read for my amusement. My 
 Homer is gone to the press, and you will im- 
 agine that I feel a void in consequence. The 
 proofs however will be coming soon, and I 
 shall avail myself with all my force, of this 
 last opportunity to make my work as perfect 
 as I wisli it. I shall not therefore be long 
 time destitute of employment, but shall have 
 sufficient to keep me occupied all the winter 
 and part of the ensuing spring, for Johnson 
 purposes to publish either in March, April, or 
 May — my very preface is finished. It did not 
 cost me much trouble, being neither long nor 
 learned. I have spoken my mind as freely as 
 decency would permit on the subject of Pope's 
 version, allowing him at the same time all the
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 351 
 
 I have 
 
 merit to which I think him entitled 
 3-ivea luj reasons for translating in blank 
 verse, and hold some discourse on the mech- 
 anism of it, chielly with a view to obviate 
 the prejudices of some people against it. I 
 expatiate a little on the manner in which I 
 think Homer ought to be rendered, and in 
 which I have endeavored to render him my- 
 self, and anticipated two or three cavils to 
 which I foresee that I shall be liable from 
 the ignorant or uncandid, in order, if possi- 
 ble, to prevent them. These are the chief 
 heads of my preface, and the whole consists 
 of al)out twelve pages. 
 
 It is possible, when I come to treat with 
 Johnson about the copy, I may want some 
 person to negotiate for me, and knowing no 
 one 80 intelligent as yourself in books, oreo 
 well qualified to estimate their just value, I 
 shall Iwg leave to resort to and rely on you 
 as my negotiator. But I will not trouble 
 you unless I should see occasion. My cous- 
 in was the bearer of my MSS. to London. 
 He went on purpose, and returns to-morrow. 
 Mrs. Unwin's affectionate felicitations added 
 to my own, conclude me, 
 Dear friend. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. O. 
 
 The trees of a colonnade will solve my 
 riddle*. ^ 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 
 
 The Lodge, Sept. 17, 1790. 
 My dear Friend, — I received last night a 
 copy of my subscribers' names from John- 
 son, in which I see how much I have been 
 indebted to yours and to Mrs. Hill's solici- 
 tations. Accept my best thanks, so justly 
 due to you both. It is an illustrious cata- 
 logue, in respect of rank and title, but me- 
 thinks I should have liked it as well bad it 
 been more numerous. The sum subscribed, 
 however, will defray the expense of printing, 
 which is as much as, in these unsubscribing 
 days, I had any reason to promise myself, i 
 devoutly second your droll wish, that the 
 booksellers may contend about me. The more 
 the Iietter : seven times seven, if they please ; 
 and let them fight with the fury of Achilles, 
 
 Till ev'ry rubric-post be crimson'd o'er 
 With blood of booksellers, ia battle slain 
 For mc, and not a periwig untora. 
 
 Most truly yours, W. 0- 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 j Weston, Oct. 5, 1790. 
 
 My dear Madam, — ^I am truly concerned 
 
 that you have so good an excuse for your 
 
 Bilence. Were it proposed to my choice, 
 
 whether you should omit to write through ill- 
 
 * What are they which stand at a distance from 
 each other, and liiiiot without ever moving ? 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 nt'ss i.>r indifference to me, I should be selfish 
 enough, perhaps, to find decision difticult for 
 a few moments: but have such an opinion at 
 the same time of my affection for you, as to 
 be verily persuaded that I should at last make 
 a right option, and wisli you rather to forget 
 me tiian to be affiicted. But there is One 
 wiser and more your friend than I can possi- 
 bly be, who appoints all your sufferings, and 
 who, by a power altogether his own, is able 
 to make tliem good for you. 
 
 I wish heartily that my verses had been 
 more worthy of the counterpane, their sub- 
 ject.* The gratitude I felt when you brought 
 it, and gave it to me, might have inspired 
 better; but a head full of Homer, I find by 
 sad experience, is good for little else. Lady 
 Hesketii, who is here, has seen your gift, and. 
 pronounced it the most beautiful and best 
 executed of the kind she ever saw. 
 
 I liave lately received from my bookseller 
 a copy of my subscribers' names, and do not 
 find among them tiie name of Mr. Professor 
 Martyn. I mention it because you informed 
 me, some time since, of his kind intention to 
 number himself among my encouragers on 
 I his occasion, and because I am uinvilling to 
 lose, for want of speaking in time, tiie honor 
 that his name will do me. It is possible, too, 
 that he mav have subscribed, and that his non- 
 appearance may be owing merely to Johnson's 
 having forgot to enter his name. Perhaps 
 you will have an opportunity to ascertain the 
 matter. The catalogue will be printed soon, 
 and published in the " Analytical Review," as 
 the last and most effectual way of advertising 
 my translation, and the name of the gentleman 
 in" question will be particularly serviceable to 
 me in the first edition of it. 
 
 My whole work is in the bookseller's hands, 
 and ought by this time to be in the press. The 
 next spring is the time appointed for the pub- 
 lication. It is a genial season, when people 
 who are ever good-tempered at all .ire sure to 
 be so ; a circumstance well worthy of an 
 author's attention, especially of mine, who ara 
 ustgoing to give atimmpouthe outside of the 
 critics' hive, that will probably alarm them all. 
 Mrs. Unwin, 1 think, is on the whole rather 
 improved in her iiealth since we had the plea- 
 sure of your short visit ; I should say the 
 pleasure of your visit, and the pain of its^ 
 shortness. I am, my dearest madam, 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 The Lodge, Oct. 15, IT'.K). 
 
 My dear Friend, — We were surprised and 
 
 * Mrs. Kinc presented (he poet with a counterpane, in 
 patch-work, of her own niakiuR. In acknowledgment, 
 he addressed to her the verses beginniiig, 
 "The bard, if e'er he feel at all. 
 Must s\ire be quickeii'd by a call," &c. &.C. 
 
 t I'livale corresDondence.
 
 358 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 grieved at Mrs. Scott's* sudden departure; 
 grieved, you may suppose, not for her, but for 
 him, whose loss, except that in God he lias an 
 all-sufficient good, is irreparable. The day of 
 separation between those wiio have loved long 
 and well is an awful day, inasmuch as it calls 
 the Chrislian's faith and submission vo the 
 severest trial. Yet I account those happy, 
 who, if they are severely tried, shall yet be 
 supported, and carried safely through. Wliat 
 would become of me on a similar occasion ! 
 I have one comfort, and only one ; bereft of 
 that, I should have nothing left to lean on; 
 for my spiritual props have been long struck 
 from under me, 
 
 I have no objection at all to being known 
 as the translator of Van Lier's Letters when 
 they shall be published. Rather, I am ambi- 
 tious of it as an honor. It will serve to prove, 
 that, if I h;ive spent much time to little pur- 
 pose in the translation of Homer, some small 
 portion of my time has, however, been well 
 disposed of. 
 
 The honor of your preface prefixed to my 
 poems will be on my side ; for surely to be 
 known as the friend of a much-favored min- 
 ister of God's word is a more illustrious dis- 
 tinction, in reality, than to have the friendsliip 
 of any poet in the world to boast of. 
 
 We sympathize truly with you under all 
 your tender concern for Mrs. Newton, and 
 with her in all her sufferings from such vari- 
 ous and discordant maladies. Alas I what a 
 difference have twenty-three years made in us 
 and in our condition ! for just so long is it 
 since Mrs. Unwin and I came into Bucking- 
 hamshire. Yesterday was the anniversary of 
 that memorable era. Farewell. W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 The Lodge, Oct. 2G, ITDO. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We should have been 
 happy to have received from you a more fa- 
 vorable account of Mrs. Newton's health. 
 Y'ours is indeed a post of observation, and of 
 observation the most interesting. It is well 
 that you are enabled to bear the stress and 
 intenseness of it without prejudice to your 
 own health, or impediment to your ministry. 
 
 The last time 1 wrote to Johnson, I made 
 known to him your wishes to have your 
 preface printed, and afiixed, as soon as an 
 opportunity shall ofier ; expressing, at the 
 same time, my own desires to have it done.| 
 
 * The wife of the Rev. Thomas Scott, the author of one 
 of the best Commentaries on the Bible ever published. 
 Mr. Scott was preacher at the Lock Hospital at this time. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 I We here subjoin the letter which Cowper addressed 
 to Johnson, the bookseller, on this occasion. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 3, 1790. 
 
 Mr. Newton having again requested that the Preface 
 which he wrote for my first volume may be prefixed to 
 
 Whether I shall have any answer to my pro- 
 posal is a matter of much uncertainty ; for 
 he is always either too idle or too busy, I 
 know not which, to write to me. Should 
 you happen to pass'his way, perhaps it would 
 not be amiss to speak to him on the sub- 
 ject ; for it is easier to carry a point by six 
 words spoken, than by writing as many 
 sheets about it. I have asked him hither, 
 when my cousin Johnson shall leave us, 
 which will be in about a fortnight ; and 
 should he come will enforce the measure 
 myself. 
 
 A yellow shower of leaves is falling con- 
 tinually from all the trees in the country. A 
 few moments only seem to have passed since 
 they were buds ; and in a few moments more 
 they will have disappeared. It is one advan- 
 tage of a rural situation, that it affords many 
 hints of the rapidity witli which life flies, that 
 do not occur in towns and cities. It is im- 
 possible for a man conversant with such 
 scenes as surround me, not to advert daily 
 to the shortness of his existence here, ad- 
 monished of it, as he must be, by ten thou- 
 sand objects. There was a time when I could 
 contemplate my present state, and consider 
 myself as a thing of a day with pleasure ; 
 when I numbered the seasons as they passed 
 in swift rotation, as a schoolboy numbers the 
 days that interpose between the next vaca- 
 tion, when he shall see his parents, and en- 
 joy his home again. But to make so just an 
 estimate of a life like this is no longer in my 
 power. The consideration of my short c 3n- 
 tinuance here, which was once grateful to me, 
 now tills me with regret. I would live and 
 live always, and am become such another 
 wretch as Msecenas was, wno wished for long 
 life, he cared not at what expense of suffer- 
 ings. The only consolation left me on this 
 subject is, that the voice of the Almighty c;;n 
 in one moment cure me of this mental in- 
 firmity. That he can, I know by experience ; 
 and tliere are reasons for which I ought to 
 believe that he will. But from hope to de- 
 spair is a transition that I have made so often, 
 that I can only consider the hope that may 
 come, and that sometin.es I believe will, as a 
 short prelude of joy to a miserable conclu- 
 sion of sorrow that shall never end. Thus 
 are mybriglitest prospects clouded, and thus, 
 to me, is hope itself become like a withered 
 flowe'-. that has lost both its hue and its fra- 
 grance. 
 
 I ought not to have written in this dismal 
 strain to vou, in your present trying situa- 
 tion, nor aid I intend it. You have more 
 need to be cheered than to be saddened ; but 
 a dearth of other themes consiniined me to 
 
 it, I am desirous to ^ratifv him in a particiihu- that ?a 
 emphatically bespeaks his friendship for me; and, 
 shuukl my books see another edition, shall be obliged tc 
 Vou if yoii will a-ld it accordingly. "\V C.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 3oc 
 
 choose myself for a subject, and of myself I 
 can write no otherwise. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend. We are well : and, 
 notwithstanding all that I have said, I am 
 myself as cheerful as usual. Lady Hesketh is 
 here, and in her company even I, except now 
 and then for a moment, forget my sorrows. 
 I remain sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 The purport of this letter is painful, but 
 it is explained by the peculiarity of Cowper's 
 case. The state of mind which the Christian 
 ovghi to realize, should be a Avillingness to 
 remain or to depart, as may seem best to the 
 supreme Disposer of events ; though the pre- 
 dominating feeling (where tliere is an assured 
 and lively hope) will bo that of the apostle, 
 viz., that _" to be with Clirist is far better." 
 The question is, how is this lively hope and 
 assurance to be obtained ? Ilow is the sense 
 of guilt, and the fear of death and judgment, 
 to be overcome 1 The Gospel proclaims the 
 appointed remedy. "Behold the Lamb of 
 God, which taketh away the sins of the 
 world." * " I, even I, am He, which blotteth 
 out all thy transgressions for mine own sake, 
 and will not remember thy sins." f " If any 
 man sin , we have an advocate with the Father, 
 Jesus Christ the righteous, and he is the pro- 
 pitiation for our sins."| The cordial recep- 
 tion of this great gospel truth into the heart, 
 the humble reliance upon God's pardoning 
 mercy, through the blood of the cross, will, 
 by the grace of God, infallibly lead to inward 
 joy and peace. " Therefore, being justified 
 by faith, we have peace with God, through 
 our Lord Jesus Christ. By whom also we 
 have access by ftiith unto this grace wherein 
 we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of 
 God."J The same divine grace that assures 
 peace to the conscience, will also change and 
 renew the heart, and plant within it those 
 holy principles and affections that will lead 
 to newness of life. The promise of the 
 blood to pardon, and the Spirit to teach and 
 to sanctify, are the two great fundamental 
 doctrines of the Gospel.|| 
 
 TO MRS. BODHAM. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 21, 1790. 
 l\[y dear Coz., — Our kindness to your 
 nephew is no more than he must entitle him- 
 self to wherever he goes. His amiable dis- 
 position and manners will never fail to secure 
 him a warm place in the affection of all who 
 know him. The advice I gave respecting 
 his poem on Audley End was dictated by my 
 love of him, and a sincere desire of his suc- 
 cess. It is one thing to write what may 
 
 * John i. 29. t Isaiah .\liii. 2o. 
 
 : 1 .lohn ii. ], 2. ij Kotn. v. 1, 2. 
 
 II J -lohn i. 7. Isaiah Ixi. 1—3. Luke ii. 9—13. John 
 xvi. IG, J 7. 
 
 please our friends, who, because they are 
 such, are apt to be a little biassed in our fa. 
 vor ; and another to write what may pleaso 
 everybody; because they who have no con- 
 nexion or even knowledge of the author will 
 be sure to find fault if they can. My advice, 
 however, salutary and necessary as it seemed 
 to me, was such as I dare not have given to 
 a poet of less dilHdence than he. Poets are 
 to a proverb irritable, and he is the only one 
 I ever knew who seems to have no spark of 
 that fire about him. He has left us about a 
 fortnight, and sorry we were to lose him; 
 but had he been my son he must have gone, 
 and I could not have regretted him more. If 
 his sister be still with you, present my love 
 to her, and tell her how much I wish to see 
 them at Weston together. 
 
 Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of 
 my childhood than I can recollect either of 
 hers or my own ; but this I recollect, that the. 
 days of that period were happy days com- 
 pared with most I have seen since. There 
 are few, perhaps, in the world, who have not 
 c^iuse to look back with regret on the days 
 of infancy ; yet, to say, the t^-uth, I suspect 
 some deception in this. For infancy itself 
 has its cares, and though we cannot now con- 
 ceive how trifles could affect us much, it is 
 certain that they did. Trifles they appear 
 now, but such they were not then. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 to john johnson, esq. 
 
 (my birth-day.) 
 
 Westou, Friday, Nov. 26, 1790. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — I aiA happy that you 
 have escaped from the claws of Euclid into 
 the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I sup- 
 pose, to every man to be well grounded in 
 the principles of jurisprudence, and I take it 
 to be a branch of science that bids much fairer 
 to enlsrge the mind, and give an accuracy of 
 reasoning, than all the mathematics in the 
 world. Mind your studies, and you will soon 
 be wiser than I can hope to be. 
 
 We had a visit on Monday from one of the 
 first women in the world ; "in point of char- 
 acter, I mean, and accomplishments, the dow- 
 ager Lady Spencer !* I may receive, per- 
 haps, some honors hereafter, should my trans- 
 lation speed according to my wishes, and the 
 pains I have taken with it ; but shall never 
 receive any that I shall esteem so highl}\ 
 She is indeed worthy to whom I should ded- 
 icate, and, may but my Odyssey prove as 
 worthy of her, I shall have nothing to fear 
 from the critics. 
 
 Yours, my dear Johnny, 
 
 With much affection, W. C. 
 
 ' The mother of the late Earl Spencer, and of the 
 Duchess of Devonshire, and the person U.1 whom he dedi' 
 catcd his version of the Odyssey.
 
 30C 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 The Lodge, Nov. 29, 1790. 
 
 My dear Madam, — T value highly, as I ought 
 and hope that I always shall, the favorable 
 opinion of such men as ^h. Martyn : though, 
 to say the truth, their commendations, instead 
 of making me proud, have rather a tendency 
 to humble me, conscious as I am that I am 
 overrated. There is an old piece of advice, 
 given by an ancient poet and satirist, which 
 it behoves every man who stands well in the 
 opinion of others to lay up in his bosom : — 
 Take care to be ivhat you are reported to he. 
 By due attention to this wise counsel, it is 
 possible to turn the praises of our friends to 
 good account, and to convert that which might 
 prove an incentive to vanity into a lesson of 
 wisdom. I will keep your good and respect- 
 able friend's letter very safely, and restore it 
 to you the first opportunity. I beg, my dear 
 madam, that you will present my best com- 
 pliments to Mr. Martyn, when you shall either 
 see him next or write to him. 
 
 To that gentleman's inquiries I .am, doubt- 
 less, obliged for the recovery of ^lo sTuaii pro- 
 portion of my subscription- list : for, in con- 
 sequence of his application to Johnson, and 
 very soon after it, I received from him no 
 fewer Uian forty-five names, that had been 
 omitted in the list he sent me, and that would 
 probably never have been thought of more. 
 No author, I believe, has a v/\ore inattentive 
 or indolent bookseller: but he has everybody's 
 good word for liberality and lu-ni-->ty ; there- 
 fore I must be content. 
 
 The press proceeds at present as well as I 
 can reasonably wish. A month ha>= passed 
 since we began, i:nd I revised this morning 
 the first sheet of the sixth Iliad. Mrs. Unwin 
 begs to add a line from herself, so that I have 
 only room to subjoin my best respeds to Mr. 
 King, and to say that I am truly, 
 
 My dear madam, yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAJIUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Nov. 30, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I will confess that I 
 thought your letter somewhat tardy, though, 
 at the same time, I made every e.xcuse for 
 you, except, as it seems, the right. That in- 
 deed was out of the reach of all possible con- 
 jecture. I could not guess that your silence 
 was occa.sioned by your being occnpi-d with 
 either thieves or thief-takers. Since, how- 
 ever, the cause was such, I rejoice that your 
 labors were not in vain, and that the free- 
 booters who had plundered your friend are 
 safe in limbo. I admire, too, as much as I 
 rejoice in your success, the indefjitigaide 
 spirit that prompted you to pursue, with such 
 anremitting perseverance, an obje "t not to 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 be reached but at the expen.-e of infinite 
 trouble, and that must have led you into an 
 acquaintance with scenes and characters the 
 most horrible to a mind like yours. I see in 
 this conduct the zeal and firmness of your 
 friendship, to whomsoever professed, and, 
 thougii I wanted not a proof of it myself, 
 contemplate so unequivocal an indication of 
 what you really are, and of wliat I always be- 
 lieved you to be, with much pleasure May 
 you rise from tiie condition of an humble 
 prosecutor, or witness, to the bench of judg- 
 ment ! 
 
 When your letter arrived, it found me with 
 the worst and most obstinate cold that I ever 
 caught. This was one reason why it had not 
 a speedier answer. Another is, that, except 
 Tuesday morning, there is none in the week 
 in which I am not engaged in the last revisa' 
 of my translation ; the revisal I mean of my 
 proof-sheets. To this business I give myself 
 with an assiduity and attention truly admir- 
 rblC; and set an example, which, if other poets 
 could be apprised of, they would do well to 
 follow. Miscarriages in authorsh.ip (I am 
 ;>f];naded) are as ntlen to be ascribed to 
 ^\■ant oi p;iins-tak:i/'g as to want of ability. 
 
 Lady Hesketii, Mrs. Unwin, and myself, 
 often mention you, and always in terms that, 
 thougli you would blush to hear them, you 
 need not be ashamed of; at the same time 
 wishing much that you would change our 
 trio into a quartetto. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 1, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It is plain that you un- 
 understand trap, as we used to say at school : 
 for you begin with accusing me of long 
 silence, conscious yourself, at the same time, 
 that you have been half a year in my debt, or 
 thereabout. But I will answer your accusa- 
 tions with a boast — with a boast of having 
 intended many a day to write to you again, 
 notwithstanding your long insolvency. Your 
 brother and sister of Chicheley can both wit- 
 ness for me, that, weeks since, I testified such 
 an intention, and, if I did not execute it, it 
 was not for want of good-will, but for want 
 of leisure. When will you be able to glory 
 of such designs, so liberal and maccnificent, 
 you who have nothing to do, by your Dwr 
 confession, but to grow fat and saucy ? Add 
 to all this, that I have had a violent cold, such 
 as I never have but at the first approach of 
 winter, and such as at that time I seldom 
 escape. A fever accompanied it, and an in- 
 cessant cough. 
 
 You measure the speed of printers, of my 
 printer at least, rather by your own \\ishes 
 than by any just standard. Mine (I believe) 
 is as nimble a one as falls to the share o? 
 poets in general, though not nimble eneug!i
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 J6\ 
 
 to satisfy either the author or his friends. 1 
 told you that my work would go to press in 
 autumn, and so it did. But it had been six 
 weeks in London ere the press began to work 
 upon it. About a month since we began to 
 print, and, at the rate of nine sheets in a fort- 
 night, have proceeded to about the middle of 
 the sixth Iliad. " No further V — ^you say. 
 I answer — " No, nor even so for, without 
 much scolding on my part, both at the book- 
 seller and the printer." But courage, my 
 friend ! Fair and softly, as we proceed, we 
 shall find our way through at last; and, in 
 confirmaticm of this hope, while I write this, 
 another sheet arrives. I expect to publish 
 in the spring. 
 
 I love and thank you for the ardent desire 
 you express to hear me bruited abroad, e< per 
 ora virum rolitantem. For your encourage- 
 ment, I will tell you that I read, myself at 
 least, with wonderful complacence wliat I 
 have done; and if the world, when it shall 
 appear, do not like it as well as I, we will 
 both say and swear with Fluellin, that " it is 
 an ass and a fool (like you !) and a prating 
 coxcomb." 
 
 I felt no ambition of the laurel.* Else, 
 though vainly, perhaps, I had friends who 
 would have made a stir on my l)ehalf on that 
 occasion. I confess that, when I learned the 
 new condition of the office, that odes were 
 no longer required, and that the salary- was 
 increased, I felt not the same dislike of it. 
 But I could neitlier go to court, nor could I 
 kiss hands, were it for a much more valual)le 
 consideration. Therefore never expect to 
 hear that royal favors find out me ! 
 
 Adieu, my dear old friend ! I will send 
 you a mortuary copy soon, and in tlie mean- 
 time remain, Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. f 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. 5, 1790. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Sometimes I am too sad, 
 and sometimes too busy to write. Both these 
 causes have concurred lately to keep me silent. 
 But more than l)y either of these I have l)een 
 hindered, since I received your last, by a vio- 
 lent cold, which oppressed me during almost 
 the whole montii of November. 
 
 Your letter affects us witli both joy and 
 sorrow : witli sorrow and sympathy respect- 
 ing poor Mrs. Newton, whose feeble and 
 dying state suggests a wish for her release 
 rather than for her continuance ; and joy on 
 your account, who are cnaliled to bear, with 
 so much resignation and cheerful acquies- 
 ence in the will of God, the jtrospect of a 
 loss, which even they who know you best 
 apprehended miglit prove too much for you. 
 
 » The office of Poet liaureat, mentioned in a former 
 letter. 
 ♦ Privals correspondence. 
 
 As to Mrs. Newton's interest in the best 
 things, none, intiinatel - acquainted with her 
 as we have been, could 'loubt it. She doubt- 
 ed it indeed herself; but though it is not 
 our 'luty to daubt, any more tlian it is our 
 privilege, I have always considered the self- 
 condemning spirit, lo which such doubts are 
 principally owing, as one of the most fa- 
 vorable symptoms of a nature spiritually re- 
 newed, and have many a time heard you make 
 the same observation. 
 
 [Tornojf.-] 
 
 We believe that the best Christian is occa- 
 sionally subject to doubts and fears ; and that 
 they form a part of the great warfare. That 
 it is our privilege and duty to cultivate an 
 habitual sense of peace in the conscience; 
 and that this pence will be enjoyed in pro- 
 portion as faith is in exercise, and the soul is 
 in communion with God, we fully agi-ee. 
 But who that is acquainted with the inward 
 experiences of the Christian, does not know 
 th;it there are alternations of joy and fear, of 
 triumph and of depression 1 The Psalms of 
 David furnish many instances of this fact, as 
 well as the history of the most eminent 
 saints recorded in Scripture. " Though I 
 am sometimes afraid, yet put I my trust in 
 thee." We conceive these words to be an 
 exemplification of the truth of the case. 
 When, therefore, we hear persons speak of 
 the entire absence of sin and infirmity, and 
 exemption from doubts and fears, we are 
 strongly disposed to believe that they labor 
 under great self-deception, and know little 
 of their own hearts, in thus arguing against 
 the gericral testimony of the Church of 
 Christ in all ages. A plain and pious Chris- 
 tian once told us of an appropriate remark 
 that he addressed to an individual who pro- 
 fessed to be wholly free from any fears on 
 this subject. " If," observed this excellent 
 man, " you have no fears for yourself, you 
 must allow me to entertain some for you." 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 18, 1790. 
 
 I perceive myself so flattered by the in- 
 stances of illustrious success mentioned in 
 your letter, that I feel all the amiable modes- 
 ty, for which I was once so famous, sensibly 
 giving way to a spirit of vain-glory. 
 
 The King's College subscription makes mt 
 proud — the effect that my verses have had on 
 your two young friends, the mathematicians, 
 makes me proud, ;ind I am, if possible proud- 
 er still of the contents of the letter that you 
 inclosed. 
 
 You complained of being stupid, and sent 
 ine one of the cleverest letters. I have not 
 coraplained of being stupid, and sent you one
 
 362 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of the dullest. But it is no matter. I never 
 aim at anything above the pitch of every 
 day's scribble, when I write to those I love. 
 
 Homer proceeds, my boy ! We shall get 
 through it in time, and (I hopf>) by tlie t'me 
 appointed. We are now in tlie tenth Iliad. 
 I expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. 
 You iiave their best love. Mine attends the 
 whole army of Donnes at Mattishall Green* 
 assembled. IIow happy should I find my- 
 self, were I but one of the party ! My ca- 
 pering days are over. But do you caper for 
 me, that you may give them some idea of 
 the happiness I should feel were I in the 
 midst of them ! W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.f 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. 31, 1700. 
 
 My dear Madam, — Returning from my 
 walk at half-past three, I found your wel- 
 come messenger in the kitchen ; and, enter- 
 ing the study, found also the beautiful pres- 
 ent with which you had charged him.J We 
 have all admired it (for Lady Hesketh was 
 here to assist us in doing so ;) and for my 
 own particular, I return your my sincerest 
 thanks, a very inadequate compensation. 
 Mrs. Unwin, not satisfied to send you thanks 
 only, begs your acceptance likewise of a 
 turkey, which, though the ligure of it might 
 not much embellish a counterpane, may pos- 
 sibly serve hereafter to swell the dimensions 
 of a feather-bed. 
 
 I have lately been visited with an indispo- 
 sition much more formidable than that which 
 I mentioned to you in my last — a nervous 
 fever ; a disorder to which I am subject, and 
 which I dread above all others, because it 
 comes attended by a melancholy perfectly 
 insupportable. This is the first day of my 
 complete recovery, the first in which I have 
 perceived no symptoms of my terrible mal- 
 ady; and the only drawback on this comfort 
 that I feel is the intelligence contained in 
 yours, that neither Mr. King nor yourself are 
 well. I dread always, both for my own 
 health and for that of my friends, the unhappy 
 influences of a year worn out. But, my 
 dear madam, this is the last day of it ; and I 
 resolve to hope that the new year shall ob- 
 literate all the disagreeables of the old one. 
 I can wish nothing more warmly than that it 
 may prove a propitious year to you. 
 
 My poetical operations, I mean of the oc- 
 casional kind, have lately been pretty much 
 at a stand. I told you, I believe, in my last, 
 that Homer, in the present stage of the pro- 
 cess, occupied me more intensely than ever. 
 
 * In Norfolk. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 t This counterpane is mentioned in a previous letter, 
 dated Oct. 5tli, in this year: so that, unless it was taken 
 back and then reiiirned iu an improved state, there seems 
 to be some error, tli:it we do not profess to explain. 
 
 He still continues to do so, and threatens, 
 till he shall be completely finished, to makj 
 all otiier composition impracticable. I liave, 
 however, written the mortuary verses as 
 usual ; but tiie wicked clerk for whom T 
 write them has not yet sent me tlie impres- 
 sion. I transmit to you the long promised 
 Catharina; and, were it possible that 1 could 
 transcribe the others, would send tliem also. 
 There is a way, however, by which I can 
 procure a frank, and you shall not want them 
 long. 
 
 I remain, dearest madam, 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 We have now the pleasure of introducing 
 to the reader a lady, of whom we should say 
 much, if a sense of propriety did not impose 
 silence upon our pen. The Catharina, re- 
 corded by the muse of Cowper, was Mlse 
 Stapleton at that time, subsequently married 
 to Mr. George Throckmorton Courtney, and 
 finally Lady Throckmorton, by the decease 
 of the elder brother Sir John. As we can- 
 not impose on the poet the restraint which 
 we are compelled to practise in our own 
 case, we shall beg leave to insert the follow- 
 ing verses, written on the occasion of her 
 visit to Weston. 
 
 She came — she is gone — we have met — 
 And meet perhaps nevc,7 again ; 
 The sun ot' that momenc is set, 
 And seems to have risen in vain. 
 Catharina* has fled Hke a dream — 
 (So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
 But has left a rcg^iet and estemi, 
 That will not so suddenly pass. 
 
 The last ev'ning ramble we made, 
 
 Catharina, Maria. '' and I. 
 
 Our progress was Oicen delay'd 
 
 By the nightingale warbhng nigh. 
 
 We paus'd under many a tree, 
 
 And much she was charm'd with a tone, 
 
 Less sweet to Maria and me. 
 
 Who so lately had witness'd her own. 
 
 My numbers that day she had sung, 
 And gave them a grace so divine, 
 As only her musical tongue 
 Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
 The longer I heard, I esteem'd 
 The work of my fancy the more, 
 And e'en to myself never seem'd 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
 Though the pleasures of London exceed 
 In number the days of the year, 
 Catharina, did nothing unpede. 
 Would feel herself happier here ; 
 For the close woven arches of Hmes 
 On the banks of our river. I kn • , 
 Are sweeter to her many times 
 Than ought that the city can show. 
 
 * Miss Stapleton, afterwards Lady Throckmorton, 8ZU 
 the person to whom the present undertaking is dedir«te4 
 t The wife of Sir John Throckmorton.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 36a 
 
 So it is, wnen tlie mind is imbued 
 With a wcll-juHgirig taste from above, 
 Then, whether embelli.sh'd or rude 
 ' ris nature alone that we love. 
 The achievement., of art may amuse, 
 May even our wonder excite, 
 But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse 
 A lasting, a sacred delight. 
 
 Since then in the rural recess 
 
 Catharina alone can rejoice, 
 
 May it still be her lot to possess 
 
 The scene of her sensible choice ! 
 
 To inhabit a mansion remote 
 
 h'rom the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
 
 And by Philoiuel's annual note 
 
 To measure the life that she leads. 
 
 Wi'ii her book, and her voice, and her lyre. 
 
 To wing all her moments at home. 
 
 And with sc;mes iiiat new- rapture inspire. 
 
 As oil 03 it suits her to roam, 
 
 She will liavc juit the life she prefers, 
 
 Wi:h little to hope or to fear. 
 
 And ours would be pleasant as h,T>-, 
 
 Might wo view her enjoying it here. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 4, ]791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You would long since 
 have received an answer to your last, had 
 not the wicked clerk of Northampton delayed 
 to send me the printed copy of my annual 
 dirge, which I \yaited to enclose. Her^ it 
 is at last, and much good may it do the 
 readers !* 
 
 I have regretted that I could not write 
 sooner, especially because it well became me 
 to reply as soon as possible to your kind in- 
 quiries after my health, which has been both 
 better and worse since I wrote last. The 
 cough wa.^ cured, or nearly so, when I re- 
 ceived your letter, but I have lately been 
 alllicted with a nervous fever, a malady for- 
 midable to nu' above all otliers, on account 
 of the terv.u- .ind dejection of spirits that in 
 my case always accompany it. I even look 
 forward, for tliis reason, to the montli now 
 current, witii the most miserable apprehen- 
 sions; for in this month the di.steinpcr lias 
 twice seized me. 1 wisli to be thankful, 
 however, to tiie sovereign Dispenser both of 
 health and sickness, that, thougli I have felt 
 cause enough to tremble, he gives me now 
 encouragement to hope tiiat I may dismiss 
 my fears, and expect, for this January at least, 
 to escape it. 
 
 The mention of quantity reminds me of a 
 remark that I have seen somewhere, possi- 
 bly in Johnson, to this purport, that, the syl- 
 iables in our language being neither long 
 nor short, our verse accordingly is less be.'iu- 
 tiful than the verse of the Cirecks or R.onia.".;i, 
 because requiring less artifice in its construc- 
 
 * See mortuary verses composed on this occasion. 
 
 tion. But I deny the fact, and ain ready to 
 depose on oath, that I find every syllable as 
 distinguishably and clearly, either long or 
 short, in our language, as in any other. I 
 know also, that without an attention to the 
 quantity of our syllables, good verse cannot 
 possibly be written, and that ignorance of 
 this matter is one reason why we see so 
 much that is good for nothing. The move- 
 ment of a verse is always either shuffling or 
 graceful, according to our management in 
 this particular, and Milton gives almost as 
 many proofs of it in his Paradise Lost as 
 there are lines in the poem. Away, there- 
 fore, with all such unfounded observations! 
 I would not give a farthing for many bushels 
 of them — nor you perhaps for this letter. 
 Yet, upon recollection, forasmuch as I know 
 you to be a dear lover of literary gossip, I 
 think it possible you may esteem it highly. 
 
 Believe me, my dear friend, most truly 
 yours, W. C. 
 
 'J'ho fVJiovvijig letter records the death of 
 Mrs. Newton, the object of so early and last- 
 ing an attachment on the part of the Rev. 
 John Newton. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, Jan. 20, 1791. 
 My dear Friend, — Had you been a man of 
 this world, I should have held myself bound 
 by the law of ceremonies to have sent you 
 long since my tribute of condolence. I have 
 sincerely mourned v.ith you; and though- you 
 iiave lost a wife, and I only a friend, yet do 
 I understand too well the value of such a 
 friend as Mrs. Newton not to have sympa- 
 thised with you very nearly. But you :u-e 
 not a man of this world; neither can ywTi, 
 who have both the Scripture and the Giver 
 of Scripture to console you, have any need 
 of aid from others, or expect it from such 
 spiritual imbecility as mine. I considered, 
 likewise, that receiving a letter from Mrs. 
 Unwin, you, in fact, received one from my- 
 self, with this difference only, — that hers 
 could not fail to be better adapted to the 
 occasion and to your own frame of mind than 
 any that I could send you. 
 [Torn off]] 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 21, 179J. 
 I know that you ha^-e already been cate- 
 chised by Lady Hesketh on the subject of 
 your return hither, before the winter shall 
 be over, and shall therefore only say, that if 
 you CAN come, we shall be iiapfy to receive 
 you. Remember also, that notiiing can ex- 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 364 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 cuse the non-performance of a promise, but 
 absolute necessity! In the meantime, my 
 faith in your veracity is such that I am per- 
 suaded yuu will sufl'er nothing less than ne- 
 cessity to prevent it. Were you not ex- 
 tremely pleasant to us, and just tlie sort of 
 youth that suits us, we should neither of us 
 have said half so much, or perhaps a word 
 on the subject. 
 
 Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that 
 I shall never see practised by any other; and 
 whether you slap your uncle, or reel as if 
 you were fuddled, or dance in the path be- 
 fore me, all is characteristic of yourself, and 
 therefore to me delightful.* 1 have hinted 
 to you indeed sometimes, that you should be 
 cautious of indulging antic habits and singu- 
 larities of all sorts, and young men in general 
 have need enough of such admonition. But 
 yours are a sort of fairy Jiabits, such as might 
 belong to Puck or Robin Goodfeliow, and 
 therefore, good as the advice is, I should be 
 half sorry should you take it. 
 
 Tills allowance at least 1 giv(- you. Co)'!- 
 tinue to take your walks, if walks they may 
 be called, exactly in their present fashion, 
 till you have taken orders! Then indeed, 
 forasmuch as a skipping, curvetting, bound- 
 ing divine might be a spectacle not altogether 
 seemly, 1 shall consent to your adoption of 
 a more grave demeanor. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My letters to you are 
 all either petitionary, or in the style of ac- 
 knowledgments and thanks, and such nearly 
 in an alternate order. In ray last I loaded 
 you with commissions, for the due discharge 
 of which I am now to say, and say truly, how 
 much 1 feel myself obliged to you ; neither 
 can I stop there, but must thank you like- 
 wise for new honors from Scotland, which 
 have left me nothing to wish for from that 
 country; for my list is now, I believe, graced 
 with the subscription of all its learned bodies. 
 I regret only that some of them arrived too 
 late to do honor to my present publication 
 of names. But there are those among tliem, 
 and from Scotland too, that may give a useful 
 hint perhaps to our own universities. Your 
 very handsome present of Pope's Homer has 
 arrived safe, notwithstanding an accident that 
 befell him by the way. The Hall-servant 
 brought the parcel from Olney, resting it on 
 the pommel of the saddle, and his horse fell 
 with him. Pope was in consequence rolled 
 in the dirt, but being well coated, got no 
 damage. If augurs and soothsayers were 
 
 * These innocent peculiarities were in a less degree re- 
 tained to the end of life by this truly amiable and inter- 
 esting man. 
 
 not out of fashion, I should have consulted 
 one or two of th'it order, in hope of learning 
 from them that this fall was ominous. I 
 have found a place for him in the parlor, 
 vvliere iie makes a splendid appearance, and 
 where lie shall not long want a neighbor, one, 
 who if less popular than himself, shall at least 
 look as big as he. How has it happened 
 that, since Pope did certainly dedicate both 
 Iliad and Odyssey, no dedication is found in 
 this firot edition of them ? 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 13, 179L 
 
 I now send you a full and true account of 
 this business. Having learned that your inn 
 at Wobu'T was the George, we sent Samuel 
 thither ye?',?rday. Mr. Martin, master of the 
 George, tcid him.* 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 W. C. 
 
 P. S. I cannot help adding a circum- 
 stance that will divert you. Martin, having 
 learned from Sam whose servant he was, 
 told him that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, 
 but he had heard him frequently spoken of 
 by the companies that had called at his 
 h*jse ; and therefore, when Sam would have 
 paid for his breakfast, would take nothing 
 from him. Who says tliat fame is only 
 empty breath ? On the contrary, it is good 
 ale, and cold beef into the bargain. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston Underwood, Feb. 26, 1791. 
 My dear Friend, — 
 
 It is a maxim of much v?eight, 
 Worth cunning o'er and o'er, 
 
 He who has Homer to translate, 
 Had need do nothing more. 
 
 But, notwithstanding the truth and im- 
 portance of this apophthegm, to which I lay 
 claim as the original author of it, it is not 
 equally true that my application to Homer, 
 close as it is, has been the sole cause of my 
 delay to answer you. No. In observing so 
 long a silence I have been influenced much 
 more by a vindictive purpose, a purpose to 
 punish you for your suspicion that I could 
 possibly feel myself hurt or offended by any 
 critical suggestion of yours, that seemed to 
 reflect on Ihe purity )f my nonsense verses. 
 Understand, if you please, for the future, 
 that whether I disport mys-^lf in Greek or 
 
 * This letter cont.iiued the history of a servant's cruelty 
 to a post-horse, which a reader of humanity could not 
 wish to see in print. Hut the postscript describes so 
 plo;iRi!Utly the signal influrnco of a poet's reputation oa 
 the spint of a liberal innkeeper, that it siuely ought not 
 to be auppTesaod.—Hayley.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 365 
 
 Latin, or in whatsoever other language, you 
 ai'O herehy, henceforth and forever, entitled 
 and warranted to take any liherties with it 
 to which you shall feel yourself inclined, 
 not excepting even the lines themselves, 
 which stand at the head of this letter ! 
 
 You delight me when you call blank verse 
 the English heroic ; for I have always 
 thought, and often said, that we have no 
 other verse worthy to be so entitled. When 
 you read my preface, you will be made ac- 
 quainted with my sentiments on this subject 
 pretty much at large, for which reason I will 
 curb my zeal, and say the less about it at 
 pressnt. That Johnson, who wrote har- 
 moniously in rhyme, should have had so de- 
 fective an ear as never to have discovered 
 any music at all in blank verse, till he heard 
 a particular friend of his reading it, is a 
 wonder never sufficiently to be wondered at. 
 Yet this is true on his own acknowledg- , 
 ment, and amounts to a plain confession, 
 (of which, perhaps, he was not aware when 
 he made it,) that he did not know how to 
 read blank verse himself. In short, he either 
 suffered prejudice to lead him in a string 
 whithersoever it would, or his taste in poetry 
 was worth little. I don't believe he ever 
 read anything of that kind with enthusiasm 
 in his life ; and as good poetry cannot be 
 composed without a considerable share of 
 that quality in the mind of the author, so 
 neither can it be read or tasted as it ought 
 to be without it. 
 
 I have said all this in the morning fast- 
 ing, })ut am soon going to my tea. When, 
 therefore, I shall liavo told you that we are 
 now, in the course of our printing, in the 
 Becond book of the Odyssey, I shall only have 
 time to add, that I am, my dear friend. 
 
 Most truly yours, ^Y. C. 
 
 I think your Latin quotations very appli- 
 cable to the present state of France. But 
 France is in a situation new and untried 
 before. 
 
 TO JOHN JOUSSOy, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 27, 1791. 
 
 Now, my dearest Johnny, I must tell thee 
 in few words, how much I love and am 
 obliged to thee for thy affectionate services. 
 
 My Cambridge honors are all to be as- 
 cribed to you, and to you only. Yet you 
 are but a little man, and a little man, into 
 the bargain, who have kicked the mathemat- 
 ics, their idol, out of your study. So import- 
 ant are the endings which Providence fre- 
 quently connects with small beginnings. Had 
 you been here, I could have furnished you 
 with much employment ; for I have so dealt 
 with your fair MS. in the course of my polish- 
 ing and improving, that I have almost blotted 
 
 out the whol'j. Such, however, as it is, I 
 must now send it to the printer, and he must 
 be content with it, for there is not time to 
 make a fresh copy. We are now printing 
 the second book of the Odyssey. 
 
 Should the Oxonians bestow none of their 
 notice on me on this occasion, it will happen 
 singularlv enough, that, as Pope received all 
 his University honors in the subscription 
 way from Oxford, and none at a'l from Cam- 
 bridge so I shall have received all mine 
 from Cambridge, and none ft'f>m Oxford. 
 This i:^ the more likely to be the case, be- 
 cause I understand, that on whatsoever occa- 
 sion bither of those learned bodies thinks fit 
 to move, the other always makes it a point 
 to sil still, thus proving its superiority. 
 
 I shall send up your letter to Lady Hes- 
 keth in a day or two, knowing that the intel- 
 Hgence contained in it will atlbrd her the 
 greatest pleasure. Know likewise, for your 
 own gratification, that all tli*^ Scotch Uni- 
 versities have subscribed, none excepted. 
 
 We are all as well as usual ; that is to 
 say, as well as reasonable folks expect to be 
 on the crazy side of this frail exist^iiee. 
 
 I rejoice that we shall so soon iiave you 
 
 again at our fireside. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 Weston, March 2, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am sick and ashamed 
 of myself that I forgot my promise ; but it 
 is actually true that I did forget it. Y«u, 
 however, I did not forget; nor did I forget 
 to wonder and to be alarmed at your silence, 
 being perfectly unconscious of my arrears. 
 All this, together witli various ether tres- 
 passes of mine, must be set down to tlie 
 account of Homer ; and, wherever he is, he 
 is bound to make his apology to all my cor- 
 respondents, but to you in particular. True 
 it i.s, that if Mrs. Unwin did not call me from 
 that pursuit, I should forget, in the ardor 
 with wiiicli I persevere in it, both to eat, and 
 to drink, and to retire to rest. This zeal 
 has increased in me regularly as I have pro- 
 ceeded, and in an exact ratio, as a mathema^ 
 tician would say, to the progress I have 
 made toward the point at which I have been 
 aiming. You v/ill believe this, when I tell 
 you, that, not contented with my previous 
 labors, I have actually revised the wiiole 
 work, a:id have made a thousand alterations 
 in it, .«ince it has been in the press. I have 
 now, however, tolerably well satisfied myself 
 at le.ist, and trust tiiat the printer and I shall 
 trundle along merrily to the conclusion. I 
 expect to correct tlie proof-sheets of the 
 tliird book of tlie Odyssey to day. 
 
 Thus it is, as I believe I have said to you 
 before, that you are doomed to hear of noth. 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 366 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ing' but Homer from me. There is less of 
 g-iillantry than of nature in this proceeding. 
 Wlien I write to you, I tiiinlc of nothing but 
 the subject that is uppermost, and that up- 
 permost is always Hi-mer Tiien I consider 
 that though, as a lady, you If^ve a right to 
 expect other treatment at my h.inds, you are 
 a lady wlio has a husband, and tha' husband 
 an old schoolfellow of mine, and who, I 
 know, intere'^ts himself in my success. 
 
 I am likely, after all, to gather a better 
 harvest of subscribers at Cambridge .han I 
 expected. A little cousin of mine, an under- 
 graduate of Caius College, suggested to me, 
 wiien he was here in the summer, that it 
 might not be amiss to advertise the work at 
 Merril's the bookseller. I acquiesced in the 
 measure, and at his return he pasted me on 
 a board, and hung me up in the shop, as it 
 has proved in the event, much to my emolu- 
 ment. For many, as I understand, have 
 subscribed in consequence ; and, among the 
 rest, several of the College libraries. 
 
 I am glad that you have seen the last 
 Nortiiampton djrge, for the rogue of a clerk 
 sent me ouiy lialf the number of printed 
 copies for which I stipulated with him at 
 first, and uiey were all expended immedi- 
 ately. The poor man himself is dead now ; 
 and whether his successor will continue me 
 in my office, or seek another laureat, has not 
 yet transpired. 
 
 I am, dear madam, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 6, 1791. 
 
 After all this ploughing and sowing on 
 tl>e plains of Troy, once fruitful, such at 
 least to my translating predecessor, some 
 harvest, I hope, will arise for me also. My 
 long work has received its last, last touches ; 
 and I am now giving my preface its final 
 adjustment. We are in the fourth Odyssey 
 in the course of our printing, and I expect that 
 I and the swallows shall appear together. 
 They have slept all the winter, but I, on the 
 contrary, have been extremely busy. Yet if 
 I can " virCim volitare -per ora^^ as swiftly as 
 they through the air, I EhuU account myself 
 well requited. 
 
 Adieu! W. C. 
 
 The Rev. James Hurdis, to whom the next 
 letter is adressed, was formerly Professor of 
 Poetry in the University of Oxford, and con- 
 sidered to have established his claim to the 
 title ©f poet, by his popular work, " The Vil- 
 lage Curate." But there is an observation 
 which has frequently suggested itself to us, 
 in recording the names of writers in the cor- 
 respondence of Cowper, how few have ac- 
 
 quired more than an ephemeral celebi-ity, and 
 been transmitted to the present day ! Au- 
 thors resembles the waves of the sea, which 
 pass on in quick succession, and engage the 
 eye, till it is diverted by those which follow. 
 Each in its turn yields to a superior impel- 
 ling force. Some tower above the rest, and 
 yet all by their collective strength and ener- 
 gy, form one grand and mighty expanse of 
 ocean. 
 
 Such are the vicissitudes of literature, the 
 effects of competition, and the appetite for 
 novelty, that few productions outlive the 
 generation in which they are written, unless 
 they bear a certain impress of immortality, 
 a character of moral or intellectual supe- 
 riority. They then survive to every age, 
 and are the property of every country, so 
 long as taste, genius, or religion preserve 
 their empire over mankind. 
 
 Cowper, having received an obliging letter 
 from Mr. Hurdis, though not personally ac- 
 quainted with him, addressed the following 
 reply. 
 
 Weston, March 6, 1791. 
 
 Sir, — ^I have always entertained, and have 
 occasionally avowed, a great degree of respect 
 for the abilities of the unknown author of 
 "The Village Curate," — unknown at that 
 time, but now well known, and not to me 
 only but to many. For, before I was favored 
 with your obliging letter, I knew your name, 
 your place of abode, your profession, and 
 that you had four sisters ; all which I neither 
 learned from our bookseller, nor from any 
 of his connexions. You will perceive, there- 
 fore, that you are no longer an author in- 
 cognito. The writer indeed of many passa- 
 ges that have fallen from your pen could 
 not long continue so. Let genius, true ge- 
 nius, conceal itself Avhere it may, we may say 
 of it, as the young man in Terence of his 
 beautiful mistress, " iJm latere nonytotest.'''' 
 
 1 am obliged to you for your kind offers 
 of service, and will not say that I shall not 
 be troublesome to you hereafter ; but at pres- 
 ent I have no need to be so. I have within 
 these two days given the very last stroke of 
 mj' pen to my long translation, and what will 
 be my next career I know not . At any rate we 
 shall not, I hope, hereafter be known to each 
 other as poets only, for your writings havo 
 made me ambitious of a nearer approach to 
 you. Your door however will never be 
 opened to me. My fate and fortune have com- 
 bined with my natural disposition to draw a 
 circle round me, which I cannot pass ; nor 
 have I been more than thirteen miles from 
 home these twenty years, and so far very 
 seldom. But you are a younger man, and 
 therefore may not be quite so immoveable ; 
 in which case should you choose at any time 
 to move Westonward, you will always find
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 567 
 
 me happy to receive you ; and in the mean- 
 time I remain with much respect, 
 
 Your most obedient servant, critic, and 
 friend, W. C. 
 
 P. S. — I wish to know what you mean to 
 do with " Sir Thomas."* For, though I ex- 
 pressed doubts about his theatric:il possibil- 
 ities, I think iiim a very respectable person, 
 and, with some improvement, well worthy of 
 being introduced to the public. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 10, 1701. 
 
 Give mv affectionate remembrances to 
 your sisters, and tell them I am impatient to 
 entertain them with my old story new 
 dressed. 
 
 1 have two French prints hanging in my 
 study, both on Iliad subjects ; and 1 have an 
 English one in tlie parlor, on a subject from 
 the s:ime pocMU. In one of the former, Aga- 
 meiimon addresses Achilles exactly in the at- 
 titude of a dancing master turning miss in a 
 minuet: in the latter, the figures ai-e plain, 
 and the attitudes plain also. This is, in 
 some considerable measure, I believe, the dif- 
 ference betM'een my translation and Pope's ; 
 and will serve as an exemplification of what 
 I am going to lay before you and the pul)lic. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, March IS, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I give you joy that you 
 are about to receive some more of my ele- 
 gant prose, and I feel myself in danger of 
 attempting to make it even more elegant than 
 usual, and thereby of spoiling it, under the 
 influence of your commendations. But my 
 old helter-skelter manner has already suc- 
 ceeded so well, that I will not, even for the 
 sake of entitling myself to a still great por- 
 tion of j-our praise, abandon it. 
 
 I did not call in question Johnson's true 
 spirit of poetry, because he was not qualified 
 to relish blank verse, (though, to tell you the 
 truth, I tliink that but an ugly symptom,) but, 
 if I did not express it, I meant however to 
 infer it, from the perverse judgment that he 
 has formed of our poets in general ; depreciat- 
 ing some of the best, and making hononible 
 mentiim of others, in my opinion, not unde- 
 servedly neglected. I will lay you sixpence 
 that, had he lived in the days of Milton, and 
 by any accident had met with his " Paradise 
 Lost," he would neither have directed the at- 
 .ention of others to it, nor have much ad- 
 mired it himself. Good sense, in short, and 
 strength of intellect, seem to me, rather than 
 a, fine taste, to have been his distinguishing 
 
 * " Sir Thomas More," a tragedy. 
 
 characteristics. But shnuJd you think other- 
 wise, you have my free permission; for so 
 long as you have yourself a taste for the 
 beauties of Cowper, I care not a fig whether 
 Johnson has a taste or not. 
 
 I w.,nder where you fuid all your quota- 
 tions, pat as they are to the present condition 
 of France. Do you make them yourself, or 
 do you actually find them ? I am apt to sus- 
 pect sometimes that you impose them only 
 on a poor inan who has but twenty books in 
 the world, and two of them are your brother 
 Chester's. They are, however, much to the 
 purpose, be the author of them who he may. 
 
 I was very sorry to learn lately, that my 
 friend at Ciiichely has been some time indis- 
 posed, either with gout or rheumatism, (for 
 it seems to be uncertain which,) and attended 
 by Dr. Kerr. I am at a loss to conceive how 
 so temperate a man should acquire the gout, 
 and am resolved therefore to conclude that it 
 must be *lifc rheumatism, wiiich, bad as it is, 
 is in my judgment the best of the two, and 
 will afiiird me, besides, some o]q)ortunity to 
 sympathize with him, for I am not i>erfectly 
 exempt from it myself. Distant as you are 
 in situation, you are yet, perhaps, nearer to 
 him in point of intelligence than 1, and ii 
 you can send me any particular news of him, 
 pray do it in your next. 
 
 I love and thank you for your benediction. 
 If God forgive me my sins, surely I sliall 
 love him much, for I have much to be for- 
 given. But the quantum need not discour- 
 age me, since there is One, whose atonement 
 can suffice for all. 
 
 1 "D Si KaQ ai^a piev, kiu aoT, Kal c/Kn, Kal d6c\d>ijti 
 'B[/i£r£j90(j, dvrou (rco^u^iEi'OHj Oavdno. 
 
 Accept our joint remembrance, and believe 
 me affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 19, 1791. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — You ask if it may 
 not be improper to solicit Lady Hesketh's 
 subscription to the poems of the Norwich 
 maiden ? To which 1 reply it will be b}' no 
 means improper. On the contrary, I am per- 
 suaded that she will give her name Avith a 
 very good will : for she is much an admirer 
 of poesy that is worthy to be admired, and 
 such I think, judging by the specimen, the 
 poesy of this maiden, Elizabeth Bently of 
 Norwich, is likely to prove. 
 
 Not that I am myself inclined to expect 
 in general great matters in the poetical way 
 from persons whose ill-fortune it has been to 
 want the common advantages of education : 
 neither do I account it in general a kindness 
 to such to encourage them in the indulgence 
 of a propensity more likely to do them harm 
 in the end, than to advance their interest
 
 368 
 
 COW PER'S WORKS 
 
 Many such phenomena have arisen within my 
 remembrance, at which all the world has 
 wondered for a season, and has then forgot 
 them.* 
 
 The fact is, that though strong natural 
 genius is always accompanied with strong 
 natural tendency to its object, yet it often 
 happens that the tendency is found where 
 the genius is wanting. In the present in- 
 stance, however, (the poems of a certain 
 ]\Irs. Leapor excepted, who published some 
 forty years ago,) I discern, I think, more 
 marks of true poetical talent than I remem- 
 ber to have observed in the verses of any 
 other, male or female, so disadvantageously 
 circumstanced. I wish her therefore good 
 speed, and subscribe to her with all my heart. 
 
 You Avill rejoice when I tell you, that I 
 have some hopes, after all, of a harvest from 
 Oxford also ; Mr. Throckmorton has written 
 to a person of considerable influence there, 
 which he has desired him to exert in my 
 favor, and his request, I should imagine, will 
 hardly prove a vain one. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 24, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You apologize for your 
 silence in a manner which affords me so 
 much pleasure, that I cannot but be satisfied. 
 Let business be the cause, and I am con- 
 tented. That is the cause to which I would 
 even be accessary myself, and would increase 
 yours by any means, except by a law-suit of 
 my own, at the expense of all your opportu- 
 nities of writing oftener than twice in a 
 twelvemonth. 
 
 Your application to Dr. Dunbar reminds 
 me of two lines to be found somewhere in 
 Dr. Young — 
 
 " And now a poet's gratitude you see, 
 
 Grant him two favors, and he '11 asji for three." 
 
 In this particular, therefore, T perceive, that 
 a poet and a poet's friend bear a striking re- 
 semblance to each other. The Doctor will 
 bless himself that the number of Scotch uni- 
 versities is not larger, assured that if they 
 equalled those in England in number of col- 
 leges, you would give him no rest till he had 
 engaged them all. It is true, as Lady Hesketh 
 told you, that I shall not fear, in the matter 
 of subscriptions, a comparison even with 
 Pope himself; considered (I mean) that we 
 live in the days of terrible taxation, and when 
 verse, not being a necessary of life, is ac- 
 counted dear, be it what it may, even at the 
 lowest price. I am no very good arithme- 
 tician, yet I calculated the other day in my 
 
 * See a similar instance, recorded in the Memoirs of 
 Mrs. Hannah More, of the Bristol Milk-woman, Mrs. 
 Yearsley. 
 
 morning walk, that my two volumes, at the 
 price of three guineas, will cost the purchaser 
 less than the seventh part of a farthing per 
 line. Yet there are lines among them, that 
 have cost me the labor of hours, and none 
 that have not cost me some labor. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Friday night, March 25, 1791. 
 
 My dear Coz., — Johnson writes me word, 
 that he has repeatedly called on Horace Wal- 
 pole, and has never found him at home. He 
 has also written to him and received no 
 answer. I charge thee therefore on thy alle- 
 giance, that thou move not a finger more in 
 this business. My back is up, and I cannot 
 bear the thought of wooing him any farther, 
 nor would do it, though he were as pig a 
 gentleman (look you!) as Lucifer himself. 
 I have Welsh blood in me, if the pedigree, 
 of the Donnes say true, and every drop of it 
 says — " Let him alone ! " 
 
 I should have dined at the Hall to-day, 
 having engaged myself to do so. But an 
 untoward occurrence, that happened last 
 night, or rather this morning, prevented me. 
 It was a thundering rap at the door, just after 
 the clock struck three. First, I thought the 
 house was on fire. Then I thought the Hall 
 was on fire. Then I thought it was a house 
 breaker's trick. Then I thought it was an 
 express. In any case I thought, that if it 
 should be repeated, it would awaken and 
 terrify Mrs. Unwin, and kill her with spasms 
 The consequence of all these thoughts was 
 the worst nervous fever I ever had in my life, 
 although it was the shortest. The rap was 
 given but once, though a multifarious one. 
 Had I heard a second, I should have risen 
 myself at all adventures. It was the only 
 minute since you went, in which! have been 
 glad that you were not here. Soon after I 
 came down, I learned that a drunken party 
 had passed through the village at that time, 
 and they were, no doubt, the authors of this 
 witty but troublesome invention. 
 
 Our thanks are due to you for the book 
 you sent us. Mrs. Unwin has read to me 
 several parts of it, which I have much ad- 
 mired. The observations are shrewd and 
 pointed ; and there is much wit in the similes 
 and illustrations. Yet a remark struck me, 
 which I could not help making viva voce on 
 the occasion. If the book has any real value, 
 and does in truth deserve the notice taken 
 of it by those to whom it is addressed, its 
 claim is founded neither on the expression, 
 nor on the style, nor on the wit of it, but 
 altogether on the truth that it contains. 
 Now the same truths are delivered, to my 
 knowledge, perpetually from the pulpit^ by 
 ministers, whom the admirers of this writer 
 
 I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 369 
 
 would disdain to hear. Yet the truth ia not 
 the less important for not being accompa- 
 nied and recommended by brilliant thoughts 
 and expressions ; neither is God, from whom 
 comes all truth, any more a respecter of wit 
 than he is of persons. It will appear soon 
 whether they applaud the book for the sake 
 of its unanswerable arguments, or only 
 tolerate the argument for the sake of the 
 splendid manner in which it is enforced. I 
 wish as heartily that it may do them good 
 as if I were myself the author of it. But, 
 alas ! my wishes and hopes are much at vari- 
 ance. It will be the talk of the day, as an- 
 other pul)licati()n of the same kind lias been ; 
 and then the noise of ranity-fair will drown 
 the voice of the preacher. 
 
 I am glad to learn tliat the Chancellor 
 does not forget me, though more for his sake 
 than my own ; lor I see not how he can ever 
 serve a man like me. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest coz., 
 W. 0. 
 
 TO TnE REV. JOHX NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, March 29, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It affords me sincere 
 pleasure tliat you enjoy serenity of mind 
 after your great loss. It is well in all cir- 
 cumstances, even in the most afflictive, with 
 those who have God for their comforter. 
 You do me justice in giving entire credit to 
 my expressions of friendship u)r you. No 
 day passes in which I do not look back to 
 the days that are fled ; and, consequently, 
 none in which I do not feel myself affec- 
 tionately reminded of you and of her whom 
 you have lost for a season. I cannot even 
 see Olney spire from any of the fields in the 
 neighborhood, much less can I enter the 
 town, and still less the vicarage, without 
 experiencing the force of those mementoes, 
 and recollecting a multitude of passages to 
 which you and yours were parties. 
 
 The past would appear a dream were the 
 remembrance of it less affectin";. It was in 
 the most important respects so unlike my 
 present moments that I am sometimes almost 
 templed to suppose it a dream. J?ut the 
 difference between dreams and realities long 
 since elapsed seems to consist chieily in this 
 — that a dream, however painful or pleasant 
 at the time, and perhaps for a few ensuing 
 hours, passes like an arroAV through the air, 
 leaving no trace of its passage behind it ; 
 but our actual experiences make a lasting 
 impression. We review those which inter- 
 ested us much when they occurred, with 
 hardly less interest than in the first instance ; 
 and whether few years or many have inter- 
 vened, our sensibility makes them still pres- 
 ent, such a mere nullity is time to a creature 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 to wliom God gives a feeling heart and the 
 faculty of recollection. 
 
 That you have not the first sight and 
 sometimes, perhaps, have a late one of what 
 I write, is ovvi.-ig merely to your distant sit- 
 uation. Some tilings I have written not 
 worth your perusal ; and a few, a very few, 
 of such length that, engaged as I have been 
 t" Homer, it has not been possible that I 
 should find opportunity to tnm.^eribc them. 
 At the same time, Mrs. Unwin's pain in her 
 side has almost forbidden her the use of the 
 pen. She cannot use it long without in- 
 creasing that pain; for which reason I aia 
 more unwilling than herself that sue should 
 ever meddle with it. But, whether what I 
 write be a trifle, or whether it be serious, you 
 would certainly, were you present, see thera 
 all. Others get a sight of tliem by being so, 
 who w )uld never otherwise see tiiein ; and I 
 should hardly withhold them from you, 
 whose claim upon me is of so much older a 
 date than theirs. It is not indeed with read- 
 iness and good-will that I give them to any- 
 body ; for, if I live, I shall probably print 
 them ; and my friends, who are previously 
 well acquainted with them, will have the less 
 reason to value the book in which they shall 
 appear. A triile can have nothing to recoin- 
 K'.cnd it but its novelty. I have spoken of 
 giving copies; but, in fact, I have given none. 
 They who have them made them ; for, till 
 my whole work shall have fairly passed the 
 press, it will not leave me a moment more 
 than is necessarily due to my correspondents. 
 Their number has of late increased upon 
 me, by the addition of many of my maternal 
 relatives, who, having found me out about a 
 year since, have behaved to me in the most 
 atfectionate manner, ;uid have been singularly 
 serviceable to me ia the article of my sub- 
 scription. Several of them are coming from 
 Norfolk to visit me in the course of the 
 summer. 
 
 I enclose a copy of my last mortuary ver- 
 ses. The clerk for whom they were written 
 is since dead ; and whether his successor, the 
 late sexton, will choose to be his own dirge- 
 maker, or will employ me, is a piece of im- 
 portant news whicli has not yet reached me. 
 
 Our best remembrances attend yourself and 
 Miss Catlett, and we rejoice in the kind Prov- 
 idence that has given you in her so amiable 
 and comfortable a companion. Adieu, my 
 dear friend. 1 am sincerely yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
 
 Weston, April 2, 1791. 
 My dear Mrs. Frog, — A word or two be 
 fore breakfast: which is all that I shall have 
 time to send you! You liave not, I hope, 
 forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am 
 24
 
 370 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 obliged to him for hi- kind thcus^h unsuc- 
 cessful attempt in my favor at Oxford. It 
 seems not a little extraordinary that persons 
 so nobly patronised tliemselves on the score 
 of literature should resolve to give no en- 
 couragement to it in return. .Should I hud 
 a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I 
 will not neglect it. 
 
 Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor, 
 And tune his harp at Rhcdicine's door, 
 The rich old vixen would exclaim (1 fear) 
 " Begone 1 no tramper gets a farthing here." 
 
 husband's pamphlet 
 You may think per- 
 
 I have road your 
 throuj^li and tiirough. 
 haps, and so may lie, that a question so re- 
 mote from ad concern of mine could not in- 
 terest lae ; but if you think so, you are both 
 mistaken. lie can write nothing that will 
 not interest me : in the first place, for tiie 
 writer's sake, and in the next place, because 
 he writes better and reasons better than any- 
 body; with more candor, and with more suf- 
 ficiency, and, consequently, with more satis- 
 faction to all his readers, save otdy his oppo- 
 nents. They, I think, by this time, \\ish that 
 they had let him alone. 
 
 Tom is delighted past measure with his 
 wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would 
 kill any horse that had a life to lose. 
 
 Adieu! W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, April C, 1791. 
 My dear Johnny, — A thousand thanks for 
 your splendid assemblage of Cambridge lu- 
 minaries! If you are not contented with 
 your collection, it can only be because yoo. 
 are unreasonable; for I, who may be sup- 
 posed more covetous on this occasion than 
 anybody, am highly satisfied, and even de- 
 lighted with it. If indeed you should find it 
 practicable to add still to the number, I have 
 not the least objection. Cut this charge I 
 give you : 
 
 "AXXo il Toi IpzUj cv t)' evl 'Pp£(t'i (OXXco arjai. 
 
 Stay not an hour beyond the time you have 
 mentioned, even though you sliould be able to 
 add a thousand names by doing so ! For I 
 cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. 
 I long to see you, and so do we both, and will 
 not suffer you to postpone your visit for any 
 such consideration. No, my dear boy ! In 
 the affair of subscriptions, we are already il- 
 lustrious enough, shall be so at least, when 
 you shall have enlisted a college or two more ; 
 which, perhaps, you may be able to do in the 
 course of the ensuing week. I feel myself 
 much obliged to your university, and much 
 disposed to admire the liberality of spirit 
 which they have shown on this occasion. 
 
 Certainly I have not deserved nmch favor at 
 their hands, all things considered. But the 
 cause of literature seems to have some weight 
 with them, and to have superseded the resent- 
 ment they might be supposed to entertain on 
 the score of certain censures that you wot of. 
 It is not so at Oxford. \y. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, April 29, 1791. 
 
 ]\Iy dear Friend, — I forget if I told you 
 that ]Mr. Throckmorton had applied through 
 the medium of to the university of Ox- 
 ford. He did so, but without success. Their 
 answer was, "that they subscribe to noth- 
 ing." 
 
 Pope's subscriptions did not amount ] 
 think, to six hundred ; and mine will not fall 
 very short of five. Noble doings, at a time of 
 day when Homer has no news to tell us, and 
 when, all other comforts of life having risen 
 in price, poetry has of course fallen. 1 call it 
 a " comfort of life;" it is so to others, but 
 to myself it is become even a necessary. 
 
 The holiday times are very unfavorable to 
 the printer's progress. He and all his demons 
 are making themselves merry and me sad, for 
 I mourn at every hinderance. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, May 2, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Monday being a day in 
 which Homer has now no demands upon me, I 
 shall give part of the present Monday to you. 
 But it this moment occurs to me that the pro- 
 position with which I begin will be obscure 
 to you, unless followed by an explanation. 
 You are to understand, therefore, that Mon- 
 day being no post-day, I have consequently 
 no proof-sheets to correct, the correction of 
 which is nearly all that I have to do with Ho- 
 mer at present. I say nearly all, because I am 
 likewise occasionally employed in reading 
 over the whole of what is already printed, 
 that I may make a table of errata to each of 
 the poems. How much is already printed ? 
 say you : I answer — the whole Iliad, and al- 
 most seventeen books of the Odyssey. 
 
 About a fortnight since, perhaps three 
 weeks, I had a visit from your nephew, Mr 
 Bagot, and his tutor, Mr. Hurlock, who came 
 hither under conduct of your niece. Miss 
 Barbara. So were the friends of Ulysses 
 conducted to the palace of Antiphates the 
 Laestrigonian by that monarch's daughter. 
 But mine is no palace, neither am I a giant, 
 neither did I devour one of the party. On 
 the contrary, I gave them chocolate, and per- 
 mitted them to depart in peace. I Avas much 
 pleased both with the young man and his 
 tutor. In the countenance of the former I 
 saw much Bagotism, and not less in his man- 
 ner. I will leave you to guess what 1 mean 
 
 II
 
 LIFE OF COWPEK 
 
 371 
 
 by that expression. Physiognomy is a study 
 of which I have almost as high an opinion as 
 Lavater himself, the professor of it, and for 
 this good reason, because it never yet deceived 
 me. But perhaps I shall speak more truly if 
 I say, that I am somewhat an adept in the art, 
 although I have never studied it ; for whether 
 I will or not, I judge of every human creature 
 by the countenance, and, as I say, have never 
 yet seen reason to repent of my judgment. 
 Sometimes I feel myself powerfully attracted, 
 as I was by your nephew, and sometimes with 
 equal vehemence repulsed, which attraction 
 and repulsion have always been justified in 
 the sequel. 
 
 I have lately read, and with more attention 
 than I ever gave to them before, Milton's 
 Latin poems. But these I must make the 
 subject of some future letter, in which it will 
 be ten to one that your friend Samuel John- 
 eon gets another slap or two at the hands of 
 your humble servant. Pray read them your- 
 self, and witti as much attention as I did ; 
 then read the Doctor's remarks if you have 
 them, and then tell me what you think of 
 both.* It will bo pretty sport for you on 
 such a day as this, which is the fourth that 
 we have had of almost incessant rain. The 
 weather, and a cold, the effect of it, have con- 
 fined me ever since last Tuesday. ]Mrs. Un- 
 win however is well, and joins me in every 
 good wish to yourself and family. I am, my 
 good friend, 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. BUCHAN.'iN'. 
 
 Weston, May 11, 1791. 
 ^ly dear Sir, — You have sent me a beauti- 
 ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would 
 to heaven that j-ou could give it that requisite 
 yourself; for he who could make the sketch 
 cannot but be well qualified to finish. But 
 if you will not, I Avill ; provided always, 
 nevertheless, that God gives me aliility, for 
 it will require no common share to do justice 
 to your conceptions. f 
 
 I am much yours, W. C. 
 
 Your little messenger vanished before I 
 
 could catch liim. 
 
 * Jolins'iii's remark on Milton's Latin poems is .as fol- 
 lows : " The Latin pieces are lusciously elepint ; but tlie 
 delight which they alToril is rather by the exquisite imi- 
 tation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction 
 and the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of 
 invention or vigor of sentiment. They are not all of 
 equal value ; tlie elegies excel the odes ; and some of 
 the exercises on gunpowder treason might have been 
 spared." 
 
 He, however, quotes with approbation the remark of 
 Hampton, the translator of I'olybius, that " .Milton was 
 the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, 
 wrote Latin verses with classic elegance." — See J'oAn.soji's 
 Life nf Miltnn. 
 
 t We are indebteil to Mr. Buchanan for having sug- 
 gested to Cowper the outline of the poem called "The 
 Four Ages," viz., infancy, youth, middle age, and old age. 
 the writer was acquainted with this respectable clergy 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, May 18, 1791. 
 
 My dearest Coz., — Has another of my let- 
 ters fallen short of its destination ; or where- 
 fore is it, that thou writest not ? One letter 
 in five weeks is a poor allowance for your 
 friends at Weston. One, that I received two 
 or three days since from Mrs. Frog, has not 
 at all enlightened me on this head. But I 
 wander in a wilderness of vain conjecture. 
 
 I have had a letter lately from New York, 
 from a Doctor Cogswell of that place, to thank 
 me for my fine verses, and to tell me, which 
 pleased me particularly, that, after having 
 read " The Task," my "first volume fell into 
 his hands, which he read also, and was equally 
 pleased with. This is the only instance I can 
 recollect of a reader doing justice to my first 
 eflFusions ; for I am sure, that in point of ex- 
 pression they do not fall a jot below my 
 second, and that in point of subject they are 
 for the most part superior. But enough, and 
 too much of this. " The Task," he tells me 
 has been reprinted in that city. 
 
 Adieu ! my dearest Coz. 
 
 We have blooming scenes under wintry 
 skies, and with icy blasts to fan them. 
 
 Ever thine, W. C. 
 
 TO JOIIN JOnXSOX, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, May 23, 1791. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — Did I not knoAv thai 
 you are never more in your element than 
 when you are exerting yourself in my cause, 
 I should congratulate you on the hope there 
 seems to be that your labor will soon have an 
 end.* 
 
 You will wonder, perhaps, my Johnny, that 
 Mrs. Unwin, by my desire, enjoined you to 
 secrecy concerning the translation of the 
 Frogs and Mice.f Wonderful it may well 
 seem to you, that I should wi,sh to hide for a 
 short time from a few what I am just going 
 to pulilish to all. But I had more reasons 
 tlian one for this mysterious management ; 
 that is to say, I had two. In the first place, 1 
 wished to surprise my readers agreeably ; and 
 secondly, I wished to allow none of my friends 
 an opportunity to object to the measure, who 
 might think it perhaps a measure more boun- 
 tiful than prudent. But I have had my suffi- 
 cient reward, though not a pecuniary one. It 
 is a poem of much humor, and accordingly I 
 found the translation of it very amusing. It 
 struck me, too, that I must either make it 
 part of tlie present publication, or never pub- 
 lish it at all ; it would have been so terribly 
 out of its place in any other volume. 
 
 I long for the time that shall bring you 
 
 man in his declining years. He was considered to be • 
 man of cultivated mind and taste. 
 
 * The labor of transcribing Cowper's version. 
 
 t See his version of Homer.
 
 372 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 once more to Weston, and all your et ceteras 
 with you. Oh ! what a month of May has 
 this been ! Let never poet, English poet at 
 least, give himself to the praises of May 
 again. W. C. 
 
 We add the verses that he composed on 
 this occasion. 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 
 
 Two nymphs,* both nearly of an age. 
 
 Of numerous charms possess'd, 
 A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage. 
 
 Whose temper was the best. 
 
 The worth of each had been complete, 
 
 Had both alike been mild; 
 But one, although her smile was sweet, 
 
 Frown'd oftener than she smil'd. 
 
 And in her humor, when she frown'd. 
 Would raise her voice and roar; 
 
 And shake with fury to the ground. 
 The garland that she wore. 
 
 The other was of gentler cast, 
 
 From all such frenzy clear; 
 Her frowns were never known to last. 
 
 And never prov'd severe. 
 
 To poets of renown in song. 
 
 The nymphs referr'd the cause. 
 Who, strange to tell ! all judged it wrong. 
 
 And gave misplac'd applause. 
 
 They gentle call'd, and kind, and soft. 
 
 The flippant and the scold ; 
 And, though she chang'd her mood so oft. 
 
 That failing left untold. 
 
 No judges sure were e'er so mad. 
 
 Or so resolv'd to err ; 
 In short, the charms her sister had, 
 
 They lavished all on her. 
 
 Then thus the god, whom fondly they 
 
 Their great inspirer call. 
 Was heard one genial summer's day. 
 
 To reprimand them all : 
 
 " Since thus ye have combin'd," ho said, 
 
 "My fav'rite nymph to slight. 
 Adorning May, that peevish maid ! 
 
 With June's undoubted right ; 
 
 " The minx shall, for your folly's sake. 
 
 Still prove herself a shrew ; 
 Shall make 3'our scribbling fingers ache. 
 
 And pinch your noses blue." 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, May 27, 1791. 
 
 My dearest Coz., — I, who am neither dead, 
 nor sick, nor idle, should have no excuse, 
 were I as tardy in answering as you in writ- 
 ing. I live indeed where leisure abounds, 
 and you where leisure is not ; a difference 
 that accounts sufficiently both for your si- 
 lence and my loquacity. 
 
 * May and June. 
 
 When you told Mrs. that my Ilomei 
 
 would come fortli in May, you told her what 
 you believed, and, therefore, no fiilsehuod. 
 But you told her at the same time what will 
 not happen, and theref(jre not a truth. Tliere 
 is a medium between truth and falseh()!)d ; 
 and I believe the word mistake expresses it 
 exactly. I will therefore sa}' that you were 
 mistaken. If instead of May you had men- 
 tioned June, I flatter myself tliat you wuuld 
 have hit the mark. For in June there is 
 every probability that Ave shall publish. You 
 will say, " Hang the printer! for it is his 
 fault!" But stay, my dear ; hang him not 
 just now! For to execute him and find an 
 other will cost us time, and so much, too, 
 that I question if, in that case, we should 
 publish sooner than in August. To say 
 truth, I am not perfectly sure that there will 
 be any necessity to hang hiui at all ; though 
 that is a matter which I desire to leave en 
 tirely at your discretion, alleging only, in the 
 meantime, that the man does not appear to 
 me during the last half year to have been at 
 all in fault. His remittance of sheets in all 
 that time has been punctual, save and except 
 while the Easter holidays lasted, Avhen I sup 
 pose he found it impossible to keep his devils 
 to their business. I shall, however, receive 
 the last sheet of the Odyssey to-morrow, and 
 have already sent up the Preface, together 
 with all the needful. You see, therefore, that 
 the publication of tliis famous work cannot 
 be delayed much longer. 
 
 As for politics, I reck not, having no room 
 in my head for anything but the Slave bill. 
 That is lost; and all the rest is a trifle. I 
 have not seen Paine's book,* but refused to 
 see it, when it was offered to me. No man 
 shall convince me that I am improperly gov- 
 erned while I feel the contrary. 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 1, 1791. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — Now you may rest. 
 Now I can give you joy of the period, of 
 which I gave you hope in my last ; the period 
 of all your labors in my service. f But this 
 I can foretell you, also, that, if you persevere 
 in serving your friends at this rate, your life 
 is likely to be a life of labor. Yet persevere ! 
 Your rest will be the sweeter hereafter ! In 
 the mean time I wish you, if at any time you 
 Siiould find occasion 'for him, just such a 
 friend as you have proved to me ! 
 
 ■^ W. C. 
 
 * The " Rights of Man," a book which created a great 
 ferment in the country, by its revolutionary character and 
 statements. 
 
 t As a transcriber.
 
 PART THE THIRD 
 
 Having now arrived at that period in the 
 listory of Covvper when he had brouirht to a 
 close liis great and hihorioiis undertakini,^, his 
 version of Homer, we suspend for a nionieiit 
 the progress of the correspondence, to atV</rd 
 room for a few observations. 
 
 We have seen in many (if the preceding 
 letters, with what ardor of apphcatiun and 
 liveliness of hope he devoted himself to this 
 favorite project of enriching the literature of 
 his country with an English Homer, that 
 might justly be esteemed a faithful yet free 
 translation ; a genuine r.nd graceful repre- 
 sentative of the justly ti.hnired original. 
 
 After hve years nf intense labor, from 
 which nothing could withhold liim, except the 
 pressure of that unhappy malady which re- 
 tarded his exertions for SLVcral months, he 
 published his complete version in two quarto 
 volumes, on the first of July, 1T91, having in- 
 scribed tile Jliad to his young noble kinsmjin, 
 Earl Cowper, and the Odyssey to the dowa- 
 ger Countess Spencer — a lady for whose 
 virtues he had long entertained a most cordial 
 and alfecrionate veneration. 
 
 He had exerted no coinmo.-\ powers of 
 genius and of industry in this .^reat enterprise, 
 yet, we lament to say, he fniled in satisfying 
 the expectations of the public. Hayley as- 
 sLorn •. a. t^aso'\ for tins failure, which we give 
 •n his own words. "Homer," he observes, 
 " is so exquisitely beautiful in his own lan- 
 guage, and he has lieen so long an idol in 
 every literary mind, that any copy of him, 
 which the best of modern poets can execute, 
 must probably resemble in its effect the por- 
 trait of a graceful woman, painted by an ex- 
 cellent artist for her lover : the lover indeed 
 Vi'ill acknowledge great merit in the work, 
 and think himself much indebted to the skill 
 of such an artist, but he will never admit, as 
 in truth he never can feel, that the best of re- 
 semblances exhibits all the grace that he dii- 
 cerns in the beloved original." 
 
 This illustration is ingenious and amusini;,, 
 but we doubt its justness ; because the pain;- 
 er may produce a correct and even aflatitring 
 likeness of the lover's mistress, though it is 
 true that the lover himself will tlr'j^k other- 
 uir.e. But where is the translator that can 
 do justice to the r.jrits of H >mer? Who can 
 exhibit his majestic simplic .y, his sententious 
 force, the lofty grandeur of his conceptions, 
 iind the sw.".-'. charm (■( his imagery, embel- 
 lished with all the o-races of a lanijuaire never 
 
 surpassed either in harmony or richness 
 The two competitors, who are alone entitled 
 to be contrasted with each other, are Pope 
 and Cowper. ^\e pass over Ogilby, Chap- 
 man, and others. It is Hector alone that is 
 worthy to contend with Achilles. To the 
 version of Pope must be allowed the praise 
 of melody of numbers, richness of poetic dic- 
 tion, splendor of imagery and brilliancy of 
 effect ; but these merits are acquired at the 
 expense of fidelity and justness of interpre- 
 tation. The simplicity of the heroic ages is 
 exchanged for the retinement of modern taste, 
 and Homer sinks under the weight of orna- 
 ments not his own. Where Pope fails, Cow- 
 per succeeds ; but, on the other hand, where 
 Pope succeeds, Cowper seems to fail. Cow- 
 per is more faithful, but less rich and spirited. 
 He is singularly exempt from the defects at 
 fributable to Pope. There is nothing extra^ 
 iie(jus, no meretricious ornameiit, no labored 
 elegance, nothing added, nothing omitted. 
 The integrity of the te.vtis happily preserved. 
 But though it is in the page of Cowper that 
 we must seek for the true interpretation of 
 Homer's meaning — though there are many 
 passages distinguished by much grace and 
 beauty — yet, on the whole, the lofty spirit, 
 the bright glow of feeling, the "thoughts 
 that breathe, the words that burn," are not 
 sudiciently sustained. Each of these distin- 
 guished writers, to a certain extent, has failed, 
 not from any want of genius, but because 
 complete success is difficult, if not unattaina- 
 ble. Two causes may perhaps be assigned 
 for this failure ; first, no copy can equal the 
 original, if the original be the production of 
 a master artist. The poet who seeks to 
 transfuse into his own page the meaning and 
 spirit of an author, endowed with extraordi- 
 )>;r} powei-?:., resembles the chemist in his 
 laboratory, who, in endeavoring to conden.se 
 the properties of dirTerent substances, and to 
 e.xtract their essence, has the misfortune to 
 see a great portion of the volatile qualities 
 evaporate in the proioss, and elude all the 
 efibrts of his philosophic art. JSecondiy, Ho- 
 mer still remains untranslated, because of all 
 poets he is the most untranslateal)le. He 
 seems to claim the lofty prerogative of stand- 
 ing alone, and of enjoying the solitary gran- 
 deur of his own unrivalled genius; allowing 
 neither to rival nor to friend, to imitator nor 
 to translator, the honors of participation : but 
 exercising the exclusive right of interpreting
 
 374 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 the majestic simplicity ofhis own conceptions, 
 in all the fervor of his own poetic fancy, and 
 in the sweet melody of his own graceful and 
 flowing nnmbers. He wlio wislies to under- 
 stand and to appreciate Homer, must seek 
 him in the charm and beauty of liis own in- 
 imitable language. 
 
 As Cowper's versions of the Iliad and 
 Odyssey have formed so prominent a feature 
 in "his correspondence, for hve successive 
 years, we think it may be interesting to sub- 
 join a ^e\v specimens from each translator, re- 
 stricting our quotations to the Iliad, as being 
 the most familiar to the reader. 
 
 We extract passages, where poetic skill 
 was most likely to be exerted. 
 
 Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found, 
 Now green in youth, now with'ring on the ground ; 
 Another race "the following spring supplies; 
 They tall successive, and successive rise: 
 So generations in their course decay; 
 So flourish these, when those are past away. 
 Popes Version, book vi. line 181. 
 
 For as the leaves, so springs the race of man. 
 Chill blasts shake down the leaves, and warm'd 
 
 anew 
 By vernal airs the grove puts forth a^ain: 
 Ai^e after age, so man is born and dies. 
 
 Cmcpers Version, book vi. line 1G4. 
 
 The interview between Hector and Andro- 
 mache — 
 
 Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates ; 
 (Howmy heart trembles while niy tongue relates!) 
 The day when Thou, imperial Troy, must bend, 
 And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. 
 And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
 My inother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
 Not Priam 'f hoary hairs defil'd with rore, 
 Not all my brothers gasping on the shore ; 
 As thine, Andromache I thy griefs I dread. 
 I see thee trembhng, weeping, captive led ! 
 In Argive looms our battles to design 
 .-ind woes, of which so large a part was thine ! 
 To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
 The weight of waters from Hyiieria's spring. 
 There, while you groan beneath tlie load of hfe, 
 They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife ! 
 Som"^e haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
 Embitters all thy woes, by naming me. 
 The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
 A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
 May I he cold before that dreadful day, 
 Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! 
 Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, 
 Shall neither see thee sigh, nor see thee weep. 
 Pope's Version, book vi. line 570. 
 
 For my prophetic soul fuiesees a day 
 When'llium, Ihum's ik.oj.Ic, and, himself, 
 Her warhke kin,;, shall perish. But no grief 
 For Ilium, for her people, for the king 
 My warlike sire ; nor even for the queen ; 
 Nor for the num'rous and the valiant band, 
 My brothers, destin'd all to bite the ground, 
 So moves me as my grief for thee alone. 
 Doom'd then to follow seme iaiperious Greek, 
 A weeping captive to the distant shores 
 Of Argos ; there to labor at the loom 
 
 For a task-mistress, and with many a sigh, 
 But heav'd in vain, to bear the pond'rous urn 
 From Ilypereia's, or Messeis' fount. 
 Fast flow tliy tears the while, and as he eyes 
 That silent shower, some passing Greek .'shall say 
 " This was the wife of Hector, who excel I'd 
 All Troy in iight, when Ilium was besieg'd." 
 While thus he speaks thy tears shall flow afresh ; 
 The guardian of thy freedom while he liv'd 
 Forever lost ; but be my bones inhum'd, 
 A senseless store, or e'er thy parting cries 
 Shall pierce mine ear, and thou be dragg'd away. 
 Cowper's Version, book vi. line 501. 
 
 We add one more specimen, where tho 
 beauty of the imagery demands the exercise 
 of poetic talent. 
 
 As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
 O'er heaven's clear azure sheds her sacred light. 
 When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
 And not a cloud o'ereasts the solemn scene ; 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
 And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ; 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed. 
 And tip with silver every mountain's head, 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 A flood of glory bursts from all the skies.* 
 
 Book viii. line 687. 
 
 As when around the clear bright moon, the 
 
 stars 
 Shine in full splendor, and the winds are hush'd. 
 The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland 
 
 heights. 
 Stand all apparent, not a vapor streaks 
 The boundless blue, but ether open'd wide 
 All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheer'd. 
 
 Book viii. line 637. 
 
 We leave the reader to form his own de- 
 cision as to the relative merits of the two 
 translations. Pope evidently produces effect 
 by expanding the sentiments and imagery 
 of his author; Cowper invariably adheres 
 to the original text. That full justice may 
 be rendered to him, it is necessary not 
 merely to compare him with Pope, but with 
 his great original. 
 
 After these remarks we once more return 
 to the correspondence of Cowper. 
 
 TO THE RET. MR. HURBIS. 
 
 Weston, June 13, 1791. 
 My dear Sir, — I ought to have thanked you 
 for your agreeable and entertaining letter 
 much sooner, but I have many correspond- 
 ents who will not be said nay ; and have 
 been obliged of late to give my last atten- 
 tions to Homer. The very last indeed, for 
 yesterday I despatched to town, after revis- 
 ing them carefully, the proof sheets of sub- 
 scribers' names, among which I took special 
 
 * There is a similar passage in Mickle's "Lusiad," Si 
 full of beauty, that we cannot refrain from inserting it : — 
 The moon, full orb'd, forsakes her watery cave, 
 And lifts her lovely head above the wave ; 
 The snowy splendors of her modest ray 
 Stream o'er the liquid wave, and glittering play : 
 The masts' tall shadows tremble in the deep : 
 The peaceful winds a holy silence keep ; 
 The watchman's carol, echoed from the prows, 
 Alone, at times, disturbs the calm repose.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 375 
 
 notice of yours, and am miu-h obliged to you 
 for it. We have contrived, or rather my 
 bookseller and printer have contrived (for 
 they liave never waited a moment for me) to 
 publish as critically at the wrong time, as if 
 my whole interest and success had depended 
 upon it. JIarch, April, and May, said John- 
 son to me in a letter that I received from liim 
 in February, are the best months for publica- 
 tion. Therefiire now it is determined that 
 Homer shall come out on the first of July; 
 that is to say, exactly at the moment when, 
 e^if.pt a few lawyers, not a creature will be 
 left in town who will ever care one farthing 
 about him. To which of these two friends 
 of mine I am indebted for this management, 
 I know not. It does not please, but I wimd 
 be a philosopher as well as a poet, and Wvxm- 
 fore make no complaint, or grumble at all 
 about it. You, I presume, have had denlijigs 
 with them both — how did they man:igt> ioi 
 
 you ? And, if as they have for me, hov/ did 
 yon behave under it? Some who Jo\e Jue 
 complain that I am too passive ; and 1 shoi J- 
 be glad of an opportunity to justify myself 
 by yonr example. The fact is, should I thun- 
 der ever so loud, no etlbrts of that sort will 
 avail me now; therefore, like a good econo- 
 mist of my bolts, I choose to reserve them 
 for more profitable occasions. 
 
 I am glad to find that your amusements 
 have been so similar to mine ; for in this in- 
 stance too I seemed in need of somebody to 
 keep me in countenance, especially in my at- 
 tention and attachment to animals. All the 
 notice that we lords of the creation vouch- 
 safe to bestow on the creatures is generally 
 to abuse them ; it is well, therefore, that here 
 and there a man should be found a little 
 womanish, or perhaps a little childish, in tiiis 
 Matter, who will make some mnends, by- kiss- 
 ing and coaxing and laying them in" one's 
 bosom. You remember "the little ev.e lamb, 
 mentioned by the prophet Nathan : the pro- 
 phet perhaps invented the tale tur the sake 
 of its application to David's conscience ; but 
 it is more probable that God inspired him 
 with it for that purpose. If he did, it amounts 
 to a proof, that he does not overlook, but, on 
 tlie contrary, much notices such little partial- 
 ities and kindnesses to his dumb creatures, 
 as we, because we articulate, are pleased to 
 call them. 
 
 Your sisters are fitter to judge than I, whe- 
 ther assembly-rooms are the places, of all 
 others, iu which the hidies may be studied to 
 most advantage. I am an old fellow, but I 
 had once my dancing days as you have now, 
 yet I could never find that I learned half so 
 much c f a woman's real character by dancino- 
 with hci as by convensing with iier at home, 
 where 1 could observe her behavior at the 
 iable, at the fire-si('e, and in all the trying 
 <irLumstances of domestic life. We are afi 
 
 good when we are pleased, but she is the 
 good woman who wants not a fiddle to 
 sweeten her. If I am wrong, the young 
 ladies will set me right; in the meantime I 
 will not tease you with graver arguments on 
 the subject, especially as I have a hope, that 
 years, and the study of the Scripture, and 
 His Spirit whose word it is, will, in due 
 time, bring you to my way of thinking. I 
 am not one of those sages who require°that 
 young men should be as old as themselves 
 before they have time to be so. 
 
 With my love to your fair sisters, I remain, 
 Dear Sir, most truly yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, 
 
 The Lodge, June 15, 1701. 
 My dear Friend,— If it will afford you any 
 comfort that you have a share in my affec- 
 tions, of that comfort you may avail yourself 
 , at all times. You have acquired it by means 
 I which, unless I should have become worth- 
 less myself to an uncommon degree, will al- 
 ways secure you from the loss of it. You 
 are learning what all learn, though few at so 
 early an age, that man is an ungrateful ani- 
 mal; and that benefits, too often, instead of 
 securing a due return, operate rather as prov- 
 ocations to ill-treatment. This I take to be 
 the summum malum of the human heart. 
 Towards God we are all guilty of it more or 
 less; but between man and man, we may 
 thank God for it, there are some exceptions. 
 He leaves this peccant principle to operate, 
 in some degree against himself, in all, for our 
 humiliation, I suppose; and because the per- 
 nicious effects of it in reality cannot injure 
 him, he cannot suffer by them ; but he knows 
 that, unless he should retain its influence on 
 the dealings of mankind with each other, the 
 bonds of society would be dissolved, and all 
 charitable intercourse at an end amongst us. 
 It was said of Archbishop Cranmer, " Do him 
 an ill turn, and you make him vour friend 
 forever;" of others it may be said, " Do them 
 a good one, and they will be forever your 
 erwmies." It is the grace of God only that 
 makes the dilference. 
 
 1'he absence of Homer (for we have now 
 shaken hands and parted) is well supplied by 
 three relations of mine from Norfolk — my 
 cousin Johnson, an aunt of his,* and his sis- 
 ter.f I love them all dearly, and am well 
 content to resign to tiiem the place in my 
 attentions so lately occupied by the chiefs 
 of Greece and Troy. His aunt and I have 
 spent many a merry day together, when we 
 were some forty years younger; and we 
 make shift to be merry together still. Ilia 
 sister is a sweet young woman, graceful, 
 
 * Mrs. Bodham. -f Mrs. Hewitt.
 
 376 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 good-natured, and gentle, just what I had 
 imagined her to be before I liad seen her.* 
 Farewell, W. C. 
 
 TO DR. JAMES COGSWELL, NEW YORK. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, near Olncy, Bucks, 
 June 15, 1791. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Your letter and obliging pres- 
 ent from so great a distance deserved a 
 speedier acknowledgment, and should not 
 have wanted one so long, had not circum- 
 stances so fallen out since I received them 
 as to make it impossible for me to write 
 sooner. It is indeed within this day or two 
 that I have heard how, by the help of my 
 bookseller, I may transmit an answer to you. 
 
 My title-page, as it well might, misled you. 
 It speaks me of the Inner Temple ; and so I 
 am, but a member of that society only, not 
 as an inhabitant. I live here almost at the 
 distance of sixty miles from London, which 
 I have not visited these eight-and-twenty 
 years, and probably never shall again. Thus 
 it fell out that ]\Ir. Morewood had sailed 
 again for America before your parcel reached 
 me, nor should I (it is likely) have received 
 it at all, had not a cousin of mine, who lives 
 in the Temple, by good fortune received it 
 first, and opened your letter ; finding for 
 whom it was intended, he transmitted to me 
 both that and the parcel. Your testimony 
 of approbation of what I have published, 
 coming from another quarter of the globe, 
 could not but be exceedingly flattering, as 
 was your obliging notice that " The Task" 
 had been reprinted in your city. Both vol- 
 umes, I hope, have a tendency to discounte- 
 nance vice, and promote the best interests 
 of mankind. But how far they shall be ef- 
 fectual to these invaluable purposes depends 
 altogether on His blessing, whose truths I 
 have endeavored to inculcate. In the mean- 
 time I have sufficient proof, that readers may 
 be pleased, may approve, and yet lay down 
 the book unedified. 
 
 During the last five years I have been oc- 
 cupied witja a work of a very different na- 
 ture, a translation of the Iliad and Odyssey 
 into blank verse, and the work is now ready 
 for publication. I undertook it, partly be- 
 cause Pope's is too lax a version, which has 
 lately occasioned the learned of this country 
 to call aloud for a new one ; and partly be- 
 cause I could fall on no better expedient to 
 amuse a mind too much addicted to melan- 
 choly. 
 
 I send you, in return for the volumes with 
 which you favored me, three on religious sub- 
 jects, popular productions that have not been 
 
 * Mrs. Hewitt tally merited this description. She de- 
 parted a lew yeurs before her brother, tlie late Dr. John- 
 son. Their remuiiis lie in the same vault, at Yaxham, 
 ttCBT Dereham, Norfolk. 
 
 long published, and that may not therefore 
 yet iiave reached your country : " The Chris- 
 tian Officer's Panoply, by a marine otiicer" — 
 "Tiie Importance of tiie ^Manners of the 
 Great," and "An Estimate of the Religion 
 of the Fashionable World." The two^last 
 are said to be written by a lady. Miss Han- 
 nah More, and are universally read by people 
 of that rank to which she addresses them. 
 Your manners, I suppose, may be more pure 
 than ours, yet it is not unlikely that even 
 among you may be found some to whom her 
 strictures are applicable. 1 return you my 
 thanks, sir, for the volumes you sent me, two 
 of which I have read with pleasure, Mr. Ed- 
 wards's* book, and the Conquest of Canaan. 
 I'Ik- rest I have not had time to read, except 
 Dr. Pwight's Sermon, which pleased me al- 
 most more than any that I have either seen 
 or heard. 
 
 I siiall account a correspondence with you 
 an iio.uor, and remain, dear sir, 
 
 Your obliged and obedient servant, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Weston, June 24, 17D1. 
 
 I'l , lear Friend, — Considering the multi 
 plicity of your engagements, and the impor- 
 tance, no doubt, of most of them, I am bound 
 to set the higher value on your letters, and, 
 instead of grumbling that they come seldom, 
 to be thankful to you that they come at all. 
 You are now going into the country, where, 
 I presume, you will have less to do, and I am 
 rid of Homer. Let us try, therefore, if, in 
 t\h- interval between the present hour and 
 the next busy season (for I, too, if I live, 
 sliall probably be occupied again), we can 
 continue to exchange letters more frequently 
 than for some time past. 
 
 You do justice to me and Mrs. Unwin, 
 when you assure yourself that to hear of 
 your health will give us pleasure : I know 
 not, in truth, whose health and well-being 
 could give us more. The years that we have 
 seen together will never be out of our remem- 
 brance; and, so long as we remember them, 
 we must remember you with atfection. In 
 the pulpit, and out of the pulpit, you have la 
 bored in every possible way to serve us ; and 
 we must have a short memory indeed for the 
 kindness of a friend, could we by any means 
 become forgetful of yours. It would grieve 
 me more than it does to hear you complain 
 of the effects of time, were not I also myself 
 the subject of them. While he is wearing 
 out you and other dear friends of mine, he 
 spares not me ; for v\'hich I ought to account 
 
 * The celebrated American Edwards, well known for 
 his two Kreat works on "The Freedom of the Human 
 Will," and on " Religious Affections." Dr. Dwight's Ser- 
 moMS are a body of sound and excellent theology. 
 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 371 
 
 myself obliged to him, since 1 should other- 
 wise be in damper of siirviviiio- ail tluit 1 have 
 ever loved — the most melaiiciioly lot tiiat can 
 befall a mortal. God knows what will be 
 my doom hereafter; but precious as life nec- 
 essarily seems to a mind doubtful of ils fu- 
 ture happiness, I love not the world, I trust, 
 so mucli as to wish a place in it when all my 
 beloved shall have left it. 
 
 You -speal; of yor.r late loss in a manner 
 that ;iffecteJ vne niucli ; and when I read that 
 part of your ietliT: I mourned with you and 
 for you. But surely, I said to my.self, no 
 man had ever loss reason to charge his con- 
 duct to a wife with anytliing blaineworLliy. 
 Thoughts of that complexion, however, are 
 no doubt extremely natural on the occasion 
 of sucli a loss ; and a man seems not to have 
 valued sutiiciesriy, when he possesses it no 
 longer, what, wnile he possessed it, he valued 
 more than life. 1 am mistaken, too, or you 
 can recollect a time when you had fears, and 
 sucli as becf!mc a (.'hristian, of loving too 
 much; and it is likely that you have even 
 prayed to be preserved from doing so. 1 
 suggest ihi.s to you as a plea against those 
 seli-ac'".r\sa.li'>ns, which I am satisfied tliat you 
 do not .ucsBrve, and as an etlectua! answer 
 to ihem all. ¥i..u «ia.y do well too to con- 
 sider, that had the deceased been the survivor 
 she would have cliaro.'d herself in the same 
 manner, and, I am sure you will acknowledge, 
 without any sufficient reason. The truth is, 
 tliat you botli loved at least as much as you 
 ought, and, I dare say, had not a friend in the 
 world wiio did not frequently observe it. 
 To love just enough, and not a bit too much, 
 is not for creatures who can do nothing well. 
 If we fail in duties less arduous, how should 
 wo succeed in tiiis, the most arduous of all? 
 
 I am glad to learn from yourself that you 
 aie about to quit a scene that probably keeps 
 your lender recollections too mucii alive. 
 Another place and other company may have 
 their uses; and, while your church is under- 
 going repair, its minister may be repaired 
 a'so. 
 
 As to Homer, I am sensible tliat, except as 
 an amusement, he was never worth my med- 
 dling with ; but, as an amusement, he was to 
 ire invaluable. As sucii he served me more 
 than five years; and, in that re-pcct, I know 
 not wiiere I shall tnid his equal. You oblige 
 me by saying, liiat you will read him for my 
 sake. I verily think that any person of a 
 spiritual turn may read him to some advan- 
 tage. He may suggest reflections that may 
 not be unserviceable even in a hcrmon ; for I 
 know not where v/e can find more striking 
 exemplars of the pride, the arrog-wice, and 
 the insignificance of man; at the s.ane time 
 (hat, by ascribing all even:*s to a divine inter-] 
 oositicn. he indicates constantly the belief of 
 i providence ; insists much on the duty of 
 
 charily towards the poor and the stranger ; 
 on the respect that is due to superiors, and 
 to our seniors in particular; and on the ex- 
 pedience and necessity of prayer and piety 
 toward the gods, a piety mistaken, indeed, in 
 its object, but exemplary fur the punctuality 
 of its performance. Thousands, who will 
 not learn from scripture to ask a blessing 
 either on their actions or on their food, may 
 learn it, if they please, from Homer. 
 
 My Norfolk cousins are now with us. We 
 are both as well as usual; and with our af- 
 fectionate remembrances to Miss Catlett, 
 I remain sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 We are indebted to the kindness of a friend 
 for the following letter : — 
 
 TO MHS. BOUHAM, SOUTH GREEN, MATTISHALL, 
 NORFOLK. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, July 7, 1791. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — Most true it is, how- 
 ever strange, that on the 25th of last month 
 I wrotf you a long letter, and verily thought 
 I sent it; but, opening my desk the day 
 before yesterday, there I found it. Such a 
 memory have I — a good one never, but at 
 present worse than usual, my head beino- 
 filled with the cares of publication,* and the 
 bargain that I am making with my book- 
 seller. 
 
 I aui sorry that through this forgetfulness 
 of mine you were disappointed, oth'erwise 
 should no; at all regret that my letter never 
 r.r.ched you; for it consisted principally of 
 such reasons as I could muster to induce you 
 to consent to a favorite measure to winch you 
 have consented without them. Your kind- 
 ness and self-denying disinterestedness on 
 this occasion have endeared you to us all, if 
 possible, still the more, and are truly worthy 
 of the Rosef that used to sit smiling on my 
 kn< '.-, I will not say how many years ago. 
 
 Make no apologies, my dear, that thou 
 do>.tnot write more frequently ; — write when 
 thou c:tnst, and I shall be satisfied. I am 
 sensible, as I believe I have already told you, 
 that there is an awkwardness in writing to 
 those with whom we have hardly ever con- 
 versed ; in consideration of which, I feel my 
 self not at all inclined either to wonder at or 
 to bhime your silence. At the same time, be 
 it known io you, that you must not take en- 
 couragement from this my great moderation, 
 lest, disuse increasing the labor, you should 
 at hist write not at all. 
 
 That I should visit Norfolk at present is 
 not possible. 1 have heretofore pleaded my 
 engagement to Homer as the reason, and a 
 reason it was, while it subsisted, that was aU 
 
 * The publication of the translation of Hojner. 
 
 t Tlio name he gave to Mrs. Bodhani wlieu a child.
 
 8Tb 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 solutely insurmountable. But there are still 
 other impediments, which it would neither be 
 pleasant to me to relate, nor to you to know, 
 and which could not well be comprised in a 
 letter. Let it suffice for me to say that, could 
 they be imparted, you would admit the force 
 of them. It shall be our mutual consolation, 
 that, if we cannot meet at Mattishall, at least 
 we may meet at Weston, and that we shall 
 meet here with double satisfoction, being now 
 so numerous. 
 
 Your sister is well ; Kitty,* I think, better 
 than when she came; and Johnnyf ails 
 nothing, except that if he eat a little more 
 supper than usual, lie is apt to be riotous in 
 his sleep. We have an excellent physician 
 at Northampton, whom our dear Catharine 
 wishes to consult, and I have recommended 
 it to Johnny to consult him at the same time. 
 His nocturnal ailment is, I dare say, witliin 
 the reach of medical advice ; and, because it 
 may happen some time or other to be very 
 hurtful to him, I heartily wish liim cured of 
 it. Light suppers and early rising perhaps 
 might alone be et!ectual — but tlie latter is a 
 difficulty that threatens not to be easily sur- 
 mounted. 
 
 We are all of one mind respecting you ; 
 therefore I send tiie love of all, though I 
 shall see none of the party till breakfast calls 
 us together. Great preparation is making in 
 the empty house. Tlie spiders have no rest, 
 and hardly a web is to be seen where lately 
 there were thousands. 
 
 I am, my dearest cousin, with the best re- 
 spects to Mr. Bodhara, most affectionati-'y 
 yours, W. U. 
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.J 
 
 Weston, July 22, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I did not foresee, when I 
 challenged you to a brisker correspondence, 
 that a new engagement of all my leisure was 
 at hand : a new and yet an old one. An in- 
 terleaved copy of my Homer arrived sooa 
 after from Jolnison, in which he recom- 
 mended it to me to make any alterations 
 that might yet be expedient, with a view to 
 another impression. The alterations that 1 
 make are indeed but few, and they are also 
 short ; not more, perlinps, than half a line in 
 two thousand. But the lines are, I suppose, 
 nearly forty thousand in all, and to revise 
 them critically must consequently be a work 
 of labor. I suspend it, however, for your 
 sake, till the present sheet be filled, and that 
 T may not seem to shrink from my own 
 offer. 
 
 Mr. Bean has told me that he s:iw you at 
 Bedford, and gave us your reasons for not 
 coming our way. It is well, so far as your 
 
 * Miss Johnson, afterwards Mrs. Hewitt. 
 
 t Mr. Johnson. 
 
 i Private correspondence. 
 
 own comfortiJble lodging and our gratifica- 
 tion were concerned, that you did not ; for 
 our house is brimful, as it has been all the 
 summer, with my relations from Norfolk. 
 We should all have been mortified, both you 
 and we, had you been obliged, as you must 
 have been, to seek a residence elsewhere. 
 
 I am sorry that Mr. Venn's* labors below 
 are so near to a conclusion, I have seen 
 few men whom I could havc! loved more, hnd 
 opportunity been given n:i to know him 
 better. So, at least, I have thought as often 
 as I have seen him. But when T saw him 
 last, which is some years since, !i.. appeared 
 tlien so much broken that I could not have 
 imagined that he would last so long. Were 
 I capable of envying, in the strict sense of 
 the word, a good man, I should envy him, 
 and Mr. Berridge,f and yourself, who have 
 spent, and while they last, will continue to 
 spend, your lives in the service of the only 
 Master worth serving; laboring always fcr 
 the souls of men, and not to tickle tlieir ears, 
 as I do. But this I can say — God knows 
 how much rather I w-ould be the obscure 
 tenant of a lath-and-plaster cottage, with a 
 lively sense of my interest in a Kedeemer, 
 than the most admired object of public no- 
 tice without it. Alas ! what is a whole 
 poem, even one of Homer's, compared with 
 a single aspiration that finds its way innne- 
 diately to God, though clothed in ordinary 
 language, or perhaps not articulated at all ! 
 These are my sentiments as much as ever 
 they were, though my days are all running 
 to waste among Greeks and Trojans. The 
 night cometii when no man can work ; a-nd, 
 if I am ordained to work to better purpose, 
 that desirable period cannot be very distant. 
 My day is beginning to shut in., as every 
 man's must who is on the verge of sixty. 
 
 All the leisure that 1 have had of late for 
 thinking, has been given to the riots at Bir- 
 mingham. What a horrid zeal for the church, 
 and what a horrid loyalty to government. 
 have manifested themselves there ! How 
 little do they dream that they could not have 
 dishonored their idol, the Establishment 
 more, and that tlie great Bishop of soub 
 himself with abhorrence rejects their ser- 
 vice ! But I have not time to enlarge , 
 breakfast calls me ; and all my post-break- 
 tiist time must be given to poetry. Adieu ! 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 * The Rtiv. Henry Venn, successively vicsir of Hud- 
 dersfleld, Yorkshire, and rector of Veiling, Huntingdon- 
 shire, emiiK'nt for his piety ami usefulness. He was the 
 author of "The Complete Duty of Man," the desii^n ol 
 which wa.s to correct the deficiencies so justly iiiiputiible 
 to " The Whole Duty of Man," by layinj; tlie foundation 
 of a:)raJ duties in the principles i';culcated by the gos- 
 pel. There is an interestins; and vrn'Mble nienioir of thia 
 excellent man, edited by the liev. Henry Venn, 15.D., his 
 grandson, which we recomrai'nd to the notice of the 
 reader. 
 
 t Mr. Cerridge was vicar of Everton, Beds; a mist 
 zealous and pious minister.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 37^ 
 
 I'. THE REV. WALTER BAiJOT. 
 
 Weston, Aiigust '-.*, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I was much obliged, and 
 .'till feel myself much obliged, (o Lady Bagot 
 for the visit with whicli she favored me. 
 flad it been possible that I could have seen 
 Lord Bagot too, I should have been com- 
 pletely happy. FcT, as it happened, I was 
 tiiat morning in better spirits than usual, 
 and, though I arrived late, and after a long 
 walk, and extremely hot, which is a circum- 
 stance very apt to disconcert me, yet I was 
 not disconcertt-d lialf so much as I generally 
 am at the 'iioht of a stranger, especially of a 
 stranger b.dy, and more especially at the 
 sight of a S:tir.nger lady of quality. When 
 tlie servant told me tli;it Lady Bagot was in 
 the parlor, I felt oynpiriis ■■.'■'£ ten degrees; 
 but, the moment i sow her, at least, when I 
 had been a minute in hur company, I felt 
 tliem rise again, and tliey soon rose even 
 above their former pitch. I kno\v two ladies 
 of fasiiion now whose marmers have this 
 effect upon me, the lady in question and the 
 Lady Spencer. I am a shy animal, and want 
 much kindness to make me easy. Sucii I 
 shall be to my dying day. 
 
 Here sit I, calling myself shj, yet have 
 just published by the bye, two great volumes 
 of poe/)-^. 
 
 This reminds me of Ranger's observation 
 in the " Suspicious Husband," who says to 
 somebody, I forget whom, " There is a de- 
 gree of assurance in you modest men that ive 
 impudent felloics can never arrive at." — As- 
 surance, indeed ! Have you seen 'em ? What 
 do you think they are ? Nothing less, I can 
 tell you, than a translation of Homer, of the 
 sublimest poet in tlie world. Tliat's all. 
 Can I ever have the impudence to call my- 
 self shy again ? 
 
 You live, I think, in the neighborhood of 
 Birmingham. What must you not have felt 
 on the late alarming occasion ! You, I sup- 
 pose, could see the fires from your windows. 
 We, who only heard tlie news of them, have 
 trembled. Never sure was religious zeal 
 more terribly manifested or more to the; 
 prejudice of its own cause.* 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend. I am, with T\rrs. 
 Unwin's best compliments. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 * Tbo riots at hirrainsham originatod iu the imprudent 
 zeal of Uv. Priestley, iuid his ailherciitt*. IJi<^ ITniliiriaii dls- 
 seiiters, wlio itsseiiiljUMl to'^etlier at a paljlic dinner, to 
 coninieniorate llio evenla of tlic I'Vcneli revolution. 
 Toasts were given ot" an inflainnuitjiry lemlency, and 
 handi)ills were nrevloiisly circnlatiHl of a sijnilar eharac- 
 ter. Th(! town'of l!irjni'ni,'liani being distinufuislied for 
 its loytilty, became diM^ply exeitt-d by these acts. The 
 mob collecled in ^Teat niultitndes, and procrediMl to tlie 
 house of Dr. rvii-stley. which they destroyed with tire. 
 All his valuable phii-jsoiihical anparatus and manu- 
 scripts perished on this occasion. We concur with Cow- 
 '>'■ in lairentiiu; such outrages. 
 
 TO MRS. KINC* 
 
 Weston, Aug. 4, ITtll. 
 
 My dear Madam, — Your last letter, which 
 o-ave us so unfavorable an account of your 
 health, and which did not speak much more 
 comfortably of Mr. King's, affected us with 
 much concern. Of Dr. Raitt we may say, 
 in the words of Milton, 
 
 " His long experience did attain 
 To something like prophetic strain;" 
 
 for as he foretold to you, so he foretold to 
 I\Irs. Unwiii, that, though her disorders might 
 not much threaten life, they would yet cleave 
 to her to the last ; and site and perfect health 
 must ever be strangers to each other. Such 
 was his prediction, and it has been hitherto 
 accomplished. Either headache or pain in the 
 side has been her constant companion ever 
 since we had the pleasure of seeing you. As 
 for myself, I cannot properly say that I enjoy 
 a good state of iieaith, though in general I have 
 it, because I have it accompanied with fre- 
 quent fits of dejection, to which less health 
 and better spirits would, perhaps, be infinitely 
 preferable. But it pleased God that I sliould 
 be born in a country where melanciioly is 
 the national characteristic. To say the truth, 
 1 have often wished myself a Frenchman. 
 N. B. I write this in very good spirits. 
 You gave us so little liope in your last, 
 that we should have your company this sum- 
 mer at Weston, tliat to repeat our invitation 
 seems almost like teasing you. 1 will only 
 say, therefore, that, my Norfolk friends iiav- 
 ing left us, of whose expected arrival here I 
 believe I told you in a former letter, we 
 should be happy could you succeed them. 
 We now, indeed, expect Lady Hesketh, but 
 not immediately : she seldom sees Weston 
 till all its summer beauties are fled, and red, 
 brown, and yellow, have supplanted the uni- 
 versal verdure. 
 
 ]\Iy Homer is gone forth, and I can de- 
 voutly say, " Joy go with it!" What place 
 it hoids ill the estimation of the generality I 
 caimot tell, having heard no more about it 
 since its publication than if no such work 
 existed. I must except, however, an anony- 
 mous eulogium from some man of letters, 
 which I received about a week ago. It was 
 kind in a perfect stranger, as he avows him- 
 self to be, to relieve me, at so early a day, 
 from much of the anxiety that I could not 
 l)ut feel on such an occasion. I should be 
 glad *o know who ne is, only that I might 
 tliank. him. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, who is at this moment come 
 down to breakfast, joins me in afl^ectionate 
 compliments to yourself and Mr. King; and 
 I am, my dear madam, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, W. C 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, August 9, 1791. 
 My dear Sir, — I never make a correspond- 
 ent wait for an answer tiirougli idleness, or 
 want of proper respect for him ; but if I am 
 silent it is because I am busy, or not well, 
 or because I stay till sometliing- occur that 
 may make my letter at least a little better 
 than mere blank paper. I therefore write 
 speedily in reply to yours, being at present 
 neitlier much occupied, nor at all indisposed, 
 nor forbidden by a dearth of materials. 
 
 I wish always, when I have a new piece in 
 hand, to be as secret as you, and there was a 
 time when I could be so. Then I lived the 
 life of a solitary, was not visited by a single 
 neighbor, because I had none with whom I 
 could associate ; nor ever had an inmate. 
 This was when I dwelt at Olney ; but since 
 I have removed to Weston the case is differ- 
 ent. Here I am visited by all around me, 
 and study in a room exposed to all manner of 
 inroads. It is on the ground floor, the room 
 in which we dine, and in which I am sure to 
 be found by all who seek me. Tliey find 
 me generally at my desk, and with my work, 
 whatever it be, before me, unless perhaps I 
 have conjured it into its hiding-place before 
 they have had time to enter. This, however, 
 is not always the case ; and, consequently, 
 sooner or later, I cannot fail to be detected. 
 Possibly you, who I suppose have a snug 
 study, would find it impracticable to attend 
 to anything closely in an apartment exposed 
 as mine, but use has made it familiar to me, 
 and so familiar, that neither servants going 
 and coming disconcert me ; nor even if a 
 lady, with an oblique glance of her eye, 
 catches two or three lines of my MSS., do I 
 feel myself inclined to blush, though natu- 
 rally the shyest of mankind. 
 
 You did well, I believe, to cashier the sub- 
 ject of which you gave me a recitid. It cer- 
 tainly wants those agremens which are nec- 
 essary to the success of any subject in verse. 
 It is a curious story, and so far as the poor 
 young lady was concerned a very aflecLir;^- 
 one; but there is a coarseness in the cliar- 
 acter of the hero that would have spoiled all. 
 In fact, I find it myself a much easier matter 
 to write, than to get a convenient theme to 
 write on. 
 
 I am obliged to you for comparing me as 
 you go both with Pope and with Homer. It 
 is impossible in any other way of manage- 
 ment to know whether the translation be well 
 executed or not, and if well, in what degree. 
 It was in the course of such a process that I 
 first became dissatisfied with Pope. More 
 than thirty years since, and when I was a 
 young Templar, I accompanied him with his 
 original, line by line, through both poems. 
 A fellow student of mine, a person of fine 
 classical taste, joined himself with me in the 
 
 labor. We were neither of us, as you may 
 imagine, very diligent in our proper bnsinesa, 
 
 I shall be glad if my reviewers, whosoever 
 they may be, will be at tiie pains to "-ead me 
 as you do. I want no prai e that I tm not 
 entitled to, but of that tu which I am entitled. 
 I should be loath to lot^e a tittle, having 
 worked hard to earn it. 
 
 I would heartily second the Eishop of 
 Salisbury* in recommending to you a close 
 pursuit of your Hebrew stud'es, were it not 
 that I wish you to publisii what ] may un- 
 derstand. Do both, and I shall be sn.ti.^iied. 
 
 Your remarks, if I may bi:t receive them 
 soon enough to serve me iu case o»" a new 
 edition, will be extremelv welcome 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 9, 1791. 
 j\Iy dearest Johnny, — The little that I have 
 heard about Homer myself has been equally 
 
 or more fiattering than Dr. 's intelligence, 
 
 so that I have good reason to hope that I 
 havd not studied the old Grecian, and how to 
 dress hiu(; so long and so intensely, to no 
 puri'u^x\ .\f present I am idle, both on ac- 
 count of my eyes and because I know not to 
 wh;!t tu attach myself in particular. Many 
 dillerent plans and projects are recommended 
 to me. Some call aloud for original verse, 
 others for more translation, and others for 
 other things. Providence, I hope, will direct 
 me in my choice, for other guide I have none, 
 nor wish for another. 
 
 God bless you, my dearest Johnny, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The active mmd of Cowper, and the neces- 
 sity of mental exertion, in order to arrest the 
 terrible incursions of his depressing malady, 
 soon led him to contract a new literary en- 
 gagement. A splendid edition of Milton was 
 at that time contemplated, intended to rival 
 the celebrated Shakspeare of Boydell ; and to 
 combine all the adventitious aid that editorial 
 talent, the professional skill of a most dis- 
 tinguished artist, ani the utmost embellish- 
 ment of type could ^ommand, to ensure suc- 
 cess. Johnson, the bookseller, invited the 
 cc-operation of C )wper, in the responsibh 
 office of Editor. For such an undertaking he 
 was unquestiona^ ly qualified, by his refilled 
 critical taste and discernment, and by his pro- 
 found veneration frr this first 3f modern epic 
 poets. Cowper readily entered into this pro- 
 ject, and by his admirable translations of the 
 Latin and lt;ilian poems of Milton, justly 
 added to the fame which he had already ac- 
 quired. But to those who know how to ap- 
 preciate his poetic powers, and his noble 
 ardor in proclaiming the most important 
 * Dr. Douglas.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 38i 
 
 truths, it uiust ever be a source of unfeigned 
 regret that the hours given to translation, 
 and especially to Homer, were not dedicated 
 to the composition of some original work. 
 Who would not have hailed with delight 
 another poem, rivalling all the beauties and 
 moral excellences of "The Task," and en- 
 dearing to the mind, with still higher claims, 
 the sweet poet of nature, and the graceful 
 yet sublime teacher of heavenly truth and 
 wisdom ? 
 
 The grief is this — that, sunk in Homer's mine, 
 I lose ray precious years, now soon to fail. 
 
 Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
 Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian 
 scale.* 
 
 It was this literary engagement that first 
 laid the foundation of that intercourse, which 
 commenced at this time between Cowper and 
 Ilayley ; an intercourse which seems to have 
 ripened into sul)8equent habits of friendship. 
 As their names have been so much associated 
 together, and Ilayley eventually became the 
 poet's biographer, we shall record the cir- 
 cumstances of the origin of their intimacy in 
 Hayley's own words. 
 
 " As it is to Milton that I am in a great 
 measure indebted for what I must ever regard 
 as a signal blessing, the friendship of Cow- 
 per, the reader will pardon me for dwelling 
 a liille on the circumstances that produced it ; 
 circumstances which often lead me to repeat 
 those sweet verses of my friend, on the 
 casu:)l origin of our most valuable attach- 
 ments : 
 
 ' Mysterious are his ways, whose power, 
 Brings forth that unexj)ected hour, 
 When minds that never met before, 
 Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
 It is th' allotment of the skies, 
 The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
 That guides and governs our afTeetions, 
 And plans and orders our connexions.' 
 
 These charming verses strike with peculiar 
 r'crce on my heart, when I recollect, that it 
 was an idle endeavor to make us enemies 
 ^v'.ich gave rise to our intimacy, and that I 
 vvan providentially conducted to Weston at a 
 "eix '.on when my presence there afforded pe- 
 culiar comfort to my attVctionate friend under 
 tlii2 pressure of a doniestic affliction, which 
 threatened to overwhelm his very tender 
 i]»irit.-.''' 
 
 " The entreaty of many jjcrsons, whom I 
 wished to oblige, had engaged me to write a 
 T.ife of Milton, before I had the slightest 
 suspicion that my work could interfere with 
 .he projects of any man ; ])ut I was soon sur- 
 prised and concerned in hearing that I was 
 
 * S*"" verses addressed to John Johnson, Esq. 
 T An alarming attack wilh which Mrs. I'nwin was 
 visilud. 
 
 represented in a newspaper as an antagonist 
 of Cowper. 
 
 " I immediately wrote to him on the subject, 
 and our correspondence soon endeared us to 
 each other in no common degree." 
 
 We gave credit to Hayley for the kind and 
 amiable spirit which he manifested on this 
 delicate occasion ; and for the address with 
 which he converted an apparent collision of 
 interests into a magnanimous triumph of lit- 
 erary and courteous feeling. 
 
 The succeeding letters will be found to 
 contain frequent allusions both to his past 
 and newly contracted engagement. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Sept. 14, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Whoever reviews me will 
 in fact have a laborious task of it, in the per- 
 formance of which he ought to move leisurely, 
 and to exercise much critical discernment. 
 In the meantime, my courage is kept up bv 
 the arrival of such testimonies in my favor as 
 give me the greatest pleasure ; coming from 
 quarters the most respectable. I have reason, 
 therefore, to hope that our periodical judges 
 will not be very averse to me, and that per- 
 haps they may even favor me. If one man of 
 taste and letters is pleased, another man so 
 qualified can hardly be displeased : and if 
 critics of a different description grumble, they 
 will not however materially hurt me. 
 
 You, who know how necessary it is to me 
 to be employed, will be glad to hear that I 
 have been called to a new literary engage- 
 ment, and that I have not refused it. A Mil- 
 ton, that is to rival, and, if possible, to exceed 
 in splendor, BoydelFs Shakspeare, is in con- 
 templation, and I am in the editor's office. 
 Fuseli is the painter. My business will be to 
 select notes from others, and to write original 
 notes ; to translate the Latin and Italian 
 poems, and to give a correct text. I shall 
 have years allowed me to do it in. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER EAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 21, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Of all the testimonies in 
 favor of my Homer that I have received, none 
 has given me so sincere a j)leasurc as that of 
 Lord Bagot. It is an unmixed pleasure, and 
 without a drawback; because I know him to 
 be perfectly, and in all respects, whether eru- 
 dition or a fine taste be in question, so well 
 qualified to judge me, that I can neither e.v- 
 pect nor wish a sentence more valuable that 
 Jiis — 
 
 tllTlSif' dvT/ifi 
 
 ilif (TTriOtaai jiivct, xai uoi ipi\a yoivar dpupci.
 
 382 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 I liope by this time you have received your 
 volumes, and are prepared to second the ap- 
 phauses of your brother — else, woe be to you ! 
 I wrote to Johnson immediately on the receipt 
 of your hist, giving him a strict injunction to 
 despatcli them to you without delay. He had 
 sold some time since a hundred of the unsub- 
 scribed-for copies. 
 
 I have not a history in the world except 
 Baker's Chronicle, and that I borrowed three 
 years ago from Mr. Throckmorton. Now the 
 case is this : I am translating Milton's third 
 Elegy — his Elegy on the death of the Bishop 
 of Winchester.* He begins it with saying, 
 that, while he was sitting alone, dejected, and 
 musing on many melancholy themes, first, the 
 idea of the Plague presented itself to his mind, 
 and of the havoc made by it among the great. 
 Then he proceeds thus : 
 
 Tuiu memini clarique ducis, fratrisque verendi 
 
 Intempestivis ossa cremata rogis : 
 Et memini Heroum quos vidit ad aethera raptos; 
 
 Flevit et amissos Belgia tota duces. 
 
 I cannot learn from my only oracle, Baker, 
 who this famous leader and his reverend 
 brother were. Nor does he at all ascertain 
 for me the event alluded to in the second of 
 these couplets. I am not yet possessed of 
 Warton, who probably explains it, nor can 
 be for a month to come. Consult him for 
 me if you have him, or, if you have him not, 
 consult some other. Or you may find the 
 intelligence perhaps in your own budget ; no 
 matter how you come by it, only send it to 
 me if you can, and as soon as you can, for I 
 nate to leave unsolved dithculties behind me.f 
 In the first year of Charles the First, Milton 
 was seventeen years of age, and then wrote 
 this elegy. The period therefore to which I 
 would refer you, is the two or three last 
 years of James the First. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. KING.J 
 
 Weston, Sept. 23, 1791. 
 
 Dear Sir, — We are truly concerned at your 
 account of Mrs. King's severe indisposition; 
 and, though you had no better news to tell 
 us, are much obliged to you for writing to 
 inform us of it, and to Mrs. King for desir- 
 ing you to do it. We take a lively interest 
 in wliat concerns her. I sliould never have 
 ascribed her silence to neglect, had she nei- 
 ther written to me herself nor commissioned 
 
 * McEstiis eram, et tacitus nullo cornitante sedebain, 
 H<Erebaiitqiie anirno tiistia pluia meo : &c. &c. 
 
 t Warton informs us that the cUstint;uished brothers 
 alludod to in Milton's elesy are tlie Dulie of Brunswick 
 and Count ilansfelt, who fell in the war of the Palatinate, 
 that fruitful scene of warlike operations. The two latter 
 are the Earls of Oxford and Southampton, who died at 
 the slec;e of Breda, in the year 1625. 
 
 X Private correspondence. 
 
 you to WTite for her. I had. indeed, for som 
 time expected a letter from her by every 
 post, but aecounted for my continual disap- 
 pointment by supposing her at Edgeware, to 
 which place .she intended a visit, as she told 
 me long since, and hoped that she would 
 write immediately on her return. 
 
 Her suiferings will be felt here till we 
 learn that they are removed ; for which rea- 
 son we shall be much obliged by the earliest 
 notice of her recovery, which we most sin- 
 cerely wish, if it please God, and which will 
 not fail to be a constant subject of pr: yer at 
 Woston. 
 
 I beg you, sir, to jicsent Mrs. Uc^'in's 
 and my affectionate remembrances i Mrs. 
 King, in which you are equally & partaker, 
 and to believe me, with trui esieci'. and 
 much sincerity, 
 
 Yours, 
 
 TO MRS. KIN'- 
 
 W. C. 
 
 W€.4ou, Oct. 21, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You f.ould not have sent 
 me more agreeable ix;'.'. i than that of your 
 better health, and I am greatly obliged to you 
 for making me the first of your correspond- 
 ents to whom you have given that welcome 
 intelligence. This is a favor which I should 
 have acknowledged much sooner, had not a 
 disorder in my eyes, to which I have alwava 
 been extremely subject, required that I should 
 make as little use of my pen as possible. I 
 felt much for you, m hen I read that part of 
 your letter in which you mention your visit- 
 ors, and the fatigue which, indisposed as you 
 have been, they could not fail to occasion 
 you. Agreeable as you would have found 
 them at another time, and happy as you 
 would have been in their company, you could 
 not but feel the addition they necessarily 
 made to your domestic attentions as a 
 considerable inconvenience. But I have al- 
 ways said, and shall never say otherwise, that 
 if patience under adversity, and submission 
 to the afflicting hand of God, be true forti- 
 tude — which no reasonable person can deny 
 — then your sex have ten times more true 
 fortitude to boast than ours : and I have not 
 the least doubt that you carried yourself with 
 infinitely more equanimity on that occasion 
 than I should have done, or any he of my 
 acquaintance. Why is it, since the fir^t of- 
 fender on earth was a woman, that the women 
 are nevertheless, in all the most important 
 points, superior to the men? That they are 
 so I will not allow to be disputed, having ob- 
 served it ever since I was capable of making 
 the )bservation. I believe, on recollection, 
 that, when I had the happiness to see you 
 here we agitated this question a little; but I 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 .&i
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 383 
 
 do not remember that we arrived at any de- 
 cision of it. The scripture calls you the 
 weaker vessels ; and perhaps the best solution 
 of the dilEculty, therefore, may bo found in 
 those other words of Scripture — My strength 
 is perfected in weakness. Unless you can 
 furnish me with a better key than this, I 
 shall be much inclined to believe that I have 
 found the true one. 
 
 I am deep in a new literary engagement, 
 being retained by my bookseller as editor of 
 an intended most magnificent publication of 
 Milton's Poetical Works. This will occupy 
 me as much as Homer did for a year or two 
 tc come ; and when I have finished it, I shall 
 have run through all the degrees of my pro- 
 fession, as author, translator, and editor. 
 I know not that a fourth could be found ; 
 but if a fourth can be found, I dare say I 
 shall find it. 
 
 r remain, my dear madam, your affec- 
 tionate friend and humble servant, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER HAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 25,1791. 
 My dear Friend, — Your unexpected and 
 transient visit, like everything else that is 
 past, has now the appearance of a dream, but 
 it was a pleasant one, and I heartily wish that 
 sucli dreams could recur more frequently. 
 Your brother Chester repeated his visit yes- 
 terday, and I never saw him in better spirits. 
 At such times ho has, now and then, the very 
 look that he had when he was a boy, and 
 wlicn 1 see it I seem to be a boy myself, and 
 entirely forget for a sliort moment the years 
 tliat have intervened since I Avas one. The 
 look tliat I mean is one that you, I daresay, 
 have oiiserved. — Tlieu we are at ^Westminster 
 again. Ho left with me that poem of your 
 brother Lord Bagot's which was mentioned 
 when you were here. It was a treat tome, 
 and I road it to my cousin Lady Hesketh 
 and to JMrs. Unwin, to whom it was a treat 
 also. It has great sweetness of numbers 
 and much elegance of exuression, and is just 
 such a poem as I should bo happy to iiave 
 composed myself about a year ago, when I 
 was loudly called upon by a certain noble- 
 man* to celebrate the beauties of his villa. 
 But 1 had two insurmountalile difficulties to 
 contend witli. One was that I liad never 
 Been his villa, and the otlier, that I had no 
 eyes at that time lor anytiiing but Homer. 
 Should 1 at any time hereafter undertake the 
 task, 1 shall now at least know liow to go 
 about it, wliich, till 1 had seen Lord Bagot's 
 poem, I verily did not. I was particularly 
 charmed with the parody of those beautiful 
 lines of Milton : 
 
 * Lord Bagot. 
 
 " The song was partial, but the harmony 
 
 (What could it less, when spirits immortal sing I) 
 Suspended hell, and took with ravishment 
 The thronging audience." 
 
 There's a parenthesis for you ! The paren- 
 thesis it seems is out of fashion, and perhaps 
 the moderns are in the right to proscribe 
 what they cannot attain to. I will answer 
 for it that had we the art at this day of in- 
 sinuating a sentiment in this graceful man- 
 ner, no reader of taste would quarrel with 
 the practice. Lord Bagot showed his by 
 selecting the passage for his imitation. 
 
 I would beat Warton, if he were living, 
 for supposing that jNIilton ever repented of 
 his compliment to tiie memory of Bishop 
 Andrews. 1 neither do, nor can, nor will 
 believe it. JNIilton's mind could not be nar- 
 rowed by anything, and, though he quarrelled 
 with episcopacy in the cinirch of England 
 idea of' it, I am persuaded that a good Jiish- 
 op, as well as any other good man, of what- 
 soever rank or order, had always a sliare 
 of his veneration.* 
 
 Yours, my dear friend. 
 
 Very affectionately, W. (J. 
 
 TO JOnX JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 31, 1791 
 
 My dear Johnny, — Your kind and affec- 
 tionate letter well deserves my thanks, and 
 should have had them long ago, had I not 
 been obliged lately to give my attention to 
 a mountain of unanswered letters, which I 
 lb. '0 just now reduced to a mole-liill ; yours 
 lay at the bottom, and I have at last worked 
 my way down to it. 
 
 It gives me great pleasure that you have 
 found a house to your minds. May you all 
 three be happier in it than the happiest that 
 ever occupied it before you ! But my chief 
 delight of all is to learn that you and Kitty 
 are so completely cured of your long and 
 threatening maladies. I always thought 
 highly of l)r. Kerr, but his extraordinary 
 success in your two instances has even in- 
 spired me with an affect-ion for him. 
 
 My eyes are much better than when I 
 wrote last, though seldom perfectly well 
 many days together. At this season of the 
 year I catch perpetual colds, and sliall con- 
 tinue to do so till I have got the lietter of 
 that tenderness of habit with wliich the 
 summer never fails to affect me. 
 
 I am glad that you have heard well of 
 ray work in your country. Sufficient proofs 
 have readied me from various quarters that 
 I liavo not ploughed the field of Troy in 
 vain. 
 
 "Were you here, I would gratify you with 
 
 * How much more charitable is Cowper's com- 
 mont, than the injurious surmise of Warton ! 

 
 384 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 an enumeration of particulars, but since 
 jou are not, it must content jou to be told 
 that I have every reason to be satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, I think, in her letter to Cous- 
 in Balls, made mention of my new engage- 
 ment. I have just entered on it, and therefore 
 can at present say little about it It is a very 
 creditable one in itself, and may I but acquit 
 myself of it with sufficiency it will do me 
 honor. The commentator's part however is 
 a new one to me, and one that I little thought 
 to appear in. Remember your promise that 
 I shall see you in the spring. 
 
 The Hall has been full of company ever 
 since you went, and at present my Catharina* 
 is there, singing and playing like an angel. 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Nov. U, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I have waited and wished 
 for your opinion with the feelings that belong 
 to the value that 1 have for it, and am very 
 happy to lind it so favorable. In my table 
 drawer I treasure up a bundle of suffrages 
 sent me by those of whose approbation I was 
 most ambitious, and shall presently insert 
 yours among them. 
 
 I know not why we should quarrel with 
 compound epithets ; it is certain, at least, 
 they are as agreeable to the genius of our 
 language as to that of the Greek, which is 
 sufficiently proved by their being admitted 
 into our common and colloquial dialect. 
 Black-eyed, nut-brown, crook-shanked, 
 hump-backed, are all compound epithets, 
 and, together with a thousand other such, 
 are used continually, even by those who pro- 
 fess a dislike to such combinations in poetry. 
 Why, then, do they treat with so much liimil- 
 iarity a thing that they say disgusts them ? I 
 doubt if they could give this question a rea- 
 sonable answer, unless they should answer it 
 by confessing themselves unreasonable. 
 
 I have made a considerable progress in the 
 translation of Milton's Latin poems. I give 
 them, as opportunity offers, all the variety of 
 measure that I can. Some I render in heroic 
 rhyme, some in stanzas, some in seven and 
 some in eight syllable measure, and some in 
 blank verse. They will, altogether, I hope, 
 make an agreeable miscellany for the English 
 reader. They are certainly good in them- 
 selves, and cannot fail to please but by the 
 fault of their translator. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE KET. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Weston, Nov. 16, 1791. 
 My dear Friend, — ^I am weary of making 
 
 * The present Dowager Lady Throckmorton. 
 t Private correaponderce. 
 
 you wait for an answer, and therefore resolve 
 to send you one, though without the linea 
 you ask for. Such as they are they have 
 been long ready ; and could I have found a 
 conveyance for them, should have been with 
 you weeks ago. Mr. Bean's last journey to 
 town might have afforded me an opportunity 
 to send them, but he gave me not sufficient 
 notice. They must, therefore, be still de- 
 layed till either he shall go to London again, 
 or somebody else shall offer. I thank you 
 for yours, which are so much better than 
 mine as gold is better than feathers. 
 
 It seems necessary that I should account 
 for my apparent tardiness to comply with the 
 obliging request of a lady, and of a lady who 
 employed you as her intermedium. None 
 was wanted, as you well assured lier. But 
 had there been occasion for one, she could 
 not possibly have found a better. 
 
 I was much pleased Avith your account of 
 your visit to Cowslip Green,* both for the 
 sake of what you saw there, and because I 
 am sure you must have been as happy in such 
 company as any situation in this world can 
 make you. Miss More has been always em- 
 ployed, since I first heard of her doings, as 
 becomes a Christian. So she was while en- 
 deavoring to reform the unreformable great ; 
 and so slie is, while framing means and op- 
 portunities to instruct the more tractable 
 little. Horace's Virginibus, puerisque, may be 
 her motto, but in a sense much nobler than 
 he has annexed to it. I cannot, however, be 
 entirely reconciled to the thought of her be- 
 ing henceforth silent, though even for the 
 sake of her present labors. f A pen useful 
 as hers ought not, perhaps, to be laid aside; 
 neither, perhaps, will she altogether re- 
 nounce it, but, when she has established her 
 schools, and habituated them to the discipline 
 she intends, will find it desirable to resume it. 
 I rejoice that she has a sister like herself, 
 capable of bidding defiance to fatigue and 
 hardship, to dirty roads and wet raiment, in 
 so excellent a cause. J 
 
 I beg that when you write next to either 
 of those ladies, you will present my best 
 compliments to Miss Martha, and tell her 
 that I can never feel myself flattered more 
 than I was by her application. God knows 
 how unworthy I judge myself, at the same 
 time, to be admitted into a collection!^ of 
 which you are a member. Were there not 
 a crowned head or two to keep me in coun- 
 tenance, I should even blush to think of it. 
 
 I would that I could see some of the mount- 
 ains which you have seen ; especially, because 
 
 * The residence of the late Mrs. Haunah More, near 
 Bristol. 
 
 t The estabUsliment of her schools, comprising the 
 children of several parishes, then in a most neglected 
 and uncivilized state. See the interesting account of the 
 origin .iiid progress of these schools in the Memoir of 
 Mrs. More. 
 
 J Mrs. Martha More. § Of autographs.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 385 
 
 Dr. Johnson has pronounced that no man is 
 qualihL'd to be a poet who has never seen a 
 mountain. But mountains I shall never see, 
 unless perhaps in a dream, or unless there 
 are such in heaven. Nor those, unless I re- 
 ceive twice as much mercy as ever yet was 
 shown to any man. 
 
 I am now deep in Milton, translating his 
 Tiatiii poems for a pompous edition, of which 
 you have undoubtedly heard. This amuses 
 me for the present, and will fcr a year or two. 
 So long, I presume, I shall be occupied in the 
 several functions that belong to my present 
 engagement. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin and I are about as well as 
 usual; always mindful of you, and always 
 affectionately so. Our united love attends 
 yourself and Miss Catlett. 
 
 Believe me, most truly yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, Dec. 5, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Your last brought me 
 two cordials ; for what can better deserve that 
 name than the cordial approbation of two 
 such readers as your brother, the bishop, and 
 your good friend and neighbor, the clergy- 
 man. The former I have ever esteemed and 
 honored with the justest cause, and am as 
 ready to honor and esteem the latter as you 
 can wish me to be, and as his wishes and tal- 
 ents deserve. Do I hate a parson ? Heaven 
 forbid! I love you all when you are good 
 for anything, and, as to the rest, I would 
 mend them if I could, and that is the worst 
 of my intentions towards them. 
 
 I heard above a month since that this first 
 edition of my work was at that time nearly 
 sold. It will not, therefore, I presume, be 
 long before I must go to press again. This 
 I mention merely from an earnest desire to 
 avail myself of ail other strictures that either 
 your good neighbor, Lord Bagot, the bishop, 
 or yourself, 
 
 TzaifTiiiv iK:Tay\6TaT dvlpdvf 
 
 may happen to have made, and will be so 
 good as to favor me with. Those of the 
 good Evander contained in your last have 
 served me well, and I have already, in three 
 different places referred to, accommodated 
 the text to them. And this I have done in 
 one instance even a little against the bias of 
 my own opinion. 
 
 cyo) ii Kcv dvroj IXiOfiai 
 
 'EASoii/ <tvv ■n\c6naai. 
 
 The sense I had given of these words is the 
 sense in which an old scholiast has under- 
 stood them, as appears in Clarke's note in 
 loco. Clarke indeed prefers the other, but it 
 does not appear plain to me that he does it 
 
 with good reason against the judgment of a 
 very ancient commentator and a Grecian. 
 And I am the rather inclined to this per- 
 suasion, because Achilles himself seems to 
 have apprehended that Agamemnon would 
 not content himself with Briseis only, when 
 he says, 
 
 But I have other precious things on board, 
 Of THKSE take none away without my leave, &c. 
 
 It is certain that the words are ambiguous, 
 and that the sense of them depends altogether 
 on the punctuation. But I am always undei 
 the correction of so able a critic as your 
 neighbor, and have altered, as 1 say, my ver- 
 sion accordingly. 
 
 As to Milton, the die is cast. I am engaged, 
 have bargained with Johnson, and cannot re- 
 cede. I should otherwise have been glad to 
 do as you advise, to make the translation of 
 his Latin and Italian part of another volume; 
 for, with such an addition, I have nearly as 
 much verse in my budget as would be re- 
 quired for the purpose. This squabble, in 
 the meantime, between Fuseli and Boydell* 
 does not interest me at all ; let it terminate 
 as it may, I have only to perform my job, 
 and leave the event to be decided by the 
 combatants. 
 
 Suave mari magno turbantibus aequora ventis 
 E terra ingentem alterius spectare laborem. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend, I am most sincere- 
 ly yours, W. C. 
 
 Why should you suppose that I did not ad- 
 mire the poem you showed me? I did admire 
 it, and told you so, but you carried it off in 
 your pocket, and so doing left me to forget 
 it, and without the means of inquiry. 
 
 I am thus nimble in answering, merely with 
 a view to ensure myself the receipt of other 
 remarks in time for a newimpiession. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 10, 1791. 
 Dear Sir, — I am much obliged to you for 
 wishing that I were employed in some origi- 
 nal work rather than in translation. To tell 
 the truth, I am of your mind; and, unless I 
 could find another Homer, I shall promise (I 
 believe) and vow, when I have done with 
 Milton, never to translate again. But my 
 veneration for our great countryman is equal 
 to what I feel for the Grecian ; and conse- 
 quently I am happy, and feel myself honor- 
 ably employed whatever I do for Milton. I 
 am now translating his Epitaphium Damo- 
 nis, a pastoral in my judgment equal to any 
 
 * Fuseli was associated with Cowper's Milton, and Boy- 
 (It'll interested in Ftayley's, wliich produced acollisioa of 
 feeling between tbeni. 
 
 25
 
 386 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of Virgil's Bucolics, but of which Dr. John- 
 son (so it pleased him) speaks, as I remem- 
 ber, contemptuously. But he who never saw 
 any beauty in a rural scene, was not likely 
 to have much taste for a pastoral. In pace 
 quiescai ! 
 
 I was charmed with your friendly offer to 
 be my advocate with the public; should I want 
 one, I know not where I could find a better. 
 The reviewer in the Gentleman's Magazine 
 grows more and more civil. Should he con- 
 tinue to sweeten at this rate, as he proceeds, 
 I know not what will become of all the little 
 modesty I have left. I have availed myself 
 of some of his strictures, for I wish to learn 
 from everybody. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSI 
 
 ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. 21, 1791. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It grieves me, after hav- 
 ing indulged a little hope that I might see you 
 in the holidays, to be obliged to disapjjoint 
 myself. The occasion, too, is such as will 
 ensure me your sympathy. 
 
 On Saturday last, while I was at my desk 
 near the window, and IMrs. Unwin at the 
 fireside opposite to it, I heard her suddenly 
 exclaim, "Oh! Mr. Cowper, don't let me 
 fall !" I turned and saw her actually falling, 
 together with her chair, and started to her 
 side just in time to prevent her. She was 
 seized with a violent giddiness, which lasted, 
 though with some abatement, the whole day, 
 and was attended too with some other very, 
 very alarming symptoms. At present, how- 
 ever, she is relieved from the vertigo, and 
 seems in all respects better. 
 
 She has been my faithful and affectionate 
 nurse for many years, and consequently has 
 a claim on all my attentions. She has them, 
 and will have them as long as she wants 
 them ; which will probably be, at the best, a 
 considerable time to come. I feel the shock, 
 as you may suppose, in every nerve. God 
 grant that there may be no repetition of it. 
 Another such a stroke upon her would, I 
 think, overset me completely ; but at present 
 I hold up bravely. W. C. 
 
 Few events could have afflicted the tender 
 and affectionate mind of Cowper more acutely 
 than the distressing incident recorded in the 
 preceding letter. Mrs. Unwin had for some 
 time past experienced frequent returns of 
 headache, sensations of bodily pain, and an 
 increasing incapacity even for the common 
 routine of daily duties. By an intelligent 
 observer these symptoms might have been 
 interpreted as the precursors of some im- 
 pending dispensation, in the same manner as 
 the gathering clouds and the solemn stillness 
 
 of nature announce the approaching storm 
 and tempest. But the stroke is not the less 
 felt because it is anticipated. Among the 
 sorrows which inflict a wound on the feeling 
 heart, to see a beloved object, identified in 
 character, in sentiment, and pursuit, endeared 
 to us by the memory of the past, and by the 
 fears and anxieties of the present, sinking 
 under the slow yet consuming incursions of 
 disease ; and to be assured, as we contem- 
 plate the fading form, that the moment of 
 separation is drawing nigh ; this is indeed a 
 trial, where the mind feels its own bitterness, 
 and is awakened to the strongest emotions 
 of tenderness and love. 
 
 The cheering prospect of a happy change, 
 founded on an interest in the promises of the 
 gospel, can alone mitigate the mournful an- 
 ticipation. It is a subject for deep thank- 
 fulness when we can cherish the persuasion 
 for ourselves, or, like Cowper, feel its con- 
 soling support for others; and when we are 
 enabled to exclaim with the poet. 
 
 The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, 
 Lets in new light thro' chinks tliat time has made; 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
 Waller's Divine Poesie. 
 
 The following letter communicates some 
 further details of Mrs. Unwin's severe attack, 
 and of Cowper's feelings on this distressing 
 occasion. 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 Weston, Jan. 26, 1792. 
 
 IMy dear Madam, — Silent as I have long 
 been, I have had but too good a reason for 
 being so. About six weeks since, Mrs. Un- 
 win was seized with a sudden and most 
 alarming disorder, a vertigo, which would 
 have thrown her out of her chair to the 
 ground, had I not been quick t,nough to 
 catch her while she was falling. For some 
 moments her knees and ancles were so en- 
 tirely disabled that she had no use of them , 
 and it was with the exertion of all my 
 strength that I replaced her in her seat. 
 Many days she kept her bed, and for some 
 weeks her chamber ; but, at length, she has 
 joined me again in the study. Her recovery 
 has been extremely slow, and she is still fee- 
 ble ; but, I thank God, not so feeble but that 
 I hope for her perfect restoration as the 
 spring advances. I am persuaded, that with 
 your feelings for your friends, you will know 
 how to imagine what I must have suffered 
 on an occasion so distressing, and to pardon 
 a silence owing to such a cause. 
 
 The account you give me of the patience 
 with which a lady of your acquaintance has 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 387 
 
 lately endured a terrible operation, is a 
 strong proof tliat your sex surpasses ours 
 in heroic fortitude. I call it by tiiat name, 
 because I verily believe, that in God's ac- 
 count, there is more true heroism in sufFer- 
 jng his will witii meek submission than in 
 doing our own, or tluit of our tellow-mortals 
 who may have a right to command us, with 
 the utmost valor that was ever exhibited in 
 a field of battle. Renown and glory are, in 
 general, the incitements to such exertions ; 
 but no laurels are to be won by sitting pa- 
 tiently under the knife of a surgeon. Tiie 
 virtue is, therefore, of a less suspicions char- 
 acter ; the principle of it more simple, and 
 the practice more ditKcult ; — considerations 
 that seem suiHciently to warrant my opinion, 
 that the infallible Judge of human conduct 
 may possibly beliold with more complacency 
 a suffering than an active courage. 
 
 I forget if I told you that I am engaged 
 for a new edition of Milton's Poems. In 
 fiict, I have still other engagements, and so 
 various, that I hardly know to which of them 
 all to give my hrst attentions. I have only 
 time, therefore, to condole with you on the 
 double loss you have lately sustained, and 
 to congratulate you on being female ; be- 
 cause, as such, you will, I trust, acquit your- 
 self well under so severe a trial. 
 I remain, my dear madam, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 10 THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, Feb. 14, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — It is the only advantage 
 1 believe, tiiat they wiio love each other de- 
 rive from living at a distance, that the news 
 of such ills as may happen to either seldom 
 reaches the other till the cause of complaint 
 is over. Had I been your next neigh hor, I 
 should have suffered with you during the 
 whole indisposition of your two children and 
 your own. As it is, I have nothing to do 
 but to rejoice in your own recovery and 
 theirs, which I do sincerely, and wish only 
 to learn from yourself that it is complete. 
 
 1 thank you for suggesting the omission 
 of the line due to the helmet of Achilles. 
 How the omission happened I know not, 
 whether by my fault or the printer's ; it is 
 certain, however, that f had translated it, 
 and I have now given it its proper place. 
 
 I purpose to keep back a second edition 
 till I have had opportunity to avail myself 
 of the remarks of both friends and strangers. 
 The ordeal of criticism still awaits me in the 
 reviews, and probably they will all in their 
 turn mark many things tiiat may be mended. 
 l?y the Gentleman's Magazine I have already 
 profited in several instances. I\Iy reviewer 
 ♦Jiere, though favorable in the main, is a 
 
 pretty close observer, and, though not al- 
 ways right, is often so. 
 
 In the affair of Milton I will have no /lor- 
 rida bella if I can help it.* It is at least my 
 present purpose to avoid them, if possible 
 For which reason, unless I should soon see 
 occasion to alter my plan, I shall confine 
 myself merely to the business of an anno- 
 tator, which is my proper province, and shall 
 sift out of Warton's notes every tittle that 
 relates to the private character, political or 
 religious principles, of my author. These 
 are properly subjects for a biographer's hand- 
 ling, but by no means, as it seems to me, for 
 a commentator's. 
 
 In answer to your question, if I have had 
 a correspondence with the Chancellor, I re- 
 ply — yes. We exchanged three or four let- 
 ters on the subject of Homer, or rather on 
 flie subject of my Preface. He was doubt- 
 ful whether or not my preference of blank 
 verse, as affording opportunity for a closer 
 version, was well founded. On this subject 
 he wished to be convinced; defended rhyme 
 with much learning, and much shrewd rea 
 soning; but at last allowed me the honor 
 of the victory, expressing himself in these 
 words : — " / am clearly convinced that Homer 
 may be best rendered in blank verse, and you 
 have succeeded in the passages that I have 
 looked into." 
 
 Thus it is when a wise man differs in 
 opinion. Such a man will be candid; and 
 conviction, not triumph, will be his object. 
 
 Adieu ! — The hard name I gave you T 
 take to myself, and am your 
 
 CKTray^oraros, 
 
 w. c. 
 
 We are indebted to a friend for the oppor- 
 tunity of inserting nine additional letters, 
 addressed by Cowper to Thomas Park, Esq., 
 known as the author of "Sonnets and Mis- 
 cellaneous Poems," and subsequently as the 
 editor of that splendid work, " Walpole's 
 Royal and Noble Authors." 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Weston-Undenvood, Feb. 19, 1792. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Yesterday evening your parcel 
 came safe to hand, containing the "Cursory 
 Remarks," "Fletcher's Faithful Shepherd- 
 esse," and your kind letter, for all which I 
 am much obliged to you. 
 
 Everything that relates to Milton must be 
 welcome to an editor of him; and I am so 
 unconnected with the learned world, that, 
 unless assistance seeks me, I am not very 
 likely to find it. Fletcher's work was not in 
 my possession ; nor, indeed, was I possessed 
 of any other, when I engaged in this under- 
 
 * lie alludea to the dispute between Boydell and Fuseli 
 llic i)iiiiiter.
 
 388 
 
 UUWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 taking, that could serve me much in the per- 
 formance of it. The various untoward inci- 
 dents of a very singular life have deprived 
 me of a valuable collection, partly inherited 
 from my father, partly from my brother,* 
 and partly made by myself; so that 1 have 
 at present fewer books than any man ought 
 to have who writes for the public, especially 
 who assumes the character of an editor. At 
 the present moment, however, I find myself 
 tolerably well provided for this occasion by 
 the kindness of a few friends, wiio have not 
 been backward to pick from their shelves 
 everything that they thought might be use- 
 ful to me. I am hnppy to be able to num- 
 ber you among these friendly contributors. 
 You will add a considerable obligation to 
 those you have already conferred, if you will 
 be so good as to furnish me with such no- 
 tices of your own as you offer. Parallel 
 passages, or, at least, a striking similarity of 
 expression, is always worthy of remark ; and 
 I shall reprint, I believe, all Mr. VVarton's 
 notes of that kind, except such as are rather 
 trivial, and some, perhaps, that are a little 
 whimsical, and except that I shall diminish 
 the number of his refers r res, which are not 
 seldom redundant. Where a word only is 
 in question, and that, perhaps, not an uncom- 
 mon one in the days of Milton, his use of it 
 proves little or nothing ; for it is possible 
 that authors writing on sirnilar subjects may 
 use the same words by mere accident. Bor- 
 rowing seems to imply poverty, and of pov- 
 erty I can rather suspect any man than Mil- 
 ton. But I liave as yet determined nothing 
 absolutely concerning the mode of my com- 
 mentary, having hitherto been altogether 
 busied in the translation of his Latin poems. 
 These I have finished, and shall immediately 
 proceed to a version of the Italian. They, 
 being few, will not detain me long; and, 
 when they are done, will leave me at full 
 liberty to deliberate on the main business, 
 and to plan and methodise my operations. 
 
 I shall be always happy in, and account 
 
 myself honored by, your communications, 
 
 and hope that our correspondence thus begun 
 
 will not terminate in lunine prhno. 
 
 I am, my dear sir, with much respect, 
 
 Your most obliged and humble servant, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Weston, Feb. 20, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — When I wrote the lines 
 in question, I was, as I almost always am, so 
 pressed for time, that I was obliged to put 
 
 * The Rer. John Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, 
 Cambridge. 
 
 " I had a brother once. 
 Peace to the memory of a man of worth," &c. &c. 
 
 f Private correspondence. 
 
 them down in a great hurry.* Perhaps 1 
 printed them wrong. If a full stop be made 
 at the end of the second line, the appearance 
 of inconsistency, perhaps, will vanish : but 
 should you still tliink them liable to that ob- 
 jection, they may be altered thus: — 
 
 In vain to live from age to age 
 
 We modern liards endeavor; 
 But write in Patty's book one page,f 
 
 You gain your point forever. 
 
 Trifling enough I readily confess they are : 
 but I have always allowed myself to trifle oc- 
 casionally; and on this occasion had not, nor 
 have at present, time to do more. By the 
 way, should you think this amended copy 
 worthy to displace the former, I must wait 
 for some future opportunity to send you them 
 properly transcribed for the purpose. 
 
 Your demand of more original composition 
 from me will, if I live, and it please God to 
 aftbrd me health, in all probability be sooner 
 or later gratified. In the mean time, you need 
 not, and, if you turn the matter in your 
 thoughts a little, you will perceive that you 
 need not, think me unworthily employed in 
 preparing a new edition of Milton. His two 
 principal poems are of a kind that call for 
 an editor who believes the gospel and is well 
 grounded in all evangelical doctrine. Such an 
 editor they have never had yet, though only 
 such a one can be qualified for the office. 
 
 We mourn for the mismanagement at Bot- 
 any Bay, and foresee the issue. The Romans 
 were, in their origin, banditti ; and if they be- 
 came in time masters of the world, it was not 
 by drinking grog, and allowing themselves in 
 all sorts of licentiousness. The African colo- 
 nization, and the manner of conducting it, has 
 long been matter to us of pleasing speculation. 
 God has highly honored Mr. Thornton ; and I 
 doubt not that the subsequent history of the 
 two settlements will strikingly evince the su- 
 perior wisdom of his proceedings.^ 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 P. S. Lady Hesketh made the same objec- 
 tion to my verses as you ; but, she being a. 
 lady-critic, I did not heed her. As they stand 
 at present, however, they are hers ; and I be- 
 lieve you will think them much improved. 
 
 * Mrs. Martha More had requested Cowper to furnish 
 a contribution to her collection of autographs. The re- 
 sult appears in the sequel of this letter. 
 
 t In the present edition of the Poems the hnes stand 
 thus, on a farther suggestion of Lady Hesketh's • 
 In v.ain to live from Jige to nge. 
 
 While modern bards endeavor, 
 / write my name in Patty's page. 
 And gain my point for ever. 
 
 W. Cowper. 
 March 6, 1792. 
 
 t This alludes to the new colony for liberated Africans, 
 at Sierra Leone ; in the origin of which Mr. Henry Thorn- 
 ton and Mr. Zachary Macauley were mainly instrumental. 
 For interesting accounts of this colony, see the "Mission* 
 ary Register of the Church Missionary Society," passim. 

 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 389 
 
 My heart bears me witness how glad I shall 
 oe to see you at the time you mention ; and 
 Mrs. Unwin says the same. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Woston, Feb. 21, 1702. 
 
 My dear Sir, — My obligations to you on 
 the score of your kind and friendly remarks 
 demanded from me a nuicli more e.xpeditious 
 acknowledgment of the numerous packets 
 that contained them ; but I have been hindered 
 by many causes, each of which you would 
 admit as a sufficient apology, but none of 
 wliich 1 will mention, lest I should give too 
 niucli of my paper to the subject. My ac- 
 knowledgments are likewise due to your fair 
 sister, wlio has transcribed so many sheets in 
 a neat hand, and witii so much accuracy. 
 
 At present I have no leisui'c for Homer, but 
 shall certainly find leisure to examine him 
 with reference to your strictures, before I send 
 him a second time to the pruiter. This I am 
 at present unwilling to do, choosing rather to 
 wait, if that may be, till I shall have under- 
 gone the discipline of all the reviewers; none 
 of which have yet taken me in hand, the Gen- 
 tleman's 3Iaga/,ine excepted. By several of 
 his remarks 1 have benefitted, and shall no 
 doubt be benefitted by the remarks of all. 
 
 Milton at present engrosses me altogether. 
 His Latin pieces 1 have translated, and have 
 begun witii the Italian. These are few, and 
 will not detain me long. I shall then proceed 
 immediately to deliberate upon and to settle 
 tlie plan of my commentary, which I have 
 hitherto had but little time to consider. I 
 look forward to it, for this reason, with some 
 an.viety. I trust at least tJiat this anxiety will 
 cease when I have once satisfied myself about 
 the best manner of conducting it. But, after 
 all, I seem to fear more about the labor to 
 wiiich it calls me than any great difficulty 
 witii wliich it is likely to be attended. To the 
 labors of versifying I have no objection, but 
 to the labors of criticism I am new, and ap- 
 prehend that I shall find them wearisome. 
 Should that he the case, I shall be dull, and 
 must be contented to siiare the censure of 
 being so with almost all the commentators 
 that have ever existed. 
 
 I have expected, t)ut not wondered that I 
 have not received, Sir Thomas More and the 
 other ^ISS. you promised me ; because my 
 silence has been such, considering how loudly 
 [ was called upon to write, that you must 
 nave concluded me either dead or dying, and 
 did not choose perhaps to trust them to ex- 
 ecutors. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, March 2, 1792. 
 My dear Sir, — I have this moment finished 
 
 a comparison of your remarks with my text, 
 and feel so sensibly my obligations to your 
 great accuracy and kindness, that I cannot 
 deny myself the pleasure of expressing them 
 immediately. I only wish that instead of re- 
 vising the two first books of the Iliad, you 
 could have found leisure to revise the whole 
 two poems, sensible how much my work 
 would have benefitted. 
 
 I have not always adopted your lines, 
 though often, perhaps, at least as good as my 
 own ; because there will and must be dissimi- 
 larity of manner between two so accustomed 
 to the pen as we are. But I have let few- 
 passages go unamended which you seemed to 
 tliink exceptionable ; and this not at all from 
 complaisance; for in such a cause I would 
 not sacrifice an iota on that principle, but on 
 clear conviction. 
 
 I have as yet heard nothing from Johnson 
 about the two MSS. you announced, but feel 
 ashamed that I should want your letter to re- 
 mind me of your obliging offer to inscribe 
 Sir Thomas 3Iore to me, should you resolve 
 to publish him. Of my consent to such a 
 measure you need not doubt. I am covetous 
 of respect and honor from all such as you. 
 
 Tame hare, at present, I have none. But, 
 to make amends, I have a beautiful little 
 spaniel, called Beau, to whom I will give the 
 kiss your sister Sally intended for the former, 
 unless she should command nie to bestow it 
 elsewhere ; it shall attend on her directions, 
 
 I am going to take a last dinner with a most 
 agreeable family, who have been my only 
 neighbors ever since I have lived at VVeston. 
 On Monday they go to London, and in the 
 summer to an estate in Oxfordshire, which is 
 to be their home in future. The occasion is 
 not at all a pleasant one to me, nor does it 
 leave me spirits to add more, than that I am, 
 dear sir, 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, March 4, 1792. 
 My dear Friend, — All our little world is 
 going to London, the gulf that swallows most 
 of our good things, and, like a bad stomach, 
 too often assimilates them to itself Our 
 neighbors at the Hall go thither to-morrow. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton, as we lately 
 called them, but now Sir John and my Lady, 
 are no longer inhabitants here, but henceforth 
 of Bucklands, in Berkshire. 1 feel the loss of 
 them, and shall feel it, since kinder or more 
 frie'ndly treatment I never can receive at any 
 hands than I have always found at theirs. 
 But it has long been a foreseen change, and 
 was, indeed, almost daily expected long before 
 it happened. The desertion of the Hall, how- 
 ever, will not be total. The second brother 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 390 
 
 COWPER S WORKS. 
 
 George, now Mr. Courtenay,* intends to re- 
 side tiiere : and, with hira, as with his elder 
 brother, I have always been on terms the 
 most agreeable. 
 
 Such is this variable scene : so variable that, 
 had the reflections I sometimes make upon it 
 a permanent influence, I should tremble at the 
 thought of a new connexion, and, to be out of 
 the reach of its mutability, lead almost the 
 ife of a hermit. It is well with those who, 
 ike you, have God for their companion. 
 Death cannot deprive them of Him, and he 
 changes not the place of his abode. Other 
 changes, therefore, to them are all supporta- 
 ble; and what you say of your own experi- 
 ence is the strongest possible proof of it. 
 Had you lived without God, you could not 
 have endured the loss you mention. May He 
 preserve me from a similar one ; at least, till 
 he shall be pleased to draw me to himself 
 again? Then, if ever that day come, it will 
 make me equal to any burden; but at present 
 I can bear nothing well. 
 
 I am sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. KING .J 
 
 Weston, March 8, 1792. 
 
 My dear Madam, — Having just finished all 
 my Miltonic translations, and not yet begun 
 my comments, 1 find an interval that cannot 
 be better employed than in discharging ar- 
 rears due to my correspondents, of whom I 
 begin first a letter to you, though your claim 
 be of less ancient standing than those of all 
 the rest. 
 
 I am extremely sorry that you have been 
 so much indisposed, and especially that your 
 indisposition has been attended with such ex- 
 cessive pain. But may I be permitted to ob- 
 serve, that your going to church on Christ- 
 mas-day, immediately after such a sharp fit 
 of rheumatism, was not according to the 
 wisdom with which I believe you to be en- 
 dued, nor was it acting so charitably toward 
 yourself as I am persuaded you would have 
 acted toward another. To another you 
 would, I doubt not, have suggested that text 
 — " I will have mercy and not sacrifice," as 
 implying a gracious dispensation, in circum- 
 stances like yours, from the practice of so 
 severe and dangerous a service. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, I thank God, is better, but 
 still wants much of complete restoration. 
 We have reached a time of life when heavy 
 blows, if not fatal, are at least long felt. 
 
 I have received many testimonies concern- 
 ing my Homer, which do me much honor, and 
 afford me great satisfaction ; but none from 
 which I derive, or have reason to derive, more 
 than that of Mr. Martyn. It is of great use 
 to me, when I write, to suppose some such 
 
 * Afterwards Sir George Throckmorton. 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 person at my elbow, witnessing what I do ; 
 and I ask myself frequently — Would this 
 please him? If I think it would, it stands: 
 if otherwise, I alter it. My work is thus fin 
 ished, as it were, under the eye of some ot 
 the best judges, and has the better chance to 
 win their approbation when they actually 
 see it. 
 
 I am, my dear madam 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, March 10, 1792. 
 
 Dear Sir, — You will have more candor, as 
 T hope and believe, than to impute my delay 
 to answer your kind and friendly letter to 
 inattention or want of a cordial respect for 
 the writer of it. To suppose any such cause 
 of my silence were injustice both to yourself 
 and me. The truth is, I am a very busy man, 
 and cannot gratify myself with writing to my 
 friends so punctually as I wish. 
 
 You have not in the least fallen in my es- 
 teem on account of your employment,* as 
 you seemed to apprehend that you might. 
 It is an elegant one, and, when you speak 
 modestly, as you do, of your proficiency in 
 it, I am far from giving you entire credit for 
 the whole assertion. I had indeed supposed 
 you a person of independent fortune, who 
 had nothing to do but to gratify himself; 
 and whose mind, being happily addicted to 
 literature, was at full leisure to enjoy its in- 
 nocent amusement. But it seems I was mis- 
 taken, and your time is principally due to an 
 art which has a right pretty much to engross 
 your attention, and which gives rather the 
 air of an intrigue to your intercourse and 
 familiarity with the muses than a lawful con- 
 nexion. No matter : I am not prudish in this 
 respect, but honor you the more for a passion, 
 virtuous and laudable in itself; and which 
 you indulge not, I dare say, without benefit 
 to yourself and your acquaintance. I, for 
 one, am likely to reap the fruit of your 
 amours, and ought therefore, to be one of 
 the last to quarrel with them. 
 
 You are in danger, I perceive, of thinking 
 of me more highly than you ought to think. 
 
 * Mezzotinto engraving. Mr. Park, in early youth, (luc- 
 tuated in the choice between the sister arts of poetry, 
 music, and painting, and composed the following lines to 
 record the result. 
 
 By fancy warm'd, I seiz'd the quill, 
 
 And poetry the strain inspir'd ; 
 Music improv'd it by her skill, 
 
 Till 1 with both their charms was fir'd. 
 
 Won by the graces each display'd. 
 
 Their younger sister I forgot ; 
 Though first to her my vows were paid,— 
 
 By fate or choice ii matters not. 
 
 She, jealous of their rival powers. 
 
 And to repay the injury done, 
 CondemnM me through life's future hours, 
 
 .dil to admire, but wed with none. 
 
 T.P.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 3^1 
 
 [ am not one of the literati, among whom 
 you seem disposed to place me. Far from 
 it. I told you in my last how heinously I 
 am unprovided with tlie means of being so, 
 having long since sent all my books to 
 market. My learning accordingly lies in a 
 very narrow compass. It is school-boy learn- 
 ing somewhat improved, and very little more. 
 From the age of twenty to twenty-three, I 
 was occupied, or ought to have been, in the 
 study of the law. From thirty-three to sixty 
 I have spent my time in the country, where 
 my reading has been only an apology for 
 idleness, and where, when 1 had not either a 
 magazine or a review in my hand, I was some- 
 times a carpenter, at others a birdcage maker, 
 or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. 
 At fifty years of age I commenced an author. 
 It is a whim that has served me longest and 
 best, and whicli will probably be my last. 
 
 Thus you see I have had very little oppor- 
 tunity to become what is property called — 
 learned. In truth, having given myself so 
 entirely of late to poetry, I am not sorry for 
 this deficiency, since great learning, I have 
 been sometimes inclined to suspect, is rather 
 a hindrance to the fancy than a furtherance. 
 
 You will do me a favor by sending me a 
 copy of Thomson's monumental inscription. 
 He was a poet, for whose memory, as you 
 justly suppose, I have great respect; in com- 
 mon, indeed, with all who have ever read him 
 with taste and attention. 
 
 Wishing you heartily success in your pres- 
 ent literary undertaking and in all profes- 
 sional ones, I remain, 
 
 Dear sir, with great esteem. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 P. S. After what I have said, I will not 
 blush to confess, that I am at present per- 
 fectly unacquainted with the merits of Drum- 
 mond,* but shall be happy to see him in due 
 time, as I should be to see see any author 
 edited by you. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 11, 1792. 
 
 My dear Johnny, — You talk of primroses 
 that you pulled on Candlemas-day ; but what 
 think you of me that heard a nightingale on 
 new-year's day ? Perhaps I am the only man 
 in England who can boast of such good for- 
 tune ; good indeed, for if it was at all an 
 omen it could not be an unfavorable one. 
 The winter, however, is now making himself 
 
 * Drummond, an elegant Scottish poet, born in 1585. 
 His Works, llioiigh not free from tlio coticeits of tlie 
 italian Scliool, are ctiiiraclerised l)y much delicacy of 
 liiste and feeliii;;. There is a peculiar nielndy and sweet- 
 ness in his verse, and his sonnets parlicidariy have pro- 
 cured for hiin a fame, which has survived to the present 
 time. Am edition of his Poems was published in 1791, 
 py Cowper's correspoudeiit, Mr. I'ark. 
 
 amends, and seems the more peevish for hav- 
 ing been encroached on at SO undue a season, 
 Nothing less than a large slice out of the 
 spring will satisfy him. 
 
 Lady Hesketh left us yesterday. She in- 
 tended to have left us four days sooner; but 
 in the evening before *the day fixed for her 
 departure, snow enough fell to occasion just 
 so much delay of it. 
 
 We have fixint hopes that in the month of 
 May we shall see her again. I know that 
 you have had a letter from her, and you will 
 no doubt have the grace not to make her 
 wait long for an answer. 
 
 We expect Mr. Rose on Tuesday ; but he 
 stays with us only till the Saturday follow- 
 ing. With him I shall have some conferen- 
 ces on the subject of Homer, respecting a 
 new edition I mean, and some perhaps on 
 the subject of Milton; on him I have not 
 yet begun to comment, or even fix the time 
 when I shall. 
 
 Forget not your promised visit ! 
 
 W. C. 
 
 We add the verses composed by Cowper 
 on the extraordinary incident mentioned at 
 the beginning of the preceding letter. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD 
 
 ON new-year's day, 1793. 
 
 Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear, 
 
 From yonder vvither'd spray, 
 This foremost morn of all the year, 
 
 The melody of May 1 
 
 And why, since thousands would be proud 
 
 Of such a favor sliown, 
 Am I selected from the crowd, 
 
 To witness it alone 1 
 
 Sinjr'st thou, sweet Philomel, to luc, 
 
 For that I also long 
 Have practis'd in the groves like thee, 
 
 Though not like thee, in song. 
 
 Or sing'st thou rather under force 
 
 Of some divine command, 
 Couimission'd to presage a course 
 
 Of happier days at hand 1 
 
 Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 
 
 And joyless year have I, 
 As thou to-day, put forth my song 
 
 Beneath a wintry sky. 
 
 But thee no wintry skies can harm, 
 
 Who only need'st to sing, 
 To make e'en January charm, 
 
 And ev'ry season spring. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, ISIarch 18, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — We are now once more 
 
 reduced to our dual state, having lost oul 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 392 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 neighbors at the HaU and our inmate Lady 
 Hesketh. Mr. Rose indeed, has spent two 
 or three days here, and is still with us, but 
 he leaves us in the afternoon. There are 
 those in the world whom we love, and whom 
 we are happy to see ; but we are happy like- 
 wise in each other, arfti so far independent 
 of our fellow mortals as to be able to pass 
 our time comfortably without them : — as com- 
 fortably, at least, as Mrs. Unwin's frequent 
 indispositions, and my no less frequent trou- 
 bles of mind, will permit. When I am much 
 distressed, any company but hers distresses 
 me more, and makes me doubly sensible of 
 my sufferings, though sometimes, I confess, 
 it falls out otherwise ; and, by the help of 
 more general conversation, I recover that 
 elasticity of mind which is able to resist the 
 pressure. On the whole, I believe I am situ- 
 ated exactly as I should wish to be, were my 
 situation to bedeterminedby my own election ; 
 and am denied no comfort that is compatible 
 with the total absence of the chief of all. 
 Adieu, my dear friend, 
 
 I remain, affectionately yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE «IEV. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, March 23, 1792. 
 My dear Sir, — I have read your play care- 
 fully, and with great pleasure : i,t seems now 
 to be a performance that cannot fail to do 
 you much credit. Yet, unless my memory 
 deceives me, the scene between Cecilia and 
 Heron in the garden has lost something that 
 pleased me much when I saw it first; and I 
 am not sure that you have not likewise ob- 
 literated an account of Sir Thomas's execu- 
 tion, that I found very pathetic. It would 
 be strange if, in these two particulars, I 
 should seem to miss what never existed ; you 
 will presently know whether I am as good at 
 remembering what I never saw as I am at 
 forgetting what I have seen. But if I am 
 right, I cannot help recommending the omit- 
 ted passages to your re-consideration. If 
 the play were designed for representation, I 
 should be apt to think Cecilia's first speech 
 rather too long, and should prefer to have it 
 broken into dialogue, by an interposition now 
 and then from one of her sisters. But, 
 since it is designed, as I understand, for the 
 closet only, that objection seems of no im- 
 portance ; at no rate, however, would I ex- 
 punge it, because it is both prettily imagined 
 and elegantly written. 
 
 I have read your cursory remarks, and am 
 much pleased both witii the style and the 
 argument. Whether the latter be new or 
 not I am not competent to judge; if it be, 
 you are entitled to much praise for the in- 
 vention of it. Where other data are want- 
 ing to ascertain the time when an author of 
 
 many pieces wrote each in particular, there 
 can be no better criterion by which to de- 
 termine the point than the more or less pro- 
 ficiency manifested in the composition. Of 
 this proficiency, where it appears, and of 
 those plays in which it appears not, you seem 
 to have judged well and truly, and, conse- 
 quently, I approve of your arrangement. 
 
 I attended, as you desired me, in reading 
 the character of Cecilia, to tlie hint you gave 
 me concerning your sister Sally, and give 
 you joy of such a sister. This, however, not 
 exclusively of the rest, for, though they may 
 not all be Cecilias, I have a strong persuasion 
 that they are all very amiable. W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, March 25, 1"^. 
 
 My dearest Coz., — Mi-. Rose's longer stay 
 than he at first intended was the occasion of 
 the longer delay of my answer to your note, 
 as you may both have perceived by the date 
 thereof, and learned from his information. 
 It was a daily trouble to me to see it lying 
 in the window-seat, while I knew you were 
 in expectation of its arrival. By this time I 
 presume you have seen him, and have seen 
 likewise Mr. Hayley's friendly letter and com- 
 plimentary sonnet, as well as the letter of 
 the honest Quaker; all of which, at least 
 the two former, I shall be glad to receive 
 again at a fair opportunity. Mr. Hayley's 
 letter slept six weeks in Johnson's custody.* 
 It was necessary that I should answer it 
 without delay, and accordingly I answered it 
 the very evening on which I received it, giv- 
 ing him to understand, among other things, 
 how much vexation the bookseller's folly had 
 cost me, who had detained it so long: espe- 
 cially on account of the distress that 1 knew 
 it must have occasioned to him also. From his 
 reply, which the return of the post brought 
 me, I learn that in the long interval of ray 
 non-correspondence, he had sufi(_'red anxiety 
 and mortification enough ; so much, that I 
 dare say he made twenty vows never to haz- 
 ard again either letter or compliment to an 
 unknown author. What, indeed, could he 
 imagine less than that I meant by such an 
 obstinate silence to tell him that I valued 
 neither him nor his praises, nor his proffered 
 friendship ; in short, that I considered him as 
 a rival, and therefore, like a true author, 
 hated and despised him ? He is now, how- 
 ever, convinced that I love him, as indeed I 
 
 * We have already stated that Hayley was engaged in 
 a life of Milton, when Cowper was announced as editor 
 of Johnson's projected work. With a generosity that re- 
 flects the hig;hest credit on his feelings, he addressed a 
 letter on this" occasion to Cowper, accompanied by a com- 
 plimentary sonnet, and offering liis kind aid in any way 
 that might prove most acceptable. The letter was en- 
 trusted to the bookseller, who delayed transmitting it 
 six weeks, and thereby created great anxiety in Hayley's 
 mind.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 393 
 
 do, and I account him the chief acquisition 
 that my own verse has ever procured me. 
 Brute sliould I be if I did not, for he prom- 
 ises me every assistance in his power. 
 
 I have Hivevvise a very pleasing letter from 
 Mr. Park, which I wish you were here to 
 read ; and a very pleasing poem that came 
 enclosed in it for my revisal, written when he 
 was only twenty years of age, yet wonder- 
 fully well written, though wanting some cor- 
 rection. 
 
 To Mr. Hurdis I return Sir Tliomas More 
 to-morrow, having revised it a second time. 
 He is now a very respectable figure, and will 
 do my friend, who gives him to the public 
 this spring, considerable credit. W. C. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, March 30, 1792. 
 
 My dear Sir, — If you have indeed so favor- 
 able an opinion of my judgment as you pro- 
 fess, which I shall not allow myself to ques- 
 tion, you will think highly and honorably of 
 your poem,* for so I think of it. The view 
 you give of the place that you describe is 
 clear and distinct, the sentiments are just, the 
 reflections touciiing, and the numbers uncom- 
 monly harmonious. I give you joy of having 
 been able to produce, at twenty years of age, 
 what would not have disgraced you at a 
 much later period ; and, if you choose to 
 print it, have no doubt that it will do you 
 great credit. 
 
 You will perceive, however, when you re- 
 ceive your copy again, that I have used all 
 the liberty you gave me. I have proposed 
 many alterations ; but you will consider them 
 as oidy proposed. My lines are by no means 
 obtruded on you, but are ready to give j)lace 
 to any that you shall choose to substitute of 
 your own con)posing. They will serve at 
 least to mark the passages which seem to me 
 susceptible of improvement, and the manner 
 in which I think the change may be made. I 
 have not always, seldom, indeed, given my 
 reasons; but without a reason I have altered 
 nothing, and the decision, as I say, is left 
 with you in the last instance. Time failed 
 me to be particular and explicit always, in 
 accounting tor my strictures, and I assured 
 myself that you would impute none of them 
 to an arbitrary humor, but all to their true 
 cause — a desire to discharge faitiifuUy the 
 trust committed to me. 
 
 I cannot but add, I think it a pity that you, 
 Aviio have evidently sucii talents for poetry, 
 should be so loudly called another way, and 
 want leisure to cultivate them, for if such 
 was the bud, what might we not have ex- 
 pected to see in the full-blown flower? Per- 
 haps, however, I am not quite prudent in 
 
 * A juvenile offering of gratitude to the place where 
 ■he writer had received his educution. 
 
 saying all this to you, whose proper function 
 is not that of a poet, but I say it, trusting to 
 your prudence, that you will not suffer it to 
 seduce you. 
 
 1 have not the edition of Milton's juvenile 
 poems which you mention, but shall be truly 
 glad to see it, and thank you for the offer. 
 
 No possible way occurs to me of return- 
 ing your MS. but by the Wellingborough 
 coach ; by that conveyance, therefore, I shall 
 send it on Monday, and my remarks, rough 
 as I made them, shall accompany it. 
 
 Believe me, with much sincerity. 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, March 30, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — My mornings, ever since 
 you went, have been given to my corre- 
 spondents; this morning I have already writ- 
 ten a long letter to Mi-. Park, giving my 
 opinion of his poem, which is a favorable 
 one. I forget whether I showed it to you 
 wlien you were here, and even whether I had 
 then received it. He has genius and delicate 
 taste ; and, if he were not an engraver, might 
 be one of our first hands in poetry. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 The Lodge, April 5, 1792. 
 
 You talk, my dear friend, as John Bunyan 
 says, " like one that has the egg-shell still 
 upon his head." You talk of the mighty 
 favors that you have received from me. and 
 forget entirely those for which I am indebted 
 to you ; but though you forget them, I shall 
 not, nor ever think that I have requited you, 
 so long as any opportunity presents itself of 
 rendering you the smallest service; small 
 indeed is all that I can ever hope to render. 
 
 You now perceive, and sensibly, that not 
 without reason I complained, as I use to do, 
 of those tiresome rogues, the printers. Bless 
 yourself that you have not two thick quartos 
 to bring fortii, as I had. My vexation was 
 always much increased by this reflection — 
 they are every day, and all day long, eni- 
 ployed in printing for somebody, and why 
 not for me? This was adding mortification 
 to disappointment, so that I often lost all 
 patience. 
 
 The suffrage of Dr. Robertson makes 
 more than amends for the scurvy jest passed 
 upon me by the wag unknown. I regard 
 him not ; nor, except for about two moments 
 after I first heard of his doings, have I ever 
 regarded him. I have somewhere a secret 
 enemy ; I know not for what cause he should 
 be so, but he, I imagine, supposes that he has 
 a cause : it is well, however, to have but
 
 394 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 one ; and I will take all the care I can not to 
 
 increase the number. 
 
 I have begun my notes, and am playing 
 the commentator manfully. The worst of it 
 is that I am anticipated in almost all my op- 
 portunities to shine by those who have gone 
 before me. W. C. 
 
 The following letter is the commencement 
 of Cowper's correspondence with Hayley, 
 originating in the circumstances already de- 
 tailed to the reader. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, April 6, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — God grant that this 
 friendship of ours may be a comfort to us 
 all the rest of our days, in a world where true 
 friendships are rarities, and, especially where 
 suddenly formed, they are apt soon to ter- 
 minate ! But, as I said before, I feel a dis- 
 position of heart toward you that I never felt 
 for one whom I had never seen, and that 
 shall prove itself, I trust, in the event, a pro- 
 pitious omen. 
 
 Horace says somewhere, though I may 
 quote it amiss, perhaps, for I have a terrible 
 memory, 
 
 " Utrumque nostrum incredibili modo 
 Consentit astrum." 
 
 . . . Our stars consent, at least have had 
 an influence somewhat similar, in another 
 and more important article. . . . 
 
 It gives me the sincerest pleasure that I 
 may hope to see you at Weston ; for, as to 
 any migrations of mine, they must, I fear, 
 notwithstanding the joy I should feel in be- 
 ing a guest of yours, be still considered in 
 the light of impossibilities. Come, then, my 
 friend, and be as welcome (as the country 
 people say here) as the flowers in May! I 
 am happy, as I say, in expectation ; but the 
 fear, or rather the consciousness, that I shall 
 not answer on a nearer view, makes it a 
 trembling kind of happiness and a doubtful. 
 
 After the privacy which I have mentioned 
 above, I went to Huntingdon ; soon after my 
 arrival there, I took up my quarters at the 
 house of the Rev. Mr. Unwin ; I lived with 
 him while he lived, and ever since his death 
 have lived with his widow. Her, therefore, 
 you will find mistress of the house ; and I 
 judge of you amiss, or you will find her just 
 such as you would wish. To me she has 
 been often a nurse, and invariably the kind- 
 est friend, through a thousand adversities 
 that I have had to grapple with in the course 
 of almost thirty years. I thought it better 
 to introduce her to you thus, than to present 
 her to you at your coming, quite a stranger. 
 
 Bring with you any books that you think 
 
 may be useful to my commentatorship, for 
 with you for an interpreter, I shall be afraid 
 of none of them. And, in truth, if you think 
 that you shall want them, you must bring 
 books for your own use also, for they are an 
 article with which I am heinously unprovided: 
 being much in the condition of the man whose 
 library Pope describes as 
 
 " No mighty store ! 
 His own works neatly bound, and little more !" 
 
 You shall know how this has come to pass 
 hereafter. 
 
 Tell me, my friend, are your letters in your 
 own hand-writing? If so, I am in pain for 
 your eyes, lest by such frequent demands 
 upon them I should hurt them. I had rather 
 write you three letters for one, much as I 
 prize your letters, than that should happen. 
 And now, for the present, adieu, — I am going 
 to accompany Milton into the lake of fire 
 and brimstone, having just begun my an- 
 notations, W. C. 
 
 TO THE KEY. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, April 8, 1792. 
 
 My dear Sir, — Your entertaining and 
 pleasant letter, resembling in that respect all 
 that I receive from you, deserved a more ex- 
 peditious answer, and should have had what 
 it so well deserved, had it not reached me at 
 a time when, deeply in debt to all my corre- 
 spondents, I had letters to write without 
 number. Like autumnal leaves that strew 
 the brooks in Vallombrosa, the unanswered 
 farrago lay before me. If I quote at all, you 
 must expect me henceforth to quote none but 
 Milton, since for a long time to come I shall 
 be occupied with him only. 
 
 I was much pleased with the extract you 
 gave me from your sister Eliza's letter; she 
 writes very elegantly, and (if I might say it 
 without seeming to flatter you) I should say 
 much in the manner of her brother. It is 
 well for your sister Sally that gloomy Dis is 
 already a married man, else perhaps finding 
 her, as he found Proserpine, studying botany 
 in the fields, he might transport her to his 
 own flowerless abode, where all her hopes of 
 improvement in that science would be at an 
 end forever. 
 
 What letter of the 10th December is that 
 which you say you have not yet answered? 
 Consider, it is April now, and I never remem- 
 ber anything that I write half so long. But 
 perhaps it relates to Calchas, for I do re- 
 member that you have not yet furnished me 
 with the secret history of him and his family 
 which I demanded from you. 
 
 Adieu ! Yours most sincerely, 
 
 W. C.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 396 
 
 I rejoice that you are so well with the 
 .earned Bishop of Sarum,* and well remem- 
 ber how he ferreted the vermin Lauderf out 
 of all his hidings, when I was a boy at West- 
 minster. 
 
 I have not yet studied with your last re- 
 marks before me, but hope soon to find an 
 opportunity. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.J 
 
 Weston, April 15, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I thank you for your re- 
 mittance ; which, to use the language of a 
 song much in use when we were boys, 
 
 " Adds fresh beauties to the spring, 
 And makes all nature look more gay." 
 
 What the author of the song had particularly 
 in view when he thus sang, I know not ; but 
 probably it was not the sum of tifty pounds : 
 which, as probably, he never had the happi- 
 ness to possess. It was, most probably, 
 some beautiful nymph, — beautiful in his eyes, 
 at least, — who has long since become an old 
 woman. 
 
 I h.ive heard about my wether mutton from 
 various quarters. First, from a sensible little 
 man, curate of a neighboring village ;^ then 
 from Walter Bagot; then from Henry 
 Cowper ; and now from you. It was a blun- 
 der luxrdly pardonable in a man who has 
 lived amid lields and meadows, grazed by 
 sheep, almost these thirty years. 1 have ac- 
 cordingly satirized myself in two stanzas 
 which I composed last night, when I lay 
 awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed 
 witli laudanum. If you find tiiem not very 
 brilliant, therefore, you will know how to 
 account for it. 
 
 Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse 
 
 If, bound in rhyming tethers, 
 He had committed this abuse 
 
 Of changing ewes for wethers ; 
 
 But male for female is a trope, 
 
 Or rather bold misnomer, 
 That would have startled even Pope 
 
 When lie translated Homer. 
 
 Having translated all the Latin and Italian 
 Miltonics, I was proceeding merrily with a 
 Commentary on the Paradise Lost, when I 
 was seized, a week since, with a most tor- 
 menting disorder; which has qualified me, 
 however, to make some very feeling obser- 
 vations on that passage, when I shall come 
 to it : 
 
 " III fare our ancestor impure !" 
 
 For this we may thank Adam ;— and yo\. 
 
 * Dr. Doiiijlas. * 
 
 t L:iuilfr endeavored to depreciiite the fame of Milton 
 by a charge of plagiarism. Dr. n.ni;,'Ias successfully vin- 
 dicated the ureal poet from such an iiuputalion, and 
 proved that it was a ^toss lictiou on the p;ut of Lauder. 
 
 t I'rivate currespoiideiice. 
 
 $ The Uev. Join. Hiichaium. 
 
 may thank him, too, that I am not able to fill 
 my sheet, nor endure a writing posture any 
 longer. I conclude abruptly, therefore, but 
 sincerely subscribing myself, with my best 
 compliments to Mrs. Hill, 
 
 Your affectionate, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 
 
 Weston, April 16, 1792. 
 
 My dear Lady Frog, — I thank you for your 
 letter, as sweet as it was short, and as sweet 
 as good news could make it. You encourage 
 a hope that has made me happy ever since I 
 have entertained it. And if my wishes can 
 hasten the event, it will not be long sus- 
 pended.* As to your jealousy, I mind it not, 
 or only to be pleased with it ; I shall say no 
 more on tlie subject at present than this, that 
 of all ladies living, a certain lady, whom I 
 need not name, would be the lady of my 
 choice for a certain gentleman, were the 
 whole sex submitted to my election. 
 
 What a delightful anecdote is that which 
 you tell me of a you-ng lady detected in the 
 very act of stealing our Catharina's praises; 
 is it possible tiiat siie can survive the shame, 
 the mortification of such a discovery ] Can 
 she ever see the same company again, or any 
 company that she can suppose, by the re- 
 motest possibility, may have heard the tid- 
 ings ? If she can, she must have an assur- 
 ance equal to her vanity. A lady in London 
 stole my song on the broken Rose, or rather 
 would have stolen and have passed it for her 
 own. But she too was unfortunate in her 
 attempt ; for there hiippened to be a female 
 cousin of mine in company, who knew that 
 I had written it. It is very flattering to a 
 poet's pride that the ladies should thus 
 hazard everything for the sake of appropriat- 
 ing his verses. I may say with Milton that 
 I am fallen on evil tongues, ami evil days, be- 
 ing not only plundered of tiiat which belongs 
 to me, but being charged with that which 
 does not. Thus it seems (and I have learned 
 it from more quarters than one) that a report 
 is, and has been sometime, current in this 
 and the neighboring counties, that, though 
 I have given myself the air of declaiming 
 against the Slave Trade in " The Task," I 
 am in reality a friend to it ; and last niglit I 
 received a letter from Joe Rye, to inform me 
 that I have been much traduced and calum- 
 niated on this account. Not knowing how 
 I could better or more etVectually refute tlie 
 scandal, I have tiiis morning sent a copy 
 to the Northampton paper, prefaced by a 
 short letter to tiie printer, specifying the oc- 
 casion. Tlie verses are in honor of Mr. 
 Wilberforce, and sufficiently expressive of 
 
 * The prospect of a marriage between Miss Stapleton, 
 the Calharina of Cowper, and Mr. Courlonay, Sir John 
 Tlirockinoriun's brother.
 
 596 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 my present sentiments on the subject. You 
 are a wicked fair one for disappointing us of 
 our expected visit, and therefore, out of mere 
 spite, 1 will not insert them. I have been 
 very ill these ten days, and for the same 
 spite's sake will not tell you what has ailed 
 me. But, lest you should die of a fright, I 
 will have the mercy to tell you that I am re- 
 covering. 
 
 Mrs. Gilford and her little ones are gone, 
 but your brother is still here. He told me 
 that he had some expectations of Sir John at 
 Weston; if he come, I shall most heartily re- 
 joice once more to see him at a table so many 
 years his own. W. C. 
 
 We subjoin the verses addressed to Mr. 
 Wilberforce, intended to vindicate Cowper 
 from the charge of lukewarmness in such a 
 cause. 
 
 SONNET. 
 TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESa. 
 
 Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain. 
 Hears thee by cruel men and impious, call'd 
 Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 
 From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. 
 Friend oftlie poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, 
 Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain ! 
 Thou hast achiev'd a part, hast gain'd the ear 
 Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : [pause 
 Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution 
 And weave delay, the better hour is near, 
 That shall remunerate thy toils severe 
 By peace tor Alric, fenc'd with Britisli laws. 
 Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
 From all the just on earth and all the blest above ! 
 
 In detailing the incidents that occur in the 
 life of Cowper, we have just recorded a ma- 
 levolent report, highly injurious to his integ- 
 rity and honor. In order to recall the fact 
 to the memory of the reader, we insert the 
 statement itself, in the words of Cowper : 
 " A report is, and has been some time cur- 
 rent, in this and the neighboring counties, 
 that, though I have given myself the air of 
 declaiming against the slave trade in ' The 
 Task,' I am in reality a friend to it ; and last 
 night I received a letter from Joe Rye, to in- 
 form me, that I have been much traduced and 
 calumniated on this account." 
 
 That the author of " The Task," a poem 
 distinguished by its tone of pure and elevated 
 morality, and breathing a spirit of most un- 
 compromising hostility against the slave trade 
 — that such a man, at that time in the very 
 zenith of his fame, should be publicly accused 
 of favoring the very cause which he had so 
 eloquently denounced, is one of those circum- 
 stances which, for the honor of human nature, 
 ive could wish not to have been compelled to 
 record. 
 
 With this painful fact before us, we would 
 
 ask, what is popularity, and what wise man 
 would attach value to so fleeting a posses- 
 sion 1 It is a gleam of sunshine, which em- 
 bellishes for a moment the object on which it 
 falls, and then vanishes away. In the course 
 of a life not passed without observation, we 
 have had occasion to remark, in the political, 
 the literary, and even in the religious world, 
 the evanescent character of popular favor. 
 We have seen men alternately caressed and 
 deserted, praised and censured, and made to 
 feel the vanity of human applause and ad- 
 miration. The idol of to-day is dethroned 
 by the idol of to-morrow, which, in its turn, 
 yields to the dominion of some more favored 
 rival. 
 
 The wisdom of God evidently designs, by 
 these events, to clieck the thirst for human 
 praise and distinction, by showing us tlie pre- 
 carious tenure by which they are held. We 
 are thus admonished to examine our motives, 
 and to be assured of the integrity of our in- 
 tentions ; neither to despise public favor, nor 
 yet to overvalue it; but to preserve that calm 
 and equable temper of mind, and that full 
 consciousness of the rectitude of our princi- 
 ples, that we may learn to enjoy it without 
 triumph, or to lose it without dejection. 
 
 " Henceforth 
 Thy patron He whose diadem has dropp'd 
 Yon gems of heaven ; eternity thy prize ; 
 And leave the racers of this world their own." 
 
 The reader will be amused in finding the 
 origin of tlie injurious report above men- 
 tioned disclosed in the following letter. 
 Mr. Rye was unjustly supposed to have 
 aided in propagating this misconception; but 
 Cowper fully vindicates him from such a 
 charge. 
 
 TO THE REV. J. JEKTLL RYE.* 
 
 Weston, April ]6, 1792. 
 
 My dear Sir, — I am truly sorry that you 
 should have suffered any apprehensions, such 
 as your letter indicates, to molest you for a 
 moment. I believe you to be as honest a man 
 as lives, and consequently do not believe it 
 possible that you could in your letter to jMr. 
 Pitts, or any otherwise, wilfully misrepresent 
 me. In fact you did not ; my opinions on 
 the subject in question were, when I had the 
 pleasure of seeing you, such as in that letter 
 you stated them to be, and such they still 
 continue. 
 
 If any man concludes, because I allow my- 
 self the use of sugar and rum, that therefore 
 I am a friend to the slave trade, he concludes 
 rashly, and does me gre.at wrong; for the man 
 lives not who abhors it more than I do. My 
 reasons fot my own practice are satisfoctory 
 to myself, and they whose practice is contra- 
 ry, are, I suppose, satisfied with theirs. So 
 
 * Vicar of Dalington, near Northampton.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 397 
 
 fur is good. Let every man act according to 
 his own judgment and conscience ; but if we 
 condemn anotiier for not seeing with our 
 eyes, we are unreasonable; and if we re- 
 proach iiim on that account, we are uncliari- 
 table, which is a still greater evil. 
 
 I had heard, before I received the favor of 
 yours, that such a report of me as you men- 
 tion had spread about the country. But my 
 information told me that it was founded 
 thus — The people of Olney petitioned parlia- 
 ment for the abolition — My nam(! was sought 
 among the subscribers, but was not found. 
 A question was asked, how that happened'? 
 Answer was made, that I had once indeed 
 been an enemy to the slave trade, but had 
 changed my mind, for that, having lately read 
 a history, or an account of Africa, I had seen 
 it there asserted, that till the commencement 
 of that tratfic, the negroes, multiplying at a 
 prodigious rate, were necessitated to devour 
 each other; for which reason I had judged it 
 better that the trade should continue, than 
 that they should be again reduced to so hor- 
 rid a custom. 
 
 Now all this is a fable. I have read no 
 such history; I never in my life read any 
 such assertion ; nor, had such an assertion 
 presented itself to me, should I have drawn 
 any such conclusion from it. On the contra- 
 ry, bad as it were, I think it would be better 
 the negroes should even eat one another, 
 than that we should carry them to market. 
 The single reason why I did not sign the 
 petition was, because I was never asked to 
 do it ; and the reason why I was ncA'er 
 asked was, because I am not a parishioner 
 of Olney. 
 
 Thus stands the matter. You will do me 
 the justice, I dare say, to speak of me as of 
 a man who abhors the commerce, which is 
 now, I hope, in a fair way to be abolished, 
 as often as you shall find occasion. And I 
 beg you henceforth to do yourself the just- 
 ice to believe it impossible that I should, for 
 a moment, suspect you of duplicity or mis- 
 representation. I have been grossly slan- 
 dered, but neither by you, nor in conse- 
 quence of anytiiing that you have either said 
 or written. I remain, therefore, still, as 
 heretofore, with great respect, much and tru- 
 hj yours, W. C. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin's compliments attend you. 
 
 Cowper, on this occasion, addressed the 
 following letter to the editors of the Norlh- 
 amjilnn Merc^/r//, enclosing the verses on Mr. 
 Wilberforce which have just been inserted. 
 
 TO Tirc PRINTERS OF THE NORTHAMPTON 
 MERCURY. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, April 16, 1792. 
 Sirs, — Having lately learned that it is pret- 
 ty generally reported, both in your county 
 
 and in this, that my present opinion, concern 
 ing the slave trade, differs totally from that 
 which I have heretofore given to the public, 
 and that I am no longer an enemy, but a 
 friend to that horrid trathc ; I entreat you to 
 take an early opportunity to insert in your 
 paper the following lines,* written no longer 
 since than this very morning, expressly for 
 the two purposes of doing just honor to the 
 gentleman with whose name they are in- 
 scribed, and of vindicating myself from an as- 
 persion so injurious. 
 
 I am, &c., W. Cowper. 
 
 The last two lines in the sonnet, addressed 
 to Mr. Wilberforce, were originally thus ex- 
 pressed : — 
 
 Then let them scoff, two prizes thou hast won ; 
 Freedom for captives, and thy God's " Well 
 done.'' 
 
 These were subsequently altered as fol- 
 low : 
 
 Enjoy what thou bast won, esteem and love 
 From all the just on earth and all the blest above. 
 
 Cowper's version of Homer, which has 
 formed so frequent a subject in the preced- 
 ing pages, led to a public discussion, in which 
 the interests of literature and the success of 
 his vn undertaking were deeply concerned. 
 The question agitated was the relative merits 
 of rhyme and blank verse, in undertaking a 
 translation of that great poet. Johnson, the 
 great dictator in the republic of letters, in his 
 predilection for rhyme, had almost proscribed 
 the use of blank verse in poetical composi- 
 tion. "Poetry," he observes, in his life of 
 Milton, " may subsist without rhyme ; but 
 English poetry will not please, nor can rhyme 
 ever be safely spared, but where the subject 
 is able to support itself Blank verse makes 
 some approach to that which is called the 
 lapidary slt/le ; has neither the easiness of 
 prose, nor the melody of numbers; and there- 
 fore tires by long continuance. Of the Italian 
 writers without rhyme, whom Milton alleges 
 as precedents, not one is popular. What 
 reason could urge in its defence, has been 
 confuted by the ear." 
 
 Johnson, however, makes an exception in 
 the instance of Milton. 
 
 " But, whatever be the advantages of 
 rhyme," he adds, " I cannot prevail on my- 
 self to wish that Milton had been a rhymer ; 
 for I cannot wish his work to be other than 
 it is ; yet, like other heroes, he is to be ad- 
 mired rather than imitated. He that thinks 
 himself capable of astonishing, may write 
 blank verse; but those that hope only to 
 please must condescend to rhyme." 
 
 In his critique on the " Night Thoughts," 
 he makes a similar concession. " This is onfl 
 
 * See page 396.
 
 398 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of the few poems in which blank verse could 
 not be changed for rhyme but with disad- 
 vantage. The wild diffusion of the senti- 
 ments, and the digressive sallies of imagina- 
 tion, would have been compressed and con- 
 strained by confinement to rhyme."* 
 
 Cowper, it will be remembered, questions 
 the correctness of Johnson's taste on this 
 subject, and vindicates tlie force and majesty 
 of blank verse with much weight of argu- 
 ment. With respect, however, to the im- 
 portant question, how a translation of Homer 
 might be best executed, his sentiments are 
 delivered so much at large in the admirable 
 preface to his version of the Iliad, that we 
 shall lay a few extracts from it before the 
 reader. 
 
 " Whether a translation of Homer," he re- 
 marks, " may be best executed in blank verse 
 or in rhyme, is a question in the decision of 
 which no man can find difficulty, who has 
 ever duly considered what translation ought 
 to be, or wiio is in any degree practically 
 acquainted with those very different kinds 
 of versification. I will venture to assert, 
 that a just translation of any ancient poet in 
 rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity 
 can be equal to the task of closing every 
 couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing 
 at the same time the full sense, and only the 
 full sense, of his original. The translator's 
 ingenuity, indeed, in this case, becomes itself 
 a snare ; and the readier he is at invention 
 and expedient, the more likely he is to be 
 betrayed into the widest departure from the 
 guide whom he professes to follow." 
 
 It was this acknowledged defect in Pope, 
 that led Cowper to engage in his laborious 
 undertaking of producing a new version. 
 
 We admire the candor with which he ap- 
 preciates the merits of Pope's translation, 
 and yet we cannot refuse to admit the just- 
 ness of liis strictures. 
 
 "I have no contest," he observes, "with 
 my predecessor. None is supposable be- 
 tween performers on different instruments. 
 Mr. Pope has surmounted all difficulties in 
 his version of Homer that it was possible to 
 surmount in rhyme. But he was fettered, 
 and his fetters were his choice." " He has 
 given us the Tale of Troy divine in smooth 
 verse, generally in correct and elegant lan- 
 guage, and in diction often highly poetical. 
 But his deviations are so many, occasioned 
 chiefly by the cause already mentioned, that, 
 much as he has done, and valuable as his 
 work is on some accounts, it was yet in 
 the humble province of a translator, that I 
 thought it possible even for me to follow him 
 with sonv advantage." 
 
 * Young's testimony in favor of blank verse is thus 
 forcibly, though rather pompously expressed : — 
 
 " Blank verse is verse unfallen, uncursed ; verse re- 
 claimed, re-enthroned in the true language of the gods." 
 See Conjectures on Original Composition. 
 
 What the reader may expect to discover 
 in the two respective versions is thus de- 
 scribed : — " The matter found in me, whether 
 he like it or not, is found also in Homer ; 
 and the matter not found in me, how much 
 soever he may admire it, is only found in Mr. 
 Pope. I have omitted nothing; I have in- 
 vented nothing." " Fidelity is indeed the 
 very essence of translation, and the term 
 itself implies it. For which reason, if we 
 suppress the sense of our original, and force 
 into its place our own, we may call our work 
 an imitation, if we please, or perhaps a para- 
 phrase, but it is no longer the same author 
 only in a different dress, and therefore it is 
 not a translation." 
 
 After dwelling upon the merits and defects 
 of the free and the close translation, and ob- 
 serving that tJie former can hardly be true to 
 the original author's style and manner, and 
 that the latter is apt to be servile, he thus 
 declares his view of the subject: — " On the 
 whole, the translation which partakes equally 
 of fidelity and liberality, that is close, but 
 not so close as to be servile ; free, but not 
 so free as to be licentious, promises fairest ; 
 and my ambition will be sufficiently gratified, 
 if such of my readers as are able and will 
 take the pains to compare me in this respect 
 with Homer, shall judge that I have in any 
 measure attained a point so difficult." 
 
 He concludes his excellent preface with 
 these interesting words : — 
 
 " And now I have only to regret that my 
 pleasant work is ended. To the illustrious 
 Greek I owe the smooth and easy flight of 
 many thousand hours. He has been my 
 companion at home and abroad, in the study, 
 in the garden, and in the field ; and no meas- 
 ure of success, let my labors succeed as they 
 may, will ever compensate to me the loss of 
 the innocent luxury that I have enjoyed as a 
 translator of Homer." 
 
 Having thus endeavored to do justice to 
 the excellent preface of Cowper, we have re- 
 served an interesting correspondence, which 
 passed between Lord Tliurlow and Cowper 
 on this subject, and now introduce it to the 
 notice of the reader. It is without date. 
 
 TO THE LORD THURLOW. 
 
 My Lord, — A letter reached me yesterday 
 from Henry Cowper, enclosing another from 
 your lordship to himself; of which a pas- 
 sage in my work formed the subject. It 
 gave me the greatest pleasure : your stric- 
 tures are perfectly just, and here follows the 
 speech of Acliilles accommodated to them. 
 
 I did not expect to find your lordship on 
 the side of rhyme, remembering well with 
 how much energy and interest I have heard 
 you repeat passages from the "Paradise 
 
 -J
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 39S 
 
 Lost," which you could not have recited as 
 you did, unless you had been perfectly sen- 
 sible of their music. It comforts me, there- 
 fore, to know that if you iiave an ear for 
 rhyme, you have an ear for blank verse also. 
 
 It seems to me that I may justly complain 
 of rhyme as an inconvenience in translation, 
 even though I assert in the sequel that to 
 me it has been easier to rhyme than to write 
 without, because I always suppose a rhym- 
 ing translator to ramble, and always obliged 
 to do so. Yet I allow your lordship's ver- 
 sion of this speech of Achilles to be very 
 close, and closer much than mine. But 1 
 believe that, should either your lordship or I 
 give them burnish or elevation, your lines 
 would be found, in measure as they acquired 
 stateliness, to have lost the merit of fidelity — 
 in which case notiiing more would be done 
 •than Pope lias done already. 
 
 I cannot ask your lordship to proceed in 
 your strictures, though I should be happy to 
 receive more of them. Perhaps it is pos- 
 sible that when you retire into the country, 
 you may now and then amuse yourself with 
 my translation. Should your rem;u-ks reach 
 me, I promise faithfully that tliey shall be all 
 most welcome, not only as yours, but be- 
 cause I am sure my work will be tlie better 
 for them. 
 
 With sincere and fervent wishes for your 
 lordship's health and happiness, I remain, 
 my lord, &.c. W. C. 
 
 The following is Lord Thurlow's reply : — 
 
 TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 Dear Cowper, — On coming to town this 
 morning, I was surprised particularly at re- 
 ceiving from you an answer to a scrawl I 
 sent Harry, which I have forgot too much to 
 resume now. But I think I could not mean 
 to patronize rhyme. I have fancied that it 
 was introduced to mark the measure in 
 modern languages, because they are less 
 numerous and metrical than the ancient, and 
 the name seems to import as much. Per- 
 haps there was melody in ancient song with- 
 out straining it to musical notes, as the com- 
 mon Greek pronunciation is said to have had 
 the compass of five parts of an octave. But 
 surely th:it word is only figuratively applied 
 to modern poetry. Euphony seems to be 
 the higlieyt term it will bear. I have fancied 
 also, that euphony is an impression derived 
 a good deal from habit, rather than suggested 
 Dy nature; therefore in some degree acci- 
 dental, and consequently conventional. Else, 
 why can't we bear a drama with rhyme, or 
 the French, one without it? Suppose the 
 'Rape of the Lock," "Windsor Forest," 
 * L'AUegro," " II Penseroso," and many other 
 little poems which please, stripped of the 
 
 rhyme, which might easily be done, would 
 they please us as well 1 It would be unfair 
 to treat rondeaus, ballads, and odes in the 
 same maimer, because rhyme makes in some 
 sort a part of the conceit. It was this way 
 of thinking which made me suppose that 
 habitual prejudice would miss the rhyme ; 
 and that neither Dryden nor Pope would 
 have dared to give their great authors in 
 blank verse. 
 
 I wondered to hear you say you thought 
 rhyme easier in original compositions ; but 
 you explained it, that you could go further 
 a-tield if you were pushed for want of a 
 rhyme. An expression preferred for the 
 sake of the rhyme looks as if it were worth 
 more than you allow. But, to be sure, in 
 translation, the necessity of rhyme imposes 
 very heavy fetters upon those who mean 
 translation, not paraphrase. Our common 
 heroic metre is enough ; the pure iambic 
 bearing only a sparing introduction of spon 
 dees, trochees, &.c., to vary the measure. 
 
 Mere translation I take to be impossible, 
 if no metre were requir/?d. But flu- dill'er- 
 ence of the iambic and heroic measure de- 
 stroys that at once. It is also impossible to 
 obtain the same sense from a deiid language 
 and an ancient author, which those of his 
 own time and country conceived: words and 
 phrases contract, from time and use, such 
 strong shades of difference from their origi- 
 nal import. In a living language, with the 
 familiarity of a whole life, it is not easy to 
 conceive truly the actual sense of current 
 expressions, much less of older authors. No 
 two languages furnish equipollent words, — 
 their phrases ditler, their syntax and their 
 idioms still more widely. But a translation, 
 strictly so called, requires an exact conform- 
 ity in all those particulars, and also in 
 numbers ; therefore it is impossible. I really 
 think at present, notwithstanding the opinion 
 expressed in your preface, that a translator 
 asks himself a good question, How would 
 my author have expressed the sentence I am 
 turning, in English, as literally and fully as 
 the genius, and use, and character of the 
 language will admit o."? 
 
 In the passage before us, urri was the 
 fondling e.xpression of childhood to its pa- 
 rent ; and to those who first translated the 
 lines, conveyed feelingly that amiable senti- 
 ment. Tcpms expressed the reverence which 
 naturally accrues to age. A(OTpci,ns implies 
 an history. Hospitality was an article of re- 
 ligion ; strangers were supposed to be sent 
 by God, and honored accordingly. Jove's 
 altar was placed in in'oioxciof. Phoenix had 
 been describing that as his situation in the 
 court of Peleus ; and his Aiorps.iui refers to it. 
 But you must not translate that literally — 
 
 Old daddy Phoenix, a God-send for us to main- 
 tain.
 
 400 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 " Precious limbs," was at first an expression 
 of great feeling, till vagabonds, draymen, &c., 
 brought upon it the character of coarseness 
 and ridicule. 
 
 It would run to great length, if I were to go 
 through tiiis one speech thus — this is enough 
 for an example of my idea, and to prove the 
 necessity of farther deviation ; which still is 
 departing from the author, and justifiable only 
 by strong necessity, such as should not be ad- 
 mitted, till the sense of the original had been 
 labored to the utmost and been found irre- 
 ducible. 
 
 I will end this by giving you the strictest 
 translation I can invent, leaving you the dou- 
 ble task of bringing it closer, and of polish- 
 ing it into the style of poetry. 
 
 Ah Phcenix, aged father, guest of Jove ! 
 I relish no such honors ; for my hope 
 Is to be honor'd by Jove's fated will, 
 Which keeps me close beside these sable ships, 
 Long as the breath shall in my bosom stay. 
 Or as my precious knees retain their spring. 
 Further I say — and cast it in your mind ! — 
 Melt not my spirit down by weeping thus, 
 And wailing only for that great man's sake, 
 Atrides : neither ought you love that man ; 
 Lest I should hate the triend I love so well. 
 With me united, 'tis your nobler part 
 To gall his spirit who has galled mine. 
 With me reign equal, half my honors share. 
 These will report; stay you here, and repose 
 On a soft bed ; and with the beaming morn 
 Consult we, whether to go home or stay. 
 
 Iliad, Book ix. 
 
 I have thought that hero has contracted a 
 different sense than it had in Homer's time, 
 and is better rendered great man ; but I am 
 aware that the enclitics and other little words, 
 falsely called expletives, are not introduced 
 even so much as the genius of our language 
 would admit. The euphony I leave entirely 
 to you. Adieu! 
 
 TO THE LORD THURLOW. 
 
 My Lord, — We are of one mind as to the 
 agreeable effect of rhyme, or euphony, in the 
 lighter kinds of poetry. The pieces which 
 your lordship mentions would certainly be 
 spoiled by the loss of it, and so would all such. 
 The " Alma" would lose all its neatness and 
 smartness, and " Hudibras" all its humor. 
 But in grave poems of extreme length, I ap- 
 prehend that the case is different. Long be- 
 fore I thought of commencing poet myself, I 
 have complained, and heard others complain, 
 of the wearisomeness of such poems. Not 
 that I suppose that tedium the effect of rhyme 
 itself, but rather of the perpetual recurrence 
 of the same pause and cadence, unavoidable 
 in the English couplet. I hope, I may say 
 truly, it w:is not in a spirit of presumption 
 that I undertook to do what, in your lordship's 
 
 1 opinion, neither Dryden nor Pope would hav» 
 dared to do. On the contrary, 1 see notl c A' 
 
 I I could have escaped that imputation, had 1 
 
 I followed Pope in his own way. A closer 
 translation was called for. I verily believed 
 that rhyme had betrayed Pope into his devia- 
 tions. For me, therefore, to have used his 
 mode of versifying, wodld have been to ex- 
 
 , pose myself to the same miscarriage, at the 
 same time that I had not his talents to atone 
 
 i for it. 
 
 I agree with your lordship that a transla- 
 tion perfectly close isimpossible,because time 
 has sunk tiie original strict import of a thou- 
 sand phrases, and we have no means of re- 
 covering it. But if we cannot be unimpeacha- 
 bly faithful, that is no reason why we should 
 not be as faithful as we can ; and if blank 
 verse affords the fairest chance, then it claims 
 the preference. 
 
 Your lordship, I will venture to say, can 
 command me nothing in which I will not 
 obey with the greatest alacrity. 
 
 El Svinjfjiai Te\caat ye, Kai ct TKreXtafxivov tirrl. 
 
 But when, having made as close a translation 
 as even you can invent, you enjoin me to make 
 it still closer, and in rhyme too, I can only re- 
 ply, as Horace to Agustus, 
 
 " cupidum, pater optime, vires 
 
 Deficiunt " 
 
 I have not treacherously departed from my 
 pattern that I might seem to give some proof 
 of the justness of my own opinion, but have 
 fairly and honestly adhered as closely to it as 
 I could. Yet your lordship will not have to 
 compliment me on my success, either in re- 
 spect of the poetical merit of my lines, or of 
 their fidelity. They have just enough of each 
 to make them deficient in the other. 
 
 Oh Phcenix, father, friend, guest sent from Jove, 
 Me no such honors as they yield can move. 
 For I expect my honors from above. [sense 
 
 Here Jove has fix'd me ; and while breath and 
 Have place within me, I will never hence, [ears 
 Hear, too, and mark me well — haunt not mine 
 With sighs, nor seek to melt me with thy tears 
 For yonder chief, lesi, urging such a plea 
 Through love of him, thou hateful prove to me. 
 Thy trtendship lor thy friend shall brighter shine 
 — Wounding his spirit, who has wounded mine. 
 Divide with me the honors of my throne — 
 These shall return, and make their tidings known, 
 But go not thou— thy couch shall here be dress'd 
 With sottest fleeces tor thy easy rest, 
 And with the earliest blush of op'ning day 
 We will consult to seek our home or stay. 
 
 Since I wrote these I have looked at Pope's. 
 I am certainly somewhat closer to the original 
 than he, but farther I say not. I shall wait 
 with impatience for your lordship's conclu- 
 sions from these premises, and remain, in the 
 meantime, with great truth, my lord, &c. 
 
 w.c.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 401 
 
 TO WILLIAM COWTER, ESQ. 
 
 Dear Cowper, — I have received your letter 
 on my journey through London, and as the 
 chaise waits I shall be short. I did not mean it 
 as a sign of any presumption that you have at- 
 tempted what neither Dryden nor Pope would 
 have dared ; but merely as a proof of their ad- 
 diction to rhyme ; for I am clearly convinced 
 that Homer may be better translated than into 
 rhyme, and that you have succeeded in the 
 places I have looiied into. But I have fancied 
 that it might have been still more literal, pre- 
 serving the ease of genuine English and melo- 
 dy, and some degree of that elevation which 
 Homer derives from simplicity. But I could 
 not do it, or even near enough to form a 
 judgment, or more than a fancy about it. 
 Nor do I fancy it could be done " stans pede 
 in uno." But when the mind has been fully 
 impregnated with the original passage, often 
 revolving it, and waiting for a happy moment, 
 may still be necessary to the best trained 
 mind. Adieu. Thurlow. 
 
 TO THE LORD THURLOW. 
 
 My Lord, — I haunt you with letters, but will 
 trouble you now with a short line, only to tell 
 your lordship how happy I am that any part 
 of my work has pleased you. I have a com- 
 fortable consciousness that the whole has 
 been executed with equal industry and atten- 
 tion ; and am, my lord, with manv thanks to 
 you for snatching such a hasty moment to 
 write to me, your lordship's obliged and af- 
 fectionate humble servant. W. Cowper. 
 
 These letters cannot fail to be read with 
 great interest. 
 
 Having in a former part of this work con- 
 trasted the two versions of Cowper and Pope, 
 we shall now close the subject, bv quoting 
 Cowper's translation of some well-known 
 and admired passages in the original poem. 
 The classical reader will thus be enabled to 
 deiermine how far the poet has succeeded in 
 the application of his own principle, and re- 
 tained the bold and lofty spirit of Homer, while 
 ne aims at transfusing his noble siniplicitv, 
 and adhering strictly to his genuine meaning. 
 We have selected the following specimens. 
 
 Hector extending his arms to caress his son 
 Astyanax, in his interview with Andromache : 
 
 The hero rniliNl, and his hands put flirth 
 To reach his lioy ; but with a scream the child 
 Still closer to his nurse's bosom clung, 
 *5bunning his touch ; for dreadful in his eyes 
 The brazen armor shone, and dreadful more 
 The shagrjy crest that swept his father's brow, 
 Both parents smil'd, delighted ; and the cliief 
 Set down tlie crested terror on the rrround. 
 Then kiss'd him, play'd away his infant fi'ars, 
 And thus to Jove, and all the Pow'rs above : 
 Grant, O ye gods ! such eminent renown 
 
 And might in arms, as ye have giv'n to me, 
 To this my son, with strength to govern Troy. 
 From fight return'd be this his welcome home— 
 ■ He far excels his sire" — and may he rear 
 The crimson trophy to his mother's joy !* 
 
 He spake, and to his lovely spouse consicrn'd 
 The darlinff boy ; with mingled smiles and tears 
 She wrapp d him in her bosom's fragrant folds, 
 And Hector, pang'd with pity that she wept, 
 Her dewy cheek strok'd softly, and began. 
 Weep not for me, my love ! no mortal arm 
 Shall send me prematurely to the shades, 
 Since, whether brave or dastard, at his birth 
 The fates ordain'd to each his hour to die. 
 Hence, then, to our abode ; there weave or spin, 
 And task thy maidens. War to men belongs ; 
 To all of Troy ; and most of all to me. 
 
 Book vi. line 524. 
 
 The Mai conflict between Hector and 
 Achilles : 
 
 .So saying, his keen falchion from his side 
 He drew, well tempered, ponderous, and rush'd 
 At once to combat. As the eagle darts 
 Right downward through a sullen cloud to seize 
 Weak Iamb or tim'rous hare, so he to fight 
 Impetuous sprang, and shook his glittering blade. 
 Achilles opposite, with fellest ire 
 Full-fraught came on ; his shield with various art 
 Divine portray'd, o'erspread his ample chest ; 
 And on his radiant casque terrific wav'd, 
 By Vulcan spun, his crest of bushy gold. 
 Bright as among the stars, the star of all 
 Most splendid, Hesperus, at midnight moves; 
 So in the right hand of Achilles beam'd 
 His brandisli'd spear, while, meditating woe 
 To Hector, he explor'd his nolle form, 
 Seeking where he was vulnerable most. 
 But every part his dazzling armor, torn 
 From brave Patroclus' body, well-secur'd, 
 Save where the circling key-bone from the neck 
 Disjoins the shoulder; there his throat appear'd, 
 Whence injur'd life with swiftest flight escapes. 
 Achilles plunging in that part his spear, 
 ImpelFd it through the yielding flesh beyond. 
 The ashen beam his power of utt'rance left 
 Still unimpair'd, but in the dust he fell. 
 
 Hector's prayer to Achilles: 
 
 By thy own life, by theirs who gave thee birth, 
 And by thy knees, oh let not Grecian dogs 
 Rend and devour me, hut in gold accept 
 And brass a ransom at my father's hands, 
 And. at thy mother's, an illustrious price; 
 Send home my body, grant me burial rites 
 Among the daughters and the sons of Troy. 
 
 Book xxii. line 354. 
 
 The indingant answer of Achilles to the 
 prayer of Hector: 
 
 Dog ! neither knees nor parents name to me. 
 I would my fierceness of revenge were such. 
 That I coulii carve and eat thee, to whose arms 
 Such griefs I owe ; so true it is and sure, 
 That none sliall save thy carcass from the dogs. 
 No. Would they bring ten ransoms by the scale, 
 Or twice ten ransoms, and still promise more ; 
 Would Priam buy thee with thy weight in gold, 
 
 * For two other versions of this passage, see Lettors, 
 dated Dec. 17, 1793, and Jan. .5. 1794. 
 
 26
 
 402 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Not even then should she who bare thee weep 
 Upon thy bier ; for doirs and rav'ning fowls 
 Shall rend thy flesh, till ev'ry bone be bare. 
 
 Hector's last dying words : 
 
 I knew thee ; knew that I should sue in vain ; 
 For in thy breast of steel no pity dwells. 
 But oh, be cautious now, lest Heav'n perchance 
 Requite thee on that day, when, pierc'd thyself 
 By Paris and Apollo, thou shalt fall. 
 Brave as thou art, within the Scaean gate. 
 He ceas'd, and death involved him dark around. 
 His spirit, from his lips dismiss'd, the house 
 Of Hades sought, deploring as she went 
 Youth's prime and vigor lost, disa.?,*rous doom ! 
 But him, though dead, Achilles thus bespake : 
 Die thou. My death shall find me at what hour 
 Jove gives commandment, and the gods above. 
 
 Ibid, line 39G. 
 
 The interview between Achilles and Priam, 
 who comes to ransom the body of Hector : 
 
 One I had, 
 
 One, more than all my sons the strength of Troy, 
 
 Whom standing for his country thou hast slain — 
 
 Hector — His body to redeem 1 come, 
 
 In Achaia's fleet, and bring, myself, 
 
 Ransom inestimable to thy tent. 
 
 0, fear the gods ! and for remembrance' sake 
 
 Of thy own sire. Achilles ! pity me. 
 
 More hapless still ; who bear what, save myself, 
 
 None ever bore, thus lifting to my lips 
 
 Hands dyed so deep with slaughter of my sons. 
 
 So saying, he waken'd in his soul regret 
 
 Of his own sire ; softly he plac'd his hand 
 
 On Priam's hand, and push'd him gently away. 
 
 Remembrance melted both. Stretch'd prone 
 
 Achilles' feet, the king his son bewail'd, [before 
 
 Wide-slaughtering Hector ; and Achilles wept 
 
 By turns his lather, and by turns his friend, 
 
 Patroclus ; sounds of sorrow fiU'd the tent. 
 
 Book xxiv. line G22. 
 
 Without entering upon any minute analysis 
 of the above passages, we consider them as 
 e.xhibiting a happy specimen of poetic talent ; 
 and that Cowper has been successful in ex- 
 emplifying the rules and principles which, in 
 his preface, he declares to be indispensable 
 in a version of Homer. 
 
 It may be interesting to literary curiosity 
 to be presented with a summary of facts, re- 
 specting Cowper's two versions of Homer. 
 
 This important undertaking commenced 
 Nov. 21st, 1784, and was completed August 
 25th, 1790. During eight months of this 
 intervening time, he was hindered by indis- 
 position, so that he was occupied in the work, 
 on the whole, five years and one month. 
 On the 8th of September, 1790, his kinsman, 
 the Rev. John Johnson, conveyed the trans- 
 lation to Johnson, the bookseller in St. Paul's 
 Churcliyard, with a view to its consignment 
 to the press. During this period Cowper 
 gave the work a second revisal, which he 
 concluded March 4th, 1791. On July 1st of 
 the same year the publication issued from the 
 press. In 1793 there was a further revision, 
 
 with the addition of explanatory notes, a 
 second edition having been called for. In 
 1796 he engaged in a revisal of the whole 
 work, which, owing to his state of mind and 
 declining hedth, was not finished till March 
 8th, 1799. In January, 1800, he newmod- 
 elled a passage in his translation of the Iliad, 
 where mention is made of the very ancient 
 sculpture, in which Daedalus had represented 
 the Cretan dance for Ariadne. This proved 
 to be the last effort of his pen.* 
 
 We have thought it due to Cowper's ver- 
 sion to enter thus largely into an examination 
 of its merits, from a persuasion that an un- 
 dertaking of this magnitude, executed by the 
 author of " The Task," claims to be consid- 
 ered as a part of our national literature. It 
 remains only to be observed that the for- 
 eigner whom he mentions with so much esti- 
 mation, as having aided him with his critical 
 taste and erudition, was Fuseli the painter. 
 He gi'atefully acknowledges his obligations 
 in the following letters to Johnson the book- 
 seller. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 11, 1790. 
 Dear Sir, — I am very sensibly obliged by 
 the remarks of Mr. Fuseli, and beg that you 
 will tell him so ; they afford me opportunities 
 of improvement which I shall not neglect. 
 When he shall see the press-copy, he will be 
 convinced of this, and will be convinced like- 
 wise, that, smart as he sometimes is, he 
 spares me often, when I have no mercy on 
 myself He will see almost a new transla- 
 tion. ... I assure you faithfully, that 
 whatever my faults may be, to be easily or 
 hastily satisfied with what I have written is 
 not one of them. 
 
 Sept. 7, 1790. 
 
 It grieves me that, after all, I am obliged 
 to go into public without the whole advant- 
 age of Mr. Fuseli's judicious strictures. The 
 only consolation is, that I have not forfeited 
 them by my own impatience. Five years 
 are no small portion of a man's life, especially 
 at the latter end of it, and in those five years, 
 being a man of almost no engagements, I 
 have done more in the way of hard work, 
 than most could have done in twice the num- 
 ber. I beg you to present my compliments 
 to Mr. Fuseli, with many and sincere thanks 
 for the services that his own more important 
 occupations would allow him to render me. 
 
 We add one more letter in this place, ad- 
 dressed to his bookseller, to show with what 
 becoming resolution he could defend his po- 
 etical opinions when he considered them to 
 be just. 
 
 Some accidental reviser of the manuscript 
 had taken the liberty to alter a line in a poem 
 
 * See Dr. Johnson's sketch of the Life of Cowper.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 403 
 
 of Cowper's: — this liberty drew from the of- 
 fended poet the following very just and ani- 
 mated remonstrance, which we are anxious 
 to preserve, because it elucidates with great 
 felicity of expression his deliberate ideas on 
 Entjlish versification. 
 
 " I did not write the line that has been 
 tampered with, hastily, or without due atten- 
 tion to tlie construction of it ; and what ap- 
 peared to me its only merit is, in its preseiit 
 state, entirely annihilated. 
 
 " I know that ears of modern verse-writers 
 are delicate to an excess, and their readers 
 are troubled with tlie same squeamishnoss as 
 tliemsclves. So that if a line do not run as 
 smooth as quicksilver, they are offended. A 
 critic of the present day serves a poem as a 
 cook serves a dead turkey, when she fastens 
 the legs of it to a post, and draws out all tlie 
 sinews. For this we may tiiank Pope : but 
 unless we could imitate him in the closeness 
 and compactness of his expression, as well as 
 in the smoothness of his numbers, we had 
 better drop the imitation, which serves no 
 other purpose than to emasculate and weaken 
 all we write. Give me a manly rough line, 
 with a deal of meaning in it, rather than a 
 Vt'hole poem full of musical periods, that 
 have nothing but their oily smoothness to 
 recommend them ! 
 
 " I have said thus much, as I hinted in the 
 beginning, because I have just finished a much 
 longer poem than the last, which our common 
 friend will receive by the same messenger 
 that has the charge of this letter. In that 
 poem there are many lines which an ear so 
 nice as the gentleman's who made the above- 
 mentioned alteration would undoubtedly con- 
 demn, and yet (if I may be permitted to say 
 it) they cannot be made smoother without 
 being the worse for it. There is a rough- 
 ness on a plum, which nobody that under- 
 stands fruit would rub off, though the plum 
 would be much more polished without it. 
 But, lest I tire you, I will only add, that I 
 wish you to guard me from all such med- 
 dling, assuring you, that I always write as 
 smoothly as I can, but that I never did, never 
 will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a passage 
 to the sound of it." 
 
 Covvper was much affected at this time by 
 a severe indisposition, to which he alludes in 
 the following letter. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Weston UnderwooJ, April -27, 170-2. 
 
 Dear Sir, — ^I write now merely to prevent 
 any suspicion in your mind that I neglect 
 you. I have been very ill, and for more than 
 a fortninrht unable to use the pen, or you 
 should have heard long ere now of the safe 
 arrival of your packet. I have revised the 
 
 Elegy on Seduction,* but have not as yet 
 been able to proceed farther. The best way 
 of returning these which I have now in hand, 
 will be to return them with those which you 
 propose to send hereafter. I will make no 
 more* apologies for any liberties that it may 
 seem necessary to me to take with your copies. 
 Why do you send them, but that I may exer- 
 cise that freedom, of which the very act of 
 sending them implies your permission? I 
 will only say, therefore, that you must neither 
 be impatient nor even allow yourself to think 
 me tardy, since assuredly I will not be more 
 so than I needs mikst be. My hands are 
 pretty full. IMilton must be forwarded, and 
 is at present hardly begun ; and I have beside 
 a numerous correspondence, which engrosses 
 more of my time than I can at present well 
 aflbrd to it. I cannot decide with myself 
 whether the lines in which the reviewers are 
 so smartly noticed had better be expunged 
 or not. These lines are gracefully introduced 
 and well written : for which reasons I should 
 be loath to p;irt with them. On the other 
 hand, how far it may be prudent to irritate a 
 body of critics, who certainly much influence 
 the public opinion, may deserve consideration. 
 It may be added too, that they are not equally 
 worthy of the lash : there are among them 
 men of real learning, judgment, and candor. 
 I must leave it, therefore, to your own de- 
 termination. 
 
 I thank you for Thomson's Epitaph, on 
 which I have only to remark (and I am sure 
 that I do it not in a captious spirit) that, since 
 the poet is himself the speaker, I cannot but 
 question a little the propriety of the quota- 
 tion subjoined. It is a prayer, and when the 
 man is buried, the time of prayer is over. I 
 know it may be answered, that it is placed 
 there merely for the benefit of the reader ; 
 but all readers of tombstones are not wise 
 enough to be trusted for such an interpre- 
 tation. 
 
 I was well pleased with your poem on 
 * * and equally well pleased with your in- 
 tention not to publish it. It proves two 
 points of consequence to an author: — both 
 that you have an exuberant fancy, and dis- 
 cretion enough to know how to deal with it. 
 The man is as formidable for his ludicrous 
 talent, as he has made himself contemptible 
 by his use of it. To despise him therefore 
 is natural, but it is wise to do it in secret. 
 
 Since tlie juvenile poems of Milton were 
 edited by Warton, you need n >t trouble 
 yourself to send them. I have them of hia 
 edition already. 
 I am, dear sir. 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 The marriage of Miss Stapleton, the Cath- 
 
 * This ElotT is iiiporti-d in Mr. Park's \'olume of sott 
 nets and miacellaueous poems.
 
 404 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 arina of Cowper, to Sir John Throckmorton's 
 brother, (now Mr. Courtenay,) was one of 
 those events which the muse of Cowper 
 had ventured to anticipate ; and he had now 
 the happiness of finding his cherished wish 
 amply fulfilled, and of thereby securing them 
 as neighbors at the Hall.* 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, May 20, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Coz, — I rejoice as thou reason- 
 ably supposest me to do, in the matrimonial 
 news communicated in your last. Not that 
 it was altogether news to me, for twice I had 
 received broad hints of it from Lady Frog, 
 by letter, and several times xhd xoce while 
 she was here. But she enjoined vie secrecy 
 as well as yuu, and you know that all secrets 
 are safe with me ; safer far than the winds in 
 the bags of ^olus. I know not, in fact, the 
 lady whom it would give me more pleasure 
 to call Mrs. Courtenay, than the lady in 
 question ; partly because I know her, but es- 
 pecially because I know her to be all that I 
 can wish in a neighbor. 
 
 I have often observed, that there is a reg- 
 ular alternation of good and evil in the lot 
 of men, so that a favorable incident may be 
 considered as the harbinger of an unfavor- 
 able one, and vice versa. Dr. Madan's ex- 
 perience witnesses to the truth of this obser- 
 vation. One day he gets a broken head, and 
 the next a mitre to heal it. I rejoice that he 
 has met with so effectual a cure, though my 
 joy is not unmingled with concern; for till 
 now I had some hopes of seeing him, but 
 since I live in the north, and his episcopal 
 call is in the west, that is a gratification, I 
 suppose, which I must no longer look for. 
 
 My sonnet, which I sent you, was printed 
 in the Northampton paper, last week, and 
 this week it produced me a complimentary 
 one in the same paper, which served to con- 
 vince me, at least by the matter of it, that 
 my own was not published without occasion, 
 and that it had answered its purpose.f 
 
 * This wish is expressed in the following lines : — 
 " With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 
 To wing all her moments at home. 
 And with scenes that new rapture inspu-e. 
 As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
 She will have just the life she prefers, 
 With little to liope or to fear, 
 Jind ours would be pleasant as hers. 
 Might we view her enjoying it here.'" 
 
 See Verses addressed to Miss Stapleton, p. 343. 
 t We have succeeded in obtaining these verses, and 
 think them worthy of insertion : 
 
 TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ., 
 
 PN READINQ HIS SONNET OF THE SIXTEENTH INSTANT 
 ADDRESSED TO MR. WILBERFORCE. 
 
 Desert the cause of liberty !— the cause 
 Of human nature !— sacred flame that burn'd 
 So late, SO bright within thee !— thence descend 
 The monster Slavery's unnatural fi-iend ! 
 'TSvere vile aspersion '. justly, while it draws 
 Thy virtuous indignation, greatly spurn'd. 
 
 My correspondence with Ha) ley proceeds 
 briskly, and is very affectionate ( n botli sides. 
 1 expect him here in about a iortnigiit, and 
 wish heartily, with Mrs. Unv in, that you 
 would give him a meeting. I ) ave promised 
 him, indeed, tiiat he shall find us alone, but 
 you are one of the family. 
 
 I wish much to print the following lines in 
 one of the daily papers. Lord S.'s vindica- 
 tion of the poor culprit* in the affair of Cheit 
 Sing, has confirmed me in the belief that lie 
 has been injuriously treated, and I think it an 
 act merely of justice to take a little notice of 
 him. 
 
 TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. 
 
 BY AN OLB SCHOOL-FELLOW OF HIS AT WEST- 
 MINSTER. 
 
 Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind 
 While young, humane, conversable, and kind ; 
 Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, 
 Now grown a villain, and the worst of men : 
 But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd 
 And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 
 
 If thou wilt take the pains to send them 
 to thy news-monger, I hope thou wilt do 
 well. 
 
 Adieu! W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, May, 20, 1792. 
 
 My dearest of all Johnnies, — I am not 
 sorry that your ordination is postponed. A 
 year's learning and wisdom, added to your 
 present stock, will not be more than enough 
 to satisfy the demands of your function. 
 Neither am I sorry that you find it difficult 
 to fix your thoughts to the serious point at 
 all times. It proves, at least, that you at- 
 tempt, and wish to do it, and these are good 
 symptoms. Woe to those who enter on the 
 ministry of the gospel without having pre- 
 viously asked, at least from God, a mind and 
 spirit suited to their occupation, and whose 
 experience never differs from itself, because 
 they are always alike vain, light, and incon- 
 siderate. It is, therefore, matter of great joy 
 to me to hear you complain of levity, and 
 such it is to Mrs. Unwin. She is, I thank 
 God, tolerably well, and loves you. As to 
 the time of your journey hither, the sooner 
 after June the better ; till then we shall have 
 company. 
 
 As soon the foes of Afric might expect 
 The altar's blaze, forgetful of the law 
 Of its aspiring nature, should direct 
 To hell its point inverted ; as to draw 
 Virtue like thine, and genius, grovelling base, 
 To sanction wrong, and dignify disgrace. 
 Welcome detection ! grateful to the Cause, 
 As to its Patron, Cowper's just applause ! 
 
 S. M^Clellan. 
 jlpril 25, 1792. 
 
 * Warren Hastings, at that time under impeachment, 
 as GoT>?rnor-generai of India.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 405 
 
 I forget not my debts to your dear sister, 
 and your auut Balls. Greet them both with 
 a brother's kiss, and place it to my account. 
 I will write to them when Milton, and a 
 thousand other enfracrements will (jive me 
 leave. Mr. Hayley is here on a visit. We 
 have formed a friendship that I trust will 
 last for life, and render us an edifying ex- 
 ample to all future poets. 
 
 Adieu ! Lose no time in coming after the 
 time mentioned. W. C. 
 
 The reader is informed, by the close of the 
 last letter, that Hayley was at this time the 
 guest of Cowper. The meeting, so singu- 
 larly produced, was a source of reciprocal 
 delight; and each looked cheerfully forward 
 to tlie unclouded enjoyment of many social 
 and literary hours. 
 
 Hayley's account of this \isit is too inter- 
 esting not to be recorded in his own words. 
 
 "My host, tiiough now in his sixty-first 
 year, appeared as happily exempt from all 
 the intirmities of advanced life, as friendsliip 
 could wish him to be; and his more elderly 
 companion, not materially oppressed by age, 
 discovered a benevolent alertness of charac- 
 ter that seemed to promise a continuance of 
 their domestic comfort. Their reception of 
 me was kindness itself; — 1 was enchanted to 
 lind that the manners and conversation of 
 Cowper resembled his poetry, charming by 
 unaffected elegance, and tlie graces of a be- 
 nevolent spirit. I looked with affectionate 
 veneration and pleasure on the lady, who, 
 havidg devoted her life and fortune to the 
 service of this tender and sublime genius, in 
 watching over him with maternal vicfilance 
 through many years of the darkest calamity, 
 appeared to be now enjoying a reward justly 
 due to the noblest exertions of friendship, in 
 contemplating the iiealth and the renown of 
 the poet, whom she had the happiness to 
 preserve. 
 
 " It seemed hardly possible to survey hu- 
 man nature in a more touching and a more 
 satisfactory point of view. Tiieir tender at- 
 tention to each other, their simple, devout 
 gratitude for the mercies which they had ex- 
 perienced togetiier, and their constant, but 
 unaffected propensity to impress on the mind 
 and heart of a new friend, the deep sense 
 which they incessantly felt, of their mutual 
 obligations to each other, afforded me a very 
 singular gratification; which my reader will 
 conceive tiie more forcibly, when he has pe- 
 rused the following exquisite sonnet, ad- 
 dressed by Cowper ii ]Mrs. Unwin. 
 
 " SONNET. 
 
 " Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings : 
 Such aid from Heaven, as some h'lve feign'd 
 
 they drew ! 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 
 And uadebas'd by praise of meaner things ! 
 
 That ere through age or woe I shed my wings 
 I may record thy worth, with honor due, 
 In verse as musical as thou art true,— 
 Verse that immortalizes whom it sings ! 
 
 But thou hast httle need : There is a book, 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly liffht, 
 On which the eyes of God not rarely look ; 
 A chronicle of actions, just and bright ! 
 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
 And since thou own'st that praise, I spare the« 
 mine. 
 
 " Tiie delight that I derived from a perfect 
 view of the virtues, the talents, and the pres- 
 ent domestic enjoyments of Cowper, was 
 suddenly overcast by the darkest and most 
 painful anxiety. 
 
 " After passing our mornings in social 
 study, we usually walked out together at 
 noon. In returning from one of our rambles 
 around the pleasant village of Weston, we 
 were met by Mr. Greatheed, an accomplished 
 minister of the gospel, who resides at Nevv- 
 port-Pagnel, and whom Cowper described to 
 me in terms of cordial esteem. 
 
 " He came forth to meet us as we drew 
 near the house, and it was soon visible, from 
 his countenance and manner, that he had ill 
 news to impart. After the most tender prep- 
 aration that humanity could devi.se, he ac- 
 quainted Cowper that Mrs. Unwin was under 
 the immediate pressure of a paralytic attack. 
 
 " My agitated friend rusiied to the sight of 
 the sufferer; — he returned to me in a state 
 that alarmed me in the hi<jhest degree for his 
 fticulties; — his first speech to me was wild in 
 the extreme ; — my answer would appear little 
 less so ; but it was addressed to the predom- 
 inant fancy of my unhappy friend, and, with 
 the blessing of Heaven, it produced an in- 
 stantaneous calm in his troubled mind. 
 
 " From that moment lie rested on my 
 friendship, with such mild and cheerful con- 
 fidence, that his affectionate spirit regarded 
 me as sent providentially to support him in 
 a season of the severest atlliction." 
 
 The kindness of Hayley, at tliis critical 
 moment, reflects the highest credit on his 
 humanity and presence of mind. By means 
 of an electrical machine, which the village 
 of Weston fortunately supplied, he succeed- 
 ed in relieving his suffering patient with the 
 happiest effect. With this seasonable aid, 
 seconded by a course of medicine recom- 
 mended by Dr. Austen, an euiinent London 
 physician,andafriendof Hayley's, the violence 
 of the attack was gradually mitigated, and the 
 agitated mind of Cowper greatly relieved. 
 
 The progress of her recovery, and its in- 
 fluence on the tender spirit of Cowper, will 
 sufficiently appear in the following letters 
 
 TO LADY HESKETII. 
 
 Westoi, May 21, 17<«. 
 
 I wish with all my heart, my dearest Coz.,
 
 406 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 that I had not ill news for the subject of the 
 present letter. My friend, my Mary, has 
 again been attacked by the same disorder 
 that threatened me last year with the loss 
 of her, and of which you were yourself a 
 witness. Gregson would not allow that first 
 stroke to be paralytic, but this he acknowl- 
 edges to be so ; and with respect to the for- 
 mer, I never had myself any doubt that it 
 was, but this has been much the severest. 
 Her speech has been almost unintelligible 
 from the moment that she was struck; it is 
 with difficulty that she opens her eyes, and 
 she cannot keep them open ; the muscles 
 necessary to the purpose being contracted; 
 and as to self-moving powers, from place to 
 place, and the use of her right hand and arm, 
 she has entirely lost them. 
 
 It has happened well, that of all men liv- 
 ing, the man most qualified to assist and 
 comfort me is here ; though till within these 
 few days I never saw him, and a few weeks 
 since had no expectation that I ever should. 
 You have already guessed that I mean Hay- 
 ley — Hayley, who loves me as if he had 
 known me from my cradle. When he re- 
 turns to town, as he must, alas! too soon, 
 he will pay his respects to you. 
 
 I will not conclude without adding, that 
 our poor patient is beginning, I hope, to re- 
 cover from this stroke also ; but her amend- 
 ment is slow, as must be expected at her 
 time of life and io such a disorder. I am as 
 well myself as you have ever known me in a 
 time of much trouble, and even better. 
 
 It was not possible to prevail on Mrs. Un- 
 win to let me send for Dr. Kerr, but Hayley 
 has written to his friend, Dr. Austen, a re- 
 presentation of her case, and we expect his 
 opinion and advice to-morrow. In the mean- 
 time, we have borrowed an electrical ma- 
 chine from our neighbor Socket, the effect 
 of which she tried yesterday and the day be- 
 fore, and we think it has been of material 
 service. 
 
 She was seized while Hayley and I were 
 walking, and Mr. Greatheed, who called while 
 we were absent, was with her. 
 
 I forgot in my last to thank thee for the 
 proposed amendments of thy friend. Who- 
 ever he is, make my compliments to him, 
 and thank him. The passages to which he 
 objects have been all altered, and when he 
 shall see ihem new dressed, I hope he will 
 like them better.* W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETII. 
 
 The Lodge, May 26, 1792. 
 My dearest Cousin, — Knowing that you 
 will be .anxious to learn how we go on, I 
 write a few lines to inform you tha* Mrs. 
 
 * This friend was Mrs. Carter. 
 
 Unwin daily recovers a little strength and a 
 little power of utterance; but she seems 
 strongest, and her speech is more distinct, 
 in a morning. Hayley has been all in all to 
 us on this very afflictive occasion. Love him, 
 I charge you, dearly, for my sake. Where 
 could I have found a man, except himself, 
 who could have made himself so necessary 
 to me in so short a time, that I absolutely 
 know not how to live without him. 
 
 Adieu, my dear sweet coz. Mrs. Unwin, 
 as plainly as her poor lips can speak, sends 
 her best love, and Hayley threatens in a few 
 days to lay close siege to your affections in 
 person. W. C. 
 
 There is some hope, I find, that the chan- 
 cellor may continue in office, and I shall be 
 glad if he does, because we have no single 
 man worthy to succeed him. 
 
 I open my letter again to thank you, my 
 dearest coz., for yours justr eceived. Though 
 happy, as you well know, to see you at all 
 times, we have no need, and I trust shall 
 have none, to trouble you with a journey 
 made on purpose ; yet once again, I am will- 
 ing and desirous to believe, we shall be a 
 happy trio at Weston : but unless necessity 
 dictates a journey of charity, I wish all yours 
 hither to be made for pleasure. Farewell ! 
 thou shalt know how we go on. 
 
 The tender and grateful mind of Cowper, 
 sensible of the kind and able services of Dr. 
 Austen, led him to pour out the effusions of 
 his heart in the following verses. 
 
 TO DR. AUSTEN, 
 
 OF CECn> STREET, LONDON. 
 
 Austen ! accept a grateful verse from me ! 
 The poet's treasure ! no inglorious fee ! 
 Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind 
 Pleasing requital in a verse may find ; 
 Verse oTl has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, 
 Iminortalizing names which else had died : 
 And, oh ! could I command the glittering wealth 
 With whicli sick kings are glad to purchase 
 
 health : 
 Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, 
 Were in the power of verse like mine to give, — 
 I would not recompense his art with less, 
 Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 
 
 Friend of my friend, I love thee, though un- 
 known, 
 And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 
 
 TO MRS. BODHAM. 
 
 Weston, June 4, 1792. 
 My dearest Rose, — I am not such an un- 
 grateful and insensible animal, as to have 
 neglected you thus long without a reason. . . 
 
 J
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 401 
 
 I cannot say that I am sorry that our dear 
 Jolmny finds the pulpit-door sliut against 
 him at present.* He is young, and can af- 
 ford to wait another year; neither is it to be 
 regretted that his time of preparation for an 
 office of so much importance as that of a 
 minister of God's word should have been a 
 little protracted. It is easier to direct the 
 movements of a great army than to guide a 
 few souls to heaven ; the way is narrow and 
 full of snares, and the guide himself has the 
 most dilhcullies to encounter. But I trust 
 he will do well. He is single in his views, 
 honest-hearted, and desirous, by prayer and 
 study of the scripture, to qualify himself for 
 the service of his great Master, wlio will suf- 
 fer no such man to fail for want of his aid 
 and protection. W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 4, 1792. 
 
 All's well. 
 
 Which words I place as conspicuously as 
 possible, and prefix them to my letter, to save 
 you the pain, my friend and brother, of a mo- 
 ment's anxious speculation. Poor Mary pro- 
 ceeds in her amendment still, and improves, 
 I think, even at a swifter rate tlian wiienyou 
 left her. The stronger she grows the faster 
 she gathers strength, which is perhaps the 
 natural course of recovery. Siie walked so 
 well tliis morning, that she told me at my 
 first visit she had entirely forgot her illness, 
 and she spoke so distinctly, and had so much 
 of her usual countenance, that had it been 
 possible she would have made me forget 
 it too. 
 
 Returned from my walk, blown to tatters 
 — found two dear things in the study, your 
 letter and my iMary ! She is bravely well, 
 and your beloved epistle does us both good. 
 I found your kind pencil-note in my song- 
 book as soon as I came down on the morn- 
 ing of your departure, and Mary was vexed 
 to tlic heart tliat liie simpletons who watched 
 her supposed her asleep when she was not, 
 for slie learned, soon after you were gone, 
 tiiat you would iiave peeped at her, had you 
 known her to have been awake : I periiaps 
 miglit have had a peep too, and was as ve.xed 
 as she : but if it please God, we shall make 
 ourselves large amends for all lost peeps by- 
 and-by at Earlham. VV. C. 
 
 TO WaLLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Juno 5, 1792. 
 
 Yesterday was a noble day with us — 
 speech almost perfect — eyes open almost 
 the wliole day, witiiout any eH'ort to keep 
 them so ; and the step wonderfully improved. 
 
 • Some unexpected difficulties had occurred in obtain- 
 ing a cumcy, with a title for orders. 
 
 But the night has been almost a sleepless 
 one, owing partly I believe to her having had 
 as much sleep again as usual the night be 
 fore ; for even when she is in tolerable health 
 she hardly ever sleeps well two nights to- 
 gether. 1 found her accordingly a little out 
 of spirits this morning, but still insisting on 
 it that she is better. Indeed she always tells 
 me so, and will probably die with those very 
 words upon her lips. They will be true then 
 at least, for tlien she will be best of all. She 
 is now (the clock has just struck eleven) en- 
 deavoring, I believe, to get a little sleep, for 
 which reason I do not yet let her know that 
 I have received your letter. 
 
 Can I ever honor you enough for your zeal 
 to serve me 1 Truly I think not : I am how- 
 ever so sensible of the love I owe you on 
 this account, that I every day regret the 
 acuteness of your feelings for me, convinced 
 that they expose you to much trouble, morti- 
 fication, and disappointment. I have in short 
 a poor opinion of my destiny, as I told you 
 when you were here, and, though I believe 
 that if any man living can do me good you 
 will, I cannot yet persuade myself, that even 
 you will be successful in attempting it. But 
 it is no matter ; you are yourself a good, 
 which I can never value enough, and, whether 
 rich or poor in other respects, I sliall always 
 account myself better provided for than I de- 
 serve, with such a friend at my back as you. 
 Let it please God to continue to me my 
 William and Mary, and I will be more rea- 
 sonable than to grumble. 
 
 I rose this morning wrapt round with a 
 cloud of melanclioly, and with a heart full of 
 fears, but if I see Mary's amendment a little 
 advanced when she rises, I sluall be better. 
 
 I have just been witii her again. Except 
 that she is fatigued for want of sleep, she 
 seems as well as yesterday. The post 
 brings me a letter from Hurdis, who is bro- 
 ken-hearted for a dying sister. Had we eyes 
 siiarp enough, we should see the arrows of 
 death Hying in all directions, and account it 
 a wonder that we and our friends escape 
 them but a single day. W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 7, 1792. 
 Of what materials can you suppose me 
 made, if after all the rapid proofs that you 
 have given me of your friendship, I do not 
 love you witli all my heart, and regret your 
 absence continually ? But you must permit 
 me to be melancholy now and then; or if you 
 will not, I must be so without your permission, 
 for that sable thread is so intermixed witk 
 the very thread of my existence as to be in- 
 separable from it, at least wiiile I exist in the 
 body. Be content, therefore ; let me sigh and
 
 408 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 groan, but always be sure that I love you ! 
 You will be well assured tliat I should not 
 have indulged myself in this rhapsody about 
 myself and my melancholy, had my present 
 mood been of that complexion, or had not 
 our poor Mary seemed still to advance in her 
 recovery. So in fact she does, and has per- 
 formed several little feats to-day; such as 
 either she could not perform at all, or very 
 feebly, while you were with us. 
 
 I shall be glad if you have seen Johnny as 
 I call him, my Norfolk cousin ; he is a sweet 
 lad, but as shy as a bird. It costs him always 
 two or three days to open his mouth before a 
 stranger ; but when he does, he is sure to 
 please by the innocent cheerfulness of his 
 conversation. His sister too is one of my 
 idols, for the resemblance she bears to my 
 mother. 
 
 Mary and you have all my thoughts; and 
 how should it be otherwise ? She looks well, 
 is better, and loves you dearly. 
 
 Adieu ! my dear brother. W. C. 
 
 TO AVILLIAi\I HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 10, 1792. 
 
 I do indeed anxiously wish that everything 
 you do may prosper; and should I at last 
 prosper by your means, shall taste double 
 sweetness in prosperity for that reason. 
 
 I rose this morning, as I usually do, with a 
 mind all in sables. In this mood I presented 
 myself to Mary's bedside, whom I found, 
 though after many hours lying awake, 3'et 
 cheerful, and not to be affected with my de- 
 sponding humor. It is a great blessing to us 
 both, that, poor feeble thing as she is, she has 
 a most invincible courage, and a trust in God's 
 goodness, that nothing shakes. She is now 
 in the study, and is certainly in some degree 
 better than she was yesterday, but how to 
 measure that little I know not, except by say- 
 ing that it is just perceptible. 
 
 I am glad that you have seen my Johnny 
 of Norfolk, because I know it will be a com- 
 fort to you to have seen your successor. He 
 arrived to my great joy, yesterday ; and, not 
 having bound himself to any particular time 
 of going, will, I hope, stay long with us. You 
 are now once more snug in your retreat, and 
 I give you joy of your return to it, after the 
 bustle in which you have lived since you left 
 Weston. Weston mourns your absence, and 
 will mourn it till she sees you again. What is 
 to become of Milton I know not ; I do nothing 
 but scribble to you, and seem to have no relish 
 for any other employment. I have however, 
 in pursuit of your idea to compliment Darwin, 
 put a few stanzas together, which I shall 
 subjoin: you will easily give them all that 
 you find they want, and match the song with 
 another. 
 
 1 am now going to walk with Johnny, much 
 
 cheered since I began writing to you, and by 
 Mary's looks and good spirits. W. C. 
 
 TO DR. DARWIN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN. 
 
 Two poets (poets by report 
 
 Not oft so well agree) 
 Sweet hamionist of Flora's court ! 
 
 Conspire to honor thee. 
 
 They best can judge a poet's worth, 
 Who oft themselves have known 
 
 The pangs of a poetic birth, 
 By labors of their own. 
 
 We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy song, 
 Though various, yet complete, 
 
 Rich in embellishment as strong, 
 And learn'd as it is sweet. 
 
 No envy mingles with our praise ; 
 
 Though, could our hearts repine, 
 At any poet's happier lays, 
 
 Tiiey would, they must, at thine. 
 
 But we, in mutual bondage knit 
 
 Of friendship's closest tie. 
 Can gaze on even Darwin's vvit 
 
 With an unjaundic'd eye : 
 
 And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, 
 
 And howsoever known, 
 Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 
 
 Unworthy of his own.* 
 
 * The celebrated poem of "the Botanic Garden," 
 oriijinated in a copy of verses, addressed by Miss Seward 
 to Dr. Darwin, complimenting him on his sequestered 
 retreat near Lichfield. In this retreat there was a mossy 
 fountain of the purest water; aquatic plants bordered its 
 summit, and branched from the fissures of tlie rock. 
 There was also a brook, which he widened into small 
 lakes. The wliole scene formed a little paradise, and 
 was embellished with various classes of plants, uniting 
 the Linnean science, with all the charm of landscape. 
 
 When Miss Seward presented her verses to Dr. Darwin, 
 he was highly gratified, she observes, and said, " I shall 
 send this poem to the periodical publications ; but it 
 ought to form the exordium of a great work. The Lln- 
 nean system is unexplored poetic ground, and a happy 
 subject for the muse. It affords fine scope for poetic 
 landscape; it suggests metamorphoses of the Ovidian 
 kind, though reversed. Ovid made men and women 
 into flowers, plants, and trees. You should make flow- 
 ers, plants, and trees, into men and women. I," con- 
 tinued he, "will write the notes, which must be scien- 
 tific, and you shall write the verse." 
 
 Miss S. remarked, that besides her want of botanic 
 knowledge, the undertaking was not strictly projjer for a 
 female pen ; and that she felt how much more it waa 
 adapted to the ingenuity and vigor of his own fancy. 
 After maay objections urged on the jiart of Dr. Darwin, 
 he at length acquiesced, and ultimately produced hi3 
 " Loves of the Plants, or Botanic Garden."* 
 
 Though this poem obtained much celebrity on its first 
 appearance, it was nevertheless severely animadverted 
 upon bv some critics. A writer in the Anti-Jacobin Re- 
 view, (ivnown to be the late Mr. Canning) parodied the 
 work, by producing ''The Loves of the Triangles," in 
 which triangles were made to fall in love with the same 
 fervor of p:ission, as Dr. Darwin attiibuted to plants. 
 The style, the imagery, and the entire composition ot 
 " The Loves of the Plants," were most successfully imi- 
 tated. We quote the following. 
 
 "In filmy, gauzy, gossamery lines. 
 
 With lucid language, and most dark designs, 
 
 In sweet tetrandryan monogynian strains. 
 
 Pant for a pistil in botanic pains ; 
 
 Raise lust in pinks, and with unhallowed fire, 
 
 Bid the soft virgin Vivlet expire." 
 
 We do not think that the Botanic Garden ever fully 
 
 * See Life of Dr. Darwin, by Miss Seward.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 409 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, June 11, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Coz., — Thou art ever in my 
 thoughts, whether I am writing to thee or not, 
 and my correspondence seems to grow upon 
 me at such a rate that 1 am not able to address 
 thoe as often as 1 would. In fact, I live only 
 to write letters. Hayley is as you see added 
 to the number, and to him I write almost as 
 duly as I rise in the morning; nor is he only 
 added, but his friend Carwardine also — Car- 
 wardine the generous, the disinterested, the 
 friendly. I seem, in short, to have stumbled 
 suddeidy on a race of heroes, men who re- 
 solve to have no interests of their own till 
 mine are served. 
 
 But 1 will proceed to other matters, and 
 that concern me more intimately, and more 
 immediately, than all that can be done for me 
 either by the great or the small, or by both 
 united. Since I wrote last, Mrs. Unwin has 
 been continually improving in strength, but at 
 so gradual a rate that I can only mark it by 
 saying that she moves about every day with 
 ess support than the former. Her recovery 
 .s most of all retarded by want of sleep. On 
 the whole, I believe she goes on as well as 
 could be expected, though not quite well 
 enough to satisfy me. And Dr. Austen, 
 speaking from the reports 1 iiave made of her, 
 says he has no doubt of her restoration. 
 
 During the last two months I seem to my- 
 self to have been in a dream. It has been a 
 most eventful period, and fruitful to an un- 
 common degree, both in good and evil. I have 
 been very ill, and suffered excruciating pain. 
 I recovered, and became quite well again. I 
 received within my doors a man, but lately 
 an entire stranger, and who now loves me as 
 a brother, and forgets himself to serve me. 
 ]Mrs. Unwin has been seized with an illness 
 that for many days threatened to deprive me 
 of her, and to cast a gloom, an impenetrable 
 one, on all my future prospects. She is now 
 granted to me again. A few days since I 
 should have thouirht the moon might have 
 descended into my purse as likely as any 
 emolument, and now it seems not impossible. 
 All this has come to pass with such rapidity 
 as events move with in romance indeed, but 
 not often in real life. Events of all sorts 
 creep or tly exactly as God pleases. 
 
 To the foregoing I have to add in conclu- 
 sion, the arrival of ray Johnny, just when I 
 wanted him most, and wlien only a few days 
 before I had no expectation of him. lie came 
 to dinner on Saturday, and I hope I shall keep 
 him long. What comes next I know not, but 
 shall endeavor, as you exhort me, to look for 
 good, and I knowl shall have your prayer 
 that I may not be disappointed. 
 
 maintained its former estimation, after tlio keen Attic 
 wit of Mr. Caniiin'-C, tliough the coiieludui'^ lines of Cow- 
 ■>er seem to promise perpetuity to its fame. 
 
 Hayley tells me you begin to be jealous of 
 him, lest I should love him more than I love 
 you, and bids me say, "that, should I do so, 
 you in revenge must love him more than I do." 
 Him I know you will love, and me, because 
 you have such a habit of doing it that you 
 cannot help it. 
 
 Adieu I My knuckles ache with letter- 
 writing. With my poor patient's affectionate 
 remembrances, and Johnny's. 
 
 I am ever thine, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 19, 1792. 
 
 Thus have I filled a whole page 
 
 to my dear William of Earthtiin, and have not 
 said a syllable yet tibout my Mary. A sure 
 sign that she goes on well. Be it known to 
 you that we have these four days discarded 
 our sedan with two elbows. Here is no more 
 carrying, or being carried, but she walks up 
 stairs boldly, with one hand upon the balus- 
 trade, and the other under my arm, and in like 
 manner she comes down in a morning. Still 
 I confess she is feeble, and misses much of 
 her former strength. The weather too is 
 sadly against her: it deprives her of many a 
 good turn in the orchard, and fifty times have 
 I wished, this very dtiy, that Dr. Darwin's 
 scheme of giving rudders and sails* to the ice 
 
 * That a very perceptible change, generally speaking' 
 has taken place in the climate of iJreat Britain, and that 
 the same observation applies to other countries, has been 
 a frequent subject of remark, both with the past and 
 present generation. Various causes have been assigned 
 for this peculiarity. It has been said that nature is grow- 
 ing old, and losing its elasticity and vigor. Others have 
 attributed the change to the vast accumulation of ice in 
 the Polar regions, and its consequent influence on tho 
 temperature of the air. Dr. Darwin humorously sug- 
 gested the scheme of giving rudders and sails to the Ico 
 Islands, that they might be wafted by northern gales, and 
 thus be absorbed by the heat of a southern latitude. It 
 is worthy of remark tliat in .\!ilt(jn's Latin Poems, there 
 is a college thesis on this subji!Cl, viz., whetlier nature 
 was Ijecoining old and iulirm. Milton took the negative 
 of this proposition, and maintained, naturam -non pati 
 sniiuni, that nature was not growing old. Cowper, in 
 his translation of this poem, thus renders some of tho 
 passages. 
 
 How?— Shall the face of nature then be plough'd 
 
 Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 
 
 On the great Parent fix a sterile curse? 
 
 Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 
 
 And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows ? — 
 
 Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulph 
 
 The very heav'ns. that regulate his flight? — 
 
 No. The Almighty Father surer laid 
 
 His deep foundations, and providing well 
 
 For the event of all, the scales of Fate 
 
 Suspended, in just equipoise, and bade 
 
 His universal works, from age to ag(!, 
 
 One tenor hold, perpetual, uuiHisturbVl. — 
 
 Not tardier now is Saturn lliari of old, 
 
 Nor radiant less the burning cas(|ue of Mars 
 
 Pho'bus, his vigor miimpair'd, still shows 
 
 Th' effulgence of his yt)ulh, nor needs the god 
 
 A downward co\irse, that he may warm the vales; 
 
 lUit, ever rich in inlluence. runs his road. 
 
 Sign after sign, thrimgh all the heavenly zone. 
 
 Beautiful as at tlrst, a-scends the star 
 
 From odorif'rous Ind, whose office is 
 
 To gather homo betimes th' ethereal flock, 
 
 To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, 
 
 And to discriminate the night and day.
 
 410 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 islands that spoil all our summers, were actu- 
 ally put into practice. So sliould we have 
 gentle airs instead of churlish blasts, and those 
 everlasting sources of bad weather being once 
 navigated into the southern hemisphere, my 
 Mary would recover as fast again. We are 
 both of your mind respecting the journey to 
 Eartham, and think that July, if by that time 
 she have strength for the journey, will be 
 better than Aun-ust. We shall have more long 
 days before us, and them we shall want as 
 much for our return as for our going forth. 
 This however, must be left to the Giver of all 
 good. If our visit to you be according to his 
 will, he will smooth our way before us, and 
 appoint the time of it; and I thus speak, not 
 because I wish to seem a saint in your eyes, 
 but because my poor Mary actually is one, 
 and would not set her foot over the threshold, 
 unless she had, or thought she had, God's free 
 permission. With that she would go through 
 floods and fire, though without it she would 
 be afraid of everything — afraid even to visit 
 you, dearly as she loves, and much as she 
 longs to see you. W. C. 
 
 TO W'lLLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 27, 1792. 
 
 Well then — let us talk about this journey 
 to Eartham. You wish me to settle the 
 time of it, and I wish with all my heart to 
 be able to do so, living in hopes meanwhile 
 that I shall be able to do it soon. But some 
 little time must necessarily intervene. Our 
 Mary must be able to walk alone, to cut her 
 own food, feed herself, and to wear her own 
 shoes, for at present she wears mine. All 
 things considered, my friend and brother, 
 you will see the expediency of waiting a lit- 
 tle before we set ofi'to Eartham. We mean 
 indeed before that day arrives to make a 
 trial of the strength of her head, how far it 
 may be able to bear the motion of a car- 
 riage — a motion that it has not felt these 
 seven years. I grieve that we are thus cir- 
 cumstanced, and that we cannot gratify our- 
 selves in a delightful and innocent project 
 without all these precautions ; but when we 
 have leaf-gold to handle we must do it ten- 
 derly. 
 
 I thank you, my brother, both for present- 
 ing my authorship* to your friend Guy, and 
 for the excellent verses with which you have 
 inscribed your present. There are none 
 
 still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes 
 
 Alternate, and with arms extended still, 
 
 She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. 
 
 Nor have the elements deserted yet 
 
 Their functions. — 
 
 Thus, in unbroken series, all proceeds ; 
 And shall, till, wide involving either pole 
 And the immensity of yonder hcav'n. 
 The final flames of destiny absorb 
 The world, consum'd in one enormous pjTe! 
 * Verses on Dr. Danvin. 
 
 neater or better turned — with what shall 1 
 requite you 1 I have nothing to send you 
 but a gim-crack, which I have prepared for 
 my bride and bridegroom neighbors, who 
 are expected to-morrow ! You saw in my 
 book a poem entitled Catharina, which con- 
 cluded with a wish that we had her for a 
 neighbor :* this therefore is called 
 
 CATHARINA: 
 
 (Tlie Second Part.) 
 
 ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COCRTENAY, ESQ. 
 
 BeUeve it or not, as you choose, 
 
 The doctrine is certainly true, 
 That the future is known to the muse, 
 
 And poets are oracles too. 
 
 I did but express a desire 
 
 To see Catharina at home, 
 At the side of my friend George's fire, 
 
 And lo ! she is actually come. 
 
 And such prophecy some may despise, 
 But the wish of a poet and friend 
 
 Perhaps is approv'd in the skies, 
 And therefore attains to its end. 
 
 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth. 
 From a bosom effectually warm'd 
 
 With the talents, the graces, and worth, 
 Of the person for whom it was form'd. 
 
 Maria would leave us, I knew, 
 To the grief and regret of us all ; 
 
 But less to our grief could we view 
 Catharina the queen of the Hall. 
 
 And therefore I wish'd as I did, 
 And therefore this union of hands, 
 
 Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 
 But all cry amen to the bands. 
 
 Since therefore I seem to incur 
 
 No danger of wishing in vain, 
 When making good wishes for her, 
 
 I will e'en to my wishes agaui. 
 
 With one I have made her wife, 
 And now I will try with another, 
 
 Which I cannot suppress for my life, 
 How soon I can make her a mother. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 4, 1792. 
 
 I know not how you proceed in your life 
 of Milton, but I suppose not very rapidly, 
 for while you were here, and since you left 
 us, you have had no other theme but me. 
 As for myself, except my letters to you, and 
 the nuptial song I inserted in my last, I 
 have literally done nothing since I saw you. 
 Nothing, I mean, in the writing way, though 
 a great deal in another; tliat is to say, in 
 attending my poor Mary, and endeavoring to 
 nurse her up for a journey to Eartham. In 
 this I have hitherto succeeded tolerably well 
 * See p. 362.
 
 and had rather carry this point completely 
 than be the most famous editor of iMilton 
 that the world has ever seen or shall see. 
 
 Your humorous descant upon my art of 
 wishing made us merry, and consequently 
 did good to us both. I sent my wish tothe 
 Half yesterday. They are excellent neigh- 
 bors, and so friendly to me that I wished to 
 gratify them. When I went to pay my first 
 visit, George flew into the court to meet me, 
 and when I entered the parlor Catharina 
 sprang into my arras. 
 
 least a week longer for an inmate, is a gieat 
 comfort to me. 
 
 My Mary sends you her best love. She 
 can walk now, leaning on my arm only, and 
 her speech is certainly much improved. I 
 long to see you. Why cannot you and dear 
 Tom spend the remainder of the summer 
 with us] We might then all set off for 
 Eartliam merrily together. But I retract 
 this, conscious that I am unreasonable. It 
 is a wretched world, and what we would is 
 almost always what we cannot. 
 
 Adieu! Love me, and be sure of a re- 
 turn. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 15, 1792. 
 The progress of the old nurse iu Terence 
 is very mu'ch like the progress of my poor 
 patient in the road of recovery. I cannot, 
 indeed, say that she moves but advances 
 not, for advances are certainly made, but the 
 progress of a week is hardly perceptible. I 
 know not therefore, at present, what to say 
 about this long-postponed journey. The 
 utmost that it is safe for me to say at this 
 moment is this— You know that you are 
 dear to us both : true it is that you are so, 
 and equally true that the very instant we 
 feel ourselves at liberty, we will fly to Earth- 
 am. I have been but once within the Hall 
 door since the Courtenays came home, much 
 as I have been pressed to dine there, and 
 have hardly escaped giving a little offence 
 by declining it : but, though I should offend 
 all the world by my obstinacy in this in- 
 stance, I would not leave my poor Mary 
 alone. Johnny serves me as a represent- 
 ative, and him I send without scruple. As 
 to the afliiir of Milton, 1 know not what will 
 become of it. I wrote to Johnson a week 
 since to tell him that, the interruption of 
 Mrs. Unwin's illness still continuing, and 
 being lil<ely to continue, I knew not when I 
 should be able to proceed. The translations 
 (I said) were finished, except the revisal of a 
 part. * 
 
 God bless your dear little boy and poet ! 
 I thank him for exercising his dawning gen- 
 ius upon me, and sliall be still happier to 
 thank him in person. 
 
 Abbot is paintinji me so true, 
 That (trust me) you would stare 
 
 And hardly know, at the first view, 
 It" 1 were here or there.* 
 
 I have sat twice ; and the few who have 
 seen his copy of rac are much struck with 
 the resemblance. He is a sober, quiet man, 
 which, considering that I must have him at 
 
 * This portrait was taken at tlii^ instanre of Dr. John- 
 Bon. ami is thought most to resemble Cowper. It is now 
 in the possession of Dr. .Johnson's family, ami ropreseuls 
 the poet in a sillinj,' postuie, in an evening dress. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, July 20, 1792. 
 Dear Sir, — I have been long silent, and 
 must now be short. My time since I wrote 
 last has been almost wholly occupied in suf- 
 fering. Either indisposition of my own, or 
 of tlie dearest friend I have,* has so entirely 
 engaged my attention, that, except the revis- 
 ion of the two elegies you sent me long 
 since, I have done nothing ; nor do I at pres- 
 ent foresee the day when I shall be able to 
 do anything. Should Mrs. Unwin recover 
 sufficientlv to undertake a journey, I iiave 
 promised "Mr. Hayley to close the summer 
 with a visit to liim at Eartham. At the 
 best, therefore, I cannot expect to proceed 
 in my main business, till the approach of 
 winter. I am thus tin-own so much into ar- 
 rear respecting Milton, that I already despair 
 of being ready at the time appointed, and so 
 I have told my employer. 
 
 J need not say that the drift of this melan- 
 choly preface is to apprize you that you must 
 not expect despatch from me. Such expedi- 
 tion as I can use I will, but I believe you 
 must be very patient. 
 
 It was only one year that I gave to draw- 
 ing, for I found it an employment hurtful to 
 my eyes, whicli iiave always been weak, and 
 subject to inflammation. I finished my at- 
 tempt in this way with three small land- 
 scapes, which I presented to a lady. These 
 may, perhaps, exist, but I have now no cor- 
 respondence with the fair proprietor. Ex- 
 cept these, there is nothing remaining to 
 show that I ever aspired to such an accom- 
 plishment. 
 
 The hymns in the Olney collection marked 
 (C) are all of my composition, except one, 
 which bears that initial by a mistake of the 
 printer. Not having the book at hand, I can- 
 not now say which it is. 
 
 Wishing you a pleasant time at Margate, 
 and assuring you, that I shall receive, with 
 great pleasure, any drawing of yours with 
 
 • Mrs. Unwin.
 
 412 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 which you may favor me, and give it a dis- 
 tinguished phice in my very small collection, 
 I remain, dear sir, 
 
 Much and sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLLiM HATLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 22, 1792. 
 This important affair, my dear brother, is 
 at last decided, and we are coming. Wednes- 
 day se'nnight, if nothing occur to make a 
 later day necessary, is the day fixed for our 
 journey. Our rate of travelling must depend 
 on Mary's ability to bear it. Our mode of 
 travelling will occupy three days unavoida- 
 bly, for we shall come in a coach. Abbot 
 finishes my picture to-morrow ; on Wednes- 
 day he returns to town, and is commissioned 
 to order one down for us, with four steeds 
 to draw it ; 
 
 " Hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, 
 That cannot go but forty miles a day." 
 
 Send us our route, for I am as ignorant of it 
 almost as if I were in a strange country. 
 We shall reach St. Alban's, I suppose, the 
 first day ; say where we must finish our sec- 
 ond day's journey, and at what inn we may 
 best repose ? As to the end of the third 
 day, we know where that will find us, viz., 
 in the arms, and under the roof, of our be- 
 loved Hayley. 
 
 General Cowper, having heard a rumor of 
 this intended migration, desires to meet me 
 on the road, that we may once more see each 
 other. He lives at Ham, near Kingston. 
 Shall we go through Kingston or near it? 
 For I would give him as little trouble as pos- 
 sible, though he offers very kindly to come as 
 far as Barnet for that purpose. Nor must I 
 forget Carwardine, who so kindly desired to 
 be informed what way we should go. On 
 what point of the road will it be easiest for 
 him to find us? On all these points you must 
 be my oracle. My friend and brother, we 
 shall overwiielm you with our numbers; this 
 is all the trouble that I have left. My Johnny 
 of Norfolk, happy in the thought of accom- 
 panying us, would be broken-hearted to be 
 left behind. 
 
 In the midst of all these solicitudes, I laugh 
 to think what they are made of, and what an 
 important thing it is for me to travel. Other 
 men steal away from their homes silently, 
 and make no disturbance, but when I move, 
 houses are turned upside down, maids are 
 turned out of their beds, all the counties 
 through which I pass appear to be in an up- 
 roar — Surrey greets me by the mouth of the 
 General, and Essex by that of Carwardine. 
 How strange does all this seem to a man 
 who has seen no bustle, and made none for 
 twenty years together ! 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 
 
 July 25, 1792. 
 My dear Mr. Bull, — Engaged as I have 
 been ever since 1 saw you, it was not possi- 
 ble that I should write sooner ; and, busy aa 
 1 am at present, it is not without difiiculty 
 that I can write even now : but I promised 
 you a letter, and must endeavor, at least, to be 
 as good as my word. How do you imagine 
 I have been occupied these last ten days? 
 In sitting, not on cockatrice' egg.s, nor yet to 
 gratify a mere idle humor, nor because I was 
 too sick to move; but because my cousin 
 Johnson has an aunt who has a longing de- 
 sire of my picture, and because he would, 
 therefore, bring a painter from London to 
 draw it. For this purpose I have been sit- 
 ting, as I say, these ten days ; and am heart- 
 ily glad that my sitting time is over. You 
 have now, I know, a burning curiosity to 
 learn two things, which I may choose whe- 
 ther I will tell you or not; First, who was 
 the painter; and secondly, how lie has suc- 
 ceeded. The painter's name is Abbot. You 
 never heard of him, you say. It is very like- 
 ly ; but there is, nevertheless, such a painter, 
 and an excellent one lie is. Malta sunt qua 
 bonus Bernardiis nee vidit, nee audivit. To 
 your second inquiry, I answer, that he has 
 succeeded to admiration. The likeness is so 
 strong, that when my friends enter the room 
 where the picture is, they start, astonished to 
 see me where they know I am not. Misera- 
 ble man that you are, to be at Brighton in- 
 stead of being here, to contemplate this 
 prodigy of art, which, therefore, you can 
 never see ; for it goes to London next Mon- 
 day, to be suspended awhile at Abbot's ; and 
 then proceeds into Norfolk, where it will be 
 suspended forever. 
 
 But the picture is not the only prodigy I 
 have to tell you of A greater belongs to 
 me; and one that you will hardly credit, even 
 on my own testimony. We are on the eve 
 of a journey, and a long one. On this very 
 day se'nnight we set out for Eartham, the 
 seat of nay brother bard, Mr. Hayley, on the 
 other side of London, nobody knows where, 
 a hundred and twenty miles off. Pray for 
 us, my friend, that we may have a safe going 
 and return. It is a tremendous exploit, and 
 I fee! a thousand anxieties when I think of it. 
 But a promise made to him when he was 
 here, that we would go if we could, and a 
 sort of persuasion that we can if we will, 
 oblige us to it. The journey, and the change ' 
 of air, together with the novelty to us of the 
 scene to which we are going, may, I hope, be 
 useful to us both ; especially to Mrs. Unwin, 
 who has most need of restoratives. She 
 sends her love to you and to Thomas, in 
 which she is sincerely joined by 
 
 Your affectionate W. C. 
 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 413 
 
 TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 29, 17^. 
 
 Through floods and flames to your retreat 
 
 I win my desprate way, 
 And when we meet, if e'er we meet, 
 
 Will echo your huzza. 
 
 You will wonder at the word desfrate in 
 the second line, and at the if in the third ; 
 but could you have any conception of the 
 fears I have liad to bustle with, of the dejec- 
 tion of spirits that I have suffered concerning 
 this journey, you would wonder much more 
 that 1 still courageously persevere in my reso- 
 lution to undertake it. Fortunately for my 
 intentions, it happens, that as the day ap- 
 proaches my terrors abate ; for had they con- 
 tinued to be what they were a week since, I 
 must, after all, have disappointed you ; and 
 was actually once on tiie verge of doing it. 
 I have told you something of my nocturnal 
 experiences, and assure you now, that they 
 were hardly ever more terrific than on this oc- 
 casion. Prayer lias iiowever opened my pas- 
 sage at last, and obtained for me a degree of 
 confidence that I trust will prove a comforta- 
 ble viaticum to me all the way. On Wednes- 
 day, therefore, we set fortli. 
 
 Tlie terrors that I have spoken of would 
 appear ridiculous to most, but to you they 
 will not, for you are a reasonable creature, 
 and know well that, to wliatever cause it be 
 owing, (whether to constitution, or to God's 
 express appointment) I am hunted by spir- 
 itual hounds in the night season. I can- 
 not help it. You will pity me, and wish it 
 were otherwise ; and, though you may think 
 there is much of the imaginary in it, will not 
 deem it for that reason an evil less to be la- 
 mented — so much for fears and distresses. 
 Soon I hope they shall all have a joyful ter- 
 mination, and I, my Mary, my Johnny, and 
 my dog, be skipping with delight at Eartliara ! 
 
 Well ! this picture is at last finished, and 
 well finished, I can assure you. Every crea- 
 ture that has seen it has been astonished at 
 the resemblance. Sam's boy bowed to it, 
 and Beau walked up to it, wagging his tail as 
 he went, and evidently showing tiiat he ac- 
 knowledged its likeness to his master. It is 
 a Iialf-length, as it is technically but absurdly 
 called; tluit is to say, it gives all but the 
 foot and ankle. To-morrow it goes to 
 town, and will hang some months at Ab- 
 bot's, when it will be sent to its due destina- 
 tion in Norfolk.* 
 
 I hope, or rather wish, tliat at Eartham I 
 may recover tluxt habit of study wiiich, invet- 
 erate as it once seemed, I now seem to have 
 lost — lost to such a degree tliat it is even 
 painful to me to think of what it will cost me 
 to acquire it again. 
 
 Adieu! my dear, dear Hayley ; God give us 
 
 * To Mrs. Bodham's. 
 
 a happy meeting. Mary sends her love — she 
 is in pretty good plight this morning, having 
 slept well, and for her part, has no fears at 
 all about the journey. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 July 30, 1792 
 
 My dear Friend, — Like you, I am obliged 
 to snatch short opportunities of correspond- 
 ing with my friends ; and to write what I can, 
 not what I would. Your kindness in giving 
 me the first letter after your return claims my 
 thanks; and my tardiness to answer it would 
 demand an apology, if, having been here, and 
 witnessed how much my time is occupied in 
 attendance on my poor patient, you could 
 possibly want one. She proceeds, I trust, in 
 her recovery ; but at so slow a rate, that the 
 difference made in a week is hardly percepti- 
 ble to me, who am always with her. This 
 last night has been the worst she has known 
 since her illness — entirely sleepless till seven 
 in the morning. Such ill rest seems but an 
 indifferent preparation for a long journey, 
 whicii we purpose to undertake on Wednes- 
 day, when we set out for Eartham, on a visit 
 to Mr. Hayley. The journey itself will, I 
 hope, be useful to her ; and the air of the 
 sea, blowing over the South Downs, to- 
 gether with the novelty of the scene to us, 
 will, I hope, be serviceable to us both. You 
 may imagine that we, who have been resident 
 on one spot so many years, do not engage in 
 such an enterprise without some anxiety. 
 Persons accustomed to travel would make 
 themselves merry with mine ; it seems so 
 disproportioned to the occasion. Once I 
 have been on the point of determining not to 
 go, and even since we fixed the day; my 
 troubles have been so insupportable. But it 
 has been made a matter of much prayer, and 
 at last it has pleased God to satisfy me, in 
 some measure, that his will corresponds with 
 our purpose, and that He will afford us his 
 protection. You, 1 know, will not be un- 
 mindful of us during our absence from home; 
 but will obtain for us, if your prayers can do 
 it, all tliat we would ask for ourselves — the 
 presence and favor of God, a salutary effect 
 of our journey, and a safe return. 
 
 I rejoiced, and had reason to do so, in your 
 coming to Weston, for I think the Lord came 
 with you. Not, indeed, to abide with me ; 
 not to restore me to that intercourse with 
 Him which I enjoyed twenty years ago ; but 
 to awaken in me, however, more spiritual 
 feeling than I have experienced, except in 
 two instances, during all that time. The 
 comforts that I had received under your min- 
 istry, in better days, all rushed upon my rec 
 
 • Private correspondence.
 
 414 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ollection ; and, during two or three transient 
 moments, seemed to be in a degree renewed. 
 You will tell me that, transient as they were, 
 they were yet evidences of a love that is not 
 so ; and I am desirous to believe it. 
 
 With Mrs. Unwin's warm remembrances, 
 and my cousin Johnson's best comphments, 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 p. S.— If I hear from you while I am 
 abroad, vour letter will find me at William 
 Hayley s, Esq., Eartham, near Chichester. 
 We propose to return in about a month. 
 
 a paradise in which we dwell ; and our re- 
 ception has been the kindest that it was pos- 
 sible for friendship and hospitality to contrive. 
 Our host mentions you with great respect, 
 and bids me tell you that he esteems you 
 highly. Mrs. Unwin, who is, I think, in some 
 points, already the better for her excursion, 
 unites ^\•ith mine her best comphments both 
 to yourself and Mrs. Greatheed. I have 
 much to see and enjoy before 1 can be per- 
 fectly apprized of all the delights of Eartham, 
 and will therefore now subscribe myself 
 Yours, my dear sir. 
 
 With great sincerity, W. C. 
 
 Cowper records the particulars of this visit 
 
 in the following letters 
 
 TO THE REV. MK. GREATHEED. 
 
 Eartham, Aug. 6, 1790. 
 
 My dear Sir, — Having first thanked you 
 for your alFectionate and acceptable letter, I 
 will' proceed, as well as I can, to answer your 
 equally affectionate request, that I would send 
 you earlv news of our arrival at Eartham. 
 Here we' are in the most elegant mansion 
 that I have ever inhabited, and surrounded 
 by the most delightful pleasure-grounds that 
 I have ever seen : but which, dissipated as 
 my powers of thought are at present, I will 
 not undertake to describe. It shall suffice i 
 me to say, that they occupy three sides of a I 
 hill, whic'h in Buckinghamshire might well 
 pass for a mountain, and from the summit of 
 which is beheld a most magnificent landscape 
 bounded by the sea, and in one part by the 
 Isle of Wight, which may also be seen plainly 
 from the window of the library, in which I 
 am \\Titing. 
 
 It pleased God to carry us both through 
 the journey with far less difliculty and incon- 
 venience than I expected. I began it indeed 
 with a thousand fears, and when we arrived 
 the first evening at Barnet, found myself 
 oppressed in spirit to a degree that could 
 hardly be exceeded. I saw Mrs. Un\%in 
 weary, as she might well be, and heard such 
 noises, both within the house, and without, 
 that I concluded she would get no rest. But 
 I was mercifully disappointed. She rested, 
 thouirh not well, yet sufficiently ; and when 
 we finished our next day's journey at Ripley, 
 we were both in better condition, both of 
 bodv and mind, than on the day preceding. 
 At Riplev we found a quiet inn that housed, 
 as it happened, that night, no company but 
 ourselves. There we slept well, and rose 
 perfectlv refreshed ; and. except s©me terrors 
 that I felt at passing over the Sussex hills 
 by moonlight, met with little to complain of, 
 till we arrived about ten o'clock at Eartham. 
 Here we are as happy as it is in the power 
 of terrestrial good to make us. It is almost 
 
 TO MRS. COURTENAT. 
 
 Eartham, August 12, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Catharina, — Though I have 
 
 travelled far, nothing did I see in my travels 
 
 that surprised me half so agreeably as your 
 
 kind letter ; for high as my opinion of your 
 
 good-nature is, I had no hopes of hearing 
 
 I from you till I should have written first ; a 
 
 ' pleasure which I intended to allow myself 
 
 : the first opportunity. 
 
 After three davs' confinement in a coach, 
 and suffering as we went all that could be 
 suffered from excessive heat and dust, we 
 found ourselves late in the evening at the 
 door of our friend Hayley. In every other 
 respect the journey was extremely pleasant. 
 At the 3Iitre, in Barnet, where we lodged 
 the first evening, we found our friend Rose, 
 who had walked thither from bis house in 
 Chancery-lane to meet us ; and at Kingston, 
 where we dined the second day, I found my 
 old and much- valued friend. General Cowper, 
 whom I had not seen in thirty years, and 
 but for this journey should never have seen 
 again. Mrs. Unwin, on whose account I had 
 a thousand fears, before we set out, suffered 
 as little from fotigue as myself, and begins, I 
 hope, already to feel some beneficial eftects 
 from the air of Eartham, and the exercise 
 that she takes in one of the most delightful 
 pleasure-grounds in the world. They oc- 
 cupy three sides of a hill, lofty enough to 
 command a view of the sea, which skirts the 
 horizon to a length of many miles, with the 
 Isle of Wight at the end of it. The inland 
 scene is equally beautiful, consisting of a 
 larsre and deep valley well cultivated, and 
 enclosed by magnificent hills, all crowned 
 with wood. I had. for my part, no concep- 
 tion that a poet could be the owner of such 
 a paradise : and his house is as elegant as his 
 scenes are charming.* 
 
 j But think not, "my dear Catharina, that 
 ; amidst all these beauties I shall lose the re- 
 i membrance of the peaceful, but less splendid, 
 i Weston. \*our precincts will be as dear to 
 
 * This residence afterwards became the property of the 
 late William Huskisson, Esq.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 415 
 
 me as ev er, when I return ; though when that 
 day will arrive I know not, our host being 
 determined, as I plainly see, to 'keep us as 
 long as possible. Give my best love to your 
 husband. Thank him most kindly for his at- 
 tention to the old bard of Greece, and pardon 
 me that I do not now send you an epitaph 
 for Fop. I am not sufficiently recollected to 
 compose even a bagatelle at present; but in 
 due time you shall receive it. 
 
 Hayley, who will some time or other I 
 hope see you at Weston, is already prepared 
 to love you both, and, being passionately 
 fond of music, longs much to hear you. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Eartliam, Aug. 34, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Romney is here : it would 
 add much to my happiness if you were of the 
 party; I have prepared Hayley to think liighly, ' 
 th.at is, jiisth', of you, and the time, I hope, 
 will come wiien you will supersede all need 
 of my recommendation. I 
 
 ^Irs. Unwin gathers strength. I have in- ' 
 deed great hopes, from tlie air and exercise 
 which tliis fine season atTords her opportunity 
 to use, that ere we return sjie will be herself 
 again. W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Eartham, Aug. 18, 1792. 
 Wishes in this world are generally vain, 
 and in the next we shall make none. Everv I 
 day I wish you were of the party, knov.'ing 
 how happy you would be in a place where 
 we have nothing to do but enjoy beautiful 
 scenery and converse agreeablv. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin's health continues to improve; ' 
 and even I, who was well when I came, find ' 
 mvself still better. 
 
 Yours, W. C. '■ 
 
 TO MRS. COURTENAT. 
 
 Eartham, Aug. 25, 1792. 
 
 Without waiting for an answer to my last, 
 [ send my dear Catharina the epitaph she 
 desired, composed as well as I could compose 
 it in a place where every object, being still 
 new to me, distracts my attention, and makes 
 me as awkward at verse as if I had never 
 dealt in it. Here it is. 
 
 EPITAPH ON FOP; 
 
 A DOG, BBLONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 
 
 Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 
 Here moulders one whose bones some honor 
 
 claim ! 
 N'o sycophant, although of spaniel race I 
 And though no hound, a martyr to the chase ! 
 
 Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets rejoice ! 
 Your haunts no longer echo to his voice. 
 This record of his late exulting view. 
 He died worn out with vain pursuit of you ! 
 
 " Yes !" the indignant shade of Fop replies, 
 " And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies !" 
 
 I am here, as I told you in my last, de- 
 lightfully situated, and in tiie enjoyment of 
 all that the most friendly hospitality can im- 
 part; yet do I neither forget Weston, nor 
 my friends at Weston: on the contrary, I 
 have at length, though much and kindly 
 pressed to make a longer stay, determined 
 on the day of our departure — on the seven- 
 teenth day of September we shall leave 
 Eartham ; four days will be necessary to 
 bring us home again, for I am under a 
 promise to General Cowper to dine with him 
 on tiie w:;y, wliich cannot be done comfort- 
 ably, either to him or to ourselves, unless we 
 sleep that night at Kingston. 
 
 The air of this place has been, I believe, 
 beneficial to us both. I indeed was in toler- 
 able health before I set out, but have ac- 
 quired since I came, both a better appetito 
 and a knack of sleeping almost as much in a 
 single night as formerly in two. Whether 
 double quantities of that article will be favor 
 able to me as a poet, time mu.st siiow. About 
 myself, however, I care little, being made 
 of materials so tough, as not to threaten me 
 even now, at the end of so many lustrums, 
 with anytliing like a speedy dissolution. My 
 chief concern has been about ]\Irs. Unwin, 
 and ray chief comfort at this moment is, 
 that she likewise has received, I hope, con- 
 siderable benefit by the journey. 
 
 Tell mv dear Geortre that I be^in to lonw 
 to behold him again, and, did it not savor of 
 ingratitude to the friend under whose roof I 
 am so happy at present, should be impatient 
 to find myself once more under yours. 
 
 Adieu I my dear Catharina. I have noth- 
 ing to add in the way of news, except that 
 Romney has drawn me in crayons, by the 
 suffrage of all here, extremely like. W.' C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. HTJRDIS.* 
 
 Eartham, Aug. 20, 1792. 
 ^{y dear Sir, — Your kind but very aflfect 
 ing letter found me not at Weston, to which 
 place it was directed, but in a bower of my 
 friend Hayley's garden at Eartham, where I 
 was sitting with Mrs. Unwin. W^e both 
 knew the moment we saw it from whom it 
 came, and, observing a red seal, both com- 
 
 * This amiable and much esteemed character, and en- 
 deared as one of the fric^nds of Cowper, was born at 
 Bishopslone in Sussex, in 1763. He was elected Pro- 
 fessor of Poetrj- at Oxford in 1793, and died at a prema- 
 ture age, in 1801. His claims .as an author principally' 
 rest on his once popular poem of the •' Village Curate." 
 He also wrote " A Vindication of the University of Ox- 
 ford from the Aspersions of Mr. Gibbon." His worit 
 are published in 3 vols.
 
 416 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 forted ourselves that all was well at Bur- 
 wash : but wc soon felt that we were not 
 called lo rejoice, but to mourn with you ;* 
 we do indeed sincerely mourn with you, and, 
 if it will afford you any consolation to know 
 it, you may be assured that every eye here 
 has testified what our hearts have suffered 
 for you. Your loss is great, and your dis- 
 position I perceive such as exposes you to 
 feel the whole weight of it : I will not add 
 to your sorrow by a vain attempt to assuage 
 it ; your own good sense, and the piety of 
 your principles, will, of course, suggest to 
 you the most powerful motives of acquies- 
 cence in the will of God. You will be sure 
 to recollect tliat the stroke, severe as it is, is 
 not the stroke of an enemy, but of a father ; 
 and will find 1 trust, hereafter, that like a father 
 he has done you good by it. Thousands 
 have been able to say, and myself as loud as 
 any of them, it has been good for me that I 
 was afflicted ; but time is necessary to work 
 us to this persuasion, and in due time it 
 shall be yours. Mr. Hayley, who tenderly 
 sympatiiizes with you, has enjoined me to 
 send you as pressing an invitation as I can 
 frame, to join me at this place. I have every 
 motive to wish your consent ; both your 
 benefit and my own, which, I believe, would 
 be abundantly answered by your coming, 
 ought to make me eloquent in such a cause. 
 Here you Vvill find silence and retirement in 
 perfection, wiien you would seek them : and 
 here such company as I have no doubt would 
 suit you, all cheerful, but not noisy ; and all 
 alike disposed to love you : you and I seem 
 to have here a fair opportunity of meeting. 
 It were a pity we should be in the same 
 county and not come together. I am here 
 till the seventeenth of September, an interval 
 tiiat will afford you time to make the neces- 
 sary arrangements, and to gratify me at last 
 with an interview, which I have long desired. 
 Let me hear from you soon, that I may have 
 double pleasure, the pleasure of expecting 
 as well as that of seeing you. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, I thank God, though still a 
 sufferer by her last illness, is much better, 
 and has received considerable benefit by the 
 air of Eartham. She adds to mine her affec- 
 tionate compliments, and joins me and Hay- 
 ley in this invitation. 
 
 Mr. Romney is here, and a young man a 
 cousin of mine. I tell you who we are, that 
 you may not be afraid of us. 
 
 Adieu ! May the Comforter of all the 
 afflicted, who seek him, be yours ! God 
 bless you ! W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Eartham, Aug. 26, 1792. 
 I know not how it is, my dearest coz., but, 
 
 • Mr Hurdis had jiist lost a fivorite sister. 
 
 in a new scene and surrounded with strange 
 objects, I find my powers of thinking dissi- 
 pated to a degree, that makes it diificull to ma 
 even to write a letter, and even a letter to you; 
 but such a letter as I can, I will, and have 
 the fairest chance to succeed this morning, 
 Hayley, Romney, Hayley's son, and Beau, 
 being all gone together to the sea for bathing. 
 The sea, you must know, is nine miles off, so 
 that, unless stupidity prevent, I shall have 
 opportunity to write not only to you, but to 
 poor Hurdis also, who is broken-hearted for 
 the loss of his favorite sister, lately dead ; 
 and whose letter, giving an account of it, 
 which I received yesterday, drew tears from 
 the eyes of all our party. My only comfort 
 respecting even yourself is, that you write 
 in good spirits, and assure me that you are 
 in a state of recovery ; otherwise I should 
 mourn not only for Hurdis, but for myself, 
 lest a certain event should reduce me, and in 
 a short time too, to a situation as distressing 
 as his ; for though nature designed you only 
 for my cousin, you have had a sister's place 
 in my affections ever since I knew you. The 
 reason is, I suppose, that, having no sister, 
 the daughter of my own mother, I thought it 
 proper to have one, the daughter of yours. 
 Certain it is, that I can by no means afford 
 to lose you, and that, unless you will be 
 upon honor with me to give me always a 
 true account of yourself, at least when we 
 are not together, I shall always be unliappy, 
 because always suspicious that you deceive 
 me. 
 
 Now for ourselves. I am, without the 
 least dissimulation, in good health ; my spir- 
 its are about as good as you have ever seen 
 them ; and if increase of appetite, and a 
 double portion of sleep, be advantageous, 
 such are the advantages that I have received 
 from this migration. As to that gloominess 
 of mind, which I have had these twenty 
 years, it cleaves to me even here, and, could 
 I be translated to Paradise, unless I left my 
 body behind me, would cleave to me even 
 there also. It is my companion for life, and 
 nothing will ever divorce us. So much for 
 myself. Mrs. Unwin is evidently the better 
 for her jaunt, though by no means as she 
 was before this last attack; still wanting 
 help when she would rise from her seat, and 
 a support in walking ; but she is able to use 
 more exercise than she could at home, and 
 moves with rather a less tottering step. God 
 knows what he designs for me, but when I 
 see those who are dearer to me thati myself 
 distempered and enfeebled, and myself as 
 strong as in the days of my youth, I tremble 
 for the solitude in which a few years may 
 place me. I wish her and you to die before 
 me, but not till I am more likely to follow 
 immediately. Enough of this ! 
 
 Romney has drawn me in crayons, and, in
 
 LIFE OF COVVPER. 
 
 41 
 
 the opinion of all here, with his best hand, 
 and with the most exact resemblance pos- 
 sible.* 
 
 The seventeenth of September is the day 
 on which I intend to leave Eartiiam. We 
 shall then have been six weeks residen# 
 here ; a holiday time long' enongh for a man 
 who has much to do. And now, farewell ! 
 
 W. C. 
 
 P. S. Hayley, whose love for me seems 
 to be truly that of a brother, has given me 
 his picture, drawn by Romney, about fifteen 
 years ago ; an admirable likeness. 
 
 TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.f 
 
 Eartham, Sept., 1792. 
 
 Dear Madam, — Your two counsellors are 
 of one mind. We both are of opinion that 
 you will do well to make your second vol- 
 ume a siiitable companion to the first, by 
 embellisliing it in the same manner; and 
 have ijo doubt, considering the well-deserved 
 popularity of your verse, that the expense 
 will be amply refunded by the public. 
 
 I would give you, madam, not my counsel 
 only, but consolation also, were I not dis- 
 qualified for that delightful service by a 
 great dearth of it in my own experience. I 
 too often seek but cannot find it. Of this, 
 however, I can assure you, if that may at all 
 comfort you, that both my friend Hayley and 
 myself most truly sympathize with you un- 
 der all your sufferings. Neither have you, I 
 am persuaded, in any degree lost the interest 
 you always had in him, or your claim to any 
 service that it may be in his power to render 
 you. Had you no other title to his esteem, 
 his respect for your talents, and his feelings 
 for your misfortunes, must ensure to you 
 the friendship of such a man forever. I 
 know, however, there are seasons when, 
 look which way we will, we see the same 
 dismal gloom enveloping all objects. This 
 is itself an affliction; and the worse, because 
 it makes us think ourselves more unhappy 
 than we are-: and at such a season it is, I 
 doubt not, that you suspect a diminution of 
 our friend's zeal to serve you. 
 
 I was much struck by an expression in 
 your letter to Hayley, where you say that 
 you " will endeavor to take an interest in 
 green leaves again." This seems the sound 
 of my own voice reflected to me from a dis- 
 tance ; I have so often had the same thought 
 and desire. A day scarcely passes, at this 
 season of the year, when I do not contem- 
 plate the trees so soon to be stript, and say, 
 "Perhaps I shall never see you clothed 
 again." Every year, as it passes, makes this 
 expectation more reasonable ; and the year 
 
 * This portrait ia now in the possession of Dr. Johnson's 
 family, 
 t Private corrospondence. 
 
 with me cannot be very distant, when the 
 event will verify it. Well, may God grant 
 us a good hope of arriving in due time 
 where the leaves never fall, and all will be 
 right ! 
 
 Mrs. Unwin, I think, is a little better than 
 when you saw her; but still so feeble as to 
 keep me in a state of continual apprehen- 
 sion. I live under the point of a sword sus- 
 pended by a hair. Adieu, my dear madam ; 
 and believe me to remain your sincere and 
 affectionate humble servant, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Eartham, Sept. 9, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — I determine, if pos- 
 sible, to send you one more letter, or at 
 least, if possible, once more to send you 
 something like one, before we leave Earth- 
 am. But I am in truth so unaccountably 
 local in the use of my pen, that, like the 
 man in the fable, who could leap well no- 
 where but at Rhodes, I seem incapable of 
 writing at all, except at Weston. This is, 
 as I have already told you, a delightful 
 place; more beautiful scenery I have never 
 beheld, nor expect to behold; but the charms 
 of it, uncommon as they are, have not in the 
 least alienated my affections from Weston. 
 The genius of that place suits me better, it 
 has an air of snug concealment, in which a 
 disposition like mine feels peculiarly grati- 
 fied ; whereas here I see from every window 
 woods like forests, and hills like mountains, 
 a wildness, in short, that rather increases my 
 natural melancholy, and which, were it not 
 for the agreeables 1 find within, would soon 
 convince me that mere change of place can 
 avail me little. Accordingly, I have not 
 looked out for a house in Sussex, nor shall. 
 The intended day of our departure contin- 
 ues to be the seventeenth. I hope to re-con- 
 duct IMrs. Unwin to the Lodge with hei 
 health considerably mended ; but it is in the 
 article of speech chiefly, and in her powers 
 of .walking, that she is sensible of much im- 
 provement. Her sight and her hand still fail 
 her, so that she can neither read nor work ; 
 both mortifying circumstances to her, who is 
 never willingly idle. 
 
 On the eighteenth I purpose to dine with 
 the General, and to rest that night at King- 
 ston, but the pleasure I shall have in the in- 
 terview will hardly be greater than the pain 
 I shall feel at the end of it, for we shall part, 
 probably to meet no more. 
 
 Johnny, I know, has told you that Mr. 
 Ilurdis is here. Distressed by the loss of 
 his sister, he has renounced the place where 
 she died forever, and is about to enter on a 
 new course of life at Oxford. You would 
 admire him much, he is gentle in his manners, 
 and delicate in his person, resembling our 
 27
 
 418 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 poor friend, Unwin, both in fiice and figure, 
 more than any one I have seen. But he has 
 not, at least he has not at present, his vi- 
 vacity. 
 
 I liave corresponded since I came here with 
 Mrs. Courtenay, and had yesterday a very^" 
 kind letter from her. 
 
 Adieu, my dear; may God bless you. 
 Write to me as soon as you can after the 
 twentieth. I shall then be at Weston, and 
 indulging myself in the hope that I shall ere 
 long see you there also. W. C. 
 
 Hayley, speaking of the manner in which 
 they employed their time at Eartham, ob- 
 serves, " Homer was not the immediate object 
 of our attention. The mornnig hours that 
 we could bestow upon books were chiefly 
 devoted to a complete revisal and correction 
 of all the translations, which my friend had 
 finished, from the Latin and Italian poetry of 
 Milton : and we generally amused ourselves 
 after dinner in forming togetlier a rapid met- 
 rical version of Andreini's Adamo.'^ He 
 
 * Tliis is one of those scarce and curious books which 
 is not to be procured without difficulty. It is a dramatic 
 representation of the Fall, remarkable, not so much for 
 any peculiar vigor, either in the conception or execution 
 of the plan, a-s for exhibiting that mode of celebrating 
 sacred subjects, formerly known under the appellation 
 of mysteries. A further interest is also attached to it 
 from the popular persuasion that this work first sug- 
 gested to Milton the design of liis Paradise Lost. There 
 is the same allegorical imagery, and sufficient to form 
 the frame-work of tliat immortal poem. Jolinson, in his 
 Life of Milton, alludes to the report, witliout arriving at 
 any decided conclusion on tlie sul)jeot, but states, that 
 Milton's original intention was to have formed, not a nar- 
 rative, but a dramatic work, and tliat he subsequently 
 began to reduce it to its present form, about the year 
 1655. Some sketches of this plan are to be seen in the 
 library of Trinity college, Cambridge. Dr. Joseph War- 
 ton and Hayley both incline to the opinion that the 
 Adamo of Andreini fu-st suggested the hint of the Para- 
 dise Lost. 
 
 That the Italians claim this honor for their countryman 
 is evident from the following passage from Tiraboschi, 
 which, to those of oiu- readers who are conversant with 
 that language, will be an interesting quotation. " Certo 
 benche L'Adamo dell Andreini sia in confronto dell 
 Paradiso Perduto cib che e il Poema di Ennio in confronto 
 a quel di Virgilio, nondimeno non ]>\ih negarsi che le 
 idee gigantesche, delle quali 1' autore Inglese ha abbellito 
 il suo Poema, di Satana, che entra nel Paradiso terrestre, 
 e arde d' invidia al vedere la felicita dell' Uomo, del 
 congresso de Demonj,dellabattagliadegli Angioli contra 
 Lucifero, e piii altre sommiglianti immagini veggonsi 
 nell' J]damo adombrate per modo, che a me sembra molto 
 credil^ile, che anche il ftlilton dalle immondezze, se cosi 
 e lecito dire, dell' Andreini raccogliesse I'oro, di cui 
 adorno il suo Poema. Per altro Ij\'idamo dell' Andreini, 
 benche abbia alcuni tratti di possimo gusto, ne ha altri 
 ancora, che si posson proporre come modello di excel- 
 lente poesia." 
 
 It is no disparagement to Milton to have been indebted 
 to the conceptions of another for the origin of his great 
 undertaking. If Milton bon-owed, it was to repay with 
 largeness of interest. The only use that he made of the 
 suggestion was, to stamp upon it the immortality of his 
 own creative genius, and to produce a work which is des- 
 tined to survive to the latest period of British literature. 
 
 For farther information on this subject, we refer the 
 reader to the " Inquiry into the Origin of Paradise Lost," 
 in Todd's excellent edition of Milton; .and in Hayley's 
 Life of Milton will be found Cowper's and Hayley's joint 
 version of the first three acts of the Adamo above men- 
 tioned. 
 
 In addition to the Adamo of Andreini, Milton is said 
 to have been indebted to the Du Cartas of Sylvester, and 
 to the Adamus Exul of Grotius. Hayley, in his Life of 
 
 also mentions the interest excited in Cow- 
 per's mind by his son, a fine boy of eleven 
 years, whose uncommon talents and e-ngaging 
 qu.ilities endeared him so much to the poet, 
 that lie allowed and invited him to criticise 
 his Homer. A specimen of this juvenile 
 criticism will appear in the future correspond, 
 ence. This interesting boy, with a young 
 companion, employed themselves regularly 
 twice a day in drawing Mrs. Unwin in a 
 commodious garden-chair, round the airy hill 
 at Eartham. " To Cowper and to me," ho 
 adds, " it was a very pleasing spectacle to see 
 the benevolent vivacity of blooming youth 
 thus continually laboring for the ease, health, 
 and amusement of disabled agce." 
 
 The reader will perceive from the last 
 letter, that Cowper, amused as he was with 
 tlie scenery of Sussex, began to feel the 
 powerful attraction of home. 
 
 TO MRS. COURTENAY,* WESTON-UNDERWOOD.-f 
 
 Eartham, Sept. 10, 1792. 
 
 My dear Catharina, — I am not so uncour- 
 teous a knight as to leave your last kind 
 letter, and tlie last I hope that I shall receive 
 for a long time to come, without an attempt, 
 at least, to acknowledge and to send you 
 something in the shape of an answer to it; 
 but, having been obliged to dose myself last 
 night with laudanum, on account of a little 
 nervous fever, to which I am always subject, 
 and for which I find it the best remedy, I feel 
 myself this morning particularly under the in- 
 fluence of Letliean vapors, and, consequently, 
 in danger of being uncommonly stupid ! 
 
 You could hardly have sent me intelligence 
 that would have gratified me more than that 
 of my two dear friends. Sir John and Lady 
 Throckmorton, having departed from Paris 
 two days before the terrible 10th of August. 
 I have had many anxious thoughts on their 
 
 Milton, enumerates also a brief list of Italian writers, 
 who may possibly have thrown some suggestions intc 
 the mind of the poet. But the boldest act of imposition 
 ever recorded in the annals of literature, is the charge 
 preferred against Milton by Lauder, who endeavored to 
 prove that he was "the worst and greatest of all plagia- 
 ries." He asserted that " Milton had borrowed tlie sub- 
 stance of whole books together, and that there w.as 
 scarcely a single thought or sentiment in bis poem which 
 he had' not stolen from some author or other, notwith- 
 standing his vain pretence to things unattempted j/rt in 
 prose nr rhymeP In support of this charge, he was base 
 enough to corrupt the text of those poets, whom he pro- 
 duced as evidences against the originality of Milton, by 
 interpolating several verses either of his own fabrication, 
 or from the Latin translation of Paradise Lost^ by Wil- 
 liam Hog. This gross libel he entitled an " Essay on 
 Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns ;" and so far 
 imposed on Dr. Johnson, by his representations, as to 
 prevail upon him to furnish a preface to his work. Tho 
 public are indebted to Dr. Douglas, the Bishop of Salis- 
 bury, for first detecting this imposture, in a pamphlet en- 
 titled '• Milton vindicated from the charge of Plagiarism 
 brought against him by Mr. Liiuder." Thus exposed to 
 infamy and contempt, lie made a public recantation of 
 bis error, and soon after quitted England for the West 
 Indies, where he died in 1771. 
 
 * Now Dowager Lady Throckmorton. 
 
 t Private correspondence. 
 
 »
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 419 
 
 account; and am truly happy to learn that 
 they have souglit a more peaceful region, 
 while it was yet permitted them to do so. 
 They will not, I trust, revisit those scenes of 
 tumult and horror while they shall continue 
 to merit that description. We are here all 
 of one mind respecting' the cause in which 
 the Parisians are engaged ; wish them a free 
 people, and as happy as they can wish them- 
 selves. But their conduct has not always 
 pleased us ; we are shocked at their sangui- 
 nary proceedings, and begin to fear, myself 
 in particular, tliat they will prove themselves 
 unworthy, because incapable of enjoying it, 
 of the inestimable blessing of liberty. My 
 daily toast is. Sobriety and freedom to the 
 French ; for they seem as destitute of the 
 former as they are eager to secure the latter. 
 We still hold our purpose of leaving J"]arth- 
 am on the seventeenth ; and again my fears 
 on Mrs. Unwin's account begin to trouble 
 me; but they are now not quite so reason- 
 able as in the first instance. If she could 
 bear the fatigue of travelling then, she is 
 more equal to it at present ; and, supposing 
 that nothing happens to alarm her, which is 
 very probable, may be expected to reach 
 Weston in much better condition than Avhen 
 she left it. Iler improvement, however, is 
 chiefly in her looks, and in the articles of 
 speaking and walking; for she can neither 
 rise from her chair without help, nor walk 
 without a support, nor read, nor use her 
 needle. Give my love to the good doctor, 
 and make him acquainted with the state of 
 his patient, since he, of all men, seems to 
 have the best right to know it. 
 
 T am proud that you are pleased with the 
 Epitaph* I sent you, and shall be still prouder 
 to see it perpetuated by the chisel. It is all 
 that I have done since here I came, and all 
 that I have been able to do. I wished, in- 
 deed, to have requited Romney, for his well- 
 drawn copy of me, in rhyme ; and have more 
 than once or twice attempted it; but I find, 
 like the man in the fable, who could leap 
 only at Rhodes, that verse is almost impossi- 
 ble to me, except at Weston. — Tell my friend 
 George that I am every day mindful of him, 
 and always love him; and bid him by no 
 means to vex himself about the tardiness of 
 Andrews.f Remember mo affectionately to 
 William, and to Pitcairn, whom I shall iiope 
 to find with you at my return ; and, should 
 you see Mr. Buchanan, to him also. I have 
 now charged you with commissions enow, 
 and having added IMrs. Unwin's best compli- 
 ments, and told you that I long to see you 
 again, will conclude myself. 
 My dear Catharina, 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 Their departure from Eartham was a scene 
 of affecting interest, and a perfect contrast to 
 tiie gaiety of their arrival. Anxious to re- 
 lieve the mind of Hayley from any apprehen- 
 sion for their safety, Cowper addressed to 
 him the following letter from Kingston. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 The Sun, at Kingston, Sept. 18, 1792. 
 
 My dear Brother, — With no sinister acci- 
 dent to retard or terrify us, we find ourselves 
 at a quarter before one, arrived safe at King- 
 storf. I left you with a heavy heart, and 
 with a heavy heart took leave of our dear 
 Tom,* at the bottom of the chalk-hill. But, 
 soon after this last separation, my troubles 
 gushed from my eyes, and then I was better. 
 
 We must now prepare for our visit to the 
 General. I add no more, therefore, than our 
 dearest remembrances and prayers that God 
 may bless you and yours, and reward you 
 an hundred-fold for all your kindness. Tell 
 Tom I shall always hold him dear for his af- 
 fectionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. From 
 her heart the memory of him can never be 
 erased. Johnny loves you all, and has his 
 share in all these acknowledgments. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 W. C. 
 
 * On Fop, T.ady Tlirockmorton's dojr. 
 t A eUruvniiisdn, who was nutking a 
 Witiquo bust of Homer. 
 
 pedestal for an 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 21, 1792. 
 
 My dear Hayley, — Chaos himself, even the 
 chaos of Milton, is not surrounded with more 
 confusion, nor has a mind more completely 
 in a hubbub, than I experience at the present 
 moment. At our first arrival, after long ab- 
 sence, we find a hundred orders to servants 
 necessary, a thousand things to be restored 
 to their proper places, and an endless variety 
 of minutiaj to be adjusted; which, though 
 individually of little importance, are momen- 
 tous in the aggregate. In these circumstan- 
 ces I find myself so indisposed to writino-, 
 tiiat, save to yourself, I would on no account 
 attempt it ; but to you I will give such a re- 
 cital as I can of all that has passed since I 
 sent you tiiat short note from Kingston, 
 knowing that, if it be a perplexed recitd, you 
 will consider the cause and pardon it. I will 
 begin with a remark in which I am inclined 
 to think you will agree with me, that tiiere 
 is sometimes more true heroism passing in a 
 corner, and on occasions that make nolioise 
 in the world, than has often been exercised 
 by those whom that world esteems her 
 greatest heroes, and on occasions the most 
 illustrious. I hope so at least; for all the 
 heroism I have to boast, and all the oppor- 
 tunities I have of disphiving any, are of a 
 private nntnre. After writing the note, I 
 iunncdiutely began to prepare for my ap. 
 * Hayley's son.
 
 420 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 pointed visit to Ham ; but tiie struggles that 
 I had with my own spirit, hiboring as I did 
 under the most dreadful dejection, are never 
 to be told. I would have given the world to 
 have been excused. I went, however, and 
 carried ray point against myself, with a heart 
 riven asunder — I have reasons for all this 
 anxiety, which I cannot relate now. The 
 visit, however passed off well, and we re- 
 turned in the dark to Kingston ; J, with a 
 lighter heart than I had known since ray de- 
 parture from Earthara, and Mary too, for she 
 had suffered hardly less tJian myself, and 
 chiefly on my account. That night we rested 
 well in our inn, and at twenty minutes after 
 eight next morning set off for London ; ex- 
 actly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door; we 
 drank a dish of chocolate witli him, and pro- 
 ceeded, Mr. Rose riding with us as far as St. 
 Alban's. From this time we met with no 
 impediment. In the dark, and in a storm, at 
 eight at night, we found ourselves at our 
 own back-door. Mrs. Unwin was very near 
 slipping out of the chair in which she was 
 taken from the chaise, but at last was landed 
 safe. We all have liad a good night, and 
 are all well this morning. 
 
 God bless you, ray dearest brother. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 2, 179SJ. 
 
 My dear Hayley, — A bad night, succeeded 
 by an east wind, and a sky all in sables, have 
 such an effect on my spirits, that, if I did not 
 consult my own" comfort more than yours, I 
 should not write to-day, for I shall not enter- 
 tain you much • yet your letter, though con- 
 taining no very pleasant tidings, has afforded 
 me some relief It tells me, indeed, that you 
 have been dispirited yourself, and that poor 
 little Tom, the faithful 'squire of my Mary, 
 has been seriously indisposed. All this 
 grieves me : but then there is a warmth of 
 heart and a kindness in it that do me good. 
 I will endeavor not to repay you in notes 
 of sorrow and despondence, though all my 
 sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one 
 day excepted, I have not seen the day when 
 I have been cheerful since I left you. My 
 spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower 
 than they were ; the approach of winter is 
 perhaps the cause, and if it is, I have nothing 
 better to expect for a long time to come. 
 
 Yesterday was a day of assignation with 
 myself, the day of which I said some days 
 before it came, when that day comes I will 
 begin ray dissertations. Accordingly, when 
 it came, I prepared to do so ; filled a letter- 
 case with fresh paper, furnished myself with 
 a pretty good pen, and replenished my ink- 
 bottle ; but, partly from one cause, and partly 
 from another, chiefly, however, from distress 
 
 and dejection, after writing and obliterating 
 about six lines, in the eomposirion of which 
 I spent near an hour, I was obliged to relin- 
 quish the attempt. An attempt so unsuc- 
 cessful could have no other effect than to dis- 
 hearten me, and it has had that effect to such 
 a degree, that I know not when I shall find 
 courage to make another. At present I shall 
 certainly abstain, since at present I cannot 
 well afford to expose myself to the danger 
 of a fresh mortification. W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 13, 1702. 
 
 I began a letter to you yesterday, my 
 dearest brother, and proceeded through two 
 sides of my sheet, but so much of my ner- 
 vous fever found its way into it, that, looking 
 over it this morning, 1 determined not to 
 send it. 
 
 I have risen, though not in good spirits, 
 yet in better than I generally do of late, and 
 therefore will not address you in the melan- 
 choly tone that belongs to my worst feelings. 
 
 I began to be restless about your portrait, 
 and to say, how long shall I have to wait for 
 it? I wished it here for many reasons; the 
 sight of it will be a comfort to me, for I not 
 only love but am proud of you, as of a con- 
 quest made in my old age. Johnny goes to 
 town on Monday, on purpose to call on 
 Romney, to whom he shall give all proper 
 information concerning its conveyance hither. 
 The name of a man whom I esteem as I do 
 Romney, ought not to be unmusical in my 
 ears ; but his name will be so till I shall have 
 paid hira a debt justly due to hira, by doing 
 such poetical honors to it as I intend. 
 Heaven knows when that intention will be 
 executed, for the muse is still as obdurate 
 and as coy as ever. 
 
 Your kind postscript is just arrived, and 
 gives me great pleasure. When I cannot see 
 you myself, it seems some comfort, however, 
 that you have been seen by another known 
 to me ; and who will tell me in a few days 
 that he has seen you. Your wishes to dis- 
 perse my melancholy would, I am sure, pre- 
 vail, did that event depend on the warmth 
 and sincerity" with which you frame them ; 
 but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, 
 and those the most fervent that could be 
 made, so many years, that the case seems 
 hopeless. But no more of this at present. 
 
 Your virses to Austen are as sweet as the 
 honey that they accompany : kind, friendly, 
 witty, and elegant ! When shall I be able to 
 do th^; like ? Perhaps when my Mary, like 
 your Tom, shall cease to be an invalid, 1 
 may recover a power, at least, to do some- 
 thing. I sincerely rejoice in the dear little 
 man's restoration. My IMary continues, 1 
 hope, to mend a little. W. C.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 421 
 
 TO MRS. KING.* 
 
 Oct. 14, 1792. 
 
 My dear Madam, — Your kind inquiries af- 
 ter mine and Mrs. Unwin's health will not 
 permit me to be silent; though I am and 
 have long been so indisposed to writing, that 
 even a letter has almost overtasked me. 
 
 Your last but one found me on the point 
 of setting out for Sussex, whither I went 
 with Mrs. Unwin, on a visit to my friend, Mr. 
 Hayley. We spent six weeks at Eartliam, 
 and returned on the nineteenth of Septem- 
 ber. I had hopes that change of air and 
 change of scene might be serviceable both 
 to my poor invalid and me. She, I hope, 
 has received some benefit; and I am not the 
 worse for it myself; but, at tiie same time, 
 must acknowledge that I cannot boast of 
 much amendment. The time we spent there 
 could not fail to pass as agreeably as her 
 weakness, and my spirits, at a low ebb, 
 would permit. Hayley is one of the most 
 agreeable men, as well as one of the most 
 cordial friends. His house is elegant ; his 
 library large, and well chosen; and he is 
 surrounded by the most delightful scenery. 
 But 1 have made the experiment only to 
 prove, what indeed I knew before, that crea- 
 tures are physicians of little value, and that 
 health ami cure are from God only. Hence- 
 forth, therefore, I shall wait for those bless- 
 ings from Him, and expect them at no other 
 hand. In the meantime, I have the comfort 
 to be able to tell you that Mrs. Unwin, on 
 the whole, is restored beyond the most san- 
 guine expectations I had when I wrote last; 
 and that, as to myself, it is not much other- 
 wise with me than it has been these twenty 
 years; except that this season of the year is 
 always unfavorable to my spirits. 
 
 I rejoice that you have had the pleasure of 
 another interview with Mr. Martyn ; and am 
 glad that the trilles I have sent you atForded 
 him any amusement. This letter has already 
 given you to understand that I am at present 
 no ra-tilicer of verse ; and that, consequently, 
 I have nothing new to communicate. When 
 I have, I shall do it to none more readily than 
 to yourself. 
 
 My dear madam. 
 
 Very atfectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Oct. 18, lTH-2. 
 
 My dear P'riend, — I thought that the won- 
 ier had been all on my side, having been 
 employed in wondering at your silence, as 
 ong as you at mine. Soon after our arrival 
 tt Eartliam, I received a letter from you, 
 vhich I answered, if not by the return of the 
 
 * Private corresDondence. 
 
 post, at least in a day or two. Not that I 
 should have insisted on the ceremonial of 
 letter for letter, during so long a period 
 could I have found leisure to double your 
 debt; but while there, I had no opportunity 
 for writing, except now and then a short one ; 
 for we breakfasted early, studied Milton as 
 soon as breakflist was over, and continued in 
 that employment till Mrs. Unwin came forth 
 from her chamber, to whom all the rest of 
 my time was necessarily devoted. Our re- 
 turn to Weston was on the nineteenth of 
 last month, according to your information. 
 You will naturally think that, in the interval, 
 I must have had sufficient leisure to give you 
 notice of our safe arrival. But the fact has 
 been otherwise. I have neither been well 
 myself, nor is Mrs. Unwin, though better, so 
 much improved in her health as not still to 
 require my continual assistance. My disorder 
 has been the old one, to which I have been 
 subject so many years, and especially about 
 •this season- — a nervous fever; not, indeed, 
 so oppressive as it has sometimes proved, 
 but surticiently alarming both to Mrs. Unwin 
 and myself, and such as made it neither easy 
 nor proper for me to make much use of my 
 pen while it continued. At present I am 
 tolerably free from it; a blessing for which 
 I believe myself partly indebted to the use 
 of James's powder, in small quantities; and 
 partly to a small quantity of laudanum, 
 taken every night; but chiefly to a manifes- 
 tation of God's presence vouchsafed to me 
 a few days since; transient, indeed, and 
 dimly seen through a mist of many fears and 
 troubles, but sufficient to convince me, at 
 least while the Enemy's power is a little re- 
 strained, that he has not cast me off forever. 
 Our visit was a pleasant one ; as pleasant 
 as Mrs. Unwin's weakness and the state of 
 my spirits, never very good, would allow. 
 As to my own health, I never expected that 
 it would be niucli improved by the journey : 
 nor have I found it so. Some benefit, in- 
 deed, I hoped; aud, perhaps, a little more 
 than I found. But the season was, after the 
 first fortnight, extremely unfavorable, stormy, 
 and wet; and the prospects, though grand 
 and m.ignificent, yet rather of a melancholy 
 cast, and consequently not very propitious to 
 nie. The cultivated appearance of Weston 
 suits my frame of mind far better than wild 
 hills that aspire to be mountains, covered with 
 vast unfrequented woods, and here and there 
 afTording a peep between their summits at 
 file distant ocean. Within doors all was 
 hospitality and kindness, but the scenery 
 would have its effect; and, though delightfu'l 
 in the extreme to those who had spirits tc 
 bear it, was too gloomy for me. 
 Yours, my dear friend. 
 
 Most sincerely, 
 
 W. C.
 
 422 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 19, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — You are too useful 
 when you are here not to be missed on a hun- 
 dred occasions daily ; and too much domesti- 
 cated with us not to be regretted always. I 
 hope, therefore, that your month or six weeks 
 will not be like many that I have known, ca- 
 pable of being drawn out into any length 
 wliatever, and productive of nothing but dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 I have done nothing since you went, ex- 
 cept that I have composed the better half of 
 a sonnet to Romney; yet even this ought to 
 bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunt- 
 ed with a desire to do it long before we came 
 out of Sussex, and have daily attempted it 
 ever since. 
 
 It would be well for the reading part of 
 the world, if the writing part were, many of 
 them, as dull as I am. Yet even this small 
 produce, which my sterile intellect has hard- 
 ly yielded at last, may serve to convince you 
 that in point of spirits I am not worse. 
 
 In fact, I am a little better. The powders 
 and the laudanum together have, for the 
 present at least, abated the fever that con- 
 sumes them; and in measure as the fever 
 abates, I acquire a less discouraging view of 
 things, and with it a little power to exert 
 myself. 
 
 In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle 
 to Mrs. Unwin, having no other history, and 
 hope in time to be as well versed in it as his 
 admirer, Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 22, 1792. 
 My dear Johnny, — Here I am, with I know 
 not how many letters to answer, and no time 
 to do it in. I exhort you, therefore, to set a 
 proper value on tiiis, as proving your priority 
 in my attentions, though in other respects 
 ikely to be of little value. 
 
 You do well to sit for your picture, and 
 give very sufficient reasons for doing it; you 
 will also, I doubt not, take care that when 
 future generations shall look at it, some spec- 
 tator or other shall say, this is the picture of 
 a good man and a useful one. 
 
 And now God bless you my dear Johnny. 
 I proceed much after the old rate ; rising 
 cheerless and distressed in the morning, and 
 brightening a little as the day goes on. 
 
 A lieu, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 28, 1792. 
 Nothing done, my dearest brother, nor 
 likely to be done at present; yet I jairpose 
 in a day or two to make another attempt, to 
 
 which, however, I shall address myself with 
 fear and trembling, like a man who, having 
 sprained his wrist, dreads to use it. I have 
 not, indeed, like such a man, injured myself 
 by any extraordinary exertion, but seem as 
 much enfeebled as if 1 had. Tlie conscious- 
 ness that there is so much to do, and nothin" 
 done, is a burden I am not able to bear. 
 Milton especially is my grievance, and I might 
 almost as well be haunted by his ghost as 
 goaded with continual reproaches for neg- 
 lecting him. I will therefore begin: I will 
 do my best; and if, after all, that best prove 
 good for nothing, I will even send the notes, 
 worthless as they are, that I have made al- 
 ready ; a measure very disagreeable to my 
 self, and to which nothing but necessity shall 
 compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new 
 samples of your biography,* which you give 
 me to expect. 
 
 Allons! Courage! — Here comes some- 
 thing, however; produced after a gestation as 
 long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the 
 debt long unpaid, the compliment due to 
 Romney ; and if it has your approbation, I 
 will send it, or you may send it for me. I 
 must premise, however, that I intended noth- 
 ing less than a sonnet when I began. I know 
 not why, but I said to myself, it shall not be 
 a sonnet; accordingly I attempted it in one 
 sort of measure, then in a second, then in a 
 tliird, till I had made the trial in half a dozen 
 dii!erent kinds of shorter verse, and behold 
 it is a sonnet at last. The fotes would have 
 it so. 
 
 TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.. 
 
 Romney ! expert infallibly to trace, 
 On chart or canvas, not the form alone, 
 And semblance, but, however faintly shown, 
 The mind's impression too on every face, 
 With strokes, that time ought never to erase : 
 Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own 
 The subject worthless, I have never known 
 The artist shining with superior grace. 
 
 But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe, 
 In thy incomparable work appear : 
 Well ! I am satisfied it should be so. 
 Since, on maturer thought the cause is clear; 
 
 For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see, 
 While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee 1 
 
 w. c. 
 
 TO JOHM JOHNSON, ESQ.f 
 
 Nov. 5, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — I have done nothing 
 since you went, except that I have finished the 
 Sonnet which I told you I had begun, and sent 
 it to Hayley, wlio is well pleased therewith. 
 and has by this time transmitted it to whom 
 it most concerns. 
 
 * Hayley's Life of Milton. 
 t Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 423 
 
 I would not give the algebraist sixpence for 
 his encomiums on my Task, if he condemns 
 my Homer, which, 1 know, in point of lan- 
 guage, is equal to it, and in variety of num- 
 bers superior. But the character of the for- 
 mer having been some years established, he 
 follows the general cry ; and should Homer 
 establish himself as well, and I trust he will 
 hereafter, I shall have his warm suffrage for 
 that also. But if not — it is no matter. 
 Swift says somewliere, — There are a fev/ 
 good judges of poetry in the world, who 
 lend their taste to those who have none: 
 and your man of figures is probably one of 
 the borrowers. 
 
 Adieu — in great haste. Our united love 
 attends yourself and yours, whose I am most 
 truly and affectionately. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Woston, Nov. 9, 1792. 
 My dear Friend, — I wish that I were as in- 
 dustrious and as much occupied as you, 
 thougli in a different way; but it is not so 
 with me. Mrs. Unwin's great debility (who 
 is not yet able to move without assistance) 
 is of itself a hindrance such as would effect- 
 ually disable nie. Till she can work, and 
 read, and fill up her time as usual (all which 
 is at present entirely out of her power) I may 
 now and then find time to write a letter, but 
 f shall write nothing more. I cannot sit 
 with my pen in my hand and my books be- 
 fore me, while she is in effect in solitude, si- 
 lent, and looking at the fire. To this hin- 
 drance tliat other has been added, of which 
 you are already aware, a want of spirits, such 
 as I have never known, when I was not ab- 
 solutely laid by, since I commenced an author. 
 How long I shall be continued in these un- 
 comfortable circumstances is known only to 
 Him who, as he will, disposes of us all. I 
 may be yet able, perhaps, to prepare the first 
 book of the Paradise Lost for the press, be- 
 fore it will be wanted; and Johnson himself 
 seems to think there will be no haste for the 
 second. But poetry is my favorite employ- 
 ment, and all my poetical operations are in 
 the meantime suspended; for, while a work 
 to which I have bound myself remains unac- 
 complished, I can do nothing else. 
 
 Johnson's plan of prefixing my phiz to the- 
 new edition of my poems is by no means a 
 pleasant one to me, and so I told him in a 
 letter I sent him from Eartham, in which I 
 assured him that my objections to it would 
 not be easily surmounted. But if you judge 
 that it may "really have an effect in advancing 
 the sale, 1 would not be so squeamish as to 
 Buffer the spirit of prudery to prevail in me 
 to his disadvantage. Somebody told an au- 
 thor, I forget whom, that there was more 
 
 vanity in refusing his picture than in grant- 
 ing it, on which he instantly complied. I do 
 not perfectly feel all the force of the argu- 
 ment, but it shall content me that he did. 
 
 I do most sincerely rejoice in the success 
 of your publication,* and have no doubt that 
 my prophecy concerning your success in 
 greater matters will be fulfilled. We are 
 naturally pleased when our friends approve 
 what we approve ourselves ; how much then 
 must I be pleased, when you speak so kindly 
 of Johnny ! I know him to be all that you 
 think him, and love him entirely. 
 
 Adieu ! We expect you at Christmas, and 
 shall therefore rejoice when Christmas comes. 
 Let nothing interfere. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 Nov. 11, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I am not so insensible 
 of your kindness in making me an exception 
 from the number of your correspondents, to 
 whom you forbid the hope of hearing from 
 you till your present labors arc ended, as to 
 make you wait longer for an answer to your 
 last ; which, indeed, would have had its an- 
 swer before this time, had it been possible 
 for me to write. But so many have demands 
 upon me of a similar kind, and while Mrs. 
 Unwin continues an invalid, my opportunities 
 of writing are so few, that I am constrained 
 to incur a long arrear to some, with whom I 
 would wish to be punctual. She can at pres- 
 ent neither work nor read ; and, till she can 
 do both, and amuse herself as usual, my own 
 amusements of the pen must be suspended. 
 
 I, like you, have a work before me, and a 
 work to which I should be glad to address 
 myself in earnest, but cannot do it at present. 
 When the opportunity comes, I shall, like 
 you, be under a necessity of interdicting some 
 of my usual correspondents, and of shorten- 
 ing ray letters to the excepted few. Many 
 letters and much company are incompatible 
 with authorship, and the one as much as the 
 other. It will be long, I hope, before the 
 world is put in possession of a publication, 
 which you design should be posthumous. 
 
 Oh for the day when your expectations of 
 my complete deliverance shall be verilied ! 
 At present it seems very remote : so distant, 
 indeed, that hardly the faintest streak of it is 
 visible in my horizon. The glimpse, with 
 which I was favored about a month since, 
 has never been repeated ; and the depression 
 of my spirits has. The future appears gloomy 
 as ever; and I seem to myself to be scram- 
 bling always in the dark, among rocks and 
 precipices, without a guide, but with an 
 enemy ever at my heels, prepared to push 
 
 * Decisions of the English Courts. 
 t Private correspouUeuce.
 
 424 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 me headlong'. Thus I have spent twenty 
 years, but thus I shall not spend twenty 
 years more. Long ere that period arrives, 
 the grand question concerning my everlast- 
 ing weal or woe will be decided. 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend. I have exhausted 
 my time, though not filled my paper. 
 
 Truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 20, 1792. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — I give you many 
 thanks for your rhymes, and your verses 
 without rhyme ; for your poetical dialogue 
 between wood and stone : between Homer s 
 head and the head of Samuel; kindly in- 
 tended, I know very well, for my amusement, 
 and that amused me much. 
 
 The successor of the clerk defunct, for 
 whom I used to write, arrived iiere this morn- 
 ing, with a recommendatory letter from Joe 
 Rye, and an humble. petition of his own, en- 
 treating me to assist him as I had assisted his 
 predecessor. I have undertaken the service, 
 although with no little reluctance, being in- 
 volved in many arrears on other subjects, 
 and having very little dependence at present 
 on my ability to write at all. I proceed 
 exactly as when you were here — a letter now 
 and then before breakfast, and the rest of my 
 time all holiday ; if holiday it may be called, 
 that is spent chiefly in moping and musing, 
 and "forecasting the fashion of uncertain 
 evils." 
 
 The fever on my spirits has harassed mc 
 much, and I have never had so good a night, 
 nor so quiet a rising, since you went, as on 
 this very morning; a relief that I account 
 particularly seasonable and propitious, be- 
 cause I had, in my intentions, devoted this 
 morning to you, and could not have fulfilled 
 those intentions, had I been as spiritless as I 
 generally am. 
 
 I am glad that Johnson is in no haste for 
 Milton, for I seem myself not likely to ad- 
 dress myself presently to that concern, with 
 any prospect of success ; yet something now 
 and then, like a secret whisper, assures and 
 encourages me that it will yet be done. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEV, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 25, 1792. 
 How shall I thank you enough for the in- 
 terest you take in my future Miltonic labors, 
 and the assistance you promise me in the 
 performance of them ; I will some time or 
 other, if I live, and live a poet, acknowledge 
 vour friendship in some of my best verse ; the 
 most suitable return one poet can make to 
 another : in the meantime, 1 love you, and am 
 sensible of all your kindness. You wish me 
 
 warm in my work, and I ardently wish the 
 same : but when I shall be so God only 
 knows. My melancholy, which seemed a 
 little alleviated for a few days, has gathered 
 about me again with as black a cloud as 
 ever ; the consequence is absolute incapacity 
 to begin. 
 
 I was for some years dirge-writer to the 
 town of Northampton, being employed by 
 the clerk of the principal parish there to fur- 
 nish him with an annual copy of verses pro- 
 per to be printed at the foot of his bill of 
 mortality; but the clerk died, and, hearing 
 nothing for two years from his successor, I 
 well hoped that I was out of my ofHce. The 
 other morning however Sam announced the 
 new clerk ; he came to solicit the same ser- 
 vice as I had rendered his predecessor, and 
 I reluctantly complied; doubtful, indeed, 
 whether I was capable. I have however 
 achieved that labor, and I have done nothing 
 more. I am just sent for up to Mary, dear 
 Mary ! Adieu ! she is as well as when I left 
 you, I would I could say better. Remember 
 us both affectionately to your sweet boy, and 
 trust me for being 
 
 Most truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Dec. 9, 1792. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You need not be uneasy 
 on the subject of Milton. I shall not find 
 that labor too heavy for me, if I have health 
 and leisure. The season of the year is un- 
 favorable to me respecting the former; and 
 Mrs. Unwin's present weakness allows me 
 less of the latter than tiie occasion seems to 
 call for. But the business is in no haste. The 
 artists employed to furnish the embellish- 
 ments are not likely to be very expeditious ; 
 and a small portion only of the work will be 
 wanted from me at once : for the intention is 
 to deal it out to the public piece-meal. I am, 
 therefore, under no great anxiety on that ac- 
 count. It is not, indeed, an employment that 
 I should have chosen for myself; because 
 poetry pleases and amuses me more, and 
 would cost me less labor, properly so called. 
 All this I felt before I engaged with Johnson ; 
 and did, in the first instance, actually decline 
 the service; but he was urgent; and, at last, 
 I suffered myself to be persuaded. 
 
 The season of the year, as I have already 
 said, is particularly adverse to me : yet not in 
 itself, perhaps, more adverse than any other; 
 but the approach of it always reminds me of 
 the same season in the dreadful seventy-three, 
 and in the more dreadful eighty-six. I can- 
 not help terrifying myself with doleful mis- 
 givings and apprehensions: nor is the enemy 
 negligent to seize all the advantage that the 
 occasion gives him. Thus, hearing much 
 
 * Private ccrrespondence.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER 
 
 421 
 
 from him, and having- little or no sensible 
 support from God, 1 suffer inexpressible 
 thini^s til! January is over. And even then, 
 whether increasing years have made me more 
 liable to it, or despair, the longer it lasts, 
 grows naturally darker, I find myself more 
 inclined to melancholy than I was a i'ow 
 years since. God only knows where this 
 will end ; but where it is likely to end, unless 
 he interpose powerfully in ray favor, all may 
 know. 
 
 I remain, my dear friend, most sincerely 
 vours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 16, 1792. 
 
 My dear Sir, — We differ so little, that it is 
 pity we should not agree. The possibility 
 of restoring our diseased government is, I 
 think, the only point on which we are not of 
 one mind. If you are right, and it cannot be 
 touched in the medical way, without danger 
 of absolute ruin to the constitution, keep the 
 doctors at a distance say I — and let us live 
 as long as we can. But perhaps physicians 
 might be found of skill sutticient for the pur- 
 pose, were they but as willing as able. Who 
 are they? Not those honest blunderers, the 
 mob, but our governors themselves. As it 
 is in the power of any individual to be honest 
 if he will, any body of men are, as it seems 
 to me, equally possessed of the same option. 
 For 1 can never persuade myself to think the 
 world so constituted by the Author of it, 
 and human society, which is his ordinance, so 
 shabby a busiiiess, that the buying and sel- 
 ling of votes and consciences should be es- 
 sential to its existence. As to multiplied 
 representation I know not that I foresee any 
 great advantage likely to arise from that. 
 Provided there be but a reasonable number 
 of reasonable heads laid together for the 
 good of tiie nation, the end may as well be 
 answered by five hundred as it would be by 
 a thousand, and perhaps better. But then 
 they should be honest as well as wise, and, 
 in order that they may be so, they should 
 put it out of their own power to be other- 
 wise. This they might certainly do if they 
 would ; and, would they do it, I am not con- 
 vinced that any great mischief would ensue. 
 You say, " somebody must have influence," 
 but T see no necessity for it. Let integrity 
 of intention and a due share of ability be 
 supposed, and the influence will be in Ihe 
 right place ; it will all centre in the zeal and 
 jTood of the nation. That will inlluence their 
 debates and decisions, and nothing else ought 
 to do it. You will say, perhaps, that wise 
 laen, and honest men, as they are supposed, 
 they are yet liable to be split into almost as 
 many differences of opinion as there are in- 
 dividuals; but I rather think not. It is ob- 
 
 served of Prince Eugene and the Duke of 
 Marlborough, that each always approved and 
 seconded the plans and views of the other ; 
 and the reason given for it is that they were 
 men of equal ability. The same cause that 
 could make two unanimous would make 
 twenty so, and would at least secure a 
 majority among as many hundreds. 
 
 As to the reformation of the church, I 
 want none, unless by a better provision for 
 the inferior clergy; and, if that could be 
 brought about by emaciating a little some of 
 our too corpulent dignitaries, I should be 
 well contented. 
 
 The dissenters, I think, Catholics and 
 others, have all a right to the privileges of 
 all other Englishmen, because to deprive them 
 is persecution, and persecution on any ac- 
 count, but especially on a religious one, is 
 an abomination. But after all, valeat res- 
 publica. I love my country, I love my king, 
 and I wish peace and prosperity to Old 
 England.* 
 
 Adieu I W. C. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Wcston-Underwood, Dec. 17, 1792. 
 
 My dear Sir, — You are very kind in think- 
 ing it worth while to inquire after so irregu- 
 lar a correspondent. When I had read your 
 last, I persuaded myself that I had answered 
 your obliging letter received while I was at 
 Eartham, ami seemed clearly to remember it; 
 but upon better recollection, am inclined to 
 think mj'self mistaken, and that I have many 
 pardons to ask for neglecting to do it so long. 
 
 While I was at Mr. Hayley's I could hardly 
 find opportunity to write to anybody. He is 
 an early riser and breakfasts early, and unless 
 I could rise early enough myself to despatcJi 
 a letter before breakfast, [ had no leisure to do 
 it at all. For immediately after breakfast we 
 repaired to the library, where we studied in 
 concert till noon; and the rest of my time 
 was so occupiiii by necessary attention to my 
 poor invalid, ^Mrs. Unwin, and by various other 
 engagements, that to write was impossible. 
 
 * Tlie question of a Reform in Parliament was at tl)is 
 time bejiinniii!,' to eii<-cai;o tlie jjublic attention, and Mr. 
 tJrey (now ICarl (Ji'ey) 'i:id recently aimomiced liis in- 
 tention in tlie House of Commons of liri;iu:inj: forward 
 that iinportant subject in the e:rsuiii;i session of P.trlia- 
 menl. It wa.s accordin-^ly submitted to the House, May 
 •illi, 17'.).'!, when Mr. Crey delivered his sentiments at con- 
 siderable leiii,'th, iMiibodyiiiLC ni:iiiy of llie topics now so 
 familiar to the public, but by no nutans pursuing the 
 prineiple to the extent since adojited. Tlie debate 
 iasteil till two o'clock in the morning, when it was ad- 
 journed to the fiillowin^r day. After a renewed discus- 
 sion, which coMlinuetl till four in the mornin?, the House 
 divided, when the numbers were as follow, viz., Ayes 
 40, Noes 2d2. 
 
 It is interesting to mark this first commencement of the 
 popular question of Reform (if yn' except Mr. Pitt's meas- 
 ure, in 1782) and to contrast its slow progress witli the 
 tinal issue, under the same leader, in the year 18:K. The 
 minority for several successive years seldom exceeded 
 the amount above specilied, though the measure was at 
 length carried by so large a majority.
 
 426 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Since my return, I liave been almost con- 
 stantly aflf icted with weak and inilanied eyes, 
 and indeed have wanted spirits as well as 
 leisure. If you can, therefore, you must par- 
 don me ; and you will do it perhaps the rather, 
 when I assure you that not you alone, but 
 every person and every thing that had de- 
 mands upon me has been equally neglected. 
 A strange weariness that has long had domin- 
 ion over me has indisposed and indeed dis- 
 qualified me for all employment ;* and my 
 hindrances besides have been such that I am 
 sadly in arrear in all quarters. A thousand 
 times I have been sorry and ashamed that your 
 MSS. are yet unrevised, and if you knew the 
 compunction tliat it has cost me, you would 
 pity me ; for I feel as if I were guilty in that 
 particular, though my conscience tells me that 
 it could not be otherwise. 
 
 Before I received your letter written from 
 Margate, I had formed a resolution never to 
 be engraven, and was confirmed in it by my 
 friend Hayley's example. But, learning since 
 though I have not learned it from himself, 
 that mv bookseller has an intention to prefix 
 a copy of Abbot's picture of mef to the next 
 edition of my poems, at his own expense, if 
 
 * This expression alludes to the nervous fever and 
 great depression of spirits that Cowper labored under, in 
 the months of October and November, and which has 
 been frequently mentioned in the preceding correspond- 
 ence. 
 
 t There were three portraits of Cowper, taken respect- 
 ively by Sir Thomas Lawrence, Abbot, and Romney. 
 The reader may be anxious to learn which is entitled to 
 be considered the best resemblance. The editor is able 
 to satisfy this inquiry, on the joint authority of the three 
 most competent witnesses, the late Rev. Dr. Johnson, the 
 present Dowager Lady Throckmorton, and John Higgins, 
 Esq., formerly of Weston. They all agree in assigning 
 the superiority to the portrait by Abbot ; and in evidence 
 of this, all have repeated the anecdote mentioned by 
 Cowper, of his dog Beau going up to the picture, and 
 shaking his tail, in token of recognition. It is an exact 
 resemblance of his form, features, manner, and costume. 
 That by Romney was said to resemble him ut the moment 
 it was taken, but it was his then look, not his customary 
 and more placid features. There is an air of wUdness in 
 it, expressive of a disordered mind, and which the shock, 
 produced by the paralytic attack of Mrs. Unwin, was 
 rapidly impressmg on his countenance. This portrait 
 has always been considered as awakening distressing 
 emotions in the beholder. The portrait by Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence is tlie most pleasing, but not so exact and faith- 
 ful a resemblance. Tliere is however a character of pe- 
 culiar interest in it, and he is represented in the cap 
 which he was accustomed to wear in a morning, pre- 
 sented to him by Lady Hesketh. It was on this pict\u-e 
 that the following beautiful lines were composed by the 
 Jate Rev. Dr. Randolph. 
 
 ON SEEING A SKETCH OF COWPER BY LAWREIfCK. 
 
 Sweet bard ! whose mind, thus pictured in thy face. 
 
 O'er every feature spreads a nobler grace ; 
 
 Whose keen, but softened eye appears to dart 
 
 A look of pity through the human heart ; 
 
 To s(tarch the secrets of man's inward frame. 
 
 To weep with sorrow o'er his guilt and shame; 
 
 Sweet bard! with whom, in sympathy of choice, 
 
 I've ofttimes left the world at Nature's voice, 
 
 To join the song that all her creatures raise, 
 
 To carol forth their great Creator's praise ; 
 
 Or, 'rapt in visions of immortal day. 
 
 Have gaied on Truth in Zion's heavenly way; 
 
 Sweet Bard !— may this thine image, all I know, 
 
 Or ever may, of Cowper's form below. 
 
 Teach one who views it with a Christian's love, 
 
 To seek and find thee, in the realms above. 
 
 I can be prevailed upon to consent to it ; in 
 consideration of the liberality of his beha- 
 vior, I have felt my determination shaken. 
 This intelligence, however comes to me from 
 a third person, and till it reaches me in a di- 
 rect line from Johnson, I can say nothing to 
 Mm about it. When he shall open to me his 
 intentions himself, I will not be backward to 
 mention to him your obliging offer, and shall 
 be particularly gratified, if I must be engraved 
 at last, to have that service performed for 
 me by a friend. 
 
 I thank you for the anecdote,* which could 
 not fail to be very pleasant, and remain, my 
 dear sir, with gratitude and affection, 
 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 26, 1792, 
 
 That I may not be silent, till my silence 
 alarms you, I snatch a moment to tell you, 
 that although toujours triste I am not worse 
 than usual, but my opportunities of writing 
 are pmicijied, as, perhaps. Dr. Johnson would 
 have dared to say, and the few that I have are 
 shortened by company. 
 
 Give my love to dear Tom, and thank him 
 for his very apposite extract, which I should 
 be happy indeed to turn to any account. How 
 often do I wish, in the course of every day, 
 that I could be employed once more in poetry, 
 and how often, of course, that this Miltonic 
 trap had never caught me ! The year ninety- 
 two shall stand chronicled in my remembranoe 
 as the most melancholy that I have ever 
 known, except the few weeks tliat I spent at 
 Eartham; and such it has been principally 
 because, being engaged to Milton, I felt my- 
 self no longer free for any other engagement. 
 That ill-fated work, impracticable in itself, has 
 made everything else impracticable. 
 
 I am very Pindaric, and obliged to 
 
 be so by the hurry of the hour. My friends 
 are come down to breakfast. 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, Jan. 3, 1793. 
 
 My dear Sir, — A few lines must serve to 
 introduce to you my much-valued friend Mr. 
 Rose, and to thank you for your very obliging 
 attention in sending me so approved a remedy 
 for my disorder. It is no fault of yours, but 
 it will be a disappointment to you to know, 
 that I have long been in possession of that 
 remedy, and have tried it without effect ; or, 
 
 * The Hon. Mrs. Boscaweii had expressed her regreS 
 that Cowper should employ his time and talents m trans- 
 lation, instead of original composition ; accompanied by 
 a wish that he would produce another " lask, adverting 
 to what Pope had made his frieud exclaim, 
 
 " Do write next winter more ' Essays on Man.' "
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 421 
 
 to speak more truly, with an unfavorable one. 
 Judging by the pain it causes, I conclude 
 that it is of the caustic kind, and may, there- 
 fore, be sovereign in cases where the eyelids 
 are ulcerated : but mine is a dry inflainuiation, 
 which it has always increased as often as I 
 liave used it. I used it again, after having 
 long since resolved to use it no more, that I 
 might not seem, even to myself, to slight your 
 kindness, but with no better effect tiian in 
 every former instance. 
 
 You are very candid in crediting so readily 
 the excuse I make for not having yet revised 
 your MSS., and as kind in allowing me still 
 longer time. I refer you for a more particu- 
 lar account of the circumstances that make all 
 literary pursuits at present impracticable to 
 me, to the young gentleman wiio delivers this 
 into your hands.* He is perfectly master of 
 the subject, having just left me after having 
 spent a fortniglit with us. 
 
 You asked me a longtime since a question 
 concerning the Olney Hymns, which I do not 
 remember that I have ever answered. Those 
 marked C. are mine, one excepted, which 
 though it bears that mark, was written by Mr. 
 Newton. I have not the collection at present 
 and therefore cannot tell you which it is. 
 
 You must extend your charity still a little 
 farther, and excuse a short answer to your 
 two obliging letters. I do everything with 
 my pen in a hurry, but will not conclude 
 without entreating you to make my thanks 
 and best compliments to the lady,f who was 
 so good as to trouble herself for my sake to 
 write a character of the medicine. 
 I remain, my dear sir. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 Your request does me honor. Johnson 
 will hi,ve orders in a few days to send a copy 
 of the edition just published.^ 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 20, 1793. 
 
 My dear Brother, — Now I know that you 
 are safe, I treat you, as you see, with a piiilo- 
 sopliical inditference, not acknowledging your 
 kind and immediate answer to anxious inqui- 
 ries, till it suits my own convenience. I iiave 
 learned, iiowever, from my late solicitude, 
 that not only you, but yours, interest me to a 
 degree, that, should anytiiing happen to either 
 of you, would be very inconsistent with my 
 peace. Sometimes I tiiought that you were 
 extremely ill, and once or twice, (iiat you were 
 dead. As often some tragedy reached my ear 
 concerning little Tom. "Oh, vanec mentes 
 himhmmr How liable are we to a thou- 
 sand impositions, and how indebted to honest 
 
 * Mr. Rose. 
 
 t Mrs. Haiieu, formerly governess to tho daughters of 
 jord Eardley. 
 t The fifth edition of Cowper's Poems. 
 
 old Time, who never fails to undeceive us 
 Whatever you had in prospect, you acted 
 kindly by me not to make me partaker of 
 your expectations; for J have a spirit, if not 
 so sanguine as yours, yet that would have 
 waited for your coming with anxious impa- 
 tience, and have been dismally mortified by 
 the disappointment. Had you come, and come 
 witliout notice too, you would not have sur- 
 prised us more, than (as the matter was man- 
 aged) we were surprised at the arrival of your 
 picture. It reached us in the evening, after 
 the shutters were closed, at a time when a 
 chaise might actually have brought you with- 
 out giving us the least previous intimation. 
 Then it was, that Samuel, with his cheerful 
 countenance, appeared at the study door, and 
 with a voice as cheerful as his looks, ex- 
 claimed, " Mr. Hayley is come, madam !" We 
 both started, and in the same moment cried, 
 " Mr. Hayley come ! And where is he ?" The 
 next moment corrected our mistake, and 
 finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tremu- 
 lous, I turned and saw her weeping. 
 
 I do nothing, notwithstanding all your ex- 
 hortations : my idleness is proof against them 
 all, or to speak more truly, my ditliculties 
 are so. Something indeed I do. I play at 
 push-pin with Homer every morning before 
 breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris 
 did his armor. I have lately liad a letter 
 from Dublin on tliat subject, which has 
 pleased me. W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 29, 1793. 
 ]My dearest Hayley, — I truly sympathize 
 with you under your weight of sorrow for 
 the loss of our good Samaritan.* But be 
 not broken-hearted, my friend ! Remember 
 the loss of those we love is the condition on 
 which we live ourselves ; and that he who 
 chooses his friends wisely from among the 
 excellent of the earth, has a sure ground to 
 liope concerning tiiem when they die, that a 
 merciful God has made them far happier 
 than they could be here, and that we shall 
 join them soon again. This is solid com- 
 fort, could we but avail ourselves of it ; but 
 I confess the ditliculty of doing so. Sorrow 
 is like the deaf adder, " tiiat hears not the 
 voice of the charmer, charm he never so 
 wisely ;" and I feel so much myself for the 
 death of Austen, that my own chief consola- 
 tion is, that I had never seen him. Live 
 yourself, 1 beseech you, for I have seen so 
 much of vou that I can by no means spare 
 you, and \ will live as long as it shall please 
 God to permit. I know you set some value 
 on me, therefore let that promise comfort 
 
 * Dr. Austen, wlio is hero alhided to, was not less dis- 
 tinguished for his humane and benevolent qualities, than 
 foiiliis professional skill and craineuce.
 
 128 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 jrou, and give us not reason to say, like Da- 
 vid's servant — " We know that it would have 
 pleased thee more if all we had died, than 
 this one, for whom thou art inconsolable." 
 You have still Romney, and Carwardine, 
 and Guy, and me, my poor Mary, and I knew 
 not how many beside ; as many, I suppose, 
 as ever had an opportunity of spending a 
 day with you. He who has the most friends 
 must necessarily lose the most, and he whose 
 friends are numerous as yours may the bet- 
 ter spare a part of them. It is a changing, 
 transient scene: yet a little while, and this 
 poor dream of life will be over with all of 
 us. The living, and they who live unhappy, 
 they are indeed subjects of sorrow. 
 Adieu ! my beloved friend, 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.* 
 
 Jan. 31, 1793. 
 lo Pecan. 
 My dearest Johnny, — Even as you fore- 
 told, so it came to pass. On Tuesday I re- 
 ceived your letter, and on Tuesday came the 
 pheasants ; for which I am indebted in many 
 thanks, as well as Mrs. Unwin, both to your 
 kindness and to your kind friend Mr. Cope- 
 man. 
 
 In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell, — 
 " Immortal bards like mortal pheasants well ;" 
 And when his cl-^rkship's out, I wish hmi herds 
 Of golden clients for his golden birds. 
 
 Our friends the Courtenays have never 
 dined with us since their marriage, because 
 we have never asked them ; and we have 
 never asked them, because poor Mrs. Unwin 
 is not so equal to the task of providing for 
 and entertaining company as before this last 
 illness. But this is no objection to the ar- 
 rival here of a bustard ; rather it is a cause 
 for which we shall be particularly glad to 
 see the monster. It will be a handsome 
 present to them. So let the bustard come, 
 as the Lord Mayor of London said of tlie 
 hare, when he was hunting — let her come, a' 
 God's name : I am not afraid of her. 
 
 Adieu, my dear cousin and caterer. My 
 eyes are terribly bad ; else, I had much more 
 to say to you. 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 5, 1793. 
 In this last revisal of my work (the Ho- 
 mer) I have made a number of small im- 
 provements, and am now more convinced 
 than ever, having exercised a cooler judg- 
 ment upon it than before I could, that the 
 trar.'jlation will make its way. There mus^ 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 be time for the conquest of vehement and 
 long-rooted prejudice; but, without much 
 self-partiality, I believe, that the conquest 
 will be made ; and am certain that I should 
 be of the same opinion, were the work 
 another man's. I shall soon have finished 
 the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the 
 corrected copy of both to Johnson. 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 10, 1793. 
 
 My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry ; 
 Neither wit, common-sense, nor ideas have I. 
 
 In vain has it been, that I have made several 
 attempts to write, since I came from Sus- 
 sex ; unless more comfortable days arrive 
 than I have confidence to look for, there is 
 an end of all writing with me. I have no 
 spirits : — when Rose came, I was obliged to 
 prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of 
 laudanum — twelve drops suffice ; but with- 
 out them, I am devoured by melancholy. 
 
 A-propos of the Rose ! His wife in her 
 political notions is the exact counterpart of 
 yourself — loyal in the extreme. Therefore, 
 if you find her thus inclined, when you be- 
 come acquainted with her, you must not 
 place her resemblance of yourself to the ac- 
 count of her admiration of you, for she is 
 your likeness ready made. In fact, we are 
 all of one mind about government matters, 
 and notwithstanding your opinion, the Rose 
 is himself a Whig, and I am a Whig, and 
 you, my dear, are a Tory, and all the Tories 
 now-a-days call all the Whigs republicans. 
 How the deuce you came to be a Tory is 
 best known to yourself: you have to answer 
 for this novelty to the shades of your ances- 
 tors, who were always Whigs ever since we 
 had any. 
 
 Adieu. W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 17, 1793. 
 My dear Friend, — I have read the critique 
 of my work in the Analytical Review, and 
 am happy to have fallen into the hands of a 
 critic, rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar, 
 and a man of sense, and who does not delib- 
 erately intend me mischief I am better 
 pleased indeed that he censures some things 
 than I should have been with unmixed cpm- 
 mendation, for his censure (to use the new 
 diplomatic term) will accredit his praises. 
 In his particular remarks he is for the most 
 part right, and I shall be the better for 
 them; but in liis general ones I think he as- 
 serts too largely, and more than he could 
 prove. With respect to inversions in par- 
 ticular, I know that they do not abound.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 429 
 
 Once they did, and I had Milton's example 
 for it, not disapproved by Addison. But on 
 ■ 's remonstrance against tliem, I ex- 
 punged the most, and in ray new edition 
 shall have fewer still. I know that they 
 give dignity, and am sorry to part with 
 them ; but, to parody an old proverb, he 
 who lives in the year ninety-three, must do 
 as in the year ninety-three is done by others. 
 Tlie same remark I have to make on his 
 censureofinharinonious lines. I know them 
 to be much fewer than he asserts, and not 
 more in number than I accounted indispen- 
 sably necessary to a due variation of ca- 
 dence. I have, however, now, in conformity 
 witii modern taste, (over much delicate in 
 my mind,) given to a far greater number of 
 them a How as smooth as oil. A few I re- 
 tain, and will, in compliment to my own 
 judgment. lie tliinks me too faithful to 
 compound epithets in the introductory lines, 
 and I know his reason. He fears lest the 
 English reader should blame Homer, whom 
 he idolizes, though hardly more than I, for 
 such constant repetition. But them I shall 
 not alter. They are necessary to a just rep- 
 resentation of tiie original. In tiie affair of 
 Outis,* 1 shall throw him flat on his back by 
 an unanswerable argument, which I shall 
 give in a note, and witli which I am fur- 
 nished by Mrs. Unwin. So much for hyper- 
 criticism, which has run away with all my 
 
 paper. This critic, by the way is, ;f I 
 
 know him by infallible indications, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE EEV. MK. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 22, 1793. 
 
 My dear Sir, — My eyes, which have long 
 been inflamed, will hardly serve for Homer, 
 and oblige me to make all my letters short. 
 You have obliged me much, by sending mo 
 so speedily the remainder of your notes. I 
 have begun with thom again, and find them, 
 as before, very mucii to the purpose. i\lore 
 to the purpose they could not have been, 
 had you been poetry professor already. I 
 rejoice sincerely in tlie prospect you have of 
 that ollice, whicii, wiiatever may be your 
 own tiioughts of the matter, I am sure you 
 will fill with great sufficiency. Would that 
 my interest and power to serve yon were 
 greater! One string to my bow I have, and 
 one only, whicii shall not be idle for want 
 of my exertions. I thank you likewise for 
 your very entertaining notices and remarks 
 in the natural way. The hurry in wliich 1 
 write wou.d not suft'er me to send you m.niy 
 in return, had I many to send, but only two 
 or three present themselves. 
 
 Frogs will feed on w'orms. I saw a frog 
 gathering into his gullet an earth-worm as 
 
 * A name given to Ulyssoa. t Maty. 
 
 long as himself; it cost him time and labor 
 but at last he succeeded. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin and I, crossing a brook, saw 
 from the foot-bridge somewhat at the bot- 
 tom of the water which had the appearance 
 of a flower. Observing it attentively, we 
 found that it consisted of a circular assem- 
 blage of minnows; their heads all met in a 
 centre, and their tails, diverging at equal 
 distances, and being elevated above their 
 heads, gave them the appearance of a flower 
 half blown. One was longer than the rest, 
 and as often as a straggler came in sight, he 
 quitted his place to pursue him, and having 
 driven him away, he returned to it again, 
 and no other minnow offering to take it in 
 his absence. This we saw him do several 
 times. The object that had attached them 
 all was a dead minnow, which they seemed 
 to be devouring. 
 
 After a very rainy day, I saw on one of the 
 flower borders what seemed a long hair, but 
 it had a waving, twining motion. Consider- 
 ing more nearly, I found it alive, and en- 
 dued with spontaneity, but could not dis- 
 cover at the ends of it either head or tail, or 
 any distinction of parts. I carried it into 
 the he use, when the air of a warm room 
 dried and killed it presently. 
 
 w. a 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 24, 1793. 
 
 Your letter (so full of kindness and so ex- 
 actly in unison with my own feelings for you) 
 should have had', as it deserved to have, an 
 earlier answer, had I not been perpetually 
 tortured with inflamed eyes, whicii are a sad 
 hindrance to me in everything. But, to 
 make amends, if I do not send you an early 
 answer, I send you at least a speedy one, 
 being obliged to write as fast as my pen can 
 trot, that I may shorten the time of poring 
 upon paper as much as possible. Homer 
 too has been another hindrance, for always 
 when I can see, which is only about two 
 hours every morning, and not at all by can- 
 dle-light, I devote myself to him, being in 
 haste to send him a second time to the press, 
 that nothing may stand in the way of IMilton. 
 By the way, where are my dear Tom's re- 
 marks, which 1 long to have, and must have 
 soon, or they will come too late? 
 
 Oh, you rogue ! what would you give to 
 have such a dream about JMiJIon as I had 
 about a week since? I dreamed that, being 
 in a house in the city, and with much com- 
 pany, looking towards the lower end of the 
 room from the upper end of it, I descried a 
 figure which I immediately Iviiew to be Mil- 
 ton's. He was very gravely but very neatl)i 
 attired in the fashion of his day, and had a 
 countenance which filled me with those feel-
 
 i60 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 ings that an affectionate child has for a be- 
 loved father, — such, for instance, as Tom has 
 for you. My first thouglit was wonder, where 
 he could have been concealed so many years ; 
 my second, a transport of joy to find him still 
 alive ; ray third, another transport to find my- 
 self in his company ; and my fourth, a resolu- 
 tion to accost him. I did so, and he received 
 me with a complacence in which I saw equal 
 sweetness and dignity. I spoke of his Para- 
 dise Lost as every man must who is worthy 
 to speak of it at all, and told him a long story 
 of the manner in which it affected me when 
 I first discovered it, being at that time a 
 school-boy. He answered me by a smile, 
 and a gentle inclination of his head. He 
 then grasped my hand affectionately, and 
 with a smile that charmed me, said, " Well, 
 you for your part will do well also ;" at last, 
 recollecting his great age (for I understood 
 him to be two hundred years old) I feared 
 that I might fatigue him by too much talk- 
 ing, I took my leave, and he took his with an 
 air of the most perfect good-breeding. His 
 person, his features, his manner, were all so 
 perfectly characteristic, that I am persuaded 
 an apparition of him could not represent him 
 more completely. This may be said to have 
 been one of the dreams of Pindus, may it 
 nof?* 
 
 How truly I rejoice that you have recov- 
 ered Guy! That man won my heart the 
 moment I saw him : give my love to him, and 
 tell him I am truly glad he is alive again._ 
 
 There is much sweetness in those lines 
 from the sonneteer of Avon, and not a little 
 in dear Tom's : an earnest, I trust, of good 
 things to come ! 
 
 With Mary's kind love, I must now con- 
 clude myself, 
 
 My dear brother, ever yours, Ltppus. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, March 4, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Since I received your 
 last I have been much indisposed, very blind, 
 
 * Whether this is a poetical or real dream of Cowper's) 
 we presume not to decide. It bears so strong a resem- 
 blance to Milton's vision of the Bishop of Winchester, 
 (the celebrated Dr. Andrews,) as to suggest the prob- 
 ability of having been borrowed from that source. The 
 passage is to be found in Milton's beautiful Latin elegy 
 on the death of that prelate, and is thus translated by 
 Cowper : 
 
 " While I that splendor, and the mingled shade 
 Of fruitful vines with wonder tixt survey'd. 
 At once, with looks, that beam'd celestial grace, 
 The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
 His snowy vesture's hem descending low 
 His golden sandals swept, and piu-e as snow 
 New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow. 
 Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound 
 Of gladness shook the flow'ry scene around : 
 Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 
 The trumpet shakes the sky, all lether rings, 
 
 Each chaunts his welcome, 
 
 Then night retired, and, chas'd by dawning day, 
 The visionary bliss pass'd all away : 
 I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern: 
 Frequent to me may dreams like this return." 
 
 and very busy. But I have not suffered all 
 these evils at one and the same time. While 
 the winter lasted I was miserable with a fe- 
 ver on my spirits ; when the spring began to 
 approach I was seized with an inflammation 
 in my eyes, and ever since I have been able 
 to use them, have been employed in giving 
 more last touches to Homer, who is on the 
 point of going to press again. 
 
 Though you are Tory, I believe, and I am 
 Whig, our sentiments concerning the mad- 
 caps of France are much the same. They 
 are a terrible race, and I have a horror both 
 of them and their principles.* Tacitus is 
 certainly living now, and the quotations you 
 sent me can be nothing but extracts from 
 some letters of his to yourself. 
 
 Yours, most sincerely, W. C. 
 
 We have already mentioned the interest 
 excited in Cowper's mind by a son of Hay- 
 ley's, a youth of not more than twelve years 
 of age, and of most promising talents. At 
 Cowper's request he addressed to him the 
 subjoined letter, containing criticisms on his 
 Homer, which do honor to his taste and 
 acuteness. The poet's reply may also be 
 regarded as a proof of his kind condescen- 
 sion and amiable sweetness of temper. 
 
 TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 Eartham, March 4, 1'93. 
 Honored King of Bards,— Since you deign 
 to demand the observations of an humble and 
 inexperienced servant of yours, on a work of 
 one who is so much his superior (as he is 
 ever ready to serve you with all his might), 
 behold what you demand! But let me de- 
 sire you not to censure me for my unskilful 
 and perhaps (as they will undoubtedly ap- 
 pear to you) ridiculous observations ; but be 
 so kind as to receive them as a mark of re- 
 spectful affection from 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 Thomas Hayley. 
 
 Book. Line. ir-^ .u 
 
 I. 184 I cannot reconcile myself to these 
 
 195 expressions, " Ah cloth'd with 
 impudence," &c., and " Shame- 
 
 196 less wolf," and ■' Face of flint." 
 I. 508 " Dishonor'd foul," is, in my opin- 
 ion, an uncleanly expression. 
 
 I. 6G1 " Reel'd," I think makes it appear 
 
 as if Olympus was drunk. 
 I 749 "Kindler of the fires of Heaven," 
 
 I think makes Jupiter appear 
 too much hke a lamplighter. 
 II 317 These lines are, in my opinion, 
 
 to 319 belowr the elevated genius of 
 Mr. Cowper. 
 XVIII. 300 This appears to me to be rather 
 Irish, since in line 300 you say, 
 " No one sat," and in hne 304, 
 " Polydamus rose." 
 
 * Louis XVI., the unhappy King ol France, had r& 
 cently perished on the scaffold, Jan. 21, 1793.
 
 LIFE OF COVVPER. 
 
 431 
 
 TO MR. TH(/MAS HAYLEY. 
 
 Weston, March 14, 1793. 
 
 My dear little Critic, — I thank you lieartily 
 for your observations, on which I set a higher 
 value, because they have instructed me as 
 much, and have entertained me more, than 
 all the other strictures of our public judges 
 in tliese matters. Perhaps I am not much 
 more pleased with shameless u-oJf, &c., than 
 "you. But what is to be done, my little man ? 
 Coarse as tlie expressions are, they are no 
 more than equivalent to those of Homer. 
 Tlie invective of the ancients was never tem- 
 pered with good manners, as your pupa can 
 tell you ; and my business, you know, is not 
 to be more polite tlian my autiior, but to re- 
 present him as closely as 1 can. 
 
 Dishonor\lfuul I iiave wiped away, for the 
 reason you give, which is a very just one, and 
 tlie present reading is this, 
 
 Who had dared dishonor thus 
 The lite itself, &c. 
 
 Your objection to kindler of the fires of 
 heaven I !uid the good fortune to anticipate, 
 and expunged the dirty ambiguity some time 
 since, wondering not a little that I had ever 
 admitted it. 
 
 The fault you find with the two first verses 
 of Nestor's speech discovers such a degree 
 of just discernment that, but for your papa's 
 assurance to the contrary, I must have sus- 
 pected Mm as the author of th?it remark : 
 much as I should have respected it, if it had 
 been so, 1 value it, I assure you, my little 
 friend, still more as yours. In the new edi- 
 tioM tlie passage will be found tiius altered: 
 
 Alas! great sorrow falls on Greece to-day ! 
 Priam and Priam's sons, witli all in Troy — 
 Oh ! how will they exult, and in their hearts 
 Triumph, once hearing of this broil between 
 The prime of Greece, in council and in arms ! 
 
 W'iiere the word reel suggests to you the 
 idea of a drunken mountain, it performs tlie 
 ocrvice to which I destined it. It is a bold 
 metaphor ; but justified by one of the sublim- 
 ost passages in scripture, compared with the 
 sul)limily of which even that of Homer suf- 
 fers humiliation. 
 
 It is God iiimself who, speaking, I tliink, 
 by the projihet Isaiah, says, 
 
 "The earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard.'* 
 
 With eipial boldness in the same scripture, 
 the poetry of wiiich was never equalled, 
 mountains are said to skip, to break out into 
 singing, and the fields to clap their hands. I 
 mtend, 1-lierefore, that my Olympus shall be 
 still tipsy. 
 
 The accuracy of your last remark, in which 
 you convictel me of a bull, delights me. A 
 
 * Isaiah xxiv. 20. 
 
 fig for all critics but you! The blockheads 
 could not find it. It shall stand thus: — 
 
 First spake Polydamus 
 
 Homer was more upon his guard than to 
 commit such a blunder, for he says, 
 
 IPX '^yptvciv. 
 
 And now, my dear little censor, once more 
 accept my thanks. I only regret that your 
 strictures are so few, being just and sensible 
 as they are. 
 
 Tell your papa that he shall hear from me 
 soon. Accept mine, and my dear invalid's 
 affectionate remembrances. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 19, 1793. 
 
 My dear Hayley, — I am so busy every 
 morning before breakfixst (my only opportu- 
 nity), strutting and stalking in Homeric stilts, 
 that you ought to account it an instance of 
 marvellous grace andfavor,that I condescend 
 to write even to you. Sometimes I am seri- 
 ously almost crazed with the mulnplieily of 
 the matters before me, and the little or no 
 time that I have for them ; and sometimes I 
 repose myself, after the fatigue of that dis- 
 traction, on the pillow of despair ; a pillow 
 which has often served me in the time of 
 need, and is become, by frequent use, if not 
 very comfortable, at least convenient. So 
 reposed, I laugh at the world, and say, " Yes, 
 you may gape and expect both Homer and 
 "Milton from me, but I'll be hanged if ever 
 yo« get them." 
 
 In Homer you must know I am advanced 
 as far as the fifteenth book of the Iliad, leav- 
 ing nothing behind me that can reasonably 
 offend the most fastidious: and I design him 
 for public appearance in his new dress as 
 soon as possible, for a reason wi ch any poet 
 may gues?, if he will but thrust his hand into 
 his pocket. 
 
 You forbid me to tantalize you with an in- 
 vitation to Weston, and yet you invite me to 
 Eartham ! No ! no ! there is no such hap- 
 piness in store for me at present. Had I 
 rambled at all, I was under jironiise to all 
 my dear inotiier's kindred to go to Norfolk, 
 and they are dying to see me ; but I have 
 told them that die they must, for I cannot 
 go ; and ergo, as you will perceive, can go 
 nowhere else. 
 
 Thanks for Mazarin's epitaph !* It is full 
 
 * We have not been able to discover tliis epitai)h, nor 
 does it iippear that it wa.s ever translated by Ck)Wper. 
 
 Cardiiml Mazarin was minister of stale to Loui.s XIII., 
 and dnrinf; the minority of I,oins XIV. The last mo- 
 iTier'.s of Uiis creat statesman are loo cdifyinir not to be 
 rcconled. To the ecclesiastic (.loly) who attended him, 
 he said, " I am not satislicd with my state ; I wish to feel 
 a more profound sorrow for luy sins. I am a great sin-
 
 432 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 of witty paradox, and is written with a force 
 and severity whieii sufficiently bespeak the 
 autiior. I account it an inestimable curi- 
 osity, and shall be happy when time shall 
 serve, with your aid, to make a good trans- 
 lation of it. But that will be a stubborn 
 business. Adieu! The clock strikes eight: 
 and now for Homer. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 The two following letters bear an honor- 
 able testimony to his bookseller, Johnson, 
 whom he had commissioned his friend, Mr. 
 Rose, to consult respecting a second and re- 
 vised, edition of his Homeric version. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, March 27, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I must send you a line 
 of congratulation on the event of your trans- 
 action with Johnson, since you, 1 know, par- 
 take with me in tlie pleasure I receive from 
 it. Few of my concerns have been so hap- 
 pily concluded. I am now satisfied with my 
 bookseller, as I have substantial cause to be, 
 and account myself in good hands ; a circum- 
 stance as pleasant to me as any other part of 
 my business; for I love dearly to be able to 
 confide, with all my heart, in those with whom 
 I am connected, of what kind soever the con- 
 nsxion may be. 
 
 The question of printing or not printing 
 the alterations seems difficult to decide. If 
 they are not printed, I shall perhaps disoblige 
 some purchasers of the first edition, and if 
 tiiey are, many others of them, perhaps a 
 great majority, will never care about them. 
 As far as I have gone, I have made a fair 
 copy; and when I have finished the whole, 
 will send them to Johnson, together with the 
 interleaved volumes. He will see in a few 
 minutes what it will be best to do, and by his 
 judgment I shall be determined. The opin- 
 ion to which I most incline is, that they ought 
 to be printed separately, for they are man\ 
 of them rather long, here and there a whole 
 speech, or a whole simile, and the verbal 
 
 ner. I have no hope but in the mercy of God." (Je suis 
 in grand criminel, je n'ai d'esperance qu'en la misei-i- 
 V rde divine.) At another time he besought his confes- 
 so.' to treat him like the lowest subject in the realm, 
 being convinced, he said, that there was but one gospel 
 for the great, as well as for the little. (Qu'il n'y avait 
 qu'un Evangile pour les grands, et pour les petits.) 
 
 His sufferings were very acute. " You see," he observed 
 to those arouud him, "what infirmities and wretchedness 
 the fortunes and dignities of this world come to." He 
 repeated many times the Miserere, (Ps. li.) stretching 
 forth his hands, then clasping them, and lifting up his 
 eyj to heaven, with all the marks of the most sincere 
 jevotion. 
 
 At midnight he exclaimed, "lam dying — my mind 
 grows indistinct. I trust in Jesus Christ" (Je vais 
 bientdt mourir, mon jugeraent se trouble, j'espere en 
 Jesus Christ.) Afterwards, frequently repeatnig the 
 *acred name of Jesus, he expired. (Se mettant en de- 
 voir do r6p6ter aussi fr^quemment le tres-saint noni de 
 J6sus, il expira.) 
 
 Histoire du Card. JUazarin., par M. .luhcry. 
 
 and lineal variations are so numerous, that, 
 altogether, I apprehend, they will give a 
 new air to the work, and I hope a much im- 
 proved one. 
 
 I forgot to say in the proper place, that 
 some notes, although but very few, I have 
 added already ; and may perhaps see here and 
 there opportunity for a few more. But, notes 
 being little wanted, especially by people at 
 all conversant with classical literature, as 
 most readers of Homer are, I am persuaded 
 that were they numerous, they would be 
 deemed an incumbrance. I shall write to 
 Johnson soon, perhaps to-morrow, and then 
 shall say the same tiling to him. 
 
 In point of health, we continue much the 
 same. Our united love, and many thanks 
 for your prosperous negotiations, attend your- 
 self and whole family, and especially my lit- 
 tle namesake. Adieu ! 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILI,, ESQ.* 
 
 Weston, March 29, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Your tidings concerning 
 the slender pittance yet to come, are, as you 
 observe, of the melancholy cast. Not being 
 gifted by nature with the means of acquiring 
 much, it is well, however, that she has given 
 me a disposition to be contented with little. 
 I have now been so many years habituated 
 to small matters that I should probably find 
 myself incommoded by greater ; and may ] 
 but be enabled to shift, as I have been hitb 
 erto, unsatisfied wishes will never trouble me 
 much. My pen has helped me somewhat; 
 and, after some years' toil, I begin to reap the 
 bejiefit. Had I begun sooner, perhaps I 
 should have known fewer pecuniary distress- 
 es ; or, who can say ? — it is possible that I 
 might not have succeeded so well. Fruit 
 ripens only a short time before it rots ; and 
 mar., in general, arrives not at maturity of 
 mental powers at a much earlier period. I 
 am now busied in preparing Homer for his 
 second appearance. An author should con- 
 sider himself as bound not to please himself, 
 but the public ; and as far as the good pleas- 
 ure of the public may be learned from the 
 critics, I design to accommodate myself to it. 
 The Latinisms, though employed by Milton, 
 and numbered by Addison among the arts and 
 expedients by which he has given dignity to 
 his style, I shall render into plain English ; 
 the rougher lines, though my reason for using 
 them has never been proved a bad one, so far 
 as I know, I shall make perfectly smooth ; 
 and shall give body and substance to all that 
 is in any degree feeble and flimsy. _ And 
 when I have done all this, and more, if the 
 critics still grumble, I shall say the very deuce 
 is in them. Yet, that they will grumble T 
 * Private correspondence.
 
 LIFE OF COVVPER. 
 
 432 
 
 make no doubt ; for, unreasonable as it is to 
 do so, they all require something better than 
 Homer, and that something they will certainly 
 never get from me. 
 
 As to the canal that is to be ray neighbor, 
 I hear little about it. The Courtenays of 
 Weston have notiiing to do with it, and I 
 nave no intercourse with Tyringham. When 
 it is finished, the people of these parts will 
 have to carry their coals seven miles only, 
 whicli now they bring from Northampton or 
 Bedford, both at the distance of fifteen. But, 
 as Balaam says, who shall live wiien these 
 things are done 1 It is not for me, a sexage- 
 narian already, to expect that I shall. The 
 chief objection to canals in general seems to 
 be, that, multiplying as they do, they are likely 
 to swallow the coasting trade. 
 
 I cannot tell you the joy I feel at the dis- 
 appointment of tlie French: pitiful mimics of 
 Spartan and Roman virtue, without a grain 
 of it in their whole character. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, April 11, 1793. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — The long muster-roll 
 of my great and small ancestors I signed and 
 dated, and sent up to ]Mr. Blue-mantle, on 
 Monday, according to your desire. Such a 
 pompous affair, drawn out for my sake, re- 
 minds me of the old fable of the mountain in 
 parturition, and a mouse the produce. Rest 
 undisturbed, say I, their lordly, ducal, and 
 royal dust! Had they left me something 
 handsome, I should have respected them 
 more. But perhaps they did not know that 
 such a one as I should have tiie honor to be 
 numbered among tlieir descendants.* Well! 
 I have a little bookseller that makes me some 
 amends for their deficiency. He has made 
 me a present; an act of liberality which I take 
 every opportunity to blazon, as it well de- 
 serves. But you, I suppose, have learned it 
 already from Mr. Rose. 
 
 Fear not, my man. You will acquit your- 
 self very well, I dare say, both in standing 
 for your degree, and when you have gained 
 it. A little tremor and a little shame-faced- 
 ness in a stripling like you, are recommend- 
 ations rather than otherwise; and so they 
 ought to be, being symptoms of an ingcnu- 
 
 * Cowper, accorclinst to his kinsman, was dpsceiifled, 
 by the ni.ilcriKil liiH', throu^'li llic l':imllii'S of Ili|)posley 
 of Throiinliiry, in S^n^sfx, untl I'cllcl, of lioliioy, in llic 
 saini! county, from tlie sevcnil nol>lo houses of West, 
 KnoUys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, and Mowbray ; and so 
 by foiir dilfrrent lines from Menry the 'I'liird, kini,' of 
 Knijland. lie justly adds, " Distinction of this nature ean 
 shed no additional lustre on the memory of Cnwper ; but 
 genius, liiiw(!ver exalted, disdains not, while it boiusts not, 
 the splendor of ancestry ; and royally itself may be Ihit- 
 tcred, and perhaps beni^lited, by discovering its kindred 
 to such piety, such jnirily, such talents as his." — See 
 Sketch of the Life of Cowper, bij Dr. Johnson. 
 
 ous mind, rather unfrequent in this age of 
 brass. 
 
 What you say of your determined purpose 
 with God's help, to take up the cross and de- 
 spise the shame, gives us both real pleasure. 
 In our pedigree is found one, at least, who did 
 it before you.* Do you the like ; and you 
 will meet him in heaven, as sure as the scrip- 
 ture is the word of God.f 
 
 The quarrel that the world has with evan- 
 gelic men and doctrines, they would have 
 with a host of angels in the human form. 
 For it is the quarrel of owls with sunshine ; 
 of ignorance with divine illumination. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Johnny ! We shall expect 
 you with earnest desire of your coming, and 
 receive you with much delight. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, April 23, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend and Brother, — Better late 
 than never, and better a little than none at 
 all ! Had I been at liberty to consult my 
 inclinations, I would have answered your 
 truly kind and affectionate letter immediately. 
 But I am the busiest man alive, and, when 
 this epistle is despatched, you will be the only 
 one of my correspondents to whom I shall 
 not be indebted. While I write this, my 
 poor Mary sits mute ; which I cannot well 
 bear, and which, together with want of time 
 to write much, will have a curtailing effect 
 on my epistle. 
 
 My only studying time is still given to 
 Homer, not to correction and amendment of 
 him (for that is all over) but to writing notes. 
 Johnson has expressed a wish for some, that 
 the unlearned may be a little illuminated 
 concerning classical story and the mytholo- 
 gy of the ancients ; and his behavior to me 
 has been so liberal, that I can refuse him 
 nothing. Poking into the old Greek com- 
 mentators blinds me. But it is no matter. 
 I am the more like Homer. 
 
 Ever yours, my dearest Hayley, 
 
 W. C 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 
 
 April 25, 1793. 
 My dear Friend, — Had it not been stipu- 
 lated between us that, being both at present 
 pretty much engrossed by business, we shculd 
 write wiien opportunity offers, I should bo 
 frighted at the date of your last ; but you 
 will not judge me, I know, by the unfre- 
 quency of my letters ; nor suppose that my 
 thoughts about you are equally unfrequent. 
 
 * Dr. Donne, formerly Dean of St. Paul's, 
 t "Re wiser thou— like our forefather Donne, 
 
 Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone." 
 X Private correspondence. 
 
 28
 
 434 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 In truth, they are not. No day passes in 
 which you are excluded from them. I am 
 so busy that I do not expect even now to fill 
 my paper. While I write, my poor invalid, 
 who is still unable to muse herself either 
 with book or needle, sits silent at my side ; 
 which makes me, in all my letters, hasten to 
 a conclusion. My only time for study is 
 now before bi-eaktast ; and I lengthen it as 
 much as I can, by rising early. 
 
 I know not that, with respect to our health, 
 we are either better or worse than when you 
 saw us. Mrs. Unvvin, perhaps, has gained a 
 little strength ; and the advancing spring, I 
 hope, will add to it. As to myself, 1 am, in 
 body, soul, and spirit, semper idem. Prayer, 
 I know, is made for me, and sometimes with 
 great enlargement of heart, by those who 
 otFer it; and in this circumstance consists 
 the only evidence I can find, that God is still 
 favorably mindful of me, and has not cast me 
 off for ever. 
 
 A long time since, I received a parcel from 
 Dr. Cogshall, of New York ; and, looking on 
 the reverse, of tlie packing-paper, saw there 
 an address to you. I conclude, therefore, 
 that you received it first, and at his desire 
 transmitted it to me ; consequently you are 
 acquainted with him, and, probably, apprised 
 of the nature of our correspondence. About 
 three years ago I had his first letter to me, 
 which came accompanied by half a dozen 
 .\merican publications. He proposed an ex- 
 diange of books on religious subjects, as 
 iikely to be useful on both sides of the water. 
 Most of those he sent, however, I had seen 
 oefore. I sent him, in return, such as I 
 could get; but felt myself indifferently qual- 
 ified for such a negotiation. 1 am now called 
 upon to contribute my quota again ; and 
 shall be obhged to you if, in your next, you 
 will mention the titles of half a dozen that 
 may be procured at little cost, that are likely 
 to be new in that country and useful. 
 
 About two months since, I had a letter from 
 Mr. Jeremiah Waring, of Alton in Hamp- 
 shire. Do you know such a man ? I think 
 I have seen his name in advertisements of 
 mathematical works. He is, however, or 
 seems to be, a very pious man. 
 
 I was a little surprised lately, seeing in 
 the last Gentleman's Magazine a letter from 
 somebody at Winchester, in which is a copy 
 of the epitaph of our poor friend Unwin : an 
 English, not a Latin one. It has been pleas- 
 ant to me sometimes to think, that his dust 
 lay under an inscription of my writing ; 
 whicJi I had no reason to doubt, because the 
 Latin one, which I composed at the request 
 of the executors, was, as I understood from 
 Mr. H. Thornton, accepted by them and ap- 
 proved. If they thought, after all, that an 
 English one, as more intelligible, would 
 thierefore be prefei-able, I believe they judged 
 
 wisely; but, having never heard that they 
 had changed their mind about it, I was at a 
 loss to account for the alteration. 
 
 So now, my dear friend, adieu ! — When 1 
 have thanked you for a barrel of oysters, and 
 added our united kind remembrances to your- 
 self and Miss Cat'ett, I shall have exhausted 
 the last moment that I can spare at present. 
 I remain sincerely yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER EAGOT. 
 
 Weston, May 4, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — While your sorrow for 
 our common loss was fresh in your mind, I 
 would not write, lest a letter on so distress- 
 ing a subject should be too painful both to 
 you and me ; and now that I seem to have 
 reached a proper time for doing it, the mul- 
 tiplicity of my literary business will hardly 
 afford me leisure. Both you and I have 
 this comfort when deprived of those we love 
 — at our time of life we have every reason to 
 believe that the deprivation cannot be long. 
 Our sun is setting too, and when the hour 
 of rest arrives we shall rejoin your brother, 
 and many wliom we have tenderly loved, our 
 forerunners into a bettter country. 
 
 I will say no more on a theme which it 
 will be better perhaps to treat with brevity; 
 and because the introduction of any other 
 might seem a transition too violent, I will 
 only add that Mrs. Unwin and I are about as 
 w^ell as we at any time have been within the 
 last year. 
 
 Truly yours, W. C, 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 May 5, 1793. 
 My dear Friend, — My delay to answer 
 your last kind letter, to which likewise you 
 desired a speedy reply, must have seemed 
 rather difficult to explain on any other sup- 
 position than that of illness ; but illness has 
 not been the cause, although, to say the truth, 
 I cannot boast of having been lately very well. 
 Yet has not this been the cause of my silence, 
 but your own advice, very proper and ear- 
 nestly given to me, to proceed in the revisal 
 of Homer. To this it is owing, that, instead 
 of giving an hour or two before breakfast to 
 my correspondents, I allot that time entirely 
 to my studies. I have nearly given the last 
 touches to the poetry, and am now busied 
 far more laboriously in writing notes at the 
 request of my honest bookseller, transmitted 
 to me in the first instance by you, and after- 
 ward repeated by himself. I am therefore, 
 deep in the old Scholia, and have advanced 
 to the latter part of Iliad nine, explaining, as 
 I go, such passages as may be difficult to un- 
 learned readers, and such only ; for notes of
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 435 
 
 that kind are the notes that Johnson desired. 
 I find it a more hiborious task than the trans- 
 hition was, and shall be heartily glad when it 
 is over. In tlie meantime, all the letters I 
 receive remain unanswered, or, if they receive 
 an answer, it is always a short one. Such 
 this must be. Johnny is here, having flown 
 over London. 
 
 Homer, I believe, will make a much more 
 respectable appearance than before. Jolin- 
 Bon now thinks it will be right to make a 
 separate impression of the amendments. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 I breakfast every morning on seven or 
 eight pages of the Greek commentators. 
 For so much I am obliged to read in order 
 to select perhaps three or four siiort notes 
 for the readers of my translation. 
 
 Homer is indeed a tie upon me, that must 
 not on any account be broken, till all his de- 
 mands are satisfied; though I have fiincied, 
 while the revisal of the Odyssey was at a 
 distance, that it would ask less labor in the 
 finishing, it is not unlikely, that, when I take 
 it actually in hand, I may find myself mis- 
 taken. Of this at least I am sure, that un- 
 even verse abounds much more in it than it 
 once did in the Iliad ; yet to the latter the 
 critics objected on that account, though to 
 the former never; perhaps because they had 
 not read it. Hereafter they shall not quarrel 
 with me on tiiat score. The Iliad is now all 
 smooth turnpike, and I will take equal care, 
 that there shall be no jolts in the Odyssey. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 The Lodge, May 7, 1793. 
 
 I\Iy dearest Coz., — You have thought me 
 long silent, and so have many others. In 
 fact I have not for many montlis written 
 punctually to any but yourself and Ilayley. 
 My time, the little I have, is so engrossed by 
 Homer, that I have at this moment a bundle 
 of unanswered letters by me, and letters 
 likely to be so. Thou knowest, I dare say, 
 what it is to have a head weary with think- 
 ing. Mine is so fatigued by breakfast time, 
 throe days nut of four, I am utterly incapable 
 of sitting down to my desk again for any 
 purpose whatever. 
 
 I am glad I have convinced thee at last 
 that thou art a Tory. Your friend's defini- 
 tion of Whig and Tory must be just, for 
 aught I know, as far as the latter are con- 
 cerned ; but respecting the former, I think 
 him mistaken. Tliere is no tkue Wiiig who 
 wishes all power in the hands of his own 
 party. The division of it wiiicli the lawyers 
 call tripartite is exactly what he desires; and 
 fle would have neither king, lords, nor com- 
 mons unequally trusted, or in the smallest 
 
 degree predominant. Such a Whig am I, 
 and such Whigs are the true friends of the 
 constitution. 
 
 Adieu! my dear; I am dead with weari- 
 ness. W. C. 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 May 17, 1793. 
 
 Dear Sir, — It has not been without fre- 
 quent self-reproach that I have so long omit- 
 ted to answer your last very kind and most 
 obliging letter. I am by habit and inclina- 
 tion extremely punctual in the discharge of 
 such arrears, and it is only through necessity, 
 and under constraint of various indispensable 
 engagements of a different kind, that I am 
 become of late mucii otherwise. 
 
 I have never seen Chapman's translation 
 of Homer, and will not refuse your offer of 
 it, unless, by accepting it, I shall deprive you 
 of a curiosity that you cannot easily replace.* 
 The line or two which you quote from him, 
 except that the expression of " a well-written 
 soul" has the quaintness of his times in it, 
 do him credit. He cannot surely be the same 
 Chapman who wrote a poem, I think, on the 
 battle of Hochstadt, in which, when I was a 
 very young man, I remember to have seer 
 the following lines: 
 
 •'Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, 
 And each man mounted on his capering beast. 
 Into the Danube they were push'd by shoals," &c. 
 
 These are lines that could not fail to im- 
 press the memory, though not altogether in 
 the Homerican style of battle. 
 
 I am, as you say, a hermit, and probably 
 an irreclaimable one, having a horror of Lon- 
 don that I cannot express, nor indeed very 
 easily account fw. Neither am I much less 
 disinclined to migration in general. I did no 
 little violence to my love of home last sum- 
 mer, when I paid Mr. Hayley a visit, and in 
 truth was principally induced to the journey 
 by a hope that it might be useful to Mrs. 
 Unwin ; who, however, derived so little ben- 
 efit from it, that I purpose for the future to 
 avail myself of the privilege my years may 
 reasonably claim, by compelling my youngor 
 friends to visit vie. But even this is a point 
 which I cannot well compass at present, both 
 because I am too busy, and because poor 
 Mrs. Unwin is not able to bear the fatigue of 
 company. Should better days arrive, days 
 
 * Chapman claims the honor of being the first irons- 
 latiir (if Iho wliole of tlie works of Homer. lie was born 
 in I.I.", anil was the contemporary of Shalcspearc. Spen- 
 ser, .Tonsoii, &c. His version of the Iliad was dedicated 
 to Henry. Prince of Wales. Ho also translated Mnsunis 
 and Hesiod. and was tlie author of many other works. 
 He died in U);t4, aged seventy-seven. His version of 
 Homer is now olisolete, and rendered tedious by tho pro- 
 tracted ineasiire of fourteen syllables; Ihouirh "occasion 
 ally It exhibits much j^pirit Waller, accordini; to Dry 
 den, could never read his version without emotion, and 
 Pf pe found it worthy of his particular attention.
 
 l"- 
 
 «36 
 
 COWPJ^H'S WORKS. 
 
 of more leisure to me, and of some health to 
 her, I shall not fail to give you notice of the 
 change, and shall then hope for the pleasure 
 of seeing you at Weston. 
 
 The epitaph you saw is on the tomb of the 
 same Mr. Unwin to whom the "Tirocinium" 
 is inscribed ; the son of the lady above men- 
 tioned. By the desire of his executors I 
 wrote a Latin one, which they approved, but 
 it was not approved by a relation of the de- 
 ceased, and therefore was not used. He ob- 
 jected to the mention I had made in it of his 
 mother having devoted him to the service of 
 God in his infancy. She did it, however, and 
 not in vain, as I wrote in my epitaph. Who 
 wrote the English one I know not. 
 
 The poem called the " Slave" is not mine, 
 nor have I ever seen it. I wrote two on the 
 subject — one entitled "The Negro's Com- 
 plaint," and the other "The Morning Dream." 
 With thanks for all your kindness, and the 
 patience you have with me, 
 I remain, dear sir. 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, May 21, 1793. 
 
 My dear Brother, — You must either think 
 me extremely idle, or extremely busy, that I 
 have made your last very kind letter wait so 
 very long for an answer. The truth how- 
 ever is, that I am neither; but have had time 
 enough to have scribbled to you, had I been 
 able to scribble at all. To explain this riddle 
 I must give you a short account of my pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 I rise at six every morning and fag till 
 near eleven, when I breakfast. The conse- 
 quence is, that I am so exhausted as not to 
 be able to write when the opportunity offers. 
 You will say — " Breakfast before you work, 
 and then your work will not flitigue you." I 
 answer — "Perhaps I might, and your counsel 
 would probably prove beneficial; but I can- 
 not spare a moment for eating in the early 
 part of the morning, having no other time 
 for study." This uneasiness of whhh I com- 
 plain is a proof that I am somewhat stricken 
 in years ; and there is no other cause by 
 which I can account for it, since I go early 
 to bed, always between ten and eleven, and 
 seldom f;iil to sleep well. Certain it i.s, ten 
 years ago I could have done as much, and 
 sixteen years ago did actually much more, 
 without suffering fatigue or any inconve- 
 nience from my labors. How insensibly old 
 age steals on, and how often is it actually 
 arrived before we suspect it ! Accident alone, 
 some occurrence that suggests a comp;irison 
 of our former with our present selves, affords 
 the discovery. Well ! it is always good to 
 be undeceived, especially on an article of 
 such importance. 
 
 There has been a book lately published. 
 entitled "Man as he is." I have heard a 
 high character of it, as admirably wrinen, 
 and am informed, that for that reason, and 
 because it inculcates Whig principles, it in 
 by many imputed to you. I contradict this 
 report, assuring my informant, that had it 
 been yours, I must have known it, for that 
 you have bound yourself to make me your 
 father-confessor on all such wicked occasions, 
 and not to conceal from me even a murder, 
 should you happen to commit one.* 
 
 I will not trouble you, at present, to send 
 me any more books with a view to my notes 
 on Homer. I am not without hopes that Sir 
 John Throckmorton, who is expected here 
 from Venice in a short time, may bring me 
 Villoison's edition of the Odyssey. He cer- 
 tainly will, if he found it published, and that 
 alone will be inslar omniu?n. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest brother ! Give my love 
 to Tom, and thank him for his book, of 
 which I believe I need not have deprived him, 
 intending that my readers shall detect the 
 occult instruction contained in Homer's sto- 
 ries for themselves. W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, June 1, 1793. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — You will not (yoii 
 say) come to us now; and you tell us not 
 when you will. These assignations, sine die, 
 are such shadowy things that I can neither 
 grasp nor get any comfort from them. Know 
 you not that hope is the next best thing to 
 enjoyment? Give us then a hope, and a de- 
 terminate time for that hope to fix on, and 
 we will endeavor to be satisfied. 
 
 Johnny is gone to Cambridge, called thither 
 to take his degree, and is much missed by me. 
 He is such an active little fellow in my ser- 
 vice, that he cannot be otherwise. In three 
 weeks, however, I shall hope to have him 
 again for a fortnight. I have had a letter 
 from him, containing an incident which has 
 given birth to the following. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIE]VD,t 
 
 ON HIS ARRIVAL AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO 
 RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. 
 
 If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 
 
 found, 
 While moisture none refreshed the herbs around, 
 Mijjht fitly represent the Church, endow'd, 
 With heavenly gifls, to heathens not allow'd ; 
 In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high, 
 Thy locks were wet, when other locks were dry. 
 Heav'n grant us half the omen ! may we see, 
 Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! 
 
 These are spick and span. Johnny him 
 
 * The real author was Robert Bage. 
 t The poet's kinsman.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 437 
 
 Belf lias not yet seen them. By the way, he 
 has lilled your book completely; and I will 
 give thee a guinea if thou wilt search thy old 
 oook for a couple of songs and two or three 
 other pieces, of which I know thou madest 
 copies at the vicarage, and which 1 have lost. 
 The songs I know are pretty good, and I 
 would fain recover them. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, June G, 179^. 
 My dear Sir, — I seize a passing moment 
 merely to say that I feel for your distresses, 
 and sincerely pity you, and I shall be happy 
 to learn from your next, that your sister's 
 p.mendment has superseded the necessity you 
 feared of a journey to London. Your candid 
 account of the effect that your afflictions 
 have both on yoi"- .-^lu'its and temper I can 
 perfectly un^-frstand, having labored much 
 in t'--, nre myself, and perhaps more than 
 *r.-iy man. It is in such a school, however, 
 that we must learn if we ever truly learn 
 it, the natural depravity of the human heart, 
 and of our own in particular: together with 
 the consequence that necessarily follows such 
 wretched premises; our indispensable need of 
 the atonement, and our inexpressible obliga- 
 tions to Him who made it. Tliis refle(;tion 
 cannot escape a thinking mind, looking back 
 to those ebullitions of fretfuliiess and impa- 
 tience to which it has yielded in a season of 
 great affliction. 
 
 Having lately had company, who left us 
 only on the 4tii, I have done nothing — noth- 
 ing indeed, since my return from Sussex, e.x- 
 cept a trifle or two, which it was incumbent 
 upon me to write. Milton hangs in doubt: 
 neither spirits nor opportunity sutiice me for 
 that labor. I regret continually that I ever 
 suflered myself to be persuaded to undertake 
 it. Tiie most that I hope to effect is a com- 
 plete revisal of my own Homer. Johnson 
 told my friend, who lias just left me, that it 
 will begin to be reviewed in the next Ana- 
 lytical^ and he hoped the review of it would 
 not offend me. I5y this I understand, that if 
 I am not offended it will be owing more to 
 my own equanimity than to the mildness of 
 the critic. So be it! He will put an oppor- 
 tunity of victory over myself into my hands, 
 and 1 will endeavor not to lose it. 
 
 Adieu ! W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 June 12, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You promise to be con- 
 
 feated with a short line, and a short one you 
 
 must have, hurried over in the littlt' interval I 
 
 have happened to find between t.he conclusion 
 
 * Private correspcndeuce. 
 
 of my morning task and breakfast. Study 
 has this good effect, at least : it makes me an 
 early riser, who might otherwise, perhaps, be 
 as much given to dozing as my readers. 
 
 The scanty opportunity I have, I shall era- 
 ploy in telling you what you principally wish 
 to be told — the present state of mine and 
 Mrs. Unwin's health. In her I cannot per- 
 ceive any alteration for the better; and must 
 be satisfied, I believe, as indeed I have great 
 reason to be, if she does not alter for the 
 worse. She uses the orchard-walk daily, but 
 always supported between two, and is still 
 unable to employ herself as formerly. But 
 she is cheerful, seldom in much pain, and has 
 always strong confidence in the mercy and 
 faithfulness of God. 
 
 As to myself, I have always the same song 
 to sing — Well in body, but sick in spirit; 
 sick, nigh unto death. 
 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 God or the sweet approach of heavenly day, 
 Or sight of cheering trutli, or pardon seai'd, 
 Or joy, or hope, or Jesus's face divine ; 
 But cloud, &c. 
 
 I could easily set my complaint to IMilton's 
 tone, and accompany him through the whole 
 passage,* on the subject of a blindness more 
 deplorable tlian his; but time fails me. 
 
 I feel great desire to see your intended 
 publication; a desire which the manner in 
 which Mr. Bull speaks of it, who called here 
 lately, has no tendency to allay. I believe 
 I forgot to thank you for your last poetical 
 present ; not because I was not much pleased 
 with it, but I write always in a hurry, and in 
 a hurry must now conclude myself, with our 
 united love. 
 
 Yours, my dear friend. 
 
 Most sincerely, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEV, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, June 29, 1793. 
 
 Dear architect of fine chatkaux in air 
 Wortlner to stand forever if they could, 
 Than many built of stone, or yet ef wood, 
 
 For back of royal elephant to bear ! 
 
 Oh for permission from the skies to share, 
 Mucli to my own. though little to thy good, 
 Whh thee (not subject to the jealous mood!) 
 
 A partnership of literary ware. 
 
 But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth 
 To drudge, in descant clry,t on others' lays, 
 
 Bards, I acknowledge, of unequalfd worth"! 
 But what is commentator's happiest praise 1 
 
 That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
 Wiiich they wlio need them use, and then despise. 
 
 What remains for me to say on this subject, 
 my dear brother bard, I will say in prose, 
 
 * Paradise lost, Book ITF. 
 
 f He alludes to bis notes on Homer.
 
 438 
 
 CUWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 There are other impediments which I could not 
 comprise within the bounds of a sonnet. 
 
 My poor ^Mary's infirm condition makes it 
 impossible for me, at present, to engiige in a 
 work such as you propose. My thoughts are 
 not sufficiently free, nor have I, nor can I, by 
 any means, tind opportunity ; added to it 
 comes a difficulty which, though you are not at 
 all aware of it, presents itself to me under a 
 most forbidding appearance. Can you guess 
 it? No, not you ; neither perhaps will you 
 be able to imagine tliat such a difficulty can 
 possibly subsist. If your hair begins to bris- 
 tle, stroke it down again, for there is no need 
 why it should erect itself. It concerns me, 
 not you. I know myself too well not to 
 know that I am nobody in verse, unless in a 
 corner, and alone, and unconnected in my 
 operations. This is not owing to want of 
 love for you, my brother, or the most consum- 
 mate confidence in you; for I have both in a 
 degree that has not been exceeded in the ex- 
 perience of any friend yoni have, or ever had. 
 But I am so made up — I will not enter into a 
 metaphysical analysis of my strange compo- 
 sition, in order to detect the true cause of 
 this evil ; but on a general view of the matter, 
 I suspect that it proceeds from that shyness 
 which has been my effectual and almost fatal 
 hindrance on many other important occasions, 
 and which I should feel, I well know, on this, 
 to a degree that would perfectly cripple me. 
 No ! I shall neitJier do, nor attempt anything 
 of consequence more, unless my poor Mary 
 get better ; nor even then, unless it should 
 please God to give me another nature, in con- 
 cert with any man — I could not, even with my 
 own father or brother, were they now alive. 
 Small game must serve me at present, and till 
 I have done with Homer and Milton, a sonnet, 
 or some such matter, must content me. The 
 utmost that I aspire to, and Heaven knows 
 with how feeble a hope, is to write at some 
 better opportunity, and when my hands are 
 free, " The Four Ages." Thus I have opened 
 my heart unto thee.* W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 7, 1793. 
 
 My dearest Hayley, — If the excessive heat 
 of this day, which forbids me to do anything 
 else, will permit me to scribble to you, I shall 
 rejoice. To do this is a pleasure to me at all 
 times, but to do it now, a double one ; be- 
 cause 1 am in haste to tell you how much I 
 am delighted with your projected quadruple 
 alliance, and to assure you, that if it please 
 God to afford me health, spirits, ability, and 
 leisure, I will not fail to devote them all to 
 
 * What the proposed literary partnenship was, which 
 Hayley suggested, we Icnow not ; it is evident that it was 
 not the poem of '• The Four Ages," wliich forms the sub- 
 ject of the following letter, and in which Cowper ac- 
 quiesced. 
 
 the production of my quota of " The Foul 
 Ages."* 
 
 You are very kind to humor me as you do, 
 and had need be a little touched yourself with 
 all my oddities, that you may know how to ad- 
 minister to mine. All whom I love do so, and 
 I believe it to be impossible to love heartily 
 those who do not. People must not do me 
 good in their way, but in my oivn, and then 
 they do me good indeed. My pride, my am- 
 bition, and my friendship for you, and the in- 
 terest I take in my ov/n dear self, will all be 
 consulted and gratified by an arm-in-arm ap- 
 pearance with you in public ; and I shall 
 work with more zeal and assiduity at Homer, 
 and, when Homer is finished at Milton, with 
 the prospect of such a coalition before me. 
 But what shall I do with a multitude of small 
 pieces, from which I intended to select the 
 best, and adding them to " The Four Ages," to 
 have made a volume ? Will there be room for 
 them upon your plan? I have re-touched 
 them, and will re-touch them again. Some of 
 them will suggest pretty devices to designer : 
 and, in short, 1 have a desire not to lose them. 
 
 I am at this moment, with all the impru- 
 dence natural to poets, expending nobody 
 knows what, in embellishing my premises, or 
 rather the premises of my neighbor Courte- 
 nav, whicli is more poetical still. 1 have built 
 one summer-house already, with the boards 
 of my old study, and am building another, 
 spick and span, as they say. I have also a 
 stone-cutter now at work, setting a bust of 
 my dear old Grecian on a pedestal ; and be- 
 sides all this I meditate still more that is to be 
 done in the autumn. Your project therefore 
 is most opportune, as any project must needs 
 be that has so direct a tendency to put money 
 into the pocket of one so likely to want it. 
 
 Ah brother poet ! send me of your shade, 
 And bid the zephyrs hasten to my aid ! 
 Or, like a worm unearth'd at noon, I go, 
 Despatch'd by sunshine, to the shades below. 
 
 My poor Mary is as well as the heat will 
 allow her to be: and whether it be cold or 
 sultry, is always affectionately mindful of you 
 and yours. W. C. 
 
 It is due to the memory of my reverend 
 friend and brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. John- 
 son, to state that Co^vper was indebted to his 
 ever-watchful and affectionate kindness for 
 what he here calls his " dear old Grecian." 
 
 * Hayley made a second proposition to unite with Cow- 
 per in the projected poem of " The Four Ages," and to 
 engage the aid of two distinguished artists, who were to 
 embellish the work with appropriate designs. We be- 
 lieve that Lawrence and Flaxman were the persons to 
 whom Hayley refers. We cannot sufficiently regret the 
 failure of this plan, which would have enriched literature 
 and art with so happv a specimen of poetical and pro- 
 fession talent. But the period was unhappily approach- 
 ing which was to suspend the fine powers of Cowper'l 
 mfnd, and to shroud them in the veil of darkness.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 43^ 
 
 With that amiable solicitude which formed so 
 prominent a feature in his character, and which 
 was always seeking how to please and to con- 
 fer a favor, he had contrived to procure an an- 
 tique bust of Homer, to gratify Cowper's 
 partiality for his favorite bard. No present 
 could possibly have been more acceptable or 
 appropriate. We cannot avoid remarking, on 
 this occasion, that, to anticipate a want and to 
 supply it, to know how to minister to the 
 graiihcation of another, and to enhance the 
 gift by the grace of bestowing it, is one of 
 the great arts of social and domestic life. It 
 is not the amount, nor the intrinsic value of 
 the favor, for the power of giving must in that 
 case be restricted to the few. To give royally 
 re<iuires not only an enlarged heart, l)nt ample 
 and enlarged means. t is the appropriate- 
 ness of the time and the occasion, the grace 
 of the manner, and the unobtrusiveness of its 
 tharacter, that constitutes the value of the 
 gift and endears the giver. 
 
 Cowper recorded his gratitude by the fol- 
 lowing poetical tribute, which has always 
 been justly admired : — 
 
 Kinsman bclov'd, and as a son by me ! 
 When I behold tliis fruit of tiiy regard, 
 The sculptur'd tbrui ot" my old tav'rite bard! 
 I rev'rcnce teei tor him, and love lor thee. 
 Joy too, and grief! much joy that there should be 
 Wise men. and learn'd who grudge not to reward 
 With some applause jiiy l)old attempt and hard. 
 Which others scorn : critics by courtesy ! 
 
 The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, 
 1 lose my precious years, now soon to tail ! 
 Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it sliine, 
 Proves dross when balanced in tiie Christian scale ! 
 Be wiser thou ! — like our tbretather Donne, 
 Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone ! 
 
 TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 
 
 W. v., July 15, 1793. 
 Dear Sir, — Within these few days I have 
 received, by favor of Miss Knapps, your ac- 
 ceptable present of Chapman's translation of 
 the Iliad. I know not whether the book be a 
 rarity, but a curiosity it certainly is. I have 
 as yet seen but little of it; enough, however, 
 to make me wonder that any man, with so 
 little taste for Homer, or apprehension of his 
 manner, should think it worth while to under- 
 take the laborious task of translatinar him : 
 the hope of pecuniary advantage may perhaps 
 account for it.* His information I fear, was 
 
 * Chapman's version is thus described by Warton: ho 
 "freciuciilly retrenches or impoverishes wliat ho couM 
 not feel and express," and yet is "not always williout 
 Btren!,flli and spirit." By Anton, in his Philosophical Sat- 
 ires, pul)lisliod in 1616, he is characterised as 
 
 "Greeke-thiuid'rini; Chai)man, beaten to the age, 
 Willi a deepe linie and a sudden ra!j;e." 
 
 The testimony of Hishop Percy is flalterino;. " Had Chap- 
 man," he observes, '• translated the Iliad into blank verse, 
 hud been one of our chief classic performances." 
 
 not much better than his verse, for I have con 
 suited him in one passage of some difficulty, 
 and lind him giving a sense of his own, not at 
 all warranted by the words of Homer. Pope 
 sometimes does this, and sometimes omits the 
 difficult part entirely. I can boast of havin" 
 done neither, though it has cost me infinite 
 pains to exempt myself from the necessity. 
 
 I have seen a translation by Hobbes, which 
 I prefer for its greater clumsiness. Many 
 years have passed since I saw it, but it made 
 me laugh immoderately. Poetry that is not 
 good can only make amends for that defi- 
 ciency by being ridiculous ; and, because the 
 translation of Hobbes has at least this recom- 
 mendation, I shall be obliged to you, should 
 it happen to fall in your way, if you would 
 be so kind as to procure it for me. The only 
 edition of it I ever saw (and perhaps there 
 never was another*), was a very thick 12mo., 
 both print and paper bad ; a sort of book that 
 would be sought in vain, perhaps, anywhere 
 but on a stall. 
 
 When you saw Lady Hesketh, yon saw 
 the relation of mine with whom I have been 
 more intimate, even from childhood, than any 
 other. She has seen much of the world, un- 
 derstands it well, and, having great natural 
 vivacity, is of course one of the most agreea- 
 ble companions. 
 
 I have now arrived almost at a close of my 
 labors on the Iliad, and have left nothing be- 
 hind me, I believe, which I shall wish to alter 
 on any future occasion. In about a fortnight 
 or three weeks I shall begin to do the same 
 for the Odyssey, and hope to be able to per- 
 form it while the Iliad is in printing. Then 
 Milton will demand all my attention, and 
 when I shall find opportunity either to re- 
 vise your MSS., or to write a poem of my 
 own,f which I have in contemplation, I can 
 iiardly say. Certainly not till both these 
 tasks are accomplished. 
 I remain, dear sir, 
 
 With many thanks for your kind present, 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 Weston, July 25, 1793. 
 
 IMy dear Madam, — Many reasons concurred 
 to make me impatient for the arrival of your 
 most acceptable present,]' and among them 
 was the fear lest you should perhaps suspect 
 ine of tardiness in acknowledging so great a 
 favor; a fear, that, as often as it prevailed, 
 distressed me exceedingly. At length I have 
 received it, and my little bookseller assures 
 
 * Cowper is mistaken in this supposition. Wood, in 
 his Atheiue, records an edition of the Iliad in 1675 ; and 
 of tne Odyssey in 1667, and there was a re-impression of 
 both in 10n6. 
 
 t The Tour Ajjes. 
 
 t The poem of the Emigrants, which was dedicated ta 
 Cowper.
 
 440 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 me, that he sent it the very day he got it ; by 
 some mistaiie, however, the wiigoii brought 
 it instead of the coach, which occasioned the 
 dehiy. 
 
 It came this morning, about an hour ago ; 
 consequently I liave not had time to peruse 
 the poem, though you may be sure I have 
 found enough for the perusal of the dedica- 
 tion. I have, in fact, given it three readings, 
 and in each have found increasing pleasure. 
 
 I am a whimsical creature : when I write 
 for the public, I write of course with a de- 
 sire to please ; in other words, to acquire 
 fame, and I labor accordingly, but when I 
 find that I have succeeded, feel myself 
 alarmed, and ready to shrink from the acqui- 
 sition. 
 
 This I have felt more than once ; and when 
 I saw my name at the head of your dedica- 
 tion, I felt it again ; but the consummate deli- 
 cacy of your praise soon convinced me that 
 I might spare my blushes, and that the de- 
 mand was less upon my modesty than my 
 gratitude. Of that be assured, dear madam, 
 and of the truest esteem and respect of your 
 most obliged and affectionate humble ser- 
 vant, W. C. 
 
 P. S. I should have been much grieved to 
 have let slip this opportunity of thanking 
 you for your charming sonnets, and my two 
 most agreeable old friends, Monimia and 
 Orlando.* 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. GREATHEED. 
 
 Weston, July 27, 1793. 
 I was not without some expectation of a 
 line from you, my dear sir, though you did 
 not promise me one at your departure, and 
 am happy not to have been disappointed: 
 still happier to learn that you and Mrs. Great- 
 heed are well, and so delightfully situated. 
 Your kind offer to us of sharing with you 
 the house which you at present inhabit, added 
 to the short, but lively, description of the scen- 
 ery that surrounds it, wants nothing to win 
 our acceptance, should it please God to give 
 Mrs. Unwin a little more strength, and should 
 I ever be master of my time so as to be able 
 to gratify myself with what would please me 
 most. But many have claims upon us, and 
 some who cannot absolutely be said to have 
 any would yet complain and think themselves 
 til'frhted, should we prefer rocks and caves to 
 them. In short, we are called so many ways^ 
 
 * Mrs. Charlotte Smith is well known as an authoress, 
 xnd particularly for hur beautitul soiniets. She was for- 
 merly a great eul<igist of the French Revolution, but the 
 horrors which dislincfuished that political era led to a 
 change in her sentiments which she publicly avowed in 
 her " Banished Man." There is a great plaintiveness of 
 feeling in all her writings, arising from the nnfortunale 
 incidents of her chequered life. We remember this lady, 
 with her family, formerly resident at Oxford, where she 
 »xcited much interest by her talents and misfortunes. 
 
 that these numerous demands are likely to 
 operate as a remora, and to keep us fixed at 
 home. Here we can occasionally have the 
 pleasure of yours and Mrs. Greatheed's com- 
 pany, and to have it here must I believe con- 
 tent us. Hayley in his last letter gives me 
 reason to expect the pleasure of seeing him 
 and his dear boy Tom, in the autumn. He 
 will use all his eloquence to draw us to 
 Eartham again. My cousin Johnny, of Nor- 
 folk, holds me under promise to make my 
 first trip thither, and the very same promise 
 I have hastily made to visit Sir John and 
 Lady Throckmorton, at Bucklands. How to 
 reconcile such clashing promises, and give 
 satisfaction to all, would puzzle me, had I 
 nothing else to do ; and therefore, as I say, 
 the result will probably be, that we shall 
 find ourselves obliged to go nowhere, since 
 we cannot everywhere. 
 
 Wishing you both safe at home again, and 
 to see you as soon as may be here, 
 I remain, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, July 27, 1793. 
 
 I have been vexed with myself, my dearest 
 brother, and with everything about me, not 
 excepting even Homer himself, that I have 
 been obliged so long to delay an answer to 
 your last kind letter. If I listen any longer 
 to calls another way, I shall hardly be able 
 to tell you how happy we are in the hope of 
 seeing you in the autumn, and before the 
 autumn will have arrived. Thrice welcome 
 will you and your dear boy be to us, and the 
 longer you will atTord us your company, the 
 more welcome. I have set up the head of 
 Homer on a famous fine pedestal, and a very 
 majestic appearance he makes. I am now 
 puzzled about a motto, and wish you to de- 
 cide for me between two, one of which I 
 have composed myself, a Greek one, as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 Ei<ni/a Ti; ravrnv ; kXvtov nvtpnq ovvoft o'Sui^'tv' 
 Ovviiua 6 ovros avrio adiQiTov aiev ^X"' 
 
 The other is ray own translation of a pas- 
 sage in the Odyssey, the original of which I 
 have seen used as a motto to an engraved 
 head of Homer many a time. 
 
 The present edition of the lines stands 
 thus : 
 
 Him partially the muse 
 And dearly loved, yet gave him good and ill: 
 She quench'd his sight, and gave him strainj 
 divine. 
 
 Tell me, by the way, (if you ever had any 
 speculations on the subject,) what is it you
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 441 
 
 Buppose Homer to have meant in particular, 
 wlien he ascribed his blindness to the muse, 
 for tiiat he speaivs of himself under the name 
 of Demodocus, in the eighth booi<, I believe 
 is by all admitted. How could the old bard 
 study himself blind, when books were either 
 so few or none at all ? And did he write his 
 poems ? If neither were the cause, as seems 
 reasonable to imagine, how could he incur 
 his blindness by such means as could be 
 justly imputable to the muse? Would mere 
 thinking blind him? I want to know : 
 
 " Call up some spirit from the vasty deep!" 
 
 I said to my Sam* , "Sam, build me 
 
 a shed in the garden, with anything that you 
 can find, and make it rude and rough, like 
 
 one of those at Eartham." " Ves, Sir," 
 
 says Sam, and straightway laying his own 
 noddle, and the carpenter's noddle together, 
 has built me a thing tit for Stow Gardens. Is 
 
 not this vexatious? 1 threaten to inscribe 
 
 it thus : 
 
 Beware of building! I intended 
 
 Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended. 
 
 But my Mary says, I shall break Sam's 
 heart and the carpenter's too, and will not 
 consent to it. Poor Mary sleeps but ill. 
 How have you lived who cannot bear a sun- 
 beam ? Adieu ! 
 
 ]\ry dearest Hayley, W. C. 
 
 The following seasonable and edifying 
 letter, addressed by Cowper to his beloved 
 kinsman, on the occasion of his ordination, 
 will be read with interest. 
 
 TO THE REV. JOHN JOHNSON.f 
 
 August 2, ]7U3. 
 
 IMy dearest Johnny, — The bishop of Nor- 
 wich has won my heart by his kind and lib- 
 eral behavior to you; and, if I knew him, 1 
 would tell him so. 
 
 I am glad that your auditors find your 
 voice strong and your utterance distinct : 
 glad, too, that your doctrini' has hitherto 
 made you no enemies. Vou have a gracious 
 Master, who, it seems, will not suller you to 
 see war in the beginning. It will be a won- 
 der, however, if you do not, sooner or later, 
 find out that sore place in every heart, which 
 can ill endure the touch of apostolic doctrine. 
 Somebody will smart in his conscience, and 
 you will iiear of it. I say not this, my dear 
 Johnny, to terrify, but to prepare you for 
 ihat which is likely to happen, and which, 
 troublesome as it may prove, is yet devoutly 
 to be wished; for, in general, there is little 
 good done by preachers till the world begins 
 to abuse tlu'm. But understand me aright. 
 
 • Pamnel Robf rt.s, liis fiiitliful servant. 
 t Piivato coiiospondence. 
 
 I do not mean that you should give them un- 
 necessary provocation, by scolding and railing 
 at them, as some, more zealous than wise, are 
 apt to do. That were to deserve their anger. 
 No ; there is no need of it. The self-abasing 
 doctrines of the gospel will, of themselves, 
 create you enemies ; but remember this, for 
 your comfort — they will also, in due time, 
 transform them into friends, and make them 
 love you, as if they were your own children. 
 God give you many such; as, if you are 
 faithful to his cause, I trust he will ! 
 
 Sir John and Lady Throckmorton have 
 lately arrived in England, and are now at 
 the Hall. They have brought me from 
 Rome a set of engravings on Odyssey sub- 
 jects, by Flaxman, whom you have heard 
 Hayley celebrate. They are very fine, very 
 much in the antique style, and a present 
 from the Dowager Lady Spencer. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 1], 1793. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, — I am glad that my 
 poor and hasty attempts to express some lit- 
 tle civility to Miss Fanshaw and the amiable 
 Count,* have your and her approbation. The 
 lines addressed to her were not what I 
 would have made them, but lack of time, a 
 lack which always presses me, would not 
 suffer me to improve them. Many thanks 
 for her letter, which, were my merits less 
 the subject of it, I should without scruple 
 say is an excellent one. She writes with 
 the force and accuracy of a person skilled in 
 more languages than are spoken in the pres- 
 ent day, as J doubt not that she is. I per- 
 fectly approve the theme she recommends to 
 me, but am at present so totally absorbed in 
 Homer, that all I do beside is ill done, being 
 hurried over; and I would not execute ill a 
 subject of her recommending. 
 
 I shall watch the walnuts with more at- 
 tention than they who eat them, which I do 
 in some hope, though you do not expressly 
 say so, that when their threshing time ar- 
 rives, we shall see you here. I am now go- 
 ing to paper my new study, and in a short 
 time it will be fit to inhabit. 
 
 Lady Spencer has sent me a present from 
 Rome, by tiie hands of Sir John Throck- 
 morton, engravings of Odyssey subjects, af 
 ter figures by FIaxman,t a statuary at pres 
 ent resident there, of high repute, and much 
 a friend of Hayley's. 
 
 Thou livest, my dear, I acknowledge, in a 
 very line country, but they have spoiled it 
 by building London in it. 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 * Count Cravina, the Ppunish Admiral. 
 
 t Those illnslnUions are executed in oulline, and form 
 one of llie must beauUl'ul and eleganl specimens of pro- 
 fessioual iirt.
 
 442 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 That the allusion in the former part of the 
 letter may be better understood, it is neces- 
 sary to state, that Lady Hesketh had lent a 
 manuscript poem of Cowper's to iier friend 
 Miss Fanshaw, with an injunction that she 
 should neither show it nor take a copy. 
 This promise was violated, and the reason 
 assigned is expressed by the young lady in 
 the following verses. 
 
 What wonder ! if my wavering hand 
 
 Had dared to disobey, 
 When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 
 
 And Cowper led astray 1 
 
 Then take this tempting gift of thine, 
 
 By pen uncopied yet ; 
 But, canst thou memory confine, 
 
 Or teach me to forget 1 
 
 More lasting than the touch of art 
 
 The characters remain. 
 When written by a feeUng heart 
 
 On tablets of the brain. 
 
 COWPER'S REPLY. 
 
 To be remembered thus is fame, 
 
 And in the first degree ; 
 And did the few like her the same, 
 
 The press might rest for me. 
 
 So Homer, in the memory stored 
 
 Of many a Grecian belle, 
 Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 
 
 But never lodged so well. 
 
 We add the verses addressed to Count 
 Gravina, whom Cowper culls "the amiable 
 Count," and who had translated the well- 
 known stanzas on the Rose* into Italian 
 verse. 
 
 My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew, 
 
 And, steep'd not now in rain, 
 But in Castalian streams by you, 
 
 Will never fade again. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 15, 1703. 
 Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint 
 Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint, 
 That building, and building, a man may be driven 
 At last out of doors, and have no house to live in. 
 
 Besides, my dearest brother, they have not 
 only built for me wliat I did not want, but 
 have ruined a notable tetrastic by doing so. 
 I had written one which I designed for a 
 hermitage, and it will by no means suit the 
 fine and pompous affair which they have 
 made instead of one. So that, as a poet, I 
 am every way afflicted ; made poorer than I 
 need have been, and robbed of ray verses : 
 what case can be more deplorable ■?{ 
 
 * ' The rose, had been washed, j ust washed in a shower,'&c. 
 
 t The lines here alluded to are entitled, " Inscription 
 for an Hermitage ;" and arc as follow : — 
 
 This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
 Built as it has been in our waning years, 
 A rest afforded to our weary feet, 
 Preliminary to— the last retreat. 
 
 You must not suppose me ignorant of 
 what ria.\man has done, or that I have not 
 seen it, or that I am not actually in posses- 
 sion of it, at least of the engravings wliich 
 you mention. In fact, I have had tiiem more 
 than a fortnight. Lady Dowager Spencer, 
 to whom I inscribed my Odyssey, and who 
 was at Rome when Sir John Throckmorton 
 was there, charged him with them as a pres- 
 ent to me, and arriving here lately he exe- 
 cuted his commission. Romney, I doubt 
 not, is right in his judgment of them ; he is 
 an artist himself, and cannot easily be mis- 
 taken ; and I take his opinion as an oraclei, 
 the rather because it coincides exactly with 
 my own. The figures are higldy classical 
 antique, and elegant; especially that of Pe 
 nelope, who, whether she wakes or sleeps, 
 must necessarily charm all beholders. 
 
 Your scheme of embellishing my Odyssey 
 with these plates is a kind one, and the fruit 
 of your benevolence to me ; but Johnson, I 
 fear, will hardly .stake so much money as 
 the cost would amount to, on a work, the 
 fate of which is at present uncertain. Nor 
 could we adorn the Odyssey in this splendid 
 manner, unless we had similar ornaments to 
 bestow on the Iliad. Such, I presume, are 
 not ready, and mucii time must elapse even 
 if Flaxman should accede to the plan, before 
 he could possibly prepare them. Happy in- 
 deed should I be to see a work of mine so 
 nobly accompanied, but, should that good 
 fortune ever attend me, it cannot take place 
 till the third or fourth edition shall afford 
 the occasion. This I regret, and I regret 
 too that you will have seen them before I 
 can have an opportunity to show them to 
 you. Here is si.xpence for you if you will 
 abstain from the sight of them while you are 
 in London. 
 
 The sculptor 1 — nameless, though once dear to 
 
 fame : 
 But this man bears an everlasting name.* 
 
 So I purpose it shall stand; and on the 
 pedestal, whet^. you come, in that form you 
 will find it. The added line from the Odys- 
 sey is charming, but the assumption of son- 
 ship to Homer seems too daring ; suppose it 
 stood thus: 
 
 S2f (5t nai; u> irarpi, /cat ovnoTC A)jiTOfiai avTov. 
 
 I am not sure that this would be clear of the 
 same objection, and it departs from the text 
 still more. 
 
 With my poor Mary's best love and out 
 united wishes to see you here, 
 I remain, my dearest brother. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. ■ 
 
 * A translation of Cowper's Greek verses 3n his bust 
 of Homer.
 
 TO MRS. COURTENAT. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 20, 1793. 
 My dearest Catharina is too reasonable, I 
 know, to expect news from nie, who live on 
 the outside of the world, and know nothing 
 that passes witliin it. The best news is, 
 that, though you are gone, you are not gone 
 forever, as once I supposed you were, and 
 said that we should probably meet no more. 
 Some news however we have ; but then I 
 conclude that you have already received it 
 from tlie Doctor, and that thought almost 
 deprives me of all courage to relate it. On 
 the evening of the feast. Bob Archer's house 
 affording, I suppose, the best room for the 
 purpose, all the lads and lasses who felt 
 themselves disposed to dance, assembled 
 there. Long time they danced, at least long 
 time they did something a little like it, when 
 at last the company having retired, the fid- 
 dler asked T5ob for a lodging; Bob replied — 
 " that iiis beds were all full of his own fami- 
 ly, but if he chose it he would show him a 
 hay-cock, where he might shep as sound as 
 in any bed whatever." — So forth they went 
 togetiier, and wjien they reached the place, 
 the fiddler knocked down Bob, and demand- 
 ed his money. But, hnppily for Bob, though 
 he might be knocked down, and actually was 
 so, yet he could not possibly be robbed, 
 having nothing. The tiddler, therefore, having 
 amused himself, with kicking him and beat"^ 
 ing him, as he lay, as long as he saw good, 
 left him, and lias never been heard of since, 
 nor inquired after indeed, being no doubt 
 the last man in tlie world whom Bob wishes 
 to see again. 
 
 By a letter from Hayley, to-day, I learn, 
 that Flaxman, to whom' we are indebted for 
 those Odyssey figures which Lady Frog 
 brought over, has almost finished a set for 
 the Iliad also. I siiould be glad to embel- 
 lish my Homer with them, but neither my 
 bookseller, nor I, shall probably choose to 
 risk so expensive an ornament on a work, 
 whose reception with the public is at present 
 doubtful. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest Catharina. Give my 
 best love to your husband. Come home as 
 soon as you can, and accept our united very 
 best wishes. W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 22, '793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you have 
 had so pleasant an excursion, and have be- 
 held so many beautiful .scenes. Except the 
 delightful Upway, I have seen them all. I 
 have lived much at Southampton, have slept 
 And caught a sore throat at Lyndhurst, and 
 have swum in tlie bay of Weymouth. It will 
 give us great pleasure to see you here, siiould 
 your business give you an opportunity to fin- 
 
 ish your excursions of this season with one 
 to \\'eston. 
 
 As for my going on, it is much as usual. 
 I rise at six; an industrious and wholesome 
 practice from which I have never swerved 
 since March. I breakfast generally about 
 eleven — have given the intermediate time to 
 my old delightful bard. Villoisson no longer 
 keeps me company; I therefore now jog 
 along with Clarke and Barnes at my elbow, 
 and from the excellent annotations of the 
 former, select such as I think likely to be 
 useful, or that recommend themselves by the 
 amusement they may afford: of which sorts 
 there are not a few. Barnes also affords me 
 some of both kinds, but not so many, his notes 
 being chiefly paraphrastical or grammatical, 
 my only fear is, lest between them both T 
 should make my work too voluminous. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Aug. 27, 1793. 
 I thank yon, my dear brother, for consult- 
 ing the Gibbonian oracle on the question con- 
 cerning Homer's muse and his blindness. 1 
 proposed it likewise to my little neighbor Bu- 
 chanan, who gave me precisely the same an- 
 swer. I felt an insatiable thil-st to learn 
 something new concerning him, and, desp.iir- 
 ing of information from . others, was willing 
 to hope, that I had stumbled on matter un- 
 noticed by the commentators, and might, per- 
 haps, acquire a little intelligence from him- 
 self. But the great and the little oracle to- 
 gether have extinguished that hope, and I 
 despair now of making any curious discover- 
 ies about him. 
 
 Since Flaxman (which I did not know till 
 your letter told me so) has been at work for 
 the Iliad, as well as the Odyssey, it seems a 
 great pity that the engravings should not be 
 bound up with some Homer or other; and, as 
 I said before, I should have been too proud 
 to have bound them up in mine. But there 
 is an objection, at least such it seems to me, 
 that threatens to disqualify them for such a 
 use, namely, the shape and size of them, 
 which are such, tliat no book of the usual 
 form could possibly receive them, save in a 
 folded state, which, I apprehend, would be to 
 murder them. 
 
 The monument of Lord JMansfield, for 
 wliicii you say he is engaged, will (I dare 
 say) prove a noble effort of genius.* Statu- 
 aries, as I have heard an eminent one say, do 
 not much trouble themselves about a "like- 
 ness : else I would give much to be able to 
 communicate to Flaxman the perfect idea 
 that I have of the subject, such as he was 
 forty years ago. He was at that time won- 
 derfully handsome, and would expound the 
 * The celebrated monument in Westminster Abbey
 
 444 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 most mysterious intricacies of the law, or 
 recapitulate both matter and evidence of a 
 cause, as long as from hence to EarLham, 
 with an intelligent smile on his features, that 
 bespoke plainly the perfect ease with which 
 he did it. The most abstruse studies (I be- 
 lieve) never cost liim any labor. 
 
 You say nothing lately of your intended 
 journey our way ; yet tiie year is waning and 
 the shorter days give you a hint to lose no 
 time unnecessarily. Lately we had the wliole 
 family at the Hall, and now we have nobody. 
 The Throckmortons are gone into Berkshire, 
 and the Courtenays into Yorkshire. They 
 are so pleasant a family, that I heartily wish 
 you to see them ; and at the same time wish 
 to see you before they return, which will not 
 be sooner than October. How sjiall I recon- 
 cile these wishes seemingly opposite ? Why, 
 by wishing that you may come soon and stay 
 long. I know no other way of doing it. 
 
 My poor Mary is much as usual. I have 
 set up Homer's head, and inscribed the pe- 
 destal ; my own Greek at the top, with your 
 translation under it, and 
 
 Qs6€ 
 
 7rai{ o) rarpt, 
 
 &C. 
 
 It makes altogether a very smart and 
 learned appearance.* W. C. 
 
 TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 August 29, 1793. 
 Your question, at what time your coming 
 to us will be most agreeable, is a knotty one, 
 and such as, had I the wisdom of Solomon, I 
 should be puzzled to answer. I will there- 
 fore leave it still a question, and refer the 
 time of your journey Weston-ward entirely 
 to your own election: adding this one limita- 
 tion, however, that I do not wish to see you 
 exactly at present, on account of the unfin- 
 ished state of my study, the wainscot of 
 which still smells of paint, and which is not 
 yet papered. But to return : as I have insinu- 
 ated, thy pleasant company is the tiling which 
 I always wish, and as much at one time as at 
 another. I believe, if I examine myself mi- 
 nutely, since I despair of ever having it in 
 the height of summer, which for your sake I 
 should desire most, the deptli of the winter 
 is the season which would be most eligible 
 to me. For then it is, that in general I have 
 most need of a cordial, and jDarticularly in the 
 month of January. I am sorry, however, 
 that I departed so far from my first purpose, 
 and am answering a question, which I de- 
 clared myself unable to answer. Choose 
 thy own time, secure of this, that, whatever 
 time that be, it will always to us be a wel- 
 come one. 
 
 * This bust and pedestal were afterwards removed to 
 6ir George Throckmorton's grounds, and placed in the 
 slirubbery. 
 
 I thank you for your pleasant extract of 
 Miss Fanshaw's letter. 
 
 Her pen drops eloquence as sweet 
 A.S any muse's tongue can speak ; 
 Nor need a scribe, like her, regret 
 Her want of Latin or of Greelc* 
 
 And now, my dear, adieu! I have done 
 more than I expected, and begin to feel my- 
 self exhausted with so much scribbling at the 
 end of four hours' close application to study. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. JOHNSON. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 4, 1793. 
 
 My dearest Johnny, — To do a kind thing 
 and in a kind manner, is a double kindness, 
 and no man is more addicted to both than 
 you, or more skilful in contriving them. 
 Your plan to surprise me agreeably succeed- 
 ed to admiration. It was only the day before 
 yesterday, that, while we walked after dinner 
 in the orchard, Mrs. Unwin between Sam and 
 me, hearing the Hall clock, I observed a great 
 difference between that and ours, and began 
 immediately to lament, as I had often done, 
 that there was not a sun-dial in all Weston 
 to ascertain the true time for us. My com- 
 plaint was long, and lasted till, having turned 
 into the grass-walk, we reached the new 
 building at the end of it; where we sat 
 awhile and reposed ourselves. In a few 
 minutes we returned by the way we came, 
 when what think you was my astonishment 
 to see what I had not seen before, tliough I 
 had passed close by it, a smart sun-dial 
 mounted on a smart stone pedestal ! I as- 
 sure you it seemed the effect of conjuration. 
 I stopped short, and exclaimed — " Why, here 
 is a sun-dial, and upon our ground! How is 
 this? Tell me, Sam, how it came here? Do 
 you know anything about it?" At first I 
 really thought (that is to say, as soon as I 
 could think at all) that this fac-totum of mine, 
 Sam Roberts, having often heard me deplore 
 the want of one, had given orders for the 
 supply of that want himself, without my 
 knowledge, and was half pleased and half 
 offended. But he soon exculpated himself by 
 imputing the fact to you. It was brought up 
 to Weston (it seems) about noon: but An- 
 drews stopped the cart at the blacksmith's, 
 whence he sent to inquire if I was gone for 
 my walk. As it happened, I walked not till 
 two o'clock. So there it stood waiting till I 
 should go forth, and was introduced before 
 my return. Fortunately, too, I went out at 
 the church end of the village, and consequent- 
 ly saw nothing of it. How I could possibly 
 pass it without seeing it, when it stood in the 
 walk, I know not, but certain it is that I did. 
 
 * Miss Fanshaw was an intimate friend of Lady He* 
 keth's, and frequently residing with her.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 Uh 
 
 And where I shall fix it now, I know as little. 
 It cannot stand between the two gates, the 
 place of your choice, as I. understand from 
 Samuel, because the hay-cart must pass that 
 way in tbe season. But we are now busy in 
 winding the walk all round the orchard, and, 
 in doing so, shall doubtless stumble at last 
 upon some open spot that will suit it. 
 
 There it sliall stand while I live, a constant 
 monument of your kindness. 
 
 I have this moment finished the twelfth 
 book of the Odyssey ; and I read the Iliad to 
 Mrs. Unwin every evening. 
 
 The etTect of this reading is, that I still 
 spy blemishes, something at least that I can 
 mend ; so that, after all, the transcript of 
 alterations which you and George have made 
 will not be a perfect one. It would be fool- 
 ish to forego an opportunity of improvement 
 for such a reason : neither will I. It is ten 
 o'clock, and 1 must breakfast. Adieu, there- 
 fore, my dear Johimy ! Remember your ap- 
 pointment to see us in October. 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 8, 1793. 
 
 iVon sum quod simulo, my dearest brother! 
 I am cheerful upon paper sometimes, when I 
 am absolutely the most dejected of all crea- 
 tures. Desirous, however, to gain something 
 myself by my own letters, unprofitable as 
 they may and must be to my friends, I keep 
 melanclioly out of them as much as I can, 
 that I may, if possible, by assuming a less 
 gloomy air, deceive myself, and, by feigning 
 with a continuance, improve the fiction into 
 reality. 
 
 So you have seen Flaxman's figures, whicli 
 I intended you should not have seen till I had 
 spread them before you. How did you dare 
 to look at them? You should have covered 
 vour eyes with both hands: lam charmed 
 with Flaxman's Penelope, and though you 
 don't deserve that I should, will send you a 
 few lines, such as they are, with which she 
 inspired me the other day while I was taking 
 my noon-day walk. 
 
 The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
 Wliom all this einifunce mirrjit well seduce ; 
 Nor can our censure on the husband fall, 
 Who, for a wife so lovily slew tlicin all. 
 
 I know not that you will meet anybody 
 here, when we see you in October, unless 
 perhaps my Johnny should ha|»peu to be with 
 us. If Tom is charmed with tiie tiiougnts of 
 coming to Weston, we are equally so with 
 the thouffhts of seeing iiim here. At his 
 years I should hardly hope to make his 
 visit agreeable to him, did I not know that 
 he is of a temper and disposition tliat must 
 wiake him happy everywhere. Give our 
 
 love to hira. If Romney can come with 
 you, we have both room to roceive nim and 
 hearts to make him most welcome. 
 
 W. C 
 
 TO MRS. COURTENAY. 
 
 Weston, Sept. 15, 1793, 
 
 A thousand thanks, my dearest Catharina, 
 for your pleasant letter; one of the pleas- 
 antest that I have received since your depart- 
 ure. You are very good to apologize for 
 your delay, but I had not flattered myself 
 with the hopes of a speedier answer. Know- 
 ing full well your talents for entertaining 
 your friends who are present, I was sure you 
 would with ditticulty find half an hour that 
 you could devote to an absent one. 
 
 I am glad that you tliiiik of your return. 
 Poor Weston is a desolation without you. 
 In the nieantime I amuse myfeelf as well as I 
 can, thrumming old Homer's lyre, and turn- 
 ing the premises upside down. Upside down 
 indeed, for so it is literally that I have been 
 dealing with the orchard, almost ever since 
 you v:ent, digging and delving it around to 
 make a new walk, whici) now beffins to as- 
 surae the shape of one, and to look as if some 
 time or other it may serve in that capacity. 
 Taking my usual exercise there the other 
 day with Mrs. Unwin, a wide disagreement 
 between your clock and ours occasioned me 
 to complain much, as I have of. en done, of 
 the want of a dial. Guess my surprise, when 
 at the close of my complaint i saw one — saw 
 one close at my side ; a sm:irt one, glittering 
 in the sun, and mounted on a pedestal of 
 stone. I was astonished. "This," I ex- 
 claimed, "is absolute conjuration!" — It was 
 a most mysterious nfiair, but the mystery 
 was at last explained. 
 
 This scribble I presume will find you just 
 arrived at Bucklands. I would with all my 
 iicart that since dials can be thus suddenly 
 conjured from one place to another, I could 
 be so too, and could start up before your 
 eyes in the middle of some walk or lawn, 
 where you and Lady Frog are wandering. 
 
 While I'itcairne whistles for his family es- 
 tate in Fifeshire, he will do well if he will 
 sound a few notes for me. I am originally 
 of the same shire, and a family of my name 
 is still there, to whom perhaps he may 
 whistle on my behalf, not altogether in vain. 
 So shall his fife excel all my poetical efforts, 
 which have not yet, and I dire say never 
 will, effectually chaj-m one acre of ground 
 into my possession. 
 
 Remember me to Sir John, Lady Frog, 
 and your iiusband — tell them I love them all. 
 She told me once she was jealous, now in- 
 deed she seems to have some reason, since 
 to her I have not written, and have written 
 twice to you. But bid her be of good cour-
 
 446 
 
 COW.ER'S WORKS. 
 
 age, in due time I will give her proof of my 
 constancy. W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. JOHNSON. 
 
 VS^eston, Sept. 29, 1793. 
 
 My dear Johnny, — You have done well to 
 leave off visitinEr and beiuij visited. Visits 
 are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only 
 for those who, if they did not that, would do 
 nothing. The worst consequence of such 
 departures from common practice is to be 
 termed a singular sort of a fellow, or an odd 
 fish ; a sort of reproach that a man might be 
 wise enough to contemn who had not half 
 your understanding. 
 
 I look forward with j)leasure to October 
 the 11th, the day which I expect will be albo 
 notandus lapillo, on account of your arrival 
 here. 
 
 Here you will meet Mr. Rose, who comes 
 on the 8th, and brings with him Mr. Law- 
 rence, the p.ainter, you may guess for what 
 purpose. Lawrence returns when he has 
 made his copy of me, but Mr. Rose will re- 
 main perhaps as long as you will. Hayley 
 on the contrary will come, I suppose, just in 
 time not to see you. Him we expect on the 
 20th. I trust, however, that thou wilt so 
 order thy pastoral matters as to make thy 
 stay here as long as possible. 
 
 Lady Hesketh, in her last letter, inquires 
 very kindly after you, asks me for your ad- 
 dress, and purposes soon to write to you. 
 We hope to see her in November — so that, 
 after a summer without company, we are 
 likely to have an autumn and a winter socia- 
 ble enough. W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 5, 1793. 
 My good intentions towards you, my dear- 
 est brother, are continually frustrated ; and, 
 which is most provoking, not by such en- 
 gagements and avocations as have a right to 
 my attention, such as those to my Mary and 
 the old bard of Greece, but by mere imper- 
 tinences, such as calls of civility from per- 
 sons not very interesting to me, and letters 
 from a distance still less interesting, because 
 the writers of them are strangers. A man 
 sent me a long copy of verses, which I could 
 do no less than acknowledge. They were 
 silly enough, and cost me eighteenpence, 
 which was seventeenpence h.alf-penny fixrth- 
 ing more than they were worth. Another 
 sent me at the same time a plan, requesting 
 my opinion of it, and that I would lend him 
 my name as editor, a request with which I 
 shall not comply, but I .im obliged to tell 
 him so, and one letter is all that I have time 
 lo despatch in a day, sometimes half a one, 
 and sometimes I am not able to write at all. 
 
 Thus it is that my time perishes, and I can 
 neither give so much of it as I would to you 
 or lo any other valuable purpose. 
 
 On Tuesday we expect company — Mr. 
 Rose, and Lawrence the painter. Yet once 
 more is my patience to be exercised, and 
 once more I am made to wish that my face 
 had been moveable, to put on and take ofl:'at 
 pleasure, so as to be portable in a band-box, 
 and sent to the artist. These however will 
 be gone, as I believe I told you, before you 
 arrive, at which time I know not that any- 
 body will be here, except my Johnny, whose 
 presence will not at all interfere with our 
 readings — you will not, I believe, find me a 
 very slashing critic — I hardly indeed expect 
 to find anything in your Life of Milton 
 that I shall sentence to amputation. How 
 should it be too long ? A well-written work, 
 sensible and spirited, such as yours was, 
 when I saw it, is never so. But, however, 
 we shall see. I promise to spare nothing 
 that I think may be lopped off with ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 I began this letter yesterday, but could not 
 finish it till now. I have risen this morning 
 like an infernal frog out of Acheron, covered 
 with the ooze and mud of melancholy. For 
 this reason I am not sorry to find myself at 
 the bottom of my paper, for had I more room 
 perhaps I might fill it all with croaking, and 
 make an heart-ache at Eartham, which I wish 
 to be always cheerful. Adieu. My poor 
 sympathising Mary is of course sad, but 
 always mindful of you. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 18, 1793. 
 
 My dear Brother, — I have not at present 
 much that is necessary to say here, because 
 I shall have the happiness of seeing you so 
 soon; my time, according to custom, is a 
 mere scrap, for which reason such must be 
 my letter also. 
 
 You will find here more than I have hither- 
 to given you reason to expect, but none who 
 will not be happy to see you. These, how- 
 ever, stay with us but a short time, and will 
 leave us in full possession of Weston on 
 Wednesday next. 
 
 I look forward with joy to your coming, 
 heartily wishing you a pleasant journey, in 
 which my p^por Mary joins me. Give our 
 best love to Tom ; without whom, after 
 having been taught to look for him, we 
 should feel our pleasure in the interview 
 much diminished. 
 
 LfEt exp«ctr.mus te puerumque tuum. 
 
 w. c.
 
 TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 
 
 Weston, Oct. 22, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You are very kind to 
 apologize for a short letter, instead of re- 
 proaching me with having been so long en- 
 tirely silent. I persuaded myself, however, 
 that while you were on your journey you 
 would miss me less as a correspondent than 
 yon do when you are at homo, and therefore 
 allowed myself to pursue my literary labors 
 only, but still purposing to write as soon as I 
 siiould have reason to judge you returned to 
 London. Hindrances, however, to the execu- 
 tion even of that purpose, have interposed ; 
 and at this moment I write in the utmost 
 haste, as indeed,! always do, partly because I 
 never begin a letter till I am already fatigued 
 with study, and partly through fear of inter- 
 ruption before I can possibly linish it. 
 
 I rejoice that you have travelled so much 
 to your satisfaction. As to me, my travel- 
 ling days, I believe, are over. Our journey 
 of last year was less beneficial, both to Mrs. 
 Unwin's health and ray spirits, than I hoped 
 it might be ; and v*'e a"ro hardly rich enough 
 to migrate in quest of pleasure merely. 
 
 T thank you much for your last publication, 
 which 1 am I'eading, as fast as I can snatch 
 opportunity, to xMrs. Unvvin. We have found 
 it, as far as we have gone, both interesting 
 and amusing; and I never cease to wonder 
 at the fertility of your invention, that, shut 
 up as you were in your vessel, and disunited 
 from the rest of mankind, could yet furnish 
 you with such variety, and with the means, 
 likewise, of saying the same thing in so many 
 dilfen>nt ways.f 
 
 Sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. J. JEKYLL RYE. 
 
 WostoM, Nov. 3, 17'J3. 
 
 I\Iy dear Sir,— Sensible as I am of your 
 kindness in taking such a journey, at no very 
 pleasant season, merely to serve a friend of 
 mine, I cannot allow my thanks to sleep till 
 I may have the pleasure of seeing you. I 
 hope never to show myself unmindful of so 
 gi-eat a favor. Two lines which I received 
 yesterday from Mr. IIurdi-^, written hastily 
 on the day of decision, informed me that it 
 was made in his favor, and by a majority of 
 twenty.t I have great satisfaction in' the 
 event, and consequently hold myself indebted 
 to all who at my instance have contributed 
 to it. 
 
 You may depend on me for due attention 
 to the honest clerk's request. When he 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t The piibliciitidii alluded to is entitled, " Letters to a 
 »Vifo: wrilloii during' three vovasres to Africa, from 1T50 
 to 17.")4. ny the author of Cardipliouia." 
 
 t He wa-i appointed Professor iif Poetry in the Univcr- 
 tily ol Oxford. 
 
 called, it was not possible that I should an. 
 swer your obliging letter, for he arrived here 
 very early, and if I suflered anything to in- 
 terfere with my morning studies I should 
 never accomplish my labors. Your hint 
 concerning the subject for this year's copy ia 
 a very good one, and shall not be neglected. 
 I remain, sincerely yours, W. C. 
 
 Hayley's second visit to Weston took 
 place very soon after the date of the last let- 
 ter. He found Cowpcr enlivened by the so- 
 ciety of his young kinsman from Norfolk, 
 and another of his favorite friends, Mr. Rose. 
 The latter came recently from tlie seat of 
 Lord Spencer, in Northamptonshire, com- 
 missioned to invite Cowper, and his guests, 
 to "Althorpe, where Gibbon, the historian, 
 v.'as making a visit of some continuance. 
 
 Cowper was strongly urged to accept this 
 flattering invitation from a nobleman whom 
 he cordially respected, and whose library 
 alone migiit be regarded as a magnet of 
 very ])Owerful attraction. But the constilu- 
 tional shyness of the poet, and the infirm 
 state of Mrs. Unwin's health, conspired to 
 prevent the meeting. It would liave been 
 curious to have contemplated ihc Poet of 
 Christianity and the author of the celebrated 
 sixteenth chapter in "The Decline and Fall 
 of the Roman Empire" placed in juxta])o- 
 sition with each other. The reflection would 
 not have escaped a pious observer how much 
 happier, in the eye of wisdom, was the state of 
 Cowper, clouded as it was by depression and 
 sorrow, than that of the unbelieving philoso- 
 pher, though in the zenith of his fame. We 
 know it has been asserted that men are not 
 answerable for their creed. Why then are 
 the Jews a scattered people, the living wit- 
 nesses of the truth of a divine Revelation 
 and of the avenging justice of God ? But 
 scepticism can never justly be said to origi- 
 nate in want of evidence. Men doubt be- 
 cause they search after truth with the pride 
 of the intellect, instead of seeking it with 
 the simplicity of a little child, and that hu- 
 mility of spirit, by which only it is to be 
 found. 
 
 TO MRS. COURTENAY. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 4, 179.3. 
 I seldom rejoice in a day of soaking rain 
 like this, but in this, my dearest Catharina, I 
 do rejoice sincerely, because it affords me an 
 opportunity of writing to you, which, if fair 
 weatlier liad invited us inio the orchard-walk 
 at the usual hour, I should not easily have 
 found. I am a most busy man, busy to a 
 degree that sometimes half distracts me; 
 but, if complete distraction be occasioned by 
 haring the thoughts too much and too long 
 attached to a single point, I am in no danger 
 of it, with such a perpetual whirl are mine
 
 44& 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 whisked about from one subject to another. 
 When two poets meet, there are fine doings 
 I can assure you. My Homer finds work 
 for Hayley, and his Life of Milton work for 
 me, so that we are neither of us one moment 
 idle. Poor Mrs. Unwin in tiie meantime sits 
 quiet in her corner, occasionally laughing at 
 us both, and not seldom interrupting us with 
 some question or remark, for which she is 
 constantly rewarded by me with a "Hush — 
 hold your peace." Bless yourself, my dear 
 Catharina, that you are not connected with a 
 poet, especially that you have not two to 
 deal with ; ladies who have, may be bidden 
 indeed to hold their peace, but very little 
 peace have they. How should they in fixct 
 have any, continually enjoined as they are to 
 be silent. 
 
 The same fever that has been so epidemic 
 there, has been severely felt here likewise ; 
 some have died, and a multitude have been 
 in danger. Two under our own roof have 
 been infected with it, and I am not sure that 
 I have perfectly escaped myself, but I am 
 now well again. 
 
 I have persuaded Hayley to stay a week 
 Jonger, and again my hopes revive, that he 
 may yet have an opportunity to know my 
 friends before he returns into Sussex. I write 
 amidst a chaos of interruptions : Hayley on 
 one hand spouts Greek, and on the other 
 hand Mrs. Unwin continues talking, some- 
 times to us, and sometimes, because we are 
 both too busy to attend to her, she holds a 
 dialogue with herself. Query, is not this a 
 bull — and ouglit I not instead of dialogue to 
 have said soliloquy ? 
 
 Adieu ! With our united love to all your 
 party, and with ardent wishes soon to see 
 you all at Weston, I remain, my dearest 
 Catharina, 
 
 Ever yours, W. C. 
 
 Though Cowper writes with apparent 
 cheerfulness, yet Hayley, referring to this 
 visit, remarks, " My fears for him, in every 
 point of view, were alarmed by his present 
 very singular condition. He possessed com- 
 pletely, at this period, all the admirable fac- 
 ulties of his mind, and all the native tender- 
 ness of his heart; but there was something 
 indescribable in his appearance, which led 
 me to apprehend that, without some signal 
 event in his favor, to re-animate his spirits, 
 they would gradually sink into hopeless de- 
 jection. The state of his aged infirm com- 
 panion afforded additional ground for in- 
 creasing solicitude. Her cheerful and bene- 
 ficent spirit could hardly resist her own 
 accumulated maladies, so fiir as to preserve 
 ability sufficient to watch over the tender 
 health of him, whom she had watched and 
 guarded so long." 
 
 Under these circumstances, Hayley, with 
 an ardor of zeal and a regard for Cowper's 
 welfare, that reflect the highest honor upon 
 his character, determined on his return to 
 London to interest his more powerful friends 
 in his behalf, and thus secure, if pos^-ible, a 
 timely provision against future difficulties. 
 The necessity for this act of kindness will 
 soon appear to be painfully urgent. In the 
 meantime he cheered Cowper's mind, har- 
 assed by hisMiltonic engagement, with intel- 
 ligence that had a tendency to relieve him 
 from much of his present embarrassment 
 and dejection. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 5, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — In a letter from Lady 
 Hesketh, which I received not long since, 
 she informed me how very pleasantly she 
 had spent some time at Wargrave. We 
 now begin to expect her here, where our 
 charms of situation are perhaps not equal to 
 yours, yet by no means contemptible. She 
 told me she had spoken to you in very 
 handsome terms of the country round about 
 us, but not so of our house and the view 
 before it. The house itself, however, is not 
 unworthy some commendation : small as it 
 is, it is neat, and neater than she is aware 
 of; for my study and the room over it have 
 been repaired and beautified this summer, 
 and little more was wanting to make it an 
 abode sufficiently commodious for a man of 
 my moderate desires. As to the prospect 
 from it, that she misrepresented strangely, 
 as I hope soon to have an opportunity to 
 convince her by ocular demonstration. She 
 told you, I know, of certain cottages oppo- 
 site to us, or rather she described them as 
 poor houses and hovels, that effectually 
 blind our windows. But none such exist. 
 On the contrary, the opposite object and the 
 only one, is an orchard so well planted, and 
 with trees of such growth, that we seem to 
 look into a wood, or rather to be surrounded 
 by one. Thus, placed as we are in the midst 
 of a village, we have none of those disagree- 
 ables that belong to such a position, and the 
 village itself is one of the prettiest I know ; 
 terminated at one end by the church tower, 
 seen through the trees, and at the other by 
 a very handsome gateway, opening into a 
 fine grove of elms, belonging to our neigh- 
 bor Courtenay. How happy should I be to 
 show it instead of describing it to you ! 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 10, 1793. 
 My dear Friend, — You are very kind to 
 consider my literary engagements, and to 
 
 i-' <l
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 449 
 
 make them a reason for not interrupting me 
 more frequently with a letter; but though I 
 am indeefl as busy as an author or an editor 
 can well be, and am not apt to be overjoyed 
 at the arrival of letters from uninteresting 
 quarters, I shall always, I hope, have leisure 
 both to peruse and to answer those of my 
 real friends, and to do both with pleasure. 
 
 I have to thank you much for your benev- 
 olent aid in the affair of my friend Hurdis. 
 You have, doubtless learned, ere now, that 
 he has succeeded, and carried the prize by a 
 majority of twenty. He is well (jualified for 
 the post he has gained. So much the better 
 for the honor of the O.^onian laurel, and so 
 much thi' more for the credit of those who 
 have fivored him with their suffrages. 
 
 I am entirely of your mind respecting this 
 conflagration by which all Europe suffers at 
 present,* and is likely to suffer for a long 
 time to come. The same mistake seems to 
 have prevailed as in the American business. 
 We then flattered ourselves that the colo- 
 nies would prove an easy conquest, and, 
 when all the neighbor nations armed them- 
 selves against France, we imagined, I be- 
 lieve, that she too would be presently van- 
 quished. Rut we begin already to be unde- 
 ceived, and God only knows to what a 
 degree we may find we have erred at the 
 conclusion. Such, however, is the state of 
 things all around us, as reminds me continu- 
 ally of the Psalmist's ex])ression — " He shall 
 break them in pieces like a poUefs vessel." 
 And I rather wish than hope, in some of my 
 melancholy moods, that England herself 
 may escape a fracture. 
 
 I remain, truly yours, W. C. 
 
 TO THE REV. MK. HURDIS. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 24, 1793. 
 !^^y dear Sir, — Though my congratulations 
 have been delayed, you have no friend, nu- 
 merous as your friends are, who has more 
 sincerely rejoiced in your success than I.* It 
 was no ■^mall mortification to me, to find 
 that three out of the six whom I had en- 
 gaged were not qualified to vote. You have 
 prevailed, however, and by a considerable 
 majority : there is therefore no room left 
 for reirret. When your short note arrived, 
 which gave me the agreeable news of your 
 victor\ , our friend of Eartham was with me, 
 and shared largely in the joy that 1 felt on 
 the occasion. He left me but a few days 
 since, having spent somewhat more than a 
 fortnight liere : during which time we em- 
 ployed all our leisure hours in the revisal of 
 his Life of Milton. It is row finished, and a 
 very fini h('d work it is; and one that will 
 do great lionor, I am persuaded, to the biog- 
 rapher, and the e.vcellent man of injured 
 * The effects of the French Revolution. 
 
 memory who is the subject of it. As to my 
 own concern with the works of this first of 
 poets, which has been long a matter of bur- 
 thensome contemplation, I have the happi- 
 ness to find at last that I am at liberty to 
 postpone my labors. While I expected that 
 my commentary would be called for in the 
 ensuing spring, I looked forward to the un- 
 dertaking with dismay, not seeing a shadow 
 of probability that I should be ready to an- 
 swer the demand; for this ultimate revisal 
 of my Homer, together with the notes, occu- 
 pies completely at present (and will for 
 some time longer) all the little leisure that I 
 have for study — leisure which I gj^in at this 
 season of the year by rising long before 
 daylight. 
 
 You are now become a nearer neighbor, 
 and as your professorship, I hope, will not 
 engross you wholly, will find an opportunity 
 to give me your company at Weston. Let 
 me hear from you soon ; tell me how you like 
 your new office, and whether you perform 
 the duties of it with pleasure to yourself. 
 With much pleasure to others you will, I 
 doubt not, and with equal advantage. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Nov. 29, 179.3. 
 My dear Friend, — I have risen, while the 
 owls are still hooting, to pursue my accus- 
 tomed labors in the mine of Homer; but be- 
 fore I enter upon them, shall give the first 
 moment of daylight to the purpose of thank- 
 ing you for your last letter, containing many 
 pleasant articles of intelligence, with nothing 
 to abate the pleasantness of them, except the 
 single circumstance that we are not likely to 
 see you here so soon as I expected. My 
 hope was, that the first frost would bring you 
 and the amiable painter with you.* If, how 
 ever, you are prevented by the business oi 
 your respective professions, you are well pre- 
 vented, and I will endeavor to be patient. 
 When the latter was here, he mentioned one 
 day the subject of Diomede's horses, driven 
 under the axle of his chariot by the thunder- 
 bolt which fell at their feet, as a subject for 
 his pencil. t It is certainly a noble one, and 
 therefore worthy of his study and attention. 
 It occured to me at the moment, but I know 
 not what it was that made me forget it again 
 the next moment, that the horses of Achilles 
 flying over the foss, with Patroclus and 
 Automcdon in the chariot, would be a good 
 companion for it.J Should you happen to 
 
 * Lawrence. 
 
 ' lie, thnnderinc; downward hurl'd his candcnt boll 
 To the liorse-feet of Diomcde : dire fum'd 
 The llatnin!? sulphur, and both horses drove 
 Under the axle.— Cowpcr^s Version, book viii. 
 
 t Riffhl o'er the hollow foss the coursers leap'd, 
 By the immortal gods to Peleus given.— 
 
 Cawper's fcrsioUj book XtI. 
 
 29
 
 450 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 recollect this, when you next see him, you 
 may submit it, if you please, to his considei-- 
 ation. I stumbled yesterday on another sub- 
 ject, which reminded me of said excellent 
 artist, as likely to afford a fine opportunity 
 to the expression that he could give it. It is 
 found in the shooting match in the twenty- 
 third book of the Iliad, between Meriones 
 and Teucer. The former cuts the string 
 with which the dove is tied to the mast-head, 
 and sets her at liberty ; the latter, standing at 
 his side, in all the eagerness of emulation, 
 points an arrow at the mark with his right 
 hand, while with his left he snatches the bow 
 from his competitor ; he is a fine poetical 
 figure, but Mr. Lawrence himself must judge 
 whether or not he promises as well for the 
 canvas.* 
 
 He does great honor to my physiognomy 
 by his intention to get it engraved; and, 
 though I think I foresee that this private pub- 
 lication will grow in time into a publication 
 of absolute publicity, I find it impossible 
 to be dissatisfied with anything that seems 
 eligible both to him and you. To say the 
 truth, when a man has once turned his mind 
 inside out for the inspection of all who 
 choose to inspect it, to make a secret of his 
 face seems but little better than a self-con- 
 tradiction. At the same time, however, I 
 shall be best pleased if it be kept, according 
 to your intentions, as a rarity. 
 
 i have lost Hayley, and begin to be uneasy 
 at not hearing from him ; tell me about him 
 when you write. 
 
 I should be happy to have a work of mine 
 embellished by Lawrence, and made a com- 
 panion for a work of Hayley's. It is an 
 event to which I look forward with the ut- 
 most complacence. I cannot tell you what 
 a relief I feel it not to be pressed for Milton. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 8, 1793. 
 
 My dear Friend, — In my last I forgot to 
 thank you for the box of books, containing 
 also the pamphlets. We have read, that is 
 to say, my cousin has, who reads to us in 
 the evening, the history of Jonathan Wild,f 
 and found it highly entertaining. The satire 
 
 * Cowper here inverts the order of the names, and at- 
 tributes to Teucer, what in the original is ascribed to 
 Meriones. 
 
 At once Meriones withdrew the bow 
 
 From Teucer^'s hand, but held the shaft the while. 
 
 Already aim'd 
 
 He ey'd the dove aloft beneath a cloud. 
 
 And struck her circling; high in air ; the shaft 
 
 Pass'd through her, and returning pierc'd the soil 
 
 Before the foot of brave Meriones. 
 
 She, perching on the mast again, her head 
 
 Reclin'd, and hung her wide-unfolded wing ; 
 
 But, soon expiring, dropp'd and fell remote. 
 
 The concluding lines of this passage convey a beautiful 
 and affecting image. 
 
 t A production of Fielding's. 
 
 on great men is witty, and I believe perfectly 
 just : we have no censure to pass on it, un- 
 less that we think the character of Mrs. 
 Heartfree not well sustained ; not quite deli- 
 cate in the latter part of it ; and that the 
 constant effect of her charms upon every 
 man who sees her, has a sameness in it that 
 is tiresome, and betrays either much careless- 
 ness, or idleness, or lack of invention. It is 
 possible, indeed, that the author might in- 
 tend by this circumstance a satirical glance 
 at novelists, whose heroines are generally all 
 bewitching ; but it is a fault that he had bet- 
 ter have noticed in another manner, and not 
 have exemplified in his own. 
 
 The first volume of Man as He is has lain 
 unread in my study-window this twelve- 
 month, and would have been returned un- 
 read to its owner, had not my cousin come 
 in good time to save it from that disgrace. 
 We are now reading it, and find it excellent; 
 abounding with wit and just sentiment, and 
 knowledge both of books and men. 
 
 Adieu, W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Dec. 8, 1793. 
 
 I have waited and waited impatiently, for a 
 line from you, and am at last determined to 
 send you one, to inquire what has become of 
 you, and why you are silent so much longer 
 than usual. 
 
 I want to know many things, which only 
 you can tell me, but especially I want to know 
 what has been the issue of your conference 
 with Nichol : has he seen your work?* I 
 am impatient for the appearance of it, be- 
 cause impatient to have the spotless credit 
 of the great poet's character, as a man and a 
 citizen, vindicated, as it ought to be, and as 
 it never will be again. 
 
 It is a great relief to me, that my Miltonic 
 labors are suspended. I am now busy in 
 transcribing the alterations of Homer, having 
 finished the whole revisal. I must then write 
 a new preface, which done, I shall endeavor 
 immediately to descant on The Four Ages. 
 Adieu 1 my dear brother, W. C. 
 
 The Miltonic labors of Cowper were not 
 only suspended at this time, but we lament 
 to say never resumed. 
 
 There is a period in the history of men 
 of letters when the mind begins to shrink 
 from the toil and responsibility of a great 
 undertaking and to feel the necessity of 
 contracting its exertions within limits more 
 suited to its diminished powers. Physical 
 and moral causes are often found to co-oper- 
 ate in hastening this crisis. The sensibilities 
 that are inseparable from genius, the ardor 
 
 * Hayley's Life of Milton.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 45 1 
 
 that consumes itself by its own fires, the la- 
 bor of thought, and the inadequacy of the 
 body to sustain the energies of the soul 
 within — these often unite in harassing tlie 
 spirits, and sowing the seeds of a premature 
 decay. Such was now the case with Cowper. 
 His literary exertions iiad been too unremit- 
 ting, and though we must allow much to the 
 inrtuence of his unhappy malady, and to the 
 illness of Mrs. Unwin, yet there can be no 
 doubt that his long and laborious habits of 
 study had no small share in undermining his 
 constitution. 
 
 It seems desirable therefore, at this period, 
 to refer to the intended edition of Milton, 
 and briefly to state the result of his lahors. 
 
 The design is thus stated by Cowper him- 
 self, in one of his letters. "A Milton, tiiat 
 is to rival, and if possible to exceed in splen- 
 dor, BoydelFs Sliakspeare, is in contempla- 
 tion, and I am in the Editor's oliice. Fuseli 
 is the painter. My business will be to select 
 notes from others, and to write original notes; 
 to translate the Latin and Italian poems, and 
 to give a correct text." 
 
 All that he was enabled to accomplish of 
 this undertaking was as follows : 
 
 He commenced the series of his transla- 
 tions about the middle of September, 1791. 
 In February, 1792, he had completed all his 
 Latin pieces, and shortly after he finished the 
 Italian. Wiiile at Eartham, in August, he re- 
 vised all his translations, and they were sub- 
 sequently retouched, in his declining strength, 
 at East Dereham. From an amiable desire 
 10 avoid what might create irritation, he 
 omitted the Poems against the Catholics, and 
 thus assigned his motives in a letter to 
 Johnson. 
 
 Weston, Oct. 30, 17'Jl. 
 
 '' We and the Papists are at present on 
 .unicable terms. They have behaved them- 
 selves peaceably many years, and have lately 
 received favor from Government. I should 
 tiiink, tiierefore, that the dying embers of 
 ancient animosity had better not be troubled." 
 
 He also omitted a few of the minuter 
 poems, as not worthy of being ranked with 
 the rest. 
 
 He was assisted in the execution of this 
 work by the Adamo of Andreini, Rentley's 
 Milton, an interleaved copy of Newton's, and 
 Warton's edition of the minor poems.* 
 
 * Of these editions of Milton, that of Bentley has always 
 been considi'rod iicoin|)letefiill\iiv. It is reniiirkiiblefor 
 the boldness of its conjectural eniendiitioiis, and for tlio 
 liberties taken with the text. An anuisinu; Jinecilote is 
 recorded on tliissuly'ect. To a friend expostnlalinic with 
 him on the occiusion, and in'^itiLC llial it was impor.sible 
 for Milton, in so many instances, to liave wriUen as he 
 alleged, ho replied with his characlerislic spirit, "Then 
 lie onij'ht to have written so." Itishop Newton's edition 
 lias .icquireil .just celebrity, and has served as Iho basis 
 of all subse(iiient eiiitions. It has been (h'scrveilly called 
 "the best edited Kuvdish Cla-isic up lo the jieriod of il. 
 Vubliciilion." Warton's edition of "The Juvenile and 
 
 With respect to his critical labors, he pro- 
 ceeded with singular slowness and difficulty. 
 It appears to have been a most oppressive 
 burden on his spirits. " Milton especially," he 
 observes, "is my grievance; and I might 
 almost as well be haunted by his ghost as 
 goaded with continual reproaches for neglect- 
 ing him." He was always soliciting more 
 time, and when the appointed period was ex- 
 pired, he renewed his application for fresh 
 delay. His commentary is restricted to the 
 three first books of the Paradise Lost. 
 
 This seems to imply that however nature 
 designed him to be a poet, she denied the 
 qualifications necessary to constitute the critic, 
 for it will generally be found, that to execute 
 with delight and ease is the attribute of 
 genius, and the evidence of natural impulse ; 
 and that slowness of performance indicates 
 the want of those powers that titford the 
 promise and pledge of success. 
 
 In this unfinished state, the work was pub- 
 lished by Hayley, in the year 1808, for the 
 benefit of the second sou of Mr. Rose, the 
 godchild of Cowper. Some designs in outline 
 were furnished by Flaxman, highly character- 
 istic of his graceful style. 
 
 The translations are a perfect model of 
 beautiful and elegant versification. 
 
 We consider Milton's address to his father 
 to be one of the most beautiful compositions 
 extant, and rejoice in presenting it to the 
 reader in an English form, so worthy of the 
 original Latin poem. 
 
 Minor Poems" discovers a classical and elegant taste. 
 Its merit, however, is greatly impaired by the severity 
 of its censures on Alilton's republican and religious prin- 
 ciples. It was to rescue that K'reat poet from the ani- 
 madversions of Warton and Dr. .Johnson that Hayley 
 engaged in a life of Milton, which does honor to the 
 manliness and generosity of his feelings. Hut the most 
 powerful defence is that of tlio Rev. Dr. Symoiis, who, 
 with considerable vigor of thought and language, has 
 taken a most comprehensive view of the character and 
 prose writings of Milton, lie would have been entitled 
 lo distinguished praise, if, in vindicating the republican- 
 ism of Milton, he had not deeply fallen into it himself. 
 In the present day the clouds of prejudice seem to have 
 subsided, and the errors of the politician are deservedly 
 foru'otten in the celebrity of the poet. There was a pe- 
 riod when, according to Dr. Johnson, a monument to 
 Philips, with an inscription by Atterbury, in which he 
 was said to be mi/i .Mittono srcundus, was refused admit- 
 lanc(^ by Dean i^prat into Westminster Abbey, on the 
 ground of its " being too detestable to be read on the 
 wall of a building dedicated to devotion." 
 
 The honors of a monument were at length conceded to 
 Milton himself; but the beautiful and elegant Latin in- 
 seri|>tion, composed by Dr. George, Provost of King's 
 College, Cambridge, shows that it was thouglit necessary 
 to apologize for its admission into that sacred repository 
 of kings and prelates.* 
 
 * We cannot refrain from enriching our pages with thii 
 much admired Epitaph. 
 
 '• Augusti regum cineres saneta?que favilhe 
 lleroiim, Vosque O! venerandi nominis urabrifi! 
 Parcite, quod vestris, infensum regibus olim, 
 f^'edibus inferter nomen: liceatque supremis 
 Fiineribiis tinere odia, et mors obruat iras. 
 Nunc sub f(Hderibus coeant felicibus, una 
 l.iliertas. et jus sacri inviolabile sceptri. 
 liege sub .luirusto fas sit laudaro Catuncia.'"
 
 452 
 
 COWPER'S WORKfS. 
 
 TO HIS t'ATHER. 
 
 Oh that Pieria's spring would thro' my breast 
 
 Pour its inspiring influence, and rush. 
 
 No rill, but rather an o'erflowing Hood ! 
 
 That for my venerable father's sake. 
 
 All meaner themes renounc'd, ray muse on wings 
 
 Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain. 
 
 For thee, my father, howsoe'er it please, 
 
 She frames this slender work, nor know I aught, 
 
 That may thy gifts more suitably requite ; 
 
 Though to requite them suitably would ask 
 
 Returns much nobler, and surpassing far 
 
 The meagre stores of verh!il gratitude : 
 
 But. such as I possess, I send thee all. 
 
 This page presents thee in their full amount 
 
 With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought: 
 
 Nought save the riches that from airy dream 
 
 In secret grottoes, and in laurel bow'rs, 
 
 I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquir'd. 
 
 He then sings the prciises of song in the 
 following animated strain. 
 
 Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
 Verse therefore, which evinces, (nothing more) 
 Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
 Some scintillations of Promethean fire, 
 Bespeaks him animated from above. [selves 
 
 The gods love verse, the infernal pow'rs them- 
 Confess the influence of verse which stirs 
 The lowest deep and binds in triple chains 
 Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. 
 In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale 
 Tremulous Sybil, make the future known. 
 And he who sacrifices, on the shrine [bull, 
 
 Hangs verse, both when he smites the threat'ning 
 And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide 
 To scrutinize the Fates envelop'd there. 
 
 He anticipates it as one of the employ- 
 ments of glorified spirits in heaven. 
 
 We too, ourselves, what time we seek again 
 Our native skies, and one eternal Now* 
 Shall be the only measure of our being, 
 Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre 
 Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, 
 And make the starry firmament resound. 
 
 The sympathy existing between the two 
 kindred studies of poetry and music is de- 
 scribed with happy effect. 
 
 Now say, what wonder is it, if a son 
 
 Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd 
 
 In close affinity we sympathize 
 
 In social arts, and kindred studies sweet 1 
 
 Such distribution of himself to us 
 
 Was Phoebus' choice ; thou hast thy gift,t and I 
 
 Mine also, and between us we receive, 
 
 Father and son, the whole inspiring god. 
 
 The following effusion of filial feeling is as 
 honorable to the discernment and liberality 
 of the parent, as it is expressive of the grati- 
 tude of the son. 
 
 . . . Thou never bad'st me tread 
 The beaten path and broad, that leads right on 
 
 * The same expression is used by Cowley: 
 
 "Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, 
 But an eternal Now does always last." 
 t Milton's father was well skilled in music. 
 
 To opulence, nor did.st condemn thy son 
 
 To the insipid clamors of the bar, 
 
 To laws voluminous and ill-observ'd ; 
 
 But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 
 
 My mind with treasure, led'st me far away 
 
 From city-din to deep retreats, to banks 
 
 And streams Aonian. and, with free consent, 
 
 Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 
 
 I speak not now, on more important themes 
 
 Intent, of common benefits, and such 
 
 As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts. 
 
 My father ! who, when I had open'd once 
 
 The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd 
 
 The full-ton'd language of tiie eloquent Greeks, 
 
 Whose lofty music grac'd the lips ot' Jove, 
 
 Thyself didst counsel me to add the flow'rs, 
 
 That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the 
 
 Italian his degen'rate speech adorfis, [smooth 
 
 That witnesses his mixture with the Goth ; 
 
 And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. 
 
 We delight in witnessing the exuberance of 
 manly and generous feeling in a son towards 
 a parent, entitled by kind offices to his grati- 
 tude, and therefore transcribe the following 
 passage. 
 
 Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds. 
 That covet it 1 what could my lather more 1 
 What more could Jove himself unless he gave 
 His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns 1 
 More eligible gifts than these were not 
 Apollo's to his son, had they been safe, 
 As they were insecure, who made the boy 
 The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule 
 The radiant chariot of the day, and bind 
 To his young brows his own all-dazzhng wreath. 
 1 therefore, although last and least my place 
 Among the learned, in the laurel grove 
 Will hold, and where the conqu'rors ivy twine's, 
 Henceforth exempt from the unlelter'd throng 
 Proiane, nor even to be seen by such. 
 Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint, away! 
 And Envy, with thy 'jealous leer malign !" 
 Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth 
 Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes 1 
 Ye all are impotent against my peace, 
 For I am privileg'd, and bear ray breast 
 Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. 
 
 He thus beautifully concludes this affecting 
 tribute of filial gratitude. 
 
 But thou, my father ! since to render thanks 
 Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
 Thy liberality, exceeds my power. 
 Suffice it, tliat I thus record thy gifts, 
 Vnd bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind! 
 Ye too the favorite pastime of my youth, 
 My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
 To hope longevity, and to survive 
 Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
 In the oblivious Lethaean gulf, 
 Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
 This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
 Improve the fathers of a distant age ! 
 
 We subjoin Hayley's remark on this poem, 
 in Cowper's edition of Milton. 
 
 " These verses are founded on one of the 
 most interesting subjects that language can 
 display the warmth and felicity of strong re»
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 45^ 
 
 ciprocal kindness between a father and a son, 
 not only united by the most sacred tie of 
 nature, but still more endeared to each other 
 by the I'^'ppy cultivation of honorable and 
 congenia. arts. The sublime description of 
 poetry, ai.d the noble and graceful portrait, 
 which the author here exiiibits of his own 
 mental character, may be said to render this 
 splendid poem the prime jewel in a coronet 
 of variegated gems." 
 
 We extract the following passages from the 
 remarks and notes in Cowper's Milton, as ex- 
 hibiting the manner in which he executed this 
 portion of his labors. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 " There is a solemnity of sentiment, as well 
 as majesty of numbers, in the exordium of 
 this noble poem, which, in the works of the 
 ancients, has no example. 
 
 " Tiie sublimest of all subjects was reserved 
 for Milton : and. bringing to the contempla- 
 tion of that subject, not only a genius equal 
 to the best of theirs but a heart also deeply 
 impregnated with the divine truths which lay 
 belbre him, it is no wonder that he has pro- 
 duced a composition, on the whole, superior 
 to any that we have received from former ages. 
 But he who addresses himself to the perusal 
 of tliis work, with a mind entirely unaccus- 
 tomed to serious and spiritual contemplation, 
 unacquainted with the word of God, or pre- 
 judiced against it, is ill qualified to appreciate 
 the value of a poem built upon it, or to taste 
 its beauties, ^lilton is the poet of Christians ; 
 an infidel may have an ear for the harmony 
 of his immbers, may be aware of the dignity 
 of his expression, and, in some degree, of the 
 sublimity of his conceptions; but the unaf- 
 fected and masculine piety, which was his 
 true inspirer, and is the very soul of his poem, 
 he will not either perceive, or it will offend 
 him." 
 
 To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 
 
 Line 177. 
 
 "In this we .seem to hear a thunder suited 
 both to the scene and the occasion, incom- 
 parably more awful than any ever heard on 
 earth, and the thunder winged with Ughinlng 
 is highly poetical. It may be observed here, 
 that the thunder of Milton is not hurled from 
 the hand like Homer's, but discharged like 
 an arrow. Thus in book vi., line 712, the 
 Father, ordering forth the Son for the de- 
 struction of the rebel angels, says — 
 
 BriniT forth all my war, 
 
 My bow, and thunder. 
 
 As if, jealous for the honor of the true God, 
 the poet disdained to arm him like the god 
 jf the heathen.'"* 
 
 He spake, and to confirm his words, &c. &c. 
 
 Line 1)03. 
 * Psalm vii. 1-2. 
 
 " This is another instance in which appears 
 the advantage that Milton derives from the 
 grandeur of his subject. What description 
 could even he have given of a host of human 
 warriors insulting their conqueror, at all com- 
 parable to this? First, their multitude is to 
 be noticed. They are not thousands, but 
 millions; and they are millions, not of puny 
 mortals, but of mighty cherubim. Their 
 swords flame, not metaphorically, but they 
 are swords of fire ; they flash not by reflec- 
 tion of the suih-bcams, like the swords of 
 Homer, but by their own light, and that light 
 plays not idly in the broad day, but far round 
 illumines Hell. And lastly, they defy not a 
 created being like themselves, but the Al- 
 mighty." 
 
 BOOK 11. 
 
 As when from mountain tops, &c. 
 
 Line 488. 
 
 " The reader loses half the beauty of this 
 charming simile, who does not give particular 
 attention to the numbers. There is a majesty 
 in them not often equalled, and never sur- 
 passed, even by this great poet himself; the 
 movement is uncommonly slow ; an effect 
 produced by means already hinted at, the as- 
 semblage of a greater proportion of long 
 syllables than usual. The pauses are also 
 managed with great skill and judgment; 
 while the clouds rise, and the heavens gather 
 blackness, they fall in those parts of the verse 
 where they retard the reader most, and thus 
 become expressive of the solemnity of the 
 subject ; but in the latter part of the simile, 
 when the sun breaks out, and the scene 
 brightens, they are so disposed as to allow 
 the verse an easier and less interrupted flow, 
 more suited to the cheerfulness of the oc- 
 casion." 
 
 He concludes with the following summary 
 of the great doctrines that form the founda- 
 tion of the Paradise Lost. 
 
 "It may not be amiss, at the close of these 
 admirable speeches — as admirable for their 
 sound divinity as for the perspicuity with 
 which it is expressed — to allow ourselves a 
 moment's pause, for the purpose of taking a 
 short retrospect of the doctrines contained in 
 them. Man, in the beginning, is placed in a 
 probationary state, and made the arbiter of 
 his own destiny. By his own fault, he for- 
 feits happiness, both for himself and his de- 
 scendants. But mercy interposes for his 
 restoration. That mercy is represented as 
 j)erfectly free, as vouchsafed to the most un- 
 worthy ; to creatures so entirely dead in sin 
 as to be destitute even of a sense of their 
 need of it, and consequently too stupid even 
 to ask it. They are also as poor as they are 
 unfeeling; and, were it possible that they 
 could aftcct themselves with a just sense and 
 apprehension of their lapsed condition, they
 
 454 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 would have no compensation to offer to their 
 offended Mulcer, nothing with which they can 
 satisfy the demands of his justice, — in short, 
 no atonement. In this ruinous state of their 
 affairs, and when all hope of reconciliation 
 seems lost forever, tlie Son of God volunta- 
 rily undertakes for them, — undertakes to be- 
 come the son of man also, and to suffer, in 
 man's stead, the penalty annexed to his trans- 
 gression. In consequence of this self-sub- 
 stitution, Christ becomes the federal head of 
 his church, and the sole author of salvation 
 to his people. As "Adam's sin was imputed 
 to his posterity, so the faultless obedience of 
 the second Adam is imputed to all, who, in 
 the great concern of justification, shall re- 
 nounce their own obedience as imperfect and 
 therefore incompetent. The sentence is thus 
 reversed as to all believers : ' Death is swal- 
 lowed up in victory.' The Saviour presents 
 the redeemed before the throne of the Eter- 
 nal Father, in whose countenance no longer 
 any symptom of displeasure appears against 
 them, but their joy and peace are thenceforth 
 perfect. The general resurrection takes place ; 
 the saints are made assessors with Christ in 
 the judgment, both of men and angels ; the 
 new heaven and earth, the destined habita- 
 tion of the just, succeed; the Son of God, 
 his whole undertaking accomplished, surren- 
 ders the kingdom to his Fatiier : God be- 
 comes all in all ! It is easy to see, that, 
 among these doctrines, there are some which, 
 in modern times, have been charged with 
 novelty ; but how new they are Milton is a 
 witness." 
 
 Fuseli, whose labors were so unfortunately 
 superseded, completed a series of admirable 
 paintings from subjects furnished by the 
 Paradise Lost; which were afterwards ex- 
 hibited in London, under the name of the 
 Milton Gallery. He thus acquired a reputa- 
 tion which placed him in the first rank of 
 artists ; and the amateur had the opportunity 
 of seeing, in the Shakspeare and Milton gal- 
 leries, tiie most distinguished painters en- 
 gaged in illustrating the productions of the 
 two greatest authors that ever adorned any 
 age or country.* 
 
 This projected edition of Milton is re- 
 
 * A popular writer paid the following eloquent tribute 
 to these masterly specimens of professional art. 
 
 Yet mark each willing Muse, where Boydell draws. 
 And calls the sister pow'rs in Shakspeare's cause ! 
 By art controll'd the fire of Reynolds breaks. 
 And nature's pathos in her Northcote speaks ; 
 The Grecian forms in Hamilton combine, 
 Parrhasian grace, and Zeuxis' softest line ; 
 There Barry's learning meets with Itomney's strength. 
 And Smirke portrays Thalia at full length. 
 
 Lo ! Fuseli (in whose tempestuous soul 
 The unnavigable tides of genius roll,) 
 Depicts the sulph'rous fire, the sinould'ring light. 
 The bridge chaotic o'er the abyss of night. 
 With each accursed form and mystic spell, 
 And singly '• bears up all the fame of iiell !" 
 
 Pursuits of Literature, 
 
 markable as having laid the foundation of 
 the intercourse, which soon ripened into 
 friendship, between Covvper and Havley. 
 The latter was at that time engaged in writ- 
 ing a fife of Milton, which gave rise to hia 
 being represented as an opponent of Cowper. 
 To exonerate himself from such an imputa- 
 tion, he wrote the letter which we subjoin in 
 a note.* 
 
 Having detailed the circumstances con- 
 nected with the edition of Milton, we return 
 to the regular correspondence. 
 
 ' * Eartham, Feb., 1792. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I have often been tempted, by aflectionate 
 admiration of your poetry, to trouble you with a letter ; 
 but I have repeatedly checked myself by recollecting that 
 the vanity of believing ourselves distantly related in spirit 
 to a man of genius is but a sorry apology for'intruding 
 on his time. 
 
 Though I resisted my desire of professing myself your 
 friend, that I might not disturb you with intrusive famil- 
 iarity, I cannot resist a desire, equally affectionate, of dis- 
 claiming an idea which I am told is imputed to me, of 
 considering myself, on a recent occasion, as an antagonist 
 to you. Allow me, therefore, to say, I was solicited to 
 write a Life of Milton, for Boydell and Nichol, before I 
 had the least idea that you and Mr. Fuseli were concerned 
 in a project similar to theirs. When I liist heard of your 
 intention, I was apprehensive that we might undesign- 
 edly thwart each other ; but, on seeing your proposals, I 
 am agreeably persuaded that our respective labors will 
 be far from clashing ; as it is your design to illustrate 
 Milton with a series of notes, and I only mean to execute 
 a more candid life of him than his late biographer has 
 given us, upon a plan that will, I flatter myself, be par- 
 ticularly pleasing to those who love the autlior as we do. 
 
 As lo the pecuniary interests of those persons who 
 venture large sums in expensive decoration of Milton, I 
 am persuaded his expanding glory will support them all. 
 Every splendid edition, where the merits of the pencil 
 are in any degree worthy of the poet, will, I think, be 
 secure of success. I wish it cordially to all ; as I have a 
 great affection for the arts, and a sincere regard for those 
 whose talents reflect honor upon them. 
 
 To you, my dear sir, I have a grateful attachment, for 
 the infinite delight which your writings have afforded 
 me ; and if, in the course of your work, Ihave any (jppor- 
 tunity to serve or oblige you, I shall seize it with that 
 friendly spirit which has impelled me at present to assure 
 you both in })rose and rhyme, that 1 am your cordial 
 admirer. 
 
 W. Hayley. 
 
 P. S. I wrote the enclosed sonnet on being told that or.r 
 names had been idly printed together in a newspaper, a* 
 hostile competitors. Pray forgive its partial defects for its 
 affectionate sincerity. From my ignorance of your ad- 
 dress, I send tills to your bookseller's by a person com- 
 missioned to place my name in the list of your sub- 
 scribers ; and let me add, if you ever wish to form a new 
 collection of names for any similar purpose, I entreat 
 you to honor me so far as to rank mini; of youi- own ac- 
 cord, among those of your sincerest friends. Adieu! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 On hearing that our names had been idly mentioned in a 
 newspaper, as competitors in a Life of Milton. 
 
 Cowper ! delight of all who justly prize 
 The splendid magic of a strain divine, 
 That sweetly tempts th' enlighten'd soul to rise, 
 As sunbeanis lure an eagle to the skies. 
 Poet ! to whom I feel ray heart incline 
 As to a friend endeared by virtue's ties ; 
 Ne'er shall mv name in pride's contentious line 
 With hostile emulation cope with thine ! 
 No, let us meet, with kind fraternal aim, 
 Where Milton's slirine invites a votive throng. 
 With thee I share a passion for his fiime. 
 His zeal for truth, his scorn of venal blame: 
 But thou hast rarer gifts,— to thee belong 
 His harp of highest tone— his sanctity of song.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 455 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 
 
 Weston, Dec. 10, 1793. 
 
 You mentioned, my dear friend, in your 
 iast letter, an unfavorable sprain that you 
 had received, vvliicli you appreiiended migiit 
 be very inconvenient to you for some time to 
 come; and having learned also from Lady 
 Hesketh the same unwelcome intelligence, 
 in terms still more alarming than tliose i:i 
 which you related the accident yourself, I 
 cannot but be anxious, as well as my cousin, 
 to know the present state of it; and shall 
 truly rejoice to hear that it is in a state of 
 recovery. Give us a line of information on 
 this subject, as soon as you can conveniently, 
 and you will much oblige us. 
 
 I write by morning candle-light; my lite- 
 rary business obliging me to be an early riser. 
 Homer demands me : finished, indeed, but the 
 alterations not transcribed: a work to which 
 1 am now hastening as fast as possible. The 
 transcript ended, which is likely to amount 
 to a good sizeable volume, I must write a 
 new preface: and then farewell to Homer 
 forever! And if the remainder of my days 
 be a little gilded with the profits of this long 
 and laborious work, I shall not regret the 
 time that I have bestowed on it. 
 I remain, my dear friend, 
 
 Affectionately yours, W. C. 
 
 Can you give us any news of Lord Howe's 
 Armada; concerning which we may inquire, 
 as our forefathers did of the Spanish, — "an 
 in ccelum sublata sit, an in Tartarum de- 
 pressaf'f 
 
 The reader may now be anxious to learn 
 some particulars of the projected poem, which 
 has been repeatedly mentioned under the title 
 of The Four Ages ; a poem to which the mind 
 of Cowper looked eagerly forward, as to a 
 new and highly promising field for his ex- 
 cursive lancy. The idea had beensuti^gested 
 to liim in the year 179], by his clerical neigh- 
 bor, Mr. Buchanan, of Ravenstone, a small 
 sequestered village within the distance of an 
 
 * Private correspondence. 
 
 t IahiI Howe was at this time in pursuit of the French 
 lleet, aii>l al)seiit six weeks, duriiic: whicli the puhlic re- 
 ceived nu iiilelli'^eiice of his moveinenls. His lordsliip 
 nt leiijith reliinieil, hiiviiii; only seen the enemy, Ijul 
 wilhoiit having' been able lo overtake and briiitf tli'em to 
 action. Thoimh lliis furnished no ari^ument atcainst him, 
 but rather sliowed llie t<;rror that he inspired, yet some 
 of the wits of the day wrote the following jeu tVcsprit on 
 the occasion. 
 
 When C;esar trimnph'd o'er his Gallic foes, 
 Three words concise,* his i;nllant ads disclose; 
 Hut Howe, more brief, comprises his in one. 
 And vidi tells us all that he has done. 
 
 Lord Howe subsequently proved his claim to the whole 
 of this Celebrated despatch of Ciesar, by Itio y,'reat victory 
 \Wiicb ho i;ained olf Ushant over the I'rencli lleet, June 1, 
 nyi.a victory which forms one of the brii;lilest triumphs 
 Df the iiritieh navy. 
 
 * yeni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. 
 
 easy walk from Weston. This gentleman, 
 who had occasionally enjoyed the gratification 
 of visiting Cowper, sugge'sted to him, with a 
 becoming difiidence,the project of anewpoem 
 on the four distinct periods of life — infancy, 
 youth, manhood, and old age. He imparted 
 his ideas to the poet by a letter, in which he 
 observed, with equal modesty and truth, that 
 Cowper was particularly qualified to relish, 
 and to do justice to the subject; a subject 
 which he supposed not hitherto treated ex- 
 pressly, as its importance deserved, by any 
 poet ancient or modern. 
 
 Mr. Buchanan added to this letter a brief 
 sketch of contents for the projected composi- 
 tion. This hasty sketch he enlarged, at the 
 request of Cowper. How the poet appreci- 
 ated the suggestion will appear from the fol- 
 lowing billet. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN. 
 
 Weston, May 11, 1793. 
 My dear Sir, — You have sent me a beauti- 
 ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would 
 to heaven that you would give it that requi- 
 site yourself; for he who could make the 
 sketch, cannot but be well qualified to finish. 
 But if you will not, I will; provided always 
 nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it 
 will require no common share to do justice to 
 your conceptions. 
 
 I am much yours, W. C. 
 
 Your little messenger vanished before I 
 could catch him. 
 
 This work, in his first conception of it, was 
 greatly endeared to him, but he soon enter- 
 tained an apprehension that he should never 
 accomplish it. Writing to his friend of St. 
 Paul's in 1793, the poet said—" The Four 
 Ages is a subject that delights me when I 
 think of it; but I am ready to fear, that all 
 my ages will be exhausted before I shall beat 
 leisure to write upon it." 
 
 A fragment is all that he has left, for which 
 we refer the reader to the Poems. In his hap- 
 pier days, it would have been expanded in a 
 manner more commensurate with the copi- 
 ousness of the subject, and the poetical 
 powers of the author. 
 
 It may be interesting to add, that a modern 
 poem on the Four Ages of Man was written 
 by M. Werthmuller, a citizen of Zurich, and 
 translated into Latin verse, by Dr. Olstrochi, 
 librarian to the Ambrosian library at Milan. 
 This performance gave rise to another Ger- 
 man^ poem on the Four Ages of Woman, by 
 M. Zacharie, professor of poetry at Bruns- 
 wick. 
 
 The increasing infirmities of Cowper's aged 
 companion, Mrs. Unwin, his filial solicitude 
 to alleviate her suflerings, and the gathering 
 clouds of deeper despondency that began to
 
 456 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS 
 
 settle on his mind, in the first montli of the 
 year 1794, not only rendered it impossible for 
 him to advance in any great original perform- 
 ance, but, to use his own expressive words, 
 in the close of his correspondence with his 
 highly valued friend, Mr. Rose, made all com- 
 position either of poetry or prose impractica- 
 ble. Writing to that friend in January 1794, 
 he says, " I have just ability enough to tran- 
 scribe, whicli is all that I have to do at present : 
 God knows that I write, at. this moment, 
 under the pressure of sadness not to be de- 
 scribed." 
 
 It was a spectacle that might awaken com- 
 passion in the sternest of human characters, 
 to see the health, the comfort, and the little 
 fortune of a man, so distinguished by intel- 
 lectual endowments, and by moral excellence, 
 perishing most deplorably. A sight so affect- 
 ing made many friends of Cowper solicitous 
 and importunate that his declining life should 
 be honorably protected by public munificence. 
 Men of all parties agreed that a pension might 
 be granted to an author of his acknowledged 
 merit, with graceful propriety. 
 
 But such is the difficulty of doing real 
 good, experienced even by the great and 
 powerful, or so apt are statesmen to forget 
 the pressing exigence of meritorious indi- 
 viduals, in the distractions of official per- 
 plexity, that month after month elapsed, 
 without the accomplishment of so desirable 
 an object. 
 
 Imagination can hardly devise any human 
 condition more truly affecting than the state 
 of the poet at this period. His generous and 
 faithful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had pre- 
 served liim through seasons of the severest 
 calamity, was now, with her faculties and 
 fortune impaired, sinking fast into second 
 childhood. The distress of heart that he felt 
 in beholding the afflicting change in a com- 
 panion so justly dear to him, conspiring with 
 his constitutional melancholy, was gradually 
 undermining the exquisite faculties of his 
 mind. The disinterestedness and affectionate 
 kindness of Lady Heskelh, at this crisis, de- 
 serves to be recorded in terms of the hisfhest 
 commendation. With a magnanimity of 
 feeling to which it is difficult to do justice, 
 and to the visible detriment of her health, she 
 nobly devoted herself to the superintendence 
 of a house, whose two interesting inhabitants 
 were almost incapacitated from attending to 
 the ordinary offices of life. Those only who 
 have lived with the superannuated and the 
 melancholy, can properly appreciate the value 
 of such a sacrifice. 
 
 The two last of Cowper's letters to Hayley, 
 that breathe a spirit of mental activity and 
 cheerful friendship, were written in the close 
 of the year 1793, and in the beginning of the 
 next. They arose from an accident that it may 
 be proper to relate, before we insert them. 
 
 On Hayley's return from Weston, he had 
 given an account of the poet to his old friend, 
 Lord Thurlow. That learned and powerful 
 critic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, de- 
 clared liimself not satisfied with his version 
 of Hector's admirable prayer in caressing liis 
 child. Both ventured on new translations of 
 this prayer, which were immediately sent to 
 Cowper, and the following letters will prove 
 with what just and manly freedom of spirit 
 he was at this time able to criticize the com- 
 position of his friends and his own. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 "Weston, Dec. 17, 1793. 
 
 Oh Jove ! and all ye GoJs ! grant this my son 
 To prove, hiie me, pre-eminent in Troy ! 
 In valor such, and firmness of command ! 
 Be he extoll'd, when he retuns from fight, 
 As far his sire's superior ! may he slay 
 His enemy, bring fiome his gory spoils, 
 And may his mother's heart o'erflow with joy ! 
 
 I rose this morning at six o'clock, on pur- 
 pose to translate this prayer again, and to 
 write to my dear brother. Here you have it, 
 such as it is, not perfectly according to my 
 own liking, but as well as I could make it, 
 and I tliink better than either yours or Lord 
 Thurlow's. You with your six lines have 
 made yourself stiff and ungraceful, and he 
 with liis seven has produced as good prose as 
 heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A scru- 
 pulous attention to the letter has spoiled you 
 both; you have neither the spirit nor the 
 manner of Homer. A portion of both may 
 be found, I believe, in my version, but not so 
 much as I could wish — it is better however 
 than the printed one. His lordship's two 
 first lines I cannot very well understand ; he 
 seems to me to give a sense to the original 
 that does not belong to it. Hector, I appre- 
 hend, does not say, " Grant that he may prove 
 himself my son, and be eminent," &c., — but 
 " grant that this my son may prove eminent" 
 — which is a material difference. In the 
 latter sense I find the simplicity of an ancient ; 
 in the former, that is to say, in the notion of 
 a man proving himself his father's son by 
 similar merit, the finesse and dexterity of a 
 modern. His lordship too makes the man, 
 who gives the young hero his commendation, 
 the person who returns from battle ; whereas 
 Homer makes the young hero himself that 
 person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, 
 which I suppose is hardly to be disputed. 
 
 If my old friend would look into my Pref- 
 ace, he would find a principle laid down there, 
 which perhaps it would not be easy to invali- 
 date, and \vhich properly attended to would 
 equally secure a translation from stifiTnessand 
 from wildness. The principle I mean is this, 
 " Close, but not so close as to be servihi ! free, 
 but not so free as to be licentious !" A su- 
 perstitious fidelity loses the .spirit, and a loo.'^e 
 
 II
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 457 
 
 deviation the sense of the translated autlior — 
 a happy moderation in eitlier case is the only 
 possible way of preserving both. 
 
 Tlius I have disciplined you both, and now 
 if you please, you may both discipline me. I 
 shall not enter my version in my book till it 
 has undergone your strictures at least, and, 
 should you write to the noble critic again, you 
 are welcome to submit it to his. We are 
 three awkward fellows indeed, :f we cannot 
 amongst us make a tolerable good translation 
 of six lines of Homer. 
 
 Adieu .' W. C. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 
 
 Weston, Jan. 5, 1794. 
 My dear Ilayley, — I have waited, but waited 
 in vain, for a propitious moment when I 
 might give my old friend's objections the con- 
 sideration tiiey deserve ; I shall at last '^e 
 forced to send a vague answer, unworthy to 
 be sent to a person accustomed, like him to 
 close reasoning and abstruse discussion; for 
 I rise after ill rest, and with a frame of mind 
 perfectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit too 
 at the window for light's sake, where Iain so 
 cold that my pen slips out of my fingers. 
 First, 1 will give you a translation, de novo, 
 of this untranslatable prayer. It is shaped as 
 nearly as I could contrive to his lordship's ideas, 
 but I have little hope that it will satisfy him. 
 
 Grant Jove, and nil ye Gods, that this my son 
 Be. as inyspll" have been illustrious here! 
 A valiant man ! and let hiai rciirn in Troy ! 
 IVIay all wlio witness his return trom fight 
 Hereafter say — he far excels his sire ; 
 And let him bring back gory trophies, stript 
 From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy. 
 
 Imlac in Rasselas says — I forget to whom, 
 " You have convinced me that it is impossi- 
 ble to be a poet." In like manner I might 
 say to his lordship, you have convinced me 
 that it is impossible to be a translator; to be 
 u translator, on his terms at least, is I am 
 sure impossible. On his terms, I would defy 
 Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the 
 Paradise Lost into Greek. Yet Milton had 
 Homer much in his eye when he composed 
 that poem; whereas Homer never tiiought of 
 me or my translation. There are minuta; in 
 every langunge, which, transfused into an- 
 other, will spoil the version.. Such extreme 
 fidelity is in fact unfaithful. Such close re- 
 seuddance takes away all likeness. The 
 original is elegant, easy, natural; the copy is 
 clumsy, constrained, unnatural: to what is 
 this owing? To the adoption of terms not 
 congenial to your piu'pose, and of a context, 
 such as no man writing an original work 
 ft'ould make use of. Homer is everything 
 that a poet should be. A translation of Ho- 
 mer, so made, will be everything a translation 
 
 of Homer should not be ; because it will b^ 
 written in no language under heaven. It 
 will be English, and it will be Greek, and 
 therefore it will be neither. He is the man, 
 whoever he be (I do not pretend to be that 
 man myself), he is the man best qualified 
 as a translator of Homer, who lias drenched, 
 and steeped, and soaked himself in the effu- 
 sions of his genius, till he has imbibed their 
 color to the bone, and who, when he is thus 
 dyed through and through, distinguishing be- 
 tween what is essentially Greek, and what 
 may be habited in English, rejects the for- 
 mer, and is faithful to the latter, as far as the 
 purposes of fine poetry will permit, and no 
 farther: this, 1 think, may be easily proved. 
 Homer is everywhere remarkable either for 
 ease, dignity or energy of expression; for 
 grandeur of conception, and a majestic flow 
 of numbers. If we copy him so close'y as to 
 make every one of these excellent properties 
 of his absolutely unattainable, which will 
 certainly be the ellect of too close a copy, in- 
 stead of translating, we murder him.' There- 
 fore, after all his lordship has said, 1 still hold 
 freedom to be an indispensable — freedom, I 
 mean, with respect to the expression; free- 
 dom so limited as never to leave behind the 
 maUer ; but at the same time indulged with 
 a sufficient scope to secure the spirit, and as 
 much as possible of the manner. I say as 
 much as possible, because an English manner 
 must differ from a Greek one, in order to be 
 graceful, and for this there is no remed}-. 
 Can an ungraceful, awkward translation of 
 Homer be a good one? No : but a graceful, 
 easy, natural, faithful version of him, will not 
 that be a good one ? Yes : allow me but 
 this, and I insist upon it, that such a one may 
 be jiroduced on my principles, and can be 
 produced on no other. 
 
 1 have not had time to criticise his lordship's 
 other version. You know how little time I 
 have for anything, and can tell him so. 
 
 Adieu! my dear brother. I have now tired 
 both you and myself; and with the love of 
 the whole trio, remain yours ever, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 Reading his lord.ship's sentiments over 
 again, I am inclined to think, that in all I 
 have said, I have only given him back the 
 same in other terms. He disallows both 
 the absolute free, and the absolute cZo.se — 
 so do I, and, if I understand myself, I said 
 so in my preface. He wishes to recom- 
 inend a medium, though he will not call 
 it so — so do I ; only we express it difter- 
 enfly. What is it, then, that we dispute 
 about ? My head is not good enough to-day 
 to discover. 
 
 These letters were followed by such a si- 
 lence on the part of Cowper, as excited Iho
 
 458 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 severest apprehensions, which were painfully 
 confirmed by the intelligence conveyed in the 
 
 ensuing letter :- 
 
 FROM THE REV. MR. GREATHEED TO 
 
 WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Newport Pagnel, April 8, 1794. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Lady Hesketh's correspondence 
 acquainted you with the melancholy relapse 
 of our dear friend at Weston ; but I am un- 
 certain whether you know, that in the last 
 fortnight he has refused food of every kind, 
 except now and then a very small piece of 
 toasted bread dipped generally in water, 
 sometimes mixed with a little wine. This, 
 her ladysliip informs me, was the case till 
 last Saturday, since when he has eat a little 
 at each family meal. He persists in refusing 
 such medicines as are indispensable to his 
 state of body. In such circumstances, his 
 long continuance in life cannot be expected. 
 How devoutly to be wished is the alleviation 
 of his danger and distress ! You, dear sir, 
 who know so well the worth of our beloved 
 and admired friend, sympathise with his atHic- 
 tion, and deprecate his loss doubtless in no 
 ordinary degree : you have already most ef- 
 fectually expressed and proved the warmth 
 of your friendship. I cannot think that any- 
 thing but your society would have been suffi- 
 cient, during the infirmity under which his 
 mind has long been oppressed, to liave sup- 
 ported him against the shock of Mrs. Un- 
 win's paralytic attack. I am certain that 
 nothing else could have prevailed upon him 
 to undertake the journey to Eartham. You 
 have succeeded where his other friends knew 
 they could not, and where they apprehended 
 no one could. How natural, "therefore, nay, 
 how reasonable, is it for them to look to you, 
 as most likely to be instrumental, under the 
 blessing of God, for relief in the present dis- 
 tressing and alarming crisis! It is indeed 
 scarcely attemptable to ask any person to 
 take such a journey, and involve liimself in 
 so melancholy a scene, with an uncertainty 
 of the desired success ; increased as the ap- 
 parent difficulty is by dear Mr. Cowper's 
 aversion to all company, and by poor Mrs. 
 Unwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On 
 these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it 
 of you, rejoiced as she would be at your ar- 
 rival. Am I not, dear sir, a very presumptu- 
 ous person, who, in the face of all opposition, 
 dare do this ? I am emboldened by those two 
 powerful supporters, conscience and experi- 
 ence. Was I at Eartham, I would certainly 
 undertake the labor I presume to recommend, 
 for the bare possibihty of restoring Mr. Cow- 
 per to himself, to his friends, to the public, 
 and to God. 
 
 Hayley, on the receipt of this letter, lost 
 
 no time in repairing to Weston; but hla 
 unhappy friend was too much overwhelmed 
 by his oppressive malady to show even the 
 least glimmering of satisfaction at the appear- 
 ance of a guest whom he used to receive 
 with the most lively expressions of affection- 
 ate delight. 
 
 It is the nature of this tremendous mel- 
 ancholy, not only to enshroud and stitle the 
 finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, 
 and apparently annihilates, for a time, the 
 strongest and best-rooted affections of the 
 heart. 
 
 Lady Hesketh, profiling by Hayley's pres- 
 ence, quitted her charge for a few days, that 
 she might have a personal conference with Dr. 
 Willis. A friendly letter from Lord Thurlow 
 to that celebrated physician had requested his 
 attention to the highly interesting sufferer. 
 Dr. Willis prescribed for Cowper, and saw 
 him at Weston, but not with that success and 
 felicity which made his medical skill on an- 
 other most awful occasion the source of na- 
 tional delight and exultation. 
 
 Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper 
 appeared to abound with circumstances very 
 untavorable to hia mental relief. The daily 
 sight of a being reduced to such a deplorable 
 imbecility as now overwhelmed JMrs. Unwin, 
 was in itself suflicient to plunge a tender 
 spirit into extreme melancholy ; yet to sep- 
 arate two friends, so long accustomed to 
 minister, with the purest and most vigilant 
 benevolence, to the infirmities of each other, 
 was a measure so pregnant with complicated 
 distraction, that it could not be advised or at- 
 tempted. It remained oiily to palliate the 
 sutiering of each in their present most pitia- 
 ble condition, and to trust in the mercy of 
 that God, who had supported them together 
 through periods of very dark affliction, though 
 not so doubly deplorable as the present. 
 
 Who can contemplate this distressing spec- 
 tacle without recalling the following pathetic 
 exclamation in the Sampson Agonistes of 
 Milton ? 
 
 God of our fathers, what is man 1 
 
 Since such as thou hast solemnly elected, 
 With gilts and graces eminently adorned ; 
 
 Yet towards these thus dignified, thou oft 
 Amidst their height of noon, [regard 
 
 Changest thy count'nance, and thy hand, with nc 
 Of highest favors past 
 From thee on them, or them to thee of service. 
 
 So deal not with this once thy glorious champion ! 
 What do I beg 1 How hast thou dealt already ! 
 Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn, 
 His labors, for thou canst, to peaceful end ! 
 
 It was on the 23d of April, 1794, in one of 
 those melancholy mornings, when his kind 
 and affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, and
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 459 
 
 Hayley, were \v;itching together over this 
 dejected sufferer, th;it a letter from Lord 
 Spencer arrived at Weston, to announce the 
 intended grant of a pension from liis Majesty 
 to Covvper, of 300Z. per annum, rendered 
 payable to liis friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee 
 of Cowper. Tiiis intelligence produced in 
 the friends of the poet very lively emotions 
 of delight, yet blended witli pain almost as 
 powerful ; for it was painful, iu no trifling 
 degree, to reflect that these desirable smiles 
 of good fortune could not impart even a faint 
 glimmering of joy to the dejected poet. 
 
 From tiie time when Hayley left his un- 
 happy friend at ^Veston, in (he spring of the 
 year 1794, he remained there under the ten- 
 der vigilance of Lady Hesketh, till the latter 
 ijud of July, 1795: along season of the dark- 
 est depression ! in whicii tlie best medical ad- 
 vice, and the influence of time, appeared equal- 
 ly unable to ligliten that afflictive burthen 
 wliich pressed incessantly on his spirits. 
 
 It was under these circumstances tliat my 
 revered brother-in-law^, with a generous dis- 
 interestedness and affection that must ever 
 endear him to the admirers of Cowper, deter- 
 mined, with Lady Hesketh's concurrence, to 
 remove the poet and his afflicted companion 
 into Norfolk. In adopting this plan, he did 
 not contemplate more than a year's absence 
 from Weston : but what was intended to be 
 only temporary, proved in the sequel to be a 
 final removal. 
 
 Few events could have been more painful 
 to Cowper than a separation from his beloved 
 Weston. Every object was familiar to his 
 eye, and had long engaged the affections of 
 his heart. Its beautiful scenery had been 
 traced with all the minuteness of description 
 and the glow of poetic fancy. The slow- 
 winding Ouse, " bashful, yet impatient to be 
 seen," was henceforth to glide " in its sinuous 
 course" unperceivcd. The sjxicious meads, 
 the lengthened colonnade, the proud alcove, 
 and the sound of the sweet village-bells — 
 these memorials of past happy days were to 
 be seen and heard no more. All have felt 
 the pang excited by the separation or loss of 
 friends; but who has not also experienced 
 that even trees have tongues, and that every 
 object in nature knows how to plead its em- 
 pire over the heart? 
 
 What Cowper's sensations were on this 
 occasion, may be collected from the follow- 
 ing little incident. 
 
 On the morning of his departure from 
 Weston, he wrote the foUowing lines in 
 pencil on the back of the shutter in his bed- 
 "oom. 
 
 ■' Farewell, clear scenes, forever closed to mc ! 
 Oh ! for what sorrows must I now exchange 
 you !" 
 
 These lines have been carefully preserved 
 
 as the expressive memorial of his feelings on 
 leaving Weston. Nor can the following lit- 
 tle poem fail to excite interest, not only as 
 being the last original production which he 
 composed at Weston, but from its deep and 
 unattected pathos. It is addressed to Mrs. 
 Unvvin. No language can exhibit a specimen 
 of verse more exquisitely tender. 
 
 TO MART. 
 
 The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 
 
 Since first our sky was overcast, 
 
 Ah, would that this might be the last ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow — 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 My Marv ' 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disus'd. and shine no more, 
 
 My Mary I 
 
 For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind olFice for me still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
 And all thy threads with magic art. 
 Have wound themselves about this heart, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 
 Like language utter'd in a dream ; 
 
 Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient licrht, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For, could 1 view nor them nor thee, 
 What sight worth seeing could I see t 
 The sun would rise in vain for me. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
 That now at every step thou mov'st 
 Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st. 
 
 My Mary . 
 
 And still to love, though prest with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But, ah ! by constant heed I know. 
 How oil the sadness that I siiow 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And, should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last. 
 
 My Mary I 
 
 On Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of July
 
 460 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 1795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, un- 
 der the care and guidance of Mr. Johnson, 
 from Weston to North-Tuddenham, in Nor- 
 folk, by a journey of tiiree days, passing 
 througli Cambridge without stopping there. 
 In the evening of the first day they rested at 
 the village of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cow- 
 per walked with his young kinsman in the 
 churchyard by moonlight, and spoke with 
 much composure on the subject of Thom- 
 son's Seasons, and the circumstances under 
 which they were probably written. This 
 conversation was almost his last glimmering 
 of cheerfulness. 
 
 At North-Tuddenham the travellers were 
 accommodated with a commodious, unten- 
 anted parsonage-house, by the kindness of 
 the Rev. Leonard Shelford. Here they re- 
 sided till the nineteenth of August. It was 
 the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not 
 to remove them immediately to his own 
 house, in the town of East-Dereham, lest the 
 situation in a market-place should be dis- 
 tressing to the tender spirits of Cowper. 
 
 In their new temporary residence they 
 were received by Miss Johnson and Miss 
 Perowne, whose gentle and sympathizing 
 spirit peculiarly qualified them to discharge 
 so delicate an office, and to alleviate the suf- 
 ferings of the dejected poet. 
 
 Severe as his depressive malady appeared 
 at this period, he was still able to bear con- 
 siderable exercise, and, before he left Tud- 
 deniiam, he walked with Mr. Johnson to the 
 neighboring village of JMattishall, on a visit 
 to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. On surveying 
 his own portrait by Abbot, in the house of 
 that lady, he clasped his hands in a paroxysm 
 of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that 
 his present sensations might be such as they 
 were when that picture was painted. 
 
 In August 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted 
 his two invalids to Mundsley, a village on 
 the Norfolk coast, in the hope that a situation 
 by the sea-side might prove salutary and 
 amusing to Cowper. They continued to re- 
 side there till October, but without any ap- 
 parent benefit to the health of the interesting 
 sufferer. 
 
 He had long relinquished epistolary inter- 
 course with his most intimate friends, but his 
 tender solicitude to hear some tidings of his 
 fevorite Weston induced him, in September, 
 to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows 
 the severity of his depression, but proves also 
 that transient gleams of pleasure could oc- 
 casionally break through the brooding dark- 
 ness of melancholy. 
 
 He begins with a poetical quotation : 
 
 " To interpose a little ease, 
 Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise !" 
 
 "I will not forget, for a moment, that to 
 (whomsoever I may address myself, a letter 
 
 from me can no otherwise be welcome than 
 as a curiosity. To you, sir, I address this, 
 urged to it by extreme penury of employ- 
 ment, and the desire I feel to learn something 
 of what is doing, and has been done, at Wes- 
 ton (my beloved Weston !) since I left it. 
 
 " The coldness of these blasts, even in the 
 hottest days, has been sueh, that, added to 
 the irritation of the salt-spray, with which 
 they are always charged, they have occa- 
 sioned me an inflammation in the eye-lids, 
 which threatened a few days since to confine 
 me entirely, but by absenting myself as much 
 as possible from the beach, and guarding my 
 face with an umbrella, that inconvenience is 
 in some degree abated. My chamber com- 
 mands a very near view of the ocean, and the 
 ships at high water approach the coast so 
 closely, that a man furnished with better eyes 
 than mine might, I doubt not, discern the 
 sailors from the window. No situation, at 
 least when the weather is clear and bright, 
 can be pleasanter; which you will easily 
 credit, when I add, that it imparts something 
 a little resembling pleasure even to me. — • 
 Gratify me with news of Weston ! If Mr. 
 Gregson and your neighbors the Courtenays 
 are there, mention me to them in such terms 
 as you see good. Tell me if my poor birds 
 are living ! I never see the herbs I used to 
 give them, without a recollection of them, 
 and sometimes am ready to gather them, for- 
 geting that I am not at home. Pardon this 
 intrusion ! 
 
 " Mrs. Unwin continues much as usual. 
 " Mundsley, Sept. 5, 1795." 
 
 Mr. Buchanan endeavored, with great ten- 
 derness and ingenuity, to allure his deject- 
 ed friend to prolong a correspondence, that 
 seemed to promise some little alleviation to 
 his melancholy ; but this distressing malady 
 b.atfled all the various expedients that could 
 be devised to counteract its overwhelming 
 influence. 
 
 Much hope was entertained from air and 
 exercise, with frequent change of scene. — In 
 September, Mr. Johnson conducted his kins- 
 man (to the promotion of whose recovery he 
 devoted his most unwearied efforts) to take 
 a survey of Dunham-Lodge, a seat at that 
 time vacant; it is situated on high ground, 
 in a park, about four miles from Swaftluim. 
 Cowper spoke of it as a house rather too 
 spacious for him, yet such as he was not un- 
 willing to inhabit — a remark which induced 
 Mr. Johnson, at a subsequent period, to be- 
 come the tenant of this mansion, as a scene 
 more eligible for Cowper than tlie town of 
 Dereham. — This town they also surveyed in 
 their excursion ; and, after passing a night 
 there, returned to Mundsley, which thej?
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 461 
 
 quitted for the season on the seventh of Oc- 
 tober. 
 
 They removed immediately to Dereham; 
 but left it in the course of a month for Dun- 
 ham-Lodge, which now became their settled 
 residence. 
 
 The spirits of Cowper were not sufficiently 
 revived to allow him to resume eitiier his pen 
 or his books; but the kindness of his young 
 kinsman continued to furnish him vvitii inex- 
 haustible amusement, by reading to him al- 
 most incessantly ; and, although he was not 
 led to converse on what he heard, yet it 
 failed not to rivet his attention, and so to 
 prevent his afflicted mind from preying on 
 itself. 
 
 In April, 1796, Mrs. Unwin, whose infirmi- 
 ties continued to engage the tender attention 
 of Cowper, even in his darkest periods of 
 depression, received a visit from her daughter 
 and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Povvley. On 
 their departure, Mr. Johnson assumed the 
 office which Mrs. Powley had tenderly per- 
 formed for her venerable parent, and regu- 
 larly read a chapter in the Bible every morn- 
 ing to Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was 
 the invariable custom of Cowper to visit liis 
 poor old friend the moment he had iinished 
 his breakfast, and to remain in her apartment 
 while the chapter was read. 
 
 In June, the pressure of his melancholy 
 appeared in some degree alleviated, for, on 
 Mr. Johnson's receiving the edition of Pope's 
 Homer, published by Waketield, Cowper 
 eagerly seized the book, and began to read 
 the notes to himself with visible interest. 
 They awakened his attention to his own ver- 
 sion of Homer. In August, he deliberately 
 engaged in a revisal of the whole, and for 
 some time produced almost sixty new lines 
 a day. 
 
 This mental occupation animated all his 
 intimate friends with a most lively hope of 
 his progressive recovery. But autuuui re- 
 pressed the hope that summer had excited. 
 
 In September the family removed from 
 Dunham-Lodge to try again tiie intluence 
 of the sea-side, in tiieir favorite village of 
 Mundsley. 
 
 Cowper walked frequently by the sea, but 
 no apparent benefit arose, no mild relief tVom 
 the incessant pressure of melancholy. He 
 had relinquished his Homer again, and could 
 not yet be induced to resume it. 
 
 Towards the end of October, this interest- 
 ing party retired from the coast to tiic house 
 of Mr. Johnson, in Dereliam — a house now 
 chosen for their winter residence, as Dunham- 
 Lodge appeared to them too dreary. 
 
 The long and exemplary life of Mrs. Un- 
 win was drawing towards a close — the pow- 
 ers of nature were gradually exhausted, and 
 on the seventeenth of December she ended 
 I troubled existence, d stinguished by a sub- 
 
 lime spirit of piety and friendship, that shone 
 through long periods of calamity, and con- 
 tinued to glimmer through the distressful 
 twilight of her declining faculties. Her 
 death was calm and tranquil. Cowper saw 
 her about half an hour before the moment 
 of expiration, which passed without a strug- 
 gle or a groan, as the clock was striking one 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 On the morning of that day, he said to the 
 servant who opened the window of his cham- 
 ber, " Sally, is there life above stairs 1" A 
 striking proof of his bestowing incessant at- 
 tention on the sufferings of his aged friend, 
 although he had long appeared almost totally 
 absorbed in his own. 
 
 In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. 
 Joinison to survey the corpse ; and aft;er look- 
 ing at it a very few moments he started sud- 
 denly away, with a vehement but unfinished 
 sentence of passionate sorrow. He spoke 
 of her no more. 
 
 She was buried by torch-light, on the 
 twenty-third of December, in the north aisle 
 of Dereham church ; and two of her friends, 
 impressed with a just and deep sense of her 
 extraordinary merit, have raised a marble 
 tablet to her memory with the following in- 
 scription : 
 
 IN MEMORY OP MARY, 
 
 WIDOW or THE REV. MOBLEY UNWIN 
 
 AND 
 
 MOTHER OF THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORN UNWIN, 
 
 BORN AT ELY, 1724. 
 
 BURIED IN THIS CHURCH 179G. 
 
 Trusting in God, with all her heart and mind 
 
 This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; 
 
 Endur'd alfllction's desolatinjr hail. 
 
 And watch'd a j)oet thro' niistortune's vale. 
 
 Her spotlpss dust, angelic guards, defend ! 
 
 It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend ! 
 
 That single title in itself is tame, 
 
 For all who read his verse revere her name. 
 
 It might have been anticipated that the 
 death of Mrs. Unwin, in Cowper's enfeebled 
 state, would have proved too severe a shock 
 to his agitated nerves. But it is mercifully 
 ordained that, while declining years incapa- 
 citate us for trials, they, at the .same time, 
 weaken the sensibility to suffering, and there- 
 by render us less accessible to the influence 
 of sorrow. It may be regarded as an in- 
 stance of providential mercy to this afflicted 
 poet, that his aged friend, whose life he had 
 so long considered as essential to his own, 
 was taken from him at a time when the pres- 
 sure of his malady, a perpetual low fever, 
 both of body and mind, had, in a great de- 
 gree, diminished the native energy of his 
 faculties and affections. 
 
 Owing to these causes, Cowper was so far
 
 462 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 preserved in this season of trial, that, instead 
 of mourning the loss of a person in whose 
 life he had seemed to live, all perception of 
 that loss was niercifiiily taken from him ; and, 
 from the moment when he hurried away from 
 the inanimate object of his filial attachment, 
 he appeared to have no memory of her hav- 
 ing existed, for he never asked a question 
 concerning: her funeral, nor ever mentioned 
 her name. 
 
 Towards the summer of 1797, his bodily 
 health appeared to imjrove, but not to such 
 a degree as to restore any comfortable activi- 
 ty to his mind. In June he wrote a brief 
 letter to Hayley, but such as too forcibly ex- 
 pressed the cruelty of his distemper. 
 
 The process of digestion never passed 
 regularly in his frame during tiie years that 
 he resided in Norfolk. Medicine appeared to 
 have little or no influence on his complaint, 
 and his aversion at the sight of it was ex- 
 treme. 
 
 From asses' milk, of which he began a 
 course on the twenty-first of June in this 
 year, he gained a considerable acquisition of 
 bodily strength, and was enabled to bear an 
 airing in an open carriage, before breakfast, 
 with Mr. Johnson. 
 
 A depression of mind, which suspended 
 the studies of a writer so eminently endeared 
 to the public, was considered by men of piety 
 and learning as a national misfortune, and 
 several individuals of this description, though 
 personally unknown to Cowper, wrote to him 
 in the benevolent hope that expressions of 
 friendly praise, from persons who could be 
 influenced only by the most laudable motives 
 in bestowing it, might re-animate his dejected 
 spirit. Among these might be enumerated 
 Dr. Watson, the Bishop of LlandafF, who 
 kindly addressed him in the language of en- 
 couragement and of soothing consolation; 
 but the pressure of his malady had now 
 made him utterly deaf to the most honorable 
 praise. 
 
 He had long discontinued the revisal of iiis 
 Homer, when his kinsman, dreading the effect 
 of the cessation of bodily exercise upon his 
 mind during a long winter, resolved, if pos- 
 sible, to engage him in the revisal of this 
 work. One morning, therefore, after break- 
 fast, in the month of September, he placed 
 the Commentators on the table, one by one ; 
 namely, Villoison, Barnes, and Clarke, open- 
 ing them all, together with the poet's trans- 
 lation, at the place where he had left off a 
 twelvemonth before, but talking with him, as 
 he paced tiie room, upon a very different sub- 
 ject, namely, the impossibility of the things 
 befalling him which his imagination had repre- 
 sented ; when, as his companion had wished, 
 he said to him, " And are you sure that I 
 shall be here till the book you are reading is 
 finished ?" " Quite sure," replied his kins- 
 
 man, " and that you will also be here to com 
 plete the revisal of your Homer," pointing to 
 the books, "if you will resume it to day." 
 As he repeated these words he left the room, 
 rejoicing in the well-known token of their 
 having sunk into the poet's mind, namely, 
 his seating himself on the sofa, taking up 
 one of the books, and saying in a low and 
 plaintive voice, "I may as well do this, for I 
 can do nothing else."* 
 
 In this labor he persevered, oppressed as 
 he was by indisposition, till March 1799. 
 On Friday evening, the eighth of that month, 
 he completed his revisal of the Odyssey, 
 and the next morning wrote part of a new 
 preface. 
 
 To watch over the disordered health of 
 afflicted genius, and to lead a powerful, but 
 oppressed, spirit by gentle encouragement, 
 to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an 
 oflice that requires a very rare union of ten- 
 derness, intelligence, and fortitude. To con- 
 template and minister to a great mind, in a 
 state that borders on mental desolation, is 
 like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the 
 tottering ruins of palaces and temples, where 
 the faculties of the spectator are almost ab- 
 sorbed in wonder and regret, and where every 
 step is taken with awful apprehension. 
 
 Hayley, in alluding to Dr. Johnson's kind 
 and affectionate offices, at this period, bears 
 the following honorable testimony to his 
 merits, which we are liappy in transcribing. 
 " It seemed as if Providence had expressly 
 formed the young kinsman of Cowper to 
 prove exactly such a guardian of his declin- 
 ing years as the peculiar exigencies of his 
 situation required. I never saw the human 
 being that could, I think, have sustained the 
 delicate and arduous office (in which tiie in- 
 exhaustible virtues of Mr. Johnson perse- 
 vered to the last) through a period so long, 
 with an equal portion of unwearied tender- 
 ness and unshaken fidelity. A man who 
 wanted sensibility would have renounced the 
 duty; and a man endowed with a particle 
 too mucii of that valuable, though perilous, 
 quality, must have felt his own health utterly 
 undermined, by an excess of sympathy with 
 the suffei-ings perpetually in his sight. Mr. 
 Johnson has completely discharged, perhaps, 
 the most trying of human duties ; and I trust 
 he will forgive me for this public declaration, 
 that, in his mode of discharging it, he has 
 merited the most cordial esteem from all who 
 love the memory of Cowper. Even a stran- 
 ger may consider it as a strong proof of his 
 tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the 
 afllicted poet, that he was able to engage him 
 steadily to pursue and finish the revisal and 
 correction of his Homer, during a long period 
 of bodily and mental sufferings, wlien his 
 troubled mind recoiled from all intercourse 
 * Sketch of the Life of C(iwi)er.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 463 
 
 with his most intimate friends, and hibored 
 under a morbid abhorrence of all cheerful 
 exertion." 
 
 In tlie summer of 1798, his kinsman was in- 
 duced to vary his plan of remaining^ for some 
 months in the marine village of Mundsley, 
 and thought it more eligible to make frequent 
 visits from Dereham to the coast, passing a 
 week at a time by the sea^side. 
 
 Cowper, in his poem on "Retirement," 
 seems to inform us what his own sentiments 
 were, in a season of health, concerning tlie 
 * regimen most proper for the disease of mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 Virtuous and faithful Hebcrdfn, wliose skill 
 Attrmpts no task it cannot well fuKll, 
 Gives melancholy up to nature's care, 
 And sends the patient into purer air. 
 
 The frequent change of piace, and the 
 magnificence of marine scenery, produced at 
 times a little relief to his depressed spirits. 
 On the 7th of June 1798, he surveyed the 
 'ight-house at Happisburgh, and expressed 
 some pleasure on beholding, through a tele- 
 scope, several ships at a distance. Yet, in 
 his usual walk with his companion by the 
 8ca-.side, he exemplilied but too forcibly his 
 own at!ecting description of mclanchoiy si- 
 lence : 
 
 That silent tongue 
 Could give advice, could censure, or commend, 
 Or charm the sorrows of a drooping tVicnd ; 
 Renounc'd alike its office and its sj)ort. 
 Its brisker and its graver strains fall short: 
 Both tail beneath a fevers secret sway, 
 And, like a summer-brook, are past away. 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of July, Cowper had 
 the honor of a visit from a lady, for whom 
 he had long entertained atlcctionate respect, 
 the Dowager Lady Spencer — and it was 
 rather remarkable, that on the very morn- 
 ing she called upon him he had begun his 
 revisal of the Odyssey, which was originally 
 inscribed to her. Such an incident in a haj)- 
 pier season would have produced a very en- 
 livening effect on his spirits : but, in his 
 present state, it had not even the power to 
 lead him into any free conversation with his 
 distinguished visitor. 
 
 The only amusement that he appeared to 
 admit without reluctance was the reading of 
 ids kinsman, who, indefatigable in the supply 
 of such amusement, had exhausted a succes- 
 sive series of works of fiction, and at this 
 period began reading to the poet his own 
 works. To these he listened also in silence, 
 and heard all his poems recited in order, till 
 the reader arrived at the history of John 
 Gilpin, which he begged not to hear. Mr. 
 Johnson proceeded to his manuscript poems; 
 to these he willingly listened, but made not 
 a single remark on any. 
 
 In October, 1798, the pressure of his mel- 
 nncholy seemed to be mitigated in some lit- 
 
 tle degree, for he exerted himself so far n:\ 
 to write the following letter, without solicit- 
 ation, to Lady Heskelh. 
 
 Dear Cousin, — You describe delightful 
 scenes, but you describe them to one,' who, 
 if he even saw them, could receive no de^ 
 light from them : who has a faint recollec- 
 tion, and so faint, as to be like an almost 
 forgotten dream, that once he was suscep- 
 tible of pleasure from such causes. The 
 country that you have had in prospect has 
 been always famed for its beauties ; but the 
 wretch who can derive no gratification from 
 a view of nature, even under the disadvan- 
 tage of lier most ordinary dress, will have 
 no eyes to admire her in any. 
 
 In one day, in one minute, I should rather 
 have said, she became an universal blank to 
 me, and tiiough from a different cause, yet 
 with an effect as difficult to remove as blind- 
 ness itself. • 
 
 Mundsley, Oct. 13, 1708. 
 
 On his return from Mund.sley to Dereham, 
 in an evening towards the end of October, 
 Cowper, with Miss Perowne and ]\Ir. John- 
 son, was overturned in a post-chaise : he 
 discovered no terror on the occasion., and 
 escaped without injury from the iiccident. 
 
 In December he received a visit from his 
 highly esteemed friend, Sir John Throck- 
 morton, but his malady was at that time so 
 oppressive that it rendered him almost in- 
 sensible to the kind solicitude of friendship. 
 
 He still continued to exercise the powers 
 of his astonishing mind : upon his finishing 
 the revisal of his Homer, in March, 1799, his 
 kinsman endeavored in the gentlest manner 
 to lead him into new literary occupation. 
 
 For this purpose, on the eleventh of 
 March he laid before him the paper contain- 
 ing the commencement of his poem on "The 
 Four Ages." ("owper altered a few lines ; he 
 also added a few, but soon observed to his 
 kind attendant — " that it was too great a work 
 for him to attempt in his present situation." 
 
 At supper i\Ir. Johnson suggested to him 
 several literary projects that he might exe- 
 cute more easily. He replied — ^' that he had 
 just thought of six Latin verses, and if he 
 could compose anything it must be in pur- 
 suing that composition." 
 
 The next morning he wrote the six verses 
 he had mentioned, and subsequently added 
 the remainder, entitling the poem, "Montes 
 Glaciales." 
 
 It proved a versification of a circumstance 
 recorded in a newspaper, which had been read 
 to him a few weeks before, without his appear- 
 ing to notice it. This poem he translated into 
 English verse, on the nineteenth of March, to 
 oblige Miss Perowne. Both the original and 
 the translation appear in the Poems.
 
 464 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 On the twentieth of March he wrote the 
 stanzas entitled " The -Castaway," founded 
 on an anecdote in Anson's Voyage, which 
 his memory suggested to him, although he 
 had not looked into the book for many years. 
 
 As this poem is the last original produc- 
 tion from the pen of Cowper, we shall intro- 
 duce it here, persuaded that it will be read 
 with an interest proportioned to the extraor- 
 dinary pathos of the subject, and the still more 
 extraordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre 
 could sound so forcibly, unsilenced by the 
 gloom of the darkest distemper, that was 
 conducting liim, by slow gradations, to the 
 shadow of death. 
 
 THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 Obscurest night involv'd the sky ; 
 
 Th' Atlantic billows roar'd, 
 When such a destin'd wretch as I, 
 
 Wash'd headlong from on board, 
 Of friends, t)f hope, of all bereft, 
 His floating home forever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast 
 Than he with whom he went, 
 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
 With waraier wishes sent. 
 
 He lov'd them both, but both in vain, 
 Nor hmi beheld, nor her again. 
 
 Not long beneath the 'whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay ; 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 
 
 Or courage die away ; 
 But wag'd with death a lasting strife. 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 
 
 To check the vessel's course. 
 But so the furious blast prevail'd, 
 
 That; pitiless, per force, 
 They left their out-cast mate behind. 
 And scudded still before the wind. 
 
 Some succor yet they could afford ; 
 
 And such as storms allow, 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 
 
 Delay'd not to bestow. 
 But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore, 
 Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
 
 Th>:ir haste himself condemn, 
 Aware that flight in such a sea, 
 
 Alone could rescue them ; 
 Yet bitter felt it still to die 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 
 
 He long. survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean self-upheld ; 
 And so long he with unspent pow'r, 
 
 His destiny repell'd : 
 And ever, as the minutes flew, 
 Entreated help, or cry'd — " Adieu I" 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 
 His comrades, v/ho before 
 Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 
 
 Could catch the sound no more. 
 For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
 The stiflincr wave, and then he sank. 
 
 No poet wept him, but tiie pag" 
 
 Of narrative sincere, 
 That tell 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 No voice divine the storm allay'd, 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When, snatch'd from all efi'ectual aid, 
 
 We perish'd. each alone ; 
 But I beneath a rougher sea. 
 And 'whelin'd in deeper gulfs than he. 
 
 In August he translated this poem into 
 Latin verse. In October he went with Mis^ 
 Perowne and Mr. Joimson to survey a larger 
 house in Dereham, which he preferred to 
 their present residence, and in which the 
 family were settled in the following De- 
 cember. 
 
 Though his corporeal strength was now 
 evidently declining, the urgent persuasion 
 of his kinsman induced him to amuse his 
 mind with frequent composition. Between 
 August and December, he wrote all the 
 translations from various Latin and Greek 
 epigrams, wjiich the reader will find in th« 
 present volume. 
 
 In his new residence, he amused himself 
 with translating a few fiibles of Gay's into 
 Latin verse. The fable which he used to 
 recite when a child — " The Hare and many 
 Friends" — became one of his latest amuse 
 ments. 
 
 These Latin fables were all written in 
 January, 1800. Towards the end of that 
 month. Hay ley requested him to new-model 
 a passage in his Homer, relating to the curi- 
 ous monument of ancient sculpture, so grace- 
 fully described by Homer, called the Cretan 
 Dance. This being the last effort of his pen, 
 and the passage being interesting, as a rep- 
 resentation of ancient manners, we here in- 
 sert it. 
 
 To these the glorious artist added next 
 A varied dance, resembling that of old 
 In Crete's broad isle, by Diedalus, compos'd 
 For bright-hair d Ariadne. There the youths 
 And youth-alluring maidens, hand in hand, 
 Danc'd jocund, ev'ry maiden neat attir'd 
 In finest linen, and the youths in vests 
 Well- woven, glossy as the glaze of oil. 
 These all wore garlands and bright falcions those, 
 Of burnish'd gold, in silver trappings hung; — 
 They, with well-tutor'd step, now nimbly ran 
 The circle, swift, as when, before his wheel 
 Seated, the potter twirls it with both hands 
 For trial of its speed ; now, crossing quick, 
 They pass'd at once into each other's place. 
 A circling crowd surveyed the lovely dance. 
 
 V^
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 465 
 
 Delighted ; two, the leading pair, their heads 
 With graceful inclination bowing ort. 
 Pass'd swift betwen them, and began the song. 
 See Cowpers Version, Book xviii. 
 
 On the very day that this endearing mark 
 of Ills kindness reached Hayley, a dropsical 
 appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson 
 to have recourse to fresh medical assistance. 
 Cowper was with great dilliculty persuaded 
 to take the remedies prescribed, and to try 
 the exercise of a post-chaise, an exercise 
 which he could not bear beyond the twenty- 
 second of February. 
 
 In March, when his decline became more 
 and more visible, he was visited by Mr. 
 Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure 
 on the arrival of a friend whom he had so 
 long and so tenderly regarded, yet lie showed 
 evident signs of regret at his departure, on 
 the sixth of April. 
 
 Tlie illness and impending death of his 
 talented son precluded Hayley from sharing 
 with Mr. Rose in these last marks of affec- 
 tionate attention towards the man, whose 
 genius and virtues they had once contem- 
 plated together with mutual veneration and 
 delight; whose approaching dissolution they 
 felt, not only as an irreparable loss to them- 
 selves, but as a national misfortune. On 
 the nineteenth of April, Dr. Johnson re- 
 marks, the weakness of this truly pitiable 
 sufferer had so much increased, that his 
 kinsman apprehended his death to be near. 
 Adverting, therefore, to the aflliction, as well 
 of body as of mind, which his beloved in- 
 mate was then enduring, he ventured to 
 speak of his approaching dissolution as the 
 signal of his deliverance from both these 
 miseries. After a pause of a few moments, 
 which vvas less interi-upted by the objections 
 of his desponding relative than ho had dared 
 to hope, he proceeded to an observation 
 more consolatory still ; namely, that, in the 
 world to which he was hastening, a merciful 
 Redeemer had prepared unspeakable happi- 
 ness for all his children — and therefore for 
 him. To the first part of this sentence, he 
 had listened with composure, but the con- 
 cluding words were no sooner uttered, than 
 his passionately expressed entreaties, that 
 his companion would desist from any farther 
 observations of a similar kind, clearly proved 
 that, though it was on the eve of being in- 
 vested with angelic light, the darkness of 
 delusion still veiled his spirit.* 
 
 On Sunday, the twentieth, he seemed a 
 little revived. 
 
 On Monday he appeared dying, but re- 
 covered so much as to eat a slight dinner. 
 
 Tuesday and Wednesday he grew appa- 
 rently weaker every hour. 
 
 On Thursday he sat up as usual in the 
 evening. 
 
 • Sketch of the Life of Cowper, by Dr. Johnson. 
 
 In the course of the night, when exceed- 
 ingly exhausted. Miss Perowne offered him 
 some refreshment. He rejected it with these 
 words, the very last that he was heard to 
 utter, " What can it signify?" 
 
 Dr. Johnson closes the affecting account 
 in the following words. 
 
 "At five in the morning of Friday 25th, a 
 deadly change in his features was observed 
 to take place. He remained in an insensible 
 state from that time till about five minutes 
 before five in the afternoon, when he ceased 
 to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a man- 
 ner did his spirit take its flight, that thougb 
 thc writer of this Memoir, his medical attend- 
 ant Mr. Woods, and three other persons, 
 were standing at the foot and side of the bed, 
 with their eyes fixed upon his dying counte- 
 nance, the precise moment of his departure 
 was unobserved by any." 
 
 From this mournful period^ till the features 
 of his deceased friend were closed from 
 his view, the expression which the kinsman 
 of Cowper observed in them, and which he 
 was affectionately delighted to suppose "an 
 index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of 
 his soul, in its gradual escape from the 
 depths of despondence, was that of calm- 
 ness and composure, mingled, as it were, 
 with holy surprise." 
 
 He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in 
 the church of East Dereham, on Saturday, 
 May 2nd, attended by several of his relations. 
 
 He left a will, but without appointing his 
 executor. The administration, therefore, of 
 the little property he possessed devolved on 
 his affectionate relative. Lady Hesketh ; but 
 not having been carried into effect by that 
 Ludy, the office, on her decease, was under- 
 taken by his cousin german, Mrs. Bodham. 
 
 Lady Hesketh raised a marlile tablet to his 
 memory, with the following inscription from 
 the pen of Hayley : 
 
 IN MEMORY OP 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 BORN IN HERTFORDSHIRE, 
 
 1731, 
 BURIED IN THIS CHtlRCH. 
 
 Ye, who with warmth the pubHc triumph feel 
 
 Of talents dignified by sacred zeal, 
 
 Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, 
 
 Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust! 
 
 England, exulting in his spotless fume, 
 
 Ranks with her dearest sons his favorite name. 
 
 Sense, fancy wit sulficc not all to raise 
 
 So clear a title to affection's praise ; 
 
 His highest honors to the heart belong ; 
 
 His virtues form'd the magic of his song. 
 
 We have now conducted the endeared sub- 
 ject of this biography through the various 
 scenes of his chequered and eventful life, till 
 its last solemn termination ; and it is impos- 
 30
 
 466 
 
 COWPER S WORKS, 
 
 sible that any other feelings can have been 
 awakened than those of admiration for liis 
 genius, homage for his virtues, and profound 
 sympathy for his sutferings. It was fully an- 
 ticipated by his friends, that the hour of final 
 liberation, at least, would have been cheered 
 by that calm sense of the divine presence, 
 which is the delightful foretaste of eternal 
 rest and glory. Young beautifully observes : 
 
 The chamber where the good man meets his fate 
 
 Is privileged beyond the common walk 
 
 Of virtuous Ufe, quite on the verge of heaven. 
 
 The Bible proclaims the same animating 
 truth. "Mark the perfect man, and behold 
 the upright, for the end of that man is 
 peace !" The divine faithfulness is an ample 
 security for the fulfilment of these declar- 
 ations ; but the promises of God, firm and un- 
 changeable as they are in themselves, after 
 all, can be realized only in a mind disposed 
 for their reception ; as the light cannot pa:>s 
 through a medium that is incapable of ad- 
 mitting it. Such, alas ! is the influence of 
 physical causes and of a morbid temperament 
 on the inward perceptions of the soul, that 
 it is possible to be a child of God, without a 
 consciousness of the blessing, and to have a 
 title to a crown, and yet feel to be immured 
 in the depths of a dungeon. 
 
 The consolation to the friends of the un- 
 happy sufferer, if not to the patient himself, 
 is, that the chains are of his own forging, 
 and that, if he had but the discernment to 
 know it, the delusion would promptly vanish, 
 and the peace of God flow into the soul like 
 a river. 
 
 That such was the case witli Cowper, no 
 one can doubt for a moment. A species of 
 mental aberration, on a particular subject, in- 
 /olved his mind in a strange and sad delusion. 
 The Sun of Righteousness, therefore, failed 
 m his last moments to impart its refreshing 
 light and comfort, because the cloud of de- 
 spair intervened, and obscured the setting 
 beams of grace and glory. 
 
 Who can contemplate so mysterious a 
 process of the mind, without exclaiming — 
 
 How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
 How complicate, how wonderful is man ! 
 How passing wonder He, who made him such ! 
 vVho centred in our make such strange extremes ! 
 
 It is impossible to dwell on the manner of 
 Cowper's death, and not to be reminded of 
 the wish cherished by himself on this subject, 
 and recorded so impressively in the following 
 lines : 
 
 So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
 More golden than that age of fabled gold 
 Renown'd in ancient song ; not vex'd with care, 
 Or stain'd with guilt, beneficient. approved 
 Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 
 So glide my life a-xay and so, at last, 
 
 My share of duties decently fulfill' d, 
 May some disease, not tardy to perform 
 Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, 
 Dismiss me iceary to a safe retreat, 
 Beneath the turf that I have often trod* 
 
 God mercifully granted the best portion 
 of his prayer, but saw fit to deny the rest. 
 No conscious guilt or open transgression 
 stained his life ; his heart was the seat of 
 every beneficent and kind affection. As an 
 author, he was blessed with an honorable 
 career of usefulness; the public voice con- 
 ferred upon him the title to immortality, and 
 succeeding times have ratified the claim. But 
 if perception be necessary to enjoyment, he 
 was not "peaceful in his end;" for he died 
 without this conviction. He did not, like 
 Elijah, ascend in a chariot of fire ; it was his 
 lot rather to realize the quaint remark of 
 some of the old divines, " God sometimes 
 puts his children to bed in the dark," that 
 they may have nothing whereof to boast ; 
 that their salvation may appear to be more 
 fully the result of his own free and unmerited 
 mercy, and that in this, as in all things, he 
 may be known to act as a sovereign, who 
 "giveth no account of his matters."! 
 
 But the severest exercises of faith are al- 
 ways mingled with some gracious purpose ; 
 and God may perhaps see fit to appoint these 
 dark dispensations, that the transition into 
 eternity may be more glorious ; and that the 
 emancipated spirit, bursting the shackles of 
 death and sin, and delivered from the bond- 
 age of its fears, may rise with a nobler tri- 
 umph from the depths of iiumiliation into the 
 very presence-chamber of its God. 
 
 These remarks are so closely connected 
 with the subject of Cowper's atflicting mal- 
 ady, that the time is now arrived when it is 
 necessary to enter into a more detailed view 
 of its nature and character ; to trace its 
 origin and progress, and to disengage this 
 complicated question from that prejudice and 
 misrepresentation which have so inveterately 
 attached to it. At the same time, it is with 
 profound reluctance that the Editor enters 
 upon this painful theme, from a deep con- 
 viction that it does not form a proper subject 
 for discussion, and that the veil of secrecy is 
 never more suitably employed, than when it 
 is thrown over infirmities which are too sa- 
 cred to meet the gaze of public observation. 
 This inquiry is now, however, no longer op- 
 tional. Cowper himself has, unfortunately, 
 suffered in the public estimation by the man- 
 ner in which his earliest biographer, Hayley, 
 has presented him before the public. By 
 suppressing some very important letters, 
 which tended to elucidate his real character, 
 an air of mystery has been imparted which 
 deeply affects its consistency : while, by attri- 
 buting what he could not sufllciently concea. 
 * The Task, book vi. t Job xxxiii. 13.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 467 
 
 of the malady of the poet to the operation of 
 religious causes, truth has been violated, and 
 an unmerited wound inflicted upon religion 
 itself. Thus Hay ley, from motives of deli- 
 cacy most probably, or from misapprehension 
 of the subject, has committed a double error; 
 while others, misled by his authority, have 
 unhappily aided in propagating "the delusion. 
 
 The Private Correspondence of Cowper, 
 which is exclusively incorporated with the 
 present edition, is of the first importance, as 
 it dispels the mystery previously attached to 
 his character. All that now remains is, to 
 establish by undeniable evidence that, so far 
 from religious causes having been iiistru- 
 menUil to his malady, the order of events 
 and the testimony of positive facts both mili- 
 tate again such a conclusion. 
 
 For this purpose, we shall now introduce 
 to the notice of the reader, copious extracts 
 from the Memoir of Cowper, written by him- 
 self, containing the particulars of his life, 
 from his earliest years to the period of his 
 malady and subsequent recovery. This re- 
 markable document was intended to record 
 his sense of the Divine mercy in the preser- 
 vation of his life, during a season of disas- 
 trous feeling ; and to perpetuate the remem- 
 brance of that grace which overruled this 
 event, in so remarkable a manner, to his best 
 and eternal interests. He designed (his 
 document principally for the perusal of ]\lrs. 
 Unwin, to whose hands it was most confiden- 
 tially entrusted. A copy was also presented 
 to Mr. Newton, and ultimately to Dr. John- 
 son ; but the parties were strictly enjoined 
 
 never to allow another copy to be taken 
 By some means the Memoir at length found 
 its way before the public. On this ground 
 the editor feels less difficulty in communicat- 
 ing its purport; as the seal of secrecy has 
 been already broken, though in the estima- 
 tion of Dr. Johnson and his friends, in so 
 unauthorized a manner. Its publication, how- 
 ever has been unquestionably attended by 
 one beneficial result, in having established, 
 beyond the possibility of contradiction, that 
 so far from Cowper's religious views having 
 been the source of his malady, they were the 
 first occasion and instrument of its cure.* 
 
 The Memoir is interesting in another re- 
 spect. It elucidates the early events of Cow- 
 per's history. One important subject is how- 
 ever omitted, his attachment to Miss Theo- 
 dora Cowper, the failure of which formed no 
 small ingredient in the disappointments of his 
 early life. This omission we shall be enabled 
 to supply. 
 
 With these preliminary remarks we shall 
 now introduce this curious and remarkable 
 document, simply suppressing those portions 
 which violate the feelings, without being es- 
 sential to the substance of the narrative. 
 
 * Tlie following is the result of the information obtained 
 by the Editor on this subject, after the minutest inquiry. 
 A lady wlio was on a visit at Mr. Newton's, in l.uiidoii, 
 saw, it is said, this Memoir of Cowper lying, amon;,' oilier 
 [japers, on tlie table. She was led to "peruse it, and felt 
 a deeper interest in the contents, from havin:; herself 
 been recently recovered from a state of derangement. She 
 privately copied the manuscript, and communicated it to 
 some friend. It was linally publisiied by a pious char- 
 acter, who considered that in so doing he exonerated the 
 religious views of Cowper from the charge of having 
 been instrumental to his malady. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE EARLY LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. 
 
 WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 
 
 I CANNOT recollect, that, till the montli of 
 December, in the tiiirty-second year of my 
 life, I had ever any serious impressions of the 
 religious kind, or at all bethought myself of 
 the things of my salvation, except in two or 
 three instances. The first was of so transi- 
 tory a nature, and passed when I was so 
 very young, th;it, did I not intend what fol- 
 lows for a history of my heart, so far as re- 
 ligion has been its object, I should hardly 
 mention it. 
 
 At six years old, I was taken from the 
 nursery, and from the innnediate care of a 
 tnost indulgent mother, and sent to a consid- 
 
 erable school in Bedfordshire.* Here I had 
 hardships of different kinds to conflict with, 
 which I felt more sensibly in proportion to the 
 tenderness with which I had been treated at 
 home. But my chief aflliction consisted in 
 my being singled out from all the other boys 
 by a lad nbont fit'teen years of age, as a prop- 
 er object upon whom he might let loose the 
 cruelty of his temper. 1 choose to forbear a 
 particidar recital of the many acts of barbar- 
 
 * IMarket Street. Hayley places this village in Hert- 
 fordshire, and Cowper in iiedl'ordshire. Holh are right, 
 for the public road or street forms a boundary between 
 tlie two counties.
 
 t68 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ity with which he made it his business con- 
 tiniKilly to persecute nie : it will be sufii- 
 cient to say, that he had, by his savage treat- 
 ment of me, impressed such a dread of his 
 figure upon my mind, that I well remember 
 being afraid to lift up my eyes upon him, 
 higher than his knees; and that I knew him 
 by his shoe-buckles better than any other part 
 of his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and 
 may we meet in glory ! 
 
 One day, as I was sitting alone on a bench 
 in the school, melancholy, and almost ready 
 to weep at the recollection of what I had al- 
 ready suffered, and expecting at the same time 
 my tormentor every moment, these words of 
 the Psalmist came into my mind, "I will not 
 be afraid of what man can do unto me." I ap- 
 plied this to my own case, with a degree of 
 trust and confidence in God that would have 
 been no disgrace to a much more experienced 
 Christian. Instantly I perceived in myself a 
 briskness of spirits, and a cheerfulness, which 
 I had never before experienced, — and took 
 several paces up and down the room with 
 joyful alacrity — his gift in whom I trusted. 
 Happy had it been for me, if this early effort 
 towards a dependence on the blessed God had 
 been frequently repeated by me. But, alas ! 
 it was the first and last instance of the kind 
 between infancy and manhood. The cruelty 
 of this boy, which he had long practised in so 
 secret a manner that no creature suspected it, 
 was at length discovered. He was expelled 
 from the school, and I was taken from it. 
 
 From hence, at eight years old, I was sent 
 to Mr. D., an eminent surgeon and oculist, 
 having very weak eyes, and being in danger 
 of losing one of them. I continued a year 
 in this family, where religion was neither 
 known nor practised; and from thence was 
 despatched to Westminster. Whatever seeds 
 of religion I might carry thither, before my 
 seven years' apprenticeship to the classics was 
 expired, they were all nmrred and corrupted ; 
 the duty of the school-boy swallowed up 
 every other; and I acquired Latin and Greek 
 at the expense of a knowledge much more 
 important.* 
 
 Here occurred the second instance of se- 
 rious consideration. As 1 was crossing St. 
 
 * We deeply lament that boys frequently leave public 
 schools most discreditably deficient even in the common 
 principles of the Christian faith. My late lamented friend, 
 the Rev. Legh Richmond, used to observe that Christ 
 was crucified between classics and mathematics. A great 
 improvement might be effected in the system of modern 
 education, if a brief but compendious summary of divine 
 truth, or analysis of the Bible, were drawn up, divided 
 into parts, suited to the different gradations of age and 
 knowledge, and introduced into our public schoolsMinder 
 the sanction of the Episcopal Bench. Care should also 
 be taken, in the selection of under-masters, to appoint 
 men of acknowledged religious as well as classical attain- 
 menfs, who might specially superintend the religious im- 
 provement of the boys. Such are to be found in our 
 Universities, men not less eminent for divine than pro- 
 fiine knowledge. A visible reformation would thus be 
 effected, powoifully operating on the moral and spiritual 
 eharact«r of the rising generation. 
 
 Margaret's churchyard, late one evening, I saw 
 a glimmering light in the midst of it, which 
 excited my curiosity. Just as I arrived al 1he 
 spot, a grave-digger, who was at work by ilie 
 light of his lanthorn, threw up a skull which 
 .struck me upon the leg. This little accident 
 was an alarm to my conscience ; for that event 
 may be numbered among the best religious 
 documents which I received at Westminster. 
 The impression, however, presently went oif, 
 and I became so forgetful of mortality, that, 
 strange as it may seem, surveying my activity 
 and strength, :md observing the evenness of 
 my pulse, 1 began to entertain, with no small 
 complacency, a notion that perhaps I might 
 never die ! This notion was, however, very 
 short-lived ; for I loas soon after struck with a 
 lowness of spirits, uncommon at my age, and 
 frequently had intimations of a consumptive 
 habit. I had skill enough to understand their 
 meaning, but could never prevail on myself 
 to disclose them to any one; for I thought 
 any bodily infirmity a disgrace, especially a 
 consumption. This messenger from the Lord, 
 however, did his errand, and perfectly con- 
 vinced me that I was mortal. 
 
 That I may do justice to the place of my 
 education, I must relate one mark of religious 
 discipline, which, in my time, was observed at 
 Westminster; I mean, the pains which Dr. 
 Nicholls took to prepare us for confirmation. 
 The old man acquitted himself of his duty 
 like one who had a deep sense of its impor- 
 tance ; and I believe most of us were struck 
 by his manner, and affected by his exhortation. 
 For my own part, I then, for the first time, 
 attempted prayer in secret; but being little 
 accustomed to that exercise of the heart, 
 and having very childish notions of religion, I 
 found it a difficult and painful task ; and was 
 even then frightened at my own insensibility. 
 This difficulty, though it did not subdue my 
 good purposes, till the ceremony of confirma- 
 tion was past, soon after entirely conquered 
 them ; I relapsed into a total forgetfulness of 
 God, with the usual disadvantage of being 
 more hardened, for having been softened to 
 no purpose. 
 
 At twelve or thirteen I was seized with the 
 small-pox. I only mention this to show that, 
 at that early age, my heart was become proof 
 against the ordinary means which a gracious 
 God employs for our chastisement. Though 
 I was severely handled by the disease, and in 
 imminent danger, yet neither in the course of 
 it, nor during my recovery, had I any senti- 
 ment of contrition, any thought of God or 
 eternity. On the contrary, I was scarcely 
 raised from the bed of pain and sickness, be- 
 fore the emotions of sin became more violent 
 in me than ever; and Satan seemed rather to 
 have gained than lost an advantage ; so readily 
 did I iidmit his suggestions, and so passive waa 
 I under them. 
 
 J I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 46? 
 
 By this time I became such an adept in 
 falseiiood that I was seldom o-iiilty of afaull 
 for which I could not, at a very short notice, 
 invent an apology, capable of deceiving the 
 wisest. These I know are called school-boys' 
 tricks; but a sad depravity of principle, and 
 the work of the father of lies, are universally 
 at the bottom of them. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, being tolerably fur- 
 nished with a grammatical knowledge, but as 
 ignorant in all points of religion as tiie satciiel 
 at my back, I was taken from Westminster; 
 and, having spent about nine months at home, 
 was sent to acquire the practice of the law 
 with an attorney. There I might have lived 
 and died without hearing or seeing anything 
 that niiffht remind me of a single Christian 
 duty, had it not been that I was at liberty to 
 spend my leisure time (wliich was well nigh 
 all my time) at my uncle's,* in Southampton 
 Row. By this means I had indeed an op- 
 portunity of seeing the inside of a church, 
 whither I went with tiie family on Sundays, 
 which probably I should otherwise never have 
 seen. 
 
 At the expiration of this term, I became, 
 in a manner, complete master of myself; 
 and took possession of a complete set of 
 chambers in the Temple, at the age of 
 twenty-one. This being a critical season of 
 my life, and one upon wliich much depended, 
 it pleased my all-merciful Fatiier in Jesus 
 Christ to give a check to ray rash and ruin- 
 ous career of wickedness at the very onset. 
 / ivas struck, not. long after my settlement in 
 ihe Temple, loith such a dejection of spirits, as 
 none but they who have felt the same can have 
 the least conception of. Day and night I loas 
 upon the rack, lying dman in horror, and 
 rising up in despair.]- I presently lost all 
 relisil for those studies to which I had be- 
 fore been closely attached ; the classics had 
 no longer any charms for me ; I had need 
 of sometliing more salutary than amuse- 
 ment, but I had no one to direct me where 
 to find it. 
 
 At length I met with Herbert's Poems ; 
 and gothic and uneoutli as liiey were, I yet 
 found in them a strain of piety which I could 
 not but admire. Tliis was the only author 
 I iiad any delight in reading. I pored over 
 him all day long; and though I fuuiul not 
 here, wliat I migiit have found, a cure for 
 my malady, yet it never seemed so much al- 
 leviated as while I was reading him. At 
 length I was advised by a very near and 
 dear relative, to lay him aside ; lor he thouglit 
 such an author more likely to nourish my 
 disorder than to remove it.j 
 
 * Aslilcy (JoW[)ei', Esq. 
 
 + fieri' we tii-st ()l)?;ervo thn crourd-work of Cowper'n 
 miilady, ori'.'inatinq: in constituUoiiiil causes, and morbid 
 temin'rainciit. 
 
 J A rel:ilive of Cowpor's oiislit to have been the Ia.st to 
 orohit)it I lie piTusal of Herbert's Poems, because Dr. Jolin 
 
 In this state of mind I continued near a 
 twelvemonth ; when, having experienced the 
 ineliicacy of all human means, I aX length 
 betook myself to God in prayer; such is 
 the rank which our Redeemer holds in our 
 esteem, never resorted to but in the last in- 
 stance, when all creatures have failed to suc- 
 cor us. My hard heart was at length soft- 
 ened; and my stubborn knees brought to 
 bow. I composed a set of prayers, and 
 made frequent use of them. Weak as my 
 faith was, the Almighty, who will net break 
 the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking 
 flax, was graciously pleased to hear me. 
 
 A change of scene was recommended to 
 me ; and I einbraced an opportunity of going 
 with some friends to Southampton, where 1 
 spent several months. Soon tifter our ar- 
 rival, we walked to a place called Freeman- 
 tie, about a mile from the town ; the morn- 
 ing was clear and calm ; the sun shone bright 
 upon the sea ; and the country on the bor- 
 ders of it was tiie most beautiful I had ever 
 seen. We sat down upon an eminence, at 
 the end of the arm of the sea, which runs 
 between Southampton'and the New Forest. 
 Here it was, that, on a sudden, as if another 
 sun had been kindled that instant in the 
 heavens, on purpose to dispel sorrow and 
 vexation of spirit, I felt the weight of all my 
 misery taken off; my heart became light and 
 joyful in a moment; I could have wept with 
 transport had I been alone. I must needs 
 believe that nothing less than tiie Almighty 
 fiat could have filled me with such inexpres- 
 sible delight; not by a gradual dawning of 
 peace, but as it were with a flash of his life- 
 giving countenance. I think I remember 
 something like a glow of gratitude to the 
 Father of mercies for this unexpected bless- 
 ing, and that I ascribed it to his gracious ac- 
 ceptance of my prayers. But Satan, and my 
 own wicked heart, quickly persuaded me 
 that I was indebted for my deliverance to 
 nothing but a change of scene and the amus- 
 ing varieties of the place. By this means 
 he turned the blessing into a poison ; teach- 
 ing me to conclude, that notiiing but a con- 
 tinued circle of diversion, and indulgence of 
 appetite, could secure me from a relapse.* 
 
 Donna, the pious and eminent Dean of St. Paul's, one of 
 Cowper's ancestors, was thi; endeared friend of that holy 
 in, in, to wliom, not lonsf before his death, he sent a seal, 
 represeiititi'j; a (ijrure of Christ extended upon an anchor, 
 the emblem of Ilojie, to be kept as a memorial. 
 
 Uaak Walton bears the followin;;; expressive testimony 
 to Herbert's Temple, or Sacred Poems 
 
 "A book, in which bydeclariim; bis own spiritual con- 
 flirts, he hath comforted and raised many a deji'cted and 
 discomposed soul, and charmed thein into sweet and 
 quiet thoughts; abook, by the frequent i-eadim; whereof, 
 and the assistance of that Spirit that seemed to inspire 
 tlie author, the reader may attain habits of prnce and 
 pi'ti/. and all the fjifts of tlie Hnli/ Ghost and Hraven ; 
 and may, by slill readiu'j, still keep those sacred fires 
 burniiitr U|ion the altar of so pure a heart, as shall free 
 it froir the anxieties of this world, and k-.'ep it fixed upon 
 thiiiirs that are above." Sec IVnltoii''s JJves. 
 
 * W i do not know a state of ni.nd more to bo depret
 
 470 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Upon this fidse principle, as soon as I re- 
 turned to London, I burnt my prayers, and 
 away went all thoughts of devotion and de- 
 pendence upon God my Saviour. Surely it 
 was of his mercy that I was not consumed ; 
 glory be to his grace ! Two deliverances 
 from danger not making any impression, 
 having spent about twelve years in the Tem- 
 ple, in an uninterrupted course of sinful in- 
 dulgence, and my associates and companions 
 being either, like myself, professed Chris- 
 tians, or professed infidels, I obtained, at 
 length, so complete a victory over my con- 
 science, that all remonstrances from that 
 quarter were in vain, and in a manner 
 silenced ; tliough sometimes, indeed, a ques- 
 tion would arise in my mind, whether it 
 were safe to proceed any farther in a course 
 so plainly and utterly condemned in the 
 word of God. I saw clearly that if the gos- 
 pel were true, such a conduct must inevitably 
 end in my destruction ; but I saw not by 
 what means I could change my Ethiopian 
 complexion, or overcome such an inveterate 
 habit of rebelling against God. 
 
 The next thing that occurred to me was a 
 doubt whether the gospel were true or false. 
 To this succeeded many an anxious wish for 
 the decision of this important question ; for 
 I foolishly thought, that obedience would 
 presently follow, were I but convinced that 
 it was worth while to attempt it. Having 
 no reason to expect a miracle, and not hoping 
 to be satisfied with anything less, I acqui- 
 esced, at length, in the force of that devilish 
 conclusion, that the only course I could take 
 to secure my present peace was to wink 
 hard against the prospect of future misery, 
 and to resolve to banish all thoughts of a 
 subject, upon which I thought to so little 
 purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the 
 company of deists, and heard the gospel 
 blasphemed, I never failed to assert the truth 
 of it with much vehemence of disputation ; 
 for which I was the better qualified, having 
 been always an industrious and diligent in- 
 quirer into the evidences by which it was 
 externally supported. I think I once went 
 so far into a controversy of this kind, as to 
 assert, that I would gladly submit to have 
 my right hand cut oflT, so that I might but 
 be enabled to live according to the gospel. 
 Thus have I been employed, when half in- 
 
 cated than what is indicated in this passage. It is the 
 science of self-tormenting, that withei-s every joy, and 
 blights all our happiness. That Sat;in tempts is a scrip- 
 tural truth ; but the same divine authority also informs 
 us, that "every man is tempted when he is drawn away 
 of his own lust and enticed," James i. 14 : that God suf- 
 fereth no man to be tempted above what he is able, and 
 that if we resist Satan he will flee from us. The mind 
 that feels itself harassed by these mental temptations 
 must take refuge in the promises of God, such as Isaiah 
 xli. 10; xliii. 2; lix. J'J; 2 Cor. xii. 9. and plead them in 
 prayer. Resistance to temptation will weaken it, faith 
 will overcome it, and the i)anoply of Heaven, if we be 
 careful to gird ourselves with it, will secure us against 
 all its inroads. 
 
 toxicated, in vindicating the truth of scrip, 
 ture, while in the very act of rebellion aguins) 
 its dictates. Lamentable inconsistency ot 
 a convinced judgment with an unsanctified 
 heart ! An inconsistency, indeed, evident to 
 others as well as to myself, inasmuch as a 
 deistical friend of mine, with whom I was 
 disputing upon the subject, cut short the 
 matter, by alleging that, if what I said were 
 true, I was certainly lost by my own showing. 
 
 By this time, my patrimony being well 
 nigh spent, and there being no appearance 
 that I should ever repair the damage by a 
 fortune of my own getting, I began to be a 
 little apprehensive of approaching want. It 
 was, I imagine, under some apprehensions 
 of this kind, that I one day said to a friend 
 of mine, if the clerk to the journals of tlie 
 House of Lords should die, I had some 
 hopes that my kinsman, who had the place 
 in his disposal, would appoint me to succeed 
 him. We both agreed that the business of 
 that place, being transacted in private, would 
 exactly suit me. Thus did I covet what God 
 had commanded me not to covet. It pleased 
 the Lord to give me my heart's desire, and 
 with it an immediate punishment for my 
 crime. The man died, and, by his death, not 
 only tlie clerkship of the journals became 
 vacant, but it became necessary to appoint 
 officers to two other places, jointly, as depu- 
 ties to Mr. De Grey,* who at this time re- 
 signed. These were the office of reading 
 clerk, and the clerkship of the committees, 
 of much greater value than that of the jour- 
 nals. The patentee of these appointments 
 (whom I pray to God to bless for his benev- 
 olent intention to serve me) called on me at 
 my chambers, and, having invited me to 
 take a turn with him in the garden, there 
 made me an offer of the two most profitable 
 places; intending the other for his friend 
 Mr. A. Dazzled by so splendid a proposal, 
 and not immediately reflecting upon my in- 
 capacity to execute a business of so public a 
 nature, I at once accepted it ; but at the 
 same time (such was the will of Him whoso 
 hand was in the whole matter) seemed to 
 receive a dagger in my heart. The wound 
 ivns given, and every moment added to the 
 smart of it. All the considerations, by which 
 I endeavored to compose my mind to its for- 
 mer tranquillity, did but torment me the 
 more; proving miserable comforters and 
 counsellors of no value. I returned to my 
 chambers thoughtful and unhappy ; my coun- 
 tenance fell ; and my friend was astonished, 
 instead of that additional cht-erfulness he 
 might so reasonably expect, to find an air of 
 deep melancholy in all I said or did. 
 
 Having been harassed in this manner by day 
 and night, for the space of a week, perplexed 
 
 * Afterwards Lord Chief Justice of the Court of Com- 
 mon Pleas, and created Lord Walsingham.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 47i 
 
 between the apparent folly of casting away 
 the only visible chance I had of being well 
 provided for and the impossibility of retain- 
 ing it, I determined at length to write a let- 
 ter to my friend, though he lodged in a 
 manner at the next door, and we generally 
 spent the day together. I did so, and therein 
 begged him to accept my resignation, and to 
 appoint Mr. A. to the places he had given 
 me; and permit me to succeed Mr. A. I 
 was well aware of the disproportion between 
 the value of his appointment and mine ; but 
 my peace was gone ; pecuniary advantages 
 were not equivalent to what 1 had lost; and 
 I Hnttered myself, that the clerksliip of the 
 journals would fall fairly and easily within 
 the scope of my abilities. Like a man in a 
 fever, I thought a change of posture would 
 relieve my pain ; and, as the event will siiow, 
 was equally disappointed. At length I car- 
 ried my point; my friend, in this instance, 
 preferring the gratification of my desires to 
 his own interest; for nothing could be so 
 likely to bring a suspicion of bargain and 
 sale upon his nomination, which the Lords 
 would not have endured, as his appointment 
 of so near a relative to the least profitable 
 office, while the most valuable was allotted 
 to a stranger. 
 
 The matter being thus settled, something 
 like a calm took place in my mind. I was, 
 indeed, not a little concerned about my char- 
 acter ; being aware, that it must needs suffer 
 by the strange appearance of my proceeding. 
 This, however, being but a small part of the 
 anxiety I had labored under, was hardly felt, 
 when the rest was taken otf. I thought my 
 path to an easy maintenance was now plain 
 and open, and for a day or two was toler- 
 ably cheerful. But, behold, the storm was 
 gathering all the while ; and the fury of it 
 was not the less violent for this gleam of 
 sunshine. 
 
 Iti the beginning, a strong opposition to 
 mv friend's riffht of nomination beixan to 
 show itself. A powerful party was formed 
 among the lords to thwart it, in favor of an 
 old enemy of the family, though one mueii 
 indebted to its bounty; and it appeared plain 
 that, if we succeeded at last, it would only be 
 by fighting our ground by inches. Every 
 advantage, I was told, woul 1 be sought for, 
 and eagerly seized, to disconcert us. I was 
 bid to expect an examination at the bar of 
 the house, touching my sufficiency for the 
 post I had taken. Being necessarily igno- 
 rant of the nature of that business, it became 
 expedient tliat I should visit the office daily, 
 in order to qualify myself for the strictest 
 scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and 
 perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt 
 would have been as welcome to me as this 
 intelligence. I knew, to demonstration, that 
 upon these terms the clerkship of the jour- 
 
 nals was no place for me. To require my 
 attendance at the bar of the house, that 1 
 might there publicly entitle myself to the 
 office, was, in effect, to exclude me from it. 
 In the meantime, the interest of my friend, 
 the honor of his choice, my own reputation 
 and circumstances, all urged me forward; all 
 pressed me to undertake that which I saw- 
 to be impracticable. They whose spirits are 
 formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition 
 of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poison, 
 may have some idea of the horrors of my sit- 
 uation; others can have none. 
 
 My continual misery at length brought on 
 a nervous fever: quiet forsook me by day, 
 and peace by night ; a finger raised against 
 me was more than I could stand against. In 
 this posture of mind, I attended regularly at 
 the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the 
 rack, the most active spirits were essentially 
 necessary for my purpose. I expected no 
 assistance from anybody there, all the infe- 
 rior clerks being under the influence of my 
 opponent ; and accordingly I received none. 
 The journal books were indeed thrown open 
 to me, a thing which could not be refused; 
 and from which, perhaps, a man in health, 
 and with a head turned to business, might 
 have gained all the information he wanted ; 
 but it was not so with me. I read without 
 perception, and was so distressed, that had 
 every clerk in the office been my friend, it 
 could have availed me little ; for I was not in 
 a condition to receive instruction, mtich less 
 to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direc- 
 tion. Many months went over me thus em- 
 ployed; constant in the use of means, de 
 spairing as to the issue. 
 
 The feelings of a man when he arrives at 
 the place of execution, are probably much 
 like mine every time I set my foot in the 
 ollice, which was every day for more than 
 half a year together. 
 
 At length, tlic vacation being pretty far 
 advanced, 1 made a shift to get into the coun- 
 try, and repaired to Margate. There, by the 
 help of cheerful company, a new scene, and 
 the intermission of my painful employment, 
 I presently began to recover my spirits; 
 though even here, for some time after my ar- 
 rival (notwithstanding, perhaps, that the pre- 
 ceding day had been spent agreeably, and 
 without any disturbing recollection of my 
 circumstances), my first reflections, when I 
 awoke in the morning, were horrible and full 
 of wretchedness. I looked forward to the 
 approaching winter, and regretted the flight 
 of every moment which brought it nearer; 
 like a man borne away by a rapid torrent into 
 a stormy sea, whence he sees no possibility 
 of returning, and where he knows he cannot 
 subsist. At length, indeed, I acquired such 
 a facility of turning away my thoughts from 
 the ensuing crisis, that for weeks together, I
 
 472 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 hardly adverted to it at all; but the stress of 
 the tenijiest was yet to come, and was not to 
 be avoided by any resolution of mine to look 
 anotiier way. 
 
 " How wonderful are the works of the 
 Lord, and his ways past tinding out!" Thus 
 was he preparing me for an event which I 
 least of all expected, even the reception of 
 his blessed go-pel, working by means which, 
 in all human contemplation, must needs seem 
 directly opposite to that purpose, bnt which, 
 in his wise and gracious di.-posal, have, I trust, 
 effectually accomplished it. 
 
 About the beginning of October, 1763, I 
 was again required to attend the office and 
 prepare for the puhh. This no sooner took 
 place, than all my misery returned ; again I 
 visited the scene of ineffectual labors; again 
 I felt myself pressed by necessity on either 
 side, wilii nothing but despair in prospect. 
 To this dilemma was I reduced, either to 
 keep possession of the office to the last ex- 
 tremity, and by so doing expose myself to a 
 public rejection for insufficiency (for the little 
 knowledge I had acquired would have quite 
 forsaken me at the bar of the house) ; or else 
 to fling it up at once, and by this means run 
 the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right 
 of appointment, by bringing his discretion 
 into question. In this situation, such a fit of 
 passion has sometimes seized me, when alone 
 in my chambers, that 1 have cried out aloud, 
 and cursed the hour of my birth ; lifting up 
 my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as 
 a supplicant, but in the spirit of reproach 
 against my Maker. A thought would some- 
 times come across my mind, that my sins had 
 perhaps brought this distress upon me, tiiat 
 the hand of divine vengeance was in it; but 
 in the pride of my heart, I presently acquit- 
 ted myself, and thereby implicitly charged 
 God with injustice, saying, " What sins have 
 I committed to deserve this ?" 
 
 I saw plainly that God alone could deliver 
 me; but was firmly persuaded that he would 
 not, and therefore omitted to ask it. Indeed, 
 athis hands, I would not; but as Saul sought 
 to the witch, so did I to the physician. Dr. 
 Heberden ; and was as diligent in the use 
 of drugs, as if they would have healed my 
 wounded spirit, or have made the rough places 
 plain before me. I made, indeed, one etibrt 
 of a devotional kind ; for, having found a 
 prayer or two, I said them a few nights, but 
 with so little expectation of prevailing that 
 way, that I soon laid aside the book, and 
 with it all thoughts of God and hopes of a 
 remetly. 
 
 I now began to look upon madness as the 
 only chance remaining. 1 had a strong kind 
 of foreboding that so it would one day fare 
 with me; and I wished for it earnestly, and 
 looked forward to it with impatient expecta- 
 tion. ]My chief fear was, that my senses 
 
 would not fail me time enough to excuse my 
 appearance at the bar of the House of LordSj 
 wiiich was the only purpose I wanted it to 
 answer. Accordingly, the day of decision 
 drew near, and I was still in my senses • 
 though in my heart I had formed many wish- 
 es, and by word of mouth expressed many 
 expectations to the contrary. 
 
 i\owcaine the gnnid temptation; the point 
 to which Satan had all the v\ hile been driving 
 me. I grew more sullen and reserved, fled 
 from society, even from my most intimate 
 friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. 
 The ruin of my fortune, the contempt of my 
 relations and acquaintance, the prejudice I 
 should do to my patron, were all urged on 
 me with irresistible energy. Being recon- 
 ciled to the apprehension of madness, I be- 
 gan to be reconciled to the apprehension of 
 death. Though formerly, in my happiest 
 hours, I had never been able to glance a 
 single thought that way, without shuddering 
 at tiie idea of dissolution, I now wished for 
 it, and found myself but little shocked at the 
 idea of procuring it myself I considered life 
 as my property, and therefore at my own dis- 
 posal. Men of great name, I observed, had 
 destroyed themselves: and the world still 
 retained the profoundest respect for their 
 memories, 
 
 [An imperative sense of duty compels me 
 to throw a veil over the afflicting details which 
 follow. Respect for the known wishes of 
 my departed brother-in-law, a desire not to 
 wound the feelings of living characters, and 
 a consciousness that such disclosures are not 
 suited to meet the public eye, confirm me in 
 this resolution. It may be said, that the facta 
 are accessible, and may be known; why make 
 a mystery of communicating them? My an* 
 swer is, I am a father; I will not inflict a 
 shock on the youthful minds of my own 
 children, neither will I be instrumental in 
 conveying it to those of others. 1 will make 
 such use of the Memoir as may answer the 
 purpose I have in view, but I will not be the 
 medium of revealing the secrets of the pris- 
 on-house. It is sufficient to state that Cow- 
 per .meditated the crime of self-destruction, 
 and that he was arrested in his purpose by 
 an Almighty arm. To quote his own em- 
 phatic words, " Unless my Eternal Father in 
 Christ Jesus had interposed to disannul my 
 covenant with death, and my agreement with 
 hell, that I might hereafter be admitted into 
 the covenant of mercy, I had by this time 
 been the just object of his boundless ven- 
 geance." 
 
 All expectations of being able to hold the 
 office in parliament being now at an end, he 
 despatclied a friend to his relative at the 
 coft'ee-house.] 
 
 As soon, he observes, as the .atter arrived,
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 475 
 
 t apprised him of the attempt I had been 
 making. His words were, " My dear Mr. 
 Cowpi^r, you terrify me; to be sure you can- 
 not hold the ortke at tliis rate. Wiiere is 
 the deputation ?" I gave him tiie key of the 
 drawers where it was deposited ; and, his 
 business requiring liis immediate attendance, 
 he took it away with him; and thus ended 
 all my connexion with tiie parliament house. 
 
 To this moment I had felt no concern of a 
 spiritual kind. Ignorant of original sin, in- 
 sensible of the guilt of actual transgression, 
 I understood neither the law nor the Gospel; 
 the condemning nature of the one, nor the 
 restoring mercies of the other. I was as 
 much unacquainted with Clirist, in all his 
 saving oitices, as if his blessed name had 
 never reached me. Now, therefore, a new 
 scene opened upon me. Conviction of sin 
 took place, especially of that just committed; 
 the meanness of it, as well as its atrocity, 
 were exhibited to me in colors so inconceiv- 
 ably strong, that I despised myself, with a 
 contempt not to be imagined or expressed, 
 for having attempted it. This sense of it 
 secured me from the repetition of a crime, 
 which I could not now rellect on without ab- 
 horrence. 
 
 A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair 
 of escaping it, instantly succeeded. The tear 
 of death became much more prevalent in me 
 than ever the desire of it had been. 
 
 A frequent flashing, like that of fire, before 
 my eyes, and an excessive pressure upon tlie 
 brain, made me apprehensive of an apoplexy. 
 
 By the advice of my dear friend and bene- 
 factor, who called upon me again at noon, I 
 sent for a physician, and told him the fact, 
 and the stroke I apprehended. He assured 
 me there was no danger of it, and advised 
 me by all n»eans to retire into the country. 
 Being made easy in that particular, and not 
 knowing where to better myself, I continued 
 in my chambers, where the solitude of my 
 situation left me at full liberty to attend to 
 my spiritual state; a matter I had till this 
 day never sufficiently thought of 
 
 At this lime I wrote to my brother, at 
 Cambridge, to inform him of the distress I 
 had been in, and the dreadful method I had 
 taken to deliver myself from it: assuring 
 him, as I faithfully might, that I had laid 
 aside all such horrid intentions, and was de- 
 sirous to live as long as it would please the 
 Almighty to permit me. 
 
 My sins were now set in array against me, 
 and I began to see and feel that I had lived 
 without God in the world. As I walked to 
 and fro in my chamber, I said within myself, 
 " There never was so abandoned a wrelch, so 
 great a sinner.''^ All my worldly sorrows 
 eeeraed as thougli they had never been ; the 
 terrors which succeeded them seemed so 
 ^eat and so much more atHicting. One 
 
 moment I thought myself shut out from 
 mercy by one chapter ; the next by another. 
 The sword of the Spirit seemed to guard the 
 tree of life from my touch, and to flame 
 against me in every avenue by which I at- 
 tempted to approach it. I particularly re- 
 member, that the parable of the barren flg- 
 trce was to me an inconceivable source of 
 anguish; and 1 applied it to myself with a 
 strong persuasion in my mind that, when the 
 Saviour pronounced a curse upon it, he had 
 me in his eye, and pointed that curse directly 
 at me. 
 
 I turned over all Archbishop Tillotson's 
 sermons, in hopes of flnding one upon the 
 subject, and consulted my brother upon the 
 true meaning of it ; desirous, if possible, to 
 obtain a different interpretation of the matter 
 than my evil conscience would suffer me to 
 fasten on it. "O Lord, thou didst vex me 
 with all thy storms, all thy billows went over 
 me; thou didst run upon me like a giant in 
 the night season, thou didst scare me with 
 visions in the night season." 
 
 In every book I opened, I found something 
 that struck me to the heart. I remember tak- 
 ing up a volume of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 which lay upon the table in my kinsman's 
 lodgings, and the first sentence which I saw 
 was this: "The justice of the gods is in it." 
 My heart instantly replied, "It is a truth;" 
 an I I cannot but observe, that as I found 
 something in every author to condemn me, 
 so it was the first sentence, in general, I 
 pitched upon. Everything preached to me, 
 and everything preached the curse of the law. 
 
 I was now strongly tempted to use lauda- 
 num, not as a poison, but as an opiate, to 
 compose my spirits ; to stupefy my awakened 
 and feeling mind, harassed with sleepless 
 nights and days of uninterrupted misery. 
 But God forbad it, who would have nothing 
 to interfere with the quickening work he had 
 begun in me ; and neither the want of rest, 
 nor continued agony of mind, could bring 
 me to the use of it: I hated and abhorred 
 the very smell of it. 
 
 Having an obscure notion about the etli- 
 cacy of faith, I resolved upon an experiment 
 to prove whether I had faith or not. For 
 this purpose, I resolved to repeat the Creed: 
 when I came to the second period of it, all 
 traces of the former were struck out of my 
 memory, nor could I recollect one syllable of 
 the matter. While I endeavored to recover 
 it, and wlien just upon the point, I perceived 
 a sensation in my brain, like a tremulous vi- 
 bration in all the fibres of it. By this mears 
 I lost the words in the very instant when I 
 thought to have laid hold of them. This 
 threw me into an agony ; but growing a little 
 calmer, I made an attempt far the third time; 
 here again I failed in the same manner aa 
 before.
 
 474 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 In this condition my brother found me, and 
 tlie first words I spoke to hira were, " Oh ! 
 brother, I am lost! think of eternity, and 
 then think what it is to be lost!" I had, in- 
 deed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my 
 mind, which seemed almost to amount to a 
 full comprehension of it. 
 
 My brother, pierced to the heart with the 
 sight of my misery, tried to comfort me, but 
 all to no purpose. I refused comfort, and 
 my mind appeared to me in such colors, that 
 to administer it to me was only to exasperate 
 me, and to mock my fears. 
 
 At length, I remembered my friend Martin 
 Madan, and sent for him. I used to think 
 him an enthusiast, but now seemed convinced 
 that, if there was any balm in Gilead, he 
 must administer it to me. On former occa- 
 sions, when my spiritual concerns had at any 
 time occurred to me, I thought likewise on 
 the necessity of repentance. I knew that 
 many persons had spoken of shedding tears 
 for sin ; but when 1 asked myself, whether 
 the time would ever come when I should 
 weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone 
 might sooner do it. 
 
 Not knowing that Christ was exalted to 
 give repentance, I despaired of ever attaining 
 to it. My friend came to me ; we sat on the 
 bed-side togetlier, and lie began to declare to 
 me the gospel. He spoke of original sin, 
 and the corruption of every man born into 
 the world, whereby every one is a child of 
 wrath. I perceived something like hope 
 dawning in my heart. This doctrine set me 
 more on a level with the rest of mankind, 
 and made my condition appear less desperate. 
 
 Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy 
 of the blood of Jesus, and his righteousness, 
 for our justification. While I heard this part 
 of his discourse, and the scriptures on wiiich 
 he founded it, my heart began to burn witliin 
 me, my soul was pierced with a sense of my 
 bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour; 
 and those tears, which I thought impossible, 
 burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my 
 case required such a remedy, and had not tlie 
 least doubt within me but that this was the 
 gospel of salvation. 
 
 Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively 
 faith in Jesus Christ; not an assent only of 
 the understanding, but a f;xith of application, 
 an actual laying hold of it, and embracing it 
 as a salvation wrought out for me personally. 
 Here I failed, and deplored my want of such 
 a faith. He told me it was the gift of God, 
 which he trusted he would bestow upon me. 
 I could only reply, " I wish he would :" a very 
 irreverent petition ;* but a very sincere one, 
 and such as the blessed God, in his due time, 
 was pleased to answer. 
 
 My brother, finding that I had received 
 
 * It cortld hardly be called iri-everent, xinless the ma»- 
 ner in which it was uttered rendered it such. 
 
 consolation from Mr. Madan, was very anx- 
 ious that I should take the earliest opportu- 
 nity of conversing with liim again ; and, for 
 this purpose, pressed me to go to him imme- 
 diately. I was for putting it off, but my 
 brother seemed impatient of delay; and, at 
 length, prevailed on me to set out. I men- 
 tion this, to the honor of his candor and liu- 
 manity ; which would suffer no difference o. 
 sentiments to interfere with them. My wel- 
 fare was his only object, and all prejudices 
 fled before his zeal to procure it. May he 
 receive, for his recompense, all that liappiness 
 the gospel, which I then first became ac- 
 quainted with, is alone able to impart! 
 
 Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. 
 The wounded spirit within me was less in 
 pain, but by no means healed. What I had 
 experienced was but the beginning of sor- 
 rows, and a long train of still greater terrors 
 was at hand. I slept my three hours well, 
 and then awoke with ten times a stronger 
 alienation from God than ever. 
 
 At eleven o'clock my brother called upon 
 me, and, in about an hour after his arrival, 
 that distemper of mind, whicli I had so ar- 
 dently wished for, actually seized me. 
 
 While I traversed the apartment, expect- 
 ing every moment the earth would open her 
 mouth and swallow me, my conscience scar- 
 ing me, and the city of refuge out of reach 
 and out of sight, a strange and horrible dark- 
 ness fell upon me. If it were possible that 
 a heavy blow could light on the brain, with- 
 out touching the skull, such was the sensa- 
 tion I felt. I clapped my hand to my fore- 
 head, and cried aloud through the pain it gave 
 me. At every stroke my thoughts and ex- 
 pressions became more wild and incoherent; 
 all that remained clear was the sense of sin, 
 and the expectation of punishment. These 
 kept undisturbed possession all through my 
 illness, without interruption or abatement. 
 
 My brother instantly observed the change, 
 and consulted with my friends on the best 
 mode to dispose of me. It was agreed 
 among them, that I should be carried to St. 
 Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for 
 the reception of such patients, and with 
 vvliom I was known to have a slight ac- 
 quaintance. Not only his skill as a physi- 
 cian recommended him to their choice, but 
 his well-known humanity and sweetness of 
 temper. It will be proper to draw a veil 
 over the secrets of my prison-house : let it 
 suffice to say, that the low state of body and 
 mind to which I was reduced was perfectly 
 well calculated to humble the natural vain- 
 glory and pride of my heart. 
 
 These are the efficacious means which In- 
 finite Wisdom thought meet to make use of 
 for that purpose. A sense of self-loathing 
 and abhorrence ran tlu-ough all my insanity. 
 Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 475 
 
 iudgraent, never left me, from the 7th of De- 
 cember 1763, until the middle of July fol- 
 lowing. The accuser of the brethren was 
 ever busy with me night and day, bringing 
 to my recollection in dreams the commission 
 of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon 
 my conscience things of an inditferent nature 
 as atrocious crimes. 
 
 All that passed in this long interval of eight 
 months may be classed under two heads, con- 
 viction of sin, and despair of mercy. But 
 blessed be the God of my salvation for every 
 sigh I drew, for every tear I shed ; since thus 
 it pleased him to judge me here, that I might 
 not be judged hereafter. 
 
 After five months of continual expectation 
 that the divine vengeance would overtake me, 
 I became so familiar with despair as to have 
 contracted a sort of hardiness and inditfer- 
 ence as to tiie event. I began to persuade 
 myself that, while the execution of the sen- 
 tence was suspended, it would be for my in- 
 terest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas 
 than I had been accustomed to muse upon. 
 By the means I entered into conversation 
 with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and 
 told him some of my own to match them; 
 still, however, carrying a sentence of irrevo- 
 cable doom in my heart. 
 
 He observed the seeming alteration with 
 pleasure. Believing, as well he might, that 
 my smiles were sincere, he thought my re- 
 covery well-nigh completed ; but they were, 
 in reality, like the green surface of a morass, 
 pleasant to the eye, but a cover for nothing 
 but rottenness and filth. The unli/ thing thai 
 could promote and effectuate my cure was yet 
 wanting ; an experimental kwnvledge of the 
 redemption which is in Christ Jesus. 
 
 In about three months more (July 25, 
 1764) my brother came from Cambridge to 
 visit me. Dr. C. having told him that lie 
 thought me greatly amended, lie was rather 
 disappointed at finding me almost as silent 
 and reserved as ever ; for the first sigiit of 
 him struck me with many painful sensations 
 both of sorrow for my own remediless con- 
 dition and envy of his happiness. 
 
 As soon as we were left alone, he asked 
 me how I found myself; I answered, "As 
 much better as despair can make me." We 
 went together into the garden. Here, on 
 expressing a settled assurance of sudden 
 judgment, he protested to me that it was all 
 a delusion ; and protested so strongly, that 
 I could not help giving some attention to 
 iiim. I burst into tears, and cried out, " If it 
 be a delusion, then am I the happiest of be- 
 ings." Something like a ray of hope was 
 shot into my heart ; but ^i\\\ I vas afraid to 
 indulge it. We dined togetlicr, and I spent 
 the afiernoon in a more cheerful manner. 
 Something seemed to whisper to me every 
 moment, "Still there is mercy." 
 
 Even after he left me, this change of sei> 
 timent gathered ground continually; yet my 
 mind was in such a fluctuating state, that 1 
 can only call it a vague presage of bettegr 
 things at hand, without being able to assign 
 a reason for it. The servant observed a 
 sudden alteration in me for the better ; and 
 the man, whom I have ever since retained in 
 my service,* expressed great joy on the oc- 
 casion. 
 
 I went to bed and slept well. In the 
 morning, I dreamed that the sweetest boy I 
 ever saw came dancing up to my bedside ; 
 he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet I 
 took particular notice of the firmness and 
 steadiness of his tread. The sight affected 
 me with pleasure, and served at least to har- 
 monize my spirits ; so that I awoke for the 
 first time with a sensation of delight on my 
 mind. Still, however, I knew not where to 
 look for the establishment of the comfort I 
 felt ; my joy was as much a mystery to my- 
 self as to those about me. The blessed 
 God was preparing for me the clearer light 
 of his countenance, by this first dawning of 
 that light upon me. 
 
 Within a few days of my first arrival at 
 St. Alban's, I had thrown aside the word of 
 God, as a book in which I had no longer 
 any interest or portion. The only instance, 
 in which I can recollect reading a single 
 chapter, was about two months before my 
 recovery. Having found a Bible on the 
 bench in the garden, I opened upon the 11th 
 of St. John, where Lazarus is raised from 
 the dead; and saw so much benevolence, 
 mercy, goodness, and sympathy with miser- 
 able man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I 
 almost shed tears even after the relation ; 
 little thinking that it was an exact type of 
 the mercy which Jesus was on the point of 
 extending towards myself I sighed, and 
 said, " Oh, that I had not rejected so good a 
 Redeemer, tluit I had not forfeited all his 
 favors 1" Thus was my heart softened, 
 though not yet enlightened. I closed the 
 book, without intending to open it again. 
 
 Having risen with somewh.at of a more 
 cheerful feeling, I repaired to my room, 
 where breakfast waited for me. While I 
 sat at table, I found the cloud of horror, 
 which had so long hung over me, was every 
 moment passing away ; and every moment 
 came fraught with hope. I was continually 
 more and more persuaded that I was not ut- 
 terly doomed to destruction. The way of 
 salvation was still, however, hid from my 
 eyes ; nor did I see it at all clearer than be- 
 fore my illness. I only thought that if it 
 would please God to spare me, I would lead 
 a better life ; and that I would yet escape 
 hell, rf a religious observance of my duty 
 would secure me from it. 
 
 * Samuel Roberts.
 
 <76 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Thus may the terror of the Lord make a 
 pharisee ; but only the sweet voice of mercy in 
 the gospel can make a Christian. 
 
 [We are now arrived at the eventful crisis 
 of Cowper's conversion and restoration, which 
 13 thus recorded in his own words.] 
 
 But the happy period which was to shake 
 off my fetters, and aiford me a clear opening 
 of the free mercy of God in Christ Jesus, 
 was now arrived. I flung myself into a chair 
 near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, 
 ventured once more to apply to it for comfort 
 and instruction. The first verse I saw was 
 the 25th of the 3rd of Romans ; " Whom 
 God hath set forth to be a propitiation 
 through faith in his blood, to declare his 
 righteousness for the remission of sins that 
 are past, through the forbearance of God." 
 
 Immediately I received strength to believe 
 it, and the full beams of the Sun of Right- 
 eousness shone upon me. I saw the suffi- 
 ciency of the atonement he had made, my 
 pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness 
 and completeness of his justification. In a 
 moment I believed, and rec<;ived the gospel. 
 Whatever my friend Madan had said to me, 
 long before, revived in all its clearness, with 
 demonstration of the Spirit and with power. 
 Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, 
 I think I should have died with gratitude and 
 joy. My eyes filled with tears, and my voice 
 choked with transport, I could only look up 
 to heaven in silent fear, overwhelmed with 
 love and wonder. But the work of the Holy 
 Ghost is best described in his own words, it 
 is "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." 
 Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ 
 Jesus pleased to give me the full assurance 
 of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbe- 
 lieving heart to raise up a child unto Abra- 
 ham. How glad should I now have been 
 to have spent every moment in prayer and 
 thanksgiving ! 
 
 I lost no opportunity of repairing to a 
 throne of grace ; but flew to it with an ear- 
 nestness irresistible, and never to be satis- 
 fied. Could I help it? Could I do other- 
 wise than love and rejoice in my reconciled 
 Father in Christ Jesus? The Lord had en- 
 larged my heart, and I ran in the way of his 
 commandments. For many succeeding weeks 
 tears were ready to flow, "if I did but speak 
 of the gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. 
 To rejoice day and night was all my employ- 
 ment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought 
 it was but lost time that was spent in slum- 
 ber. O that the ardor of my first love had 
 continued! But I have known many a life- 
 less and unhallowed hour since; long inter- 
 vals of darkness, interrupted by short returns 
 of peace and joy in believing. 
 
 My physician, ever watchful and apprehen- 
 sive for my welfare, was now alarmed lest 
 
 the sudden transition from despair to joy 
 should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But " the 
 Lord was my strength and my song, and wai» 
 become mj salvation." I said, " I shall not 
 die, but live, and declare the works of the 
 Lord ; he has chastened me sore, but not 
 given me over unto death. O give thanks un- 
 to the Lord, for his mercy endureth forever." 
 
 In a short time, Dr. C. became satisfied, 
 and acquiesced in the soundness of my cure : 
 and much sweet communion I had with him, 
 concerning the things of our salvation. He 
 visited me every morning while I stayed with 
 him, which was near twelve months after ray 
 recovery, and the gospel was the delightful 
 theme of our conversation. 
 
 No trial has befallen me since, but what 
 might be expected in a state of warfare. 
 Satan, indeed, has changed his battery. Be- 
 fore my conversion, sensual gratification was 
 the weapon with which he sought to destroy 
 me. Being naturally of an easy, quiet dis- 
 position, I was seldom tempted to anger ; yet 
 that passion it is which now gives me the 
 most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest 
 conflicts. But Jesus being my strength, I 
 fight against it; and if I am not conqueror, 
 yet I am not overcome. 
 
 I now employed my brother to seek out 
 an abode for me in the neighborhood of 
 Cambridge, being determined by the Lord's 
 leave, to see London, the scene of my former 
 abominations, no more. I had still one place 
 of preferment left, which seemed to bind 
 me under the necessity of returning thither 
 again. But I resolved to break the bond, 
 chiefly because my peace of conscience was 
 in question. I held, for some years, the 
 office of commissioner of bankrupts with 
 about 60Z. per annum. Conscious of my 
 ignorance of the law, I could not take the 
 accustomed oath, and resigned it; thereby 
 releasing myself from an occasion of great 
 sin, and every obligation to return to Lon- 
 don. By this means, I reduced myself to 
 an income scarcely sufficient for my mainten- 
 ance ; but I would rather have starved in 
 reality than deliberately oflFend against my 
 Saviour ; and his great mercy has since raised 
 me up such friends, as have enabled me to 
 enjoy all the comforts and conveniences of 
 life. I am well assured that, while I live, 
 " bread shall be given me, and water shall be 
 sure," according to his gracious promise. 
 
 After my brother had made many unsuc- 
 cessful attempts to procure me a dwelling 
 near him, I one day poured out my soul in 
 prayer to God, beseeching him that, wherever 
 he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy, 
 to lead me, it might be in the society of those 
 who feared his name, and loved the Lord 
 Jesus Christ in sincerity ; a prayer of which 
 I have good reason to acknowledge his gra- 
 cious acceptance.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 477 
 
 In the beginning of June, 1765, 1 received 
 a letter from my brother, to say lie had taken 
 lodgings for me at Huntingdon, which he 
 beheved would suit me. Thoughit was six- 
 teen miles from Cambridge, I was resolved 
 to take them ; for I iiad been two months in 
 perfect health, and my circumstances required 
 a less expensive way of life. It was with 
 great reluctance, however, that I thought of 
 leaving the place of my second nativity ; I 
 had so much leisure tiiere to study the bless- 
 ed word of God, and had enjoyed so much 
 happiness; but God ordered everything for 
 m-e like an indulgent Father, and had pre- 
 pared a more comfortable plr.ce of residence 
 than I could have ciiosen for myself 
 
 On the 7th of June, 1765, having spent 
 more than eighteen months at St. Albaifs, 
 partly in bondage, and partly in the liberty 
 wherewith Christ had made me free, I took 
 my leave of the place at four in the morning, 
 and set out for Cambridge. 
 
 The servant, whom 1 lately mentioned as 
 rejoicing in my recovery, attended me. He 
 had maintained such an affectionate watch- 
 fulness over me durir f my whole illness, and 
 waited on me with so much patience and 
 gentleness, that I could not bear to leave iiini 
 behind, though it was with some dilficulty 
 the Doctor was prevailed on to part with 
 him. The strongest argument of all was 
 the earnest desire he expressed to follow 
 me. He seemed to have been providentially 
 thrown in my way, having entered Dr. C.'s 
 service just time enough to attend ine : and 
 I have strong ground to hope, that God will 
 use me as an instrument to bring him to a 
 knowledge of Jesus. It is impossible to say 
 with how delightful a sense of his projection 
 and fatherly care of me, it has pleased the 
 Almighty to favor me, during the whole 
 journey. 
 
 I remembered the pollution which is in the 
 world, and the sad share I had in it myself; 
 and my heart ached at the thought of enter- 
 ing it again. The blessed God iiad endued 
 me with some con<;ern for his glory, and I 
 was fearful of hearing it traduced by oaths 
 and blasphemies, the common language of 
 thii highly favored, but ungrateful country.* 
 But " fear not, I am with thee," was my com- 
 fort. I passed the whole journey in silent 
 communion with God; and those hours are 
 amongst the happiest I have known. 
 
 I repnred to Huntingdon the Saturday 
 after my arrival at Cambridge. My brother, 
 who h.id attended me ihither, had no sooner 
 left me than, finding myself surrounded by 
 strangers and in a strange place, my spirits 
 began to sink, and I felt (such were the b.ick- 
 
 * Tliere is considenil)le iinprovemoiit in p>il)lic man- 
 nors since this puriod, ;iii(l oiitlis and l)l:ispliL'inius would 
 nut lie tDleratod in well-bred society. May llie liidluwed 
 inlliience of Uio Cospel be instrumental ill pioduciiig a 
 Btill happier change ! 
 
 slidings of my heart) like a traveller in the 
 midst of an inhospitable desert, without a 
 friend to comfort or a guide to direct me. I 
 walked forth, towards the close of the day 
 in this melancholy frame of mind, and, hav- 
 ing wandered about a mile from the town, 
 I found n)y heart, at length, so powerfully 
 drawn towards the Lord, that, having gained 
 a retired and secret nook in the corner of 
 a field, I kneeled down under a bank, and 
 poured forth my complaints before him. It 
 pleased my Saviour to hear me, in that this 
 oppression was taken off, and I was enabled 
 to trust in him that careth for the stranger 
 to roll my burden upon him, and to rest as- 
 sured that, wheresoever he might cast my 
 lot, the God of all consolation would still be 
 with me. But this was not all. He did for 
 me more than either I had a,sked or tiiought. 
 
 The next day, I went to church for the 
 first time after my recovery. Throughout 
 the whole service, I had much to do to re- 
 strain my emotions, so fully did I see the 
 beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart 
 was full of love to all the congregation, cm 
 pecially to them in whom I observed an air of 
 sober attention. A grave and sober person 
 sat in the pew with me; him I have since 
 seen and often conversed with, and have 
 found him a pious man, and a true servant 
 of the blessed Redeemer. While he was 
 singing the psalm, I looked at him, and, ob- 
 serving him intent on his holy employment, 
 I could not help saying in my heart, with 
 much emotion, " Bless you, for praising Him 
 whom my soul loveth !" 
 
 Such was the goodness of the Lord to me, 
 that he gave me "the oil of joy for mourn- 
 ing, and the garment of praise for the spirit 
 of heaviness;" and though my voice was 
 silent, being .stopped by the intenseness of 
 what I felt, yet my soul sung within me, and 
 even leaped for joy. And when the gospel 
 for tlie day was read, the sound of it was 
 more than I could well support. Oh, what 
 a word is the word of God, when the Spirit 
 quickens us to receive it, and gives the hear- 
 ing ear, and the understanding heart! The 
 harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its 
 author. The parable of the prodigal son 
 was the portion. I saw myself in that glass 
 so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my 
 slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole 
 scene was realized to me, and acted over in 
 my heart. 
 
 I went immediately after church to the 
 place where I had prayed the day before, and 
 found the relief I had" there received was but 
 the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall 
 I express what the Lord did for me, except 
 by saying, th.at he made all his goodness to 
 pass before me ! I seemed to spe.ik to him 
 face to face, as a man conversing with iiia 
 friend, except tJiat my speech was only in
 
 478 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 tears of joy, and groanlngs which cannot be 
 uttered. I could say, indeed, with Jacob, not 
 " how dreadful," but how lovely, " is this 
 place ! This is none other than the house 
 of God." 
 
 Four months I continued in my lodging. 
 Some few of the neighbors came to see me, 
 but their visits were not very frequent; and, 
 in general, I had but little intercourse, ex- 
 cept with my God in Christ Jesus. It was 
 he who made my solitude sweet, and the wil- 
 derness to bloom and blossom as the rose; 
 and my meditation of him was so delightful 
 that, if I had few other comforts, neither did 
 I want any. 
 
 One day, however, towards the expiration 
 of this period, I found myself in a state of 
 desertion. That communion which I had so 
 long been able to maintain with the Lord 
 was suddenly interrupted. I began to dis- 
 like my solitary situation, and to fear I should 
 never^be able to weather out the winter in 
 so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought 
 struck me, which I shall not fear to call a 
 suggestion of the good providence which had 
 brought me to Huntingdon. A few months 
 before, I had formed an acquaintance with the 
 Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though 
 he had heard that I rather declined society 
 than sought it, and though Mrs. Unwin her- 
 self dissuaded him from visiting me on that 
 account, was yet so strongly inclined to it, 
 that, notwithstanding all objections and ar- 
 guments to the contrary, he one day engaged 
 himself, as we were coming out of church, 
 after morning prayers, to drink tea with me 
 that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I 
 found him one whose notions of religion 
 were spiritual and lively; one whom the 
 Lord had been training up from his infancy 
 for the service of the temple. We opened 
 our hearts to each other at the first inter- 
 view, and, when we parted, I immediately 
 retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, 
 who had been the author, to be the guardian 
 of our friendship, and to grant to it fervency 
 and perpetuity even unto death ; and I doubt 
 not that my gracious Father heard this prayer 
 also. 
 
 The Sunday following I dined with him. 
 That afternoon, while the rest of the family 
 was withdrawn, I had much discourse with 
 Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to describe 
 the pleasure I had in conversing with her, 
 because she will be one of the first who will 
 have the perusal of this narrative. Let it 
 suffice to say, I found we had one faith, and 
 had been baptized with the same baptism. 
 
 When I returned home, I gave thanks to 
 God, who had so graciously answered my 
 prayers, by bringing me into the society of 
 Christians. She has since been a means in 
 the hand of God of supporting, quickening, 
 and strengthening me, in my walk with him. 
 
 It was long before I thought of any other 
 connexion with this family than as a friend 
 and neighbor. On the day, however, above 
 mentioned, while I was revolving in my mind 
 the nature of my situation, and beginning, 
 for the first time, to find an irksomeness in 
 such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me 
 that I might probably find a place in Mr 
 Unwin's family as a boarder. A young gen- 
 tleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, 
 was the day before gone to Cambridge. It 
 appeared to me, at least, possible, that 1 might 
 be allowed to succeed him. From the mo- 
 ment this thought struck me, such a tumult 
 of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two 
 or three days I could not divert my mind to 
 any other subject. I blamed and condemned 
 myself for want of submission to the Lord's 
 will ; but still the language of my mutinous 
 and disobedient heart was, "Give me the 
 blessing, or else I die." 
 
 About the third evening after I had deter- 
 mined upon the measure, I, at length, made 
 shift to fasten my thoughts upon a theme 
 which had no manner of connexion with it. 
 While I was pursuin^:' my meditations, Mr. 
 Unwin and family quite out of sight, my at- 
 tention was suddenly called home again by 
 the words which had been continually play- 
 ing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated 
 with such importunity that I could not help re- 
 garding them : — " The Lord God of truth will 
 do this." I was effectually convinced, that 
 they were not of my own production, and 
 accordingly I received from them some as- 
 surance of success; but my unbelief and 
 fearfulness robbed me of much of the com- 
 fort they were intended to convey; though I 
 have since had many a blessed experience of 
 the same kind, for which I can never be suf- 
 ficiently thankful. 1 immediately began to 
 negotiate the affair, and in a few days it was 
 entirely concluded. 
 
 I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 
 11, 1765. I have found it a place of rest 
 prepared for me by God's own hand, where 
 he lias blessed me witii a thousand mercies, 
 and instances of his fatherly protection ; and 
 where he has given me abundant means of 
 furtherance in the knowledge of our Lord 
 Jesus, both by the study of his own word, 
 and communion with his dear disciples. May 
 nothing but death interrupt our union ! 
 
 Peace be with the reader, through faith in 
 our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen ! 
 
 Painful as this memoir is in some of its 
 earher details, yet we know nothing more 
 simple and beautiful in narrative, more touch- 
 ing and ingenuous in sentiment than its happy 
 sequel and consummation. It resembles the 
 storm that desolates the plain, but which is 
 afterwards succeeded by the glowing beauties 
 
 J
 
 LIFE OF COVVPER. 
 
 479 
 
 of the renovated landscnpe. No docnmcnt 
 ever furnislied an ampler refutation of the 
 remark that ascribes his malady to the oper- 
 ation of religious causes. On the contrary, it 
 appears that his first relief, under the tyranny 
 of an unfeeling school-boy, was in the exer- 
 cise of prayer, and that some of his happiest 
 moments, in the enjoyment of the Divine 
 presence, were experienced in the frame of 
 mind which he de^^cribes, when at Southamp- 
 ton — that in proportion as he forgot the 
 heavenly Monitor, his peace vanished, his 
 passions resumed the ascendency, and he 
 presented an unhappy compound of guiU and 
 wretchedness. The history of his malady is 
 developed in his own memoir with all the 
 clearness of the most circumstantial evidence. 
 A morbid temperament laid the foundation; 
 an extreme susceptibility exposed him to con- 
 tinual nervous irritation ; and early disap- 
 pointments deepened the impression. At 
 length, with a mind unoccupied by studj', and 
 undisciplined by self-command — contemplat- 
 ing a " public exhibition of himself as mortal 
 poison," he sank under an offer which a more 
 buoyant spirit would have grasped as an 
 object of honorable ambition. In this state 
 religion found him, and administered the 
 happy cure. 
 
 That a morbid temperament was the origi- 
 nating cause of his depression, is coniirmed 
 by an affecting passage in one of his poems. 
 
 In the beautiful and much admired lines on 
 his mother's picture, there is the following 
 pathetic remark : 
 
 My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wa.st dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
 Hover\l thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Ji'retch even tlien, life's journey just begun? 
 
 In dwelling on these predisposing causes, the 
 Editor thinks it right to state, in the most 
 unequivocal maiuier, that there is not the re- 
 mutest reason for supposing that any heredi- 
 tary malady existed in the family of Cowper 
 sufficient to account for this afflicting dispen- 
 sation. There was an inllammatory action 
 of his blood, and peculiar irritability of the 
 nervous .system, which a wise and salutary 
 self-control and the early influence of relig- 
 ious principles might have subdued, or at 
 least modified. Employment, also, or the 
 active exercise of the faculties, seems indis- 
 pensable to health and happiness.* He who 
 lives without an allotted occupation is sel- 
 dom either wise, virtuous, or happy. The 
 mind recoils upon itself, and is consumed by 
 its own fires. Providence, after the Fall, in 
 mercy, not less than in justice, decreed that 
 man should live by the sweat of his brow; 
 that, in the same moment that he w.as re- 
 minded of his punishment, he might find the 
 
 * Cowper adopted a profession, but never pursued it 
 irith perseverauco. 
 
 toil itself a powerful alleviation to his suf- 
 ferings, and the exercise of all his faculties 
 the road to competency, to usefulness, and 
 honor. 
 
 Two events contributed to exercise a most 
 injurious influence on the morbid mind of 
 Cowper, not recorded in his own Memoir. 
 We allude to the death of his friend. Sir 
 William Russel, and his hopeless attachment 
 to Miss Theodora Cowper. 
 
 Sir William was the contemporary of Cow 
 per at Westminster, and his most intimate 
 friend. This intercourse was continued in 
 their riper years, on the footing of the most en- 
 dearing friendship. Unhappily, young Rus- 
 sel was cut off by a premature death,* while 
 bathing in the Thames, amidst all the open- 
 ing prospects of life, and with accomplish- 
 ments and virtues that adorned his rank and 
 station. This occurrence inflicted a great 
 moral shock on the sensitive mind of Cowper. 
 
 But it was his attachment to Miss Theo- 
 dora Jane Cowper that formed the eventful 
 era in his early life, and clouded all his future 
 prospects. Tiie relation of this fact is wholly 
 omitted by Hayley, in compliance, we pre- 
 sume, with the express wishes of the family. 
 It was, indeed, understood to be a prohibited 
 subject, and involved in much mystery. The 
 name of this lady was never uttered by 
 Cowper, nor mentioned in his presence: 
 and, after his death, delicacy towards the sur 
 vivor equally imposed the duty of silence. 
 The brother-in-law of the Editor, the Rev. 
 Dr. Johnson, conscious that a correspond- 
 ence must have existed between the poet 
 and the fair object of his attachment, re- 
 quested to know whether he could be fur- 
 nished with any documents, and permitted, 
 without a violation of delicacy, to lay them 
 before the public. The writer was also com- 
 missioned by him to solicit an interview, and 
 to urge the same request, but without suc- 
 cess. An intimation was at length conveyed 
 that no documents could see the light till 
 after the decease of the owner. The death 
 of this lady, in the year 1824, at a very ad- 
 vanced age, removed the veil of secrecy, 
 though the leading f;icts were known by a 
 small circle of friends, through the confiden- 
 tial communications of Lady Ilesketh and 
 Dr. Johnson. We now proceed to the de- 
 
 * Shortness of life seems to have been peculiar to this 
 family. The writer well rememhers the two last baro- 
 nets, viz., Sir John Rns?el, wIidsc form was so weak 
 and frajiile, lliat, when resident at the Univei-sity of Ox- 
 Inril, he was supported by instrnnienls of steel. He died 
 at the early a'-;e of twentv-oiie. -2ii(lly. Sir fieori,'e Riissol, 
 his brother, who survived only liil his twenty-second 
 year. The editor followed him to his trrave. Thefamdy 
 residence was at C'hecin(!rs, in Ihickinirhamshirc, an an- 
 cient seat, .and restored at great exjjense by these last direct 
 descendants of their race. Clieiiners was formerly noted 
 as the place where liampdeii, Cromwell, and a few 
 others, held their secret ineetiii'js, and conccrteil their 
 measures of opposition against the government of 
 Charles I. The estate afterwards devolved to Hubert 
 Greeuhill, Esfj.
 
 480 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 tails of this transaction. Miss Theodora 
 Covvper was the second daughter ot■A^^llley 
 Cowper, Esq., the poet's uncle, and sister to 
 Lady Hesketh ; she was, consequently, own 
 cousin to Cowper. She is described as hav- 
 ing been a young lady possessed of great per- 
 sonal attractions, highly accomplished, and 
 distinguished by the qualities that engage 
 affection and regard. It is no wonder that a 
 person of Cowper's susceptibility yielded to 
 so powerful an influence. She soon became 
 the theme of his poetical effusions, which 
 have since been communicated to the public* 
 They are juvenile compositions, but interest- 
 ing, as forming the earliest productions of his 
 muse, and recording his attachment to his 
 cousin. Miss Theodora Cowper was by no 
 means insensible to the regards of her ad- 
 mirer, and the father was eventually solicited 
 to ratify her choice. But Mr. Ashley Covv- 
 per, attached as he was to his nephew, and 
 anxious to promote the happiness of his 
 daughter, could by no means be induced to 
 listen to the proposition. His objections 
 weci founded, first, on the near degree of 
 relationship in which they stood to each 
 other; and secondly, on the inadequacy of 
 Cowper's fortune. From this resolution no 
 entreaty could induce him to depart. The 
 poet, therefore, was compelled to cherish a 
 hopeless passion, which no lapse of time was 
 capable of effacing; and his fair cousin, on 
 her part, discovered a corresponding fidelity. 
 
 The subsequent melancholy event, record- 
 ed in the Memoir, at once extinguished all 
 further hopes on the subject. 
 
 How powerfully his feelings were affected 
 by the death of his friend, Sir William, and 
 by his disappointment in love, may be seen 
 by the following pathetic lines, referring to 
 Miss Theodora Cowper : — 
 
 Doom'd as I am, in solitude to waste 
 
 The present moments, and regret the past ; 
 
 Depriv'd of every joy I valued most, 
 
 My friend torn from me and my mistress lost ; 
 
 Call not this irloom I wear, this anxious mien, 
 
 The dull eflTect of humor, or of spleen ! 
 
 Still, still, I mourn with each returning day, 
 
 Him, snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; 
 
 And her — through tedious years of doubt and 
 
 pain 
 Fix'd in her choice and faithful — but in vain ! 
 O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
 Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; 
 Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
 Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; 
 See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
 Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
 See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
 Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
 
 Such were the preparatory causes that 
 weakened and depressed tlie mind of Cow- 
 per. The immediate and exciting cause of 
 his unhappy derangement has already been 
 
 * Poems, the Early Productions of William Cowper. 
 
 faithfully disclosed as well as the occasion 
 that ministered to its cure. 
 
 Pursuing this interesting and yet painful 
 subject in the order of events, it appears that, 
 after spending nearly ten years in the enjoy- 
 ment of much inward peace, he was visited in 
 the year 1773, at 01ney,with a return, not of 
 his original derangement, but with a severe 
 nervous fever, and a settled depression of 
 spirits. This attack began to subside at the 
 close of the year 1776, though liis full pow- 
 ers were not recovered till some time after 
 What he suffered is feelingly expressed in a 
 letter to Mr. Hill. " Other distempers only 
 batter the walls; but they (nervous fevers) 
 creep silently into the citadel, and put the 
 garrison to the sword."* 
 
 The death of his brother, the Rev. John 
 Cowper, may have been instrumental to this 
 long indisposhion. At the same time we 
 think that his situation at Olney was by no 
 means favorable to his health ; and that more 
 time should have been allotted for relaxation 
 and exercise. 
 
 In January, 1787, he experienced a fresh 
 attack, though surrounded by the beautiful 
 scenery of Weston ; which seems to prove 
 that local causes were not so influential as 
 some have suggested. A much better reason 
 may be assigned in the lamented death of his 
 endeared friend, Mr. Unwin. This illness 
 continued eight months, and greatly enfee- 
 bled his health and spirits. " This last tem- 
 pest," he remarks, in a letter to Mr. Newton, 
 " has left my nerves in a worse condition 
 than it found them ; my head, especially, 
 though better informed, is more infirm than 
 ever."f In December, 1791, Mrs. Unwin ex- 
 perienced her first attack : and in May, 1792, it 
 was renewed with aggravated symptoms, dur- 
 ing Hayley's visit to Weston. He describes 
 its powerful effect on Cowper's nerves in ex- 
 pressive language, and none can be more 
 expressive than his own, at the close of the 
 same year. " The year ninety-two shall 
 stand chronicled in my remembrance as the 
 most melancholy that I have ever known, ex- 
 cept the few weeks that I spent at Eartham."J 
 Cowper's mental depression kept pace with 
 the spectacle of her increasing imbecility, till 
 at length, yielding to the pressure of these 
 accumulating sorrows, he sank under the 
 violence of tlie shock. 
 
 The coincidence of these facts is worthy of 
 observation, as they seem to prove that the 
 embers of the original constitutional malady 
 never became extinct, and required only some 
 powerful stimulant to revive the flame. Re- 
 ligious feelings unquestionably concurred, 
 because whatever predominates in the mind 
 furnishes the materials of excitement; but 
 it was not the religion of a creed, for what 
 
 * See p. 58. t See p. 284. 
 
 X See Letter Dec. 26, 1792. 
 
 I
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 481 
 
 creed ever proclaimed the delusion under 
 which Cowper labored?* His persuasion 
 was in opposition to his creed, for he knew 
 that lie was once saved, and yet believed that 
 he should be lost, though his creed assured 
 him lliat, where divine grace had once re- 
 vealed its saving power, it never failed to 
 perfect its work in mercy — that the Saviour's 
 love is unchangeable, and that whom he hath 
 loved he loveth unto the end (John xiii. 1). 
 His ease, therefore, was an exceplion to liis 
 criied, and consequently must be imputed to 
 the operation of other causes. 
 
 Wc trust we have now succeeded in tracing 
 to its true source the origin of Cowpor's mal- 
 ady, and that the numerous facts wiiicii have 
 been urged must preclude the possibility of 
 future misconception. 
 
 Tiiere are some distiaifuishinff features in 
 this mysterious inahuly wiiich are too extraor- 
 dinary not to be specihed. We notice the fol- 
 lowing: — 
 
 1st. Tlie free exercise of his mental pow- 
 ers continued during the wliole period of his 
 depression, witli the exception of two inter- 
 vals, from 1773 to 1776, and a season of 
 eight months in tlic year 1787. With these 
 intermissions of study, all his works were 
 written in moments of depression and un- 
 ceasing nervous excitement. 
 
 It siiil further shows the singular mechan- 
 ism of his wonderful mind, that his Montes 
 Glaci.iies, or lee Islands, exhibiting decided 
 marks of vigor of genius, were composed 
 in the List stage of his malady — witiiin five 
 weeks of his decease — when his heart was 
 lacerated by sorrow, his imagination scared by 
 dreams, and tiie lieavens over his head were 
 as brass. The public papers had announced 
 a phenomenon, which tiie voyages of Cap- 
 tains Ross and Parry have now made more 
 familiar, viz., the disruption of immense 
 masses of ice in the North Pole, and their 
 appcMrance in the German Ocean. Cowper 
 seized this incident as a fit subject for his 
 poetic powers, and produced tiie poem from 
 which we make the following extract : — 
 
 What portents, from what distant rejrion, ride, 
 Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish\l lu\c1 — 
 What view we now'! more wondrous still! Be- 
 
 hol.l ! 
 Like Ininiish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold ; 
 And aU around the pearl's pure splendor show, 
 And all around the ruby's fiery jjlovv. 
 Come tht'y from India, where the burning earth, 
 All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; 
 And where the costly gems, that beam around 
 The brows of mightiest potentates, are Ibund l 
 No. Never such a countless, dazzling store 
 Had lelt unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore — 
 Whence sprang ihey then I 
 
 * Cowpor t)i'lievo(l tliat ho liiid incurred llie Divine 
 (lispleiisure, because ho did not commit Ilic crime ufsL-ll- 
 destructiim ; a persuasion so inanile-sUy absurd as to 
 afford undeniable proof of derangement. 
 
 Far hence, where most severe 
 
 Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year, 
 Their infant growth began. He bade arise 
 Their uncouth forms, potentous in our eyes. 
 Oft, as dissolv'd by transient suns the snow 
 Let't the tall cliU" to join the flood below, 
 He caught and curdled with a treezing blast 
 The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 
 By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile 
 And long successive ages roll'd the while, 
 Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand 
 Tall as its rival mountains on the land. 
 Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill 
 Or Ibrco of man, had stood the structure still; 
 But that though firmly fixt. supplanted yet 
 By pressure oi' its own enormous weight. 
 It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 
 That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, 
 Sell'-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 
 As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 
 Down went the pond'rous mass. 
 
 See Poems. 
 
 2ndly. His malady, however oppressive to 
 him.self, was not perceptible to others. 
 
 Tlie Editor is enabled to state this remark- 
 able fact on the authority of Dr. Johnson, 
 conlirmed by the testimony of Lady Throck- 
 morton, and John Higgins, Esq., of Turvey 
 Abbey, formerly of VVeston. 
 
 There was nothing in liis general manner, 
 or intercourse with society, to excite the sus- 
 picion of the wretchedness that dwelt within. 
 Among strangers he was at all times reserved 
 and silent, but in the circle of familiar friends, 
 where restraint w^as banished, not only did he 
 exhibit no marks of gloom, but he could par, 
 ticipate in the mirth of others, or inspire it 
 from his own fertile resources of wit and hu- 
 mo'. The prismatic colors, so to speak, were 
 discernible through the descending shower. 
 The bow in the heavens was not only em- 
 blematic of his imagination, but might be in- 
 terpreted as the pledge of promised mercy. 
 For it seemed to be graciously ordered that his 
 lively and sportive imagination siiould be a 
 relief to the gloomy forebodings of his mind ; 
 and that, in vouchsafing to him this alleviation, 
 God proclaimed, " Behold, I do set my bow in 
 the cloud, it shall be for a covenant between 
 me and tiiee." 
 
 3rdly. The rare union, in the same mind, 
 of a ricii vein of humor with a spirit of pro- 
 found melancholy was never perhaps so strik- 
 ingly e.xeinpllHed as in the celebrated pro- 
 duction of John Gilpin. Tiio town resounded 
 with its praises. Henderson recited it to over- 
 Howing auditories ; Mr. Henry Thornton ad- 
 dressed it to a large party of friends at Mr. 
 Newton's. Laugiiter might be said to hold 
 both his sides, and the gravest were compelled 
 to acknowledge the power of comic wit. We 
 scarcely know a more extraordinary phenom- 
 enon than what is furnished by the history 
 of tliis performance. For it appears, by the 
 author's own testimony, that it was written 
 " in the sadd(!3t mood, and but for that saddest 
 31
 
 482 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 mood, perhaps, had never been written at 
 all."* It is also known that tliis depression 
 was not incidental or temporary, but a fixed 
 and settled feeling ; that he was in fact ab- 
 sorbed, for the most part, in the profoundest 
 melancholy ; that he considered himself to be 
 cut off from the mercy of his God, though 
 his life was blameless and without reproach ; 
 and that, finally, having enlightened his coun- 
 try with strains of the sublimest morality, he 
 died the victim of an incurable despair. As 
 a contrast to the inimitable humor of John 
 Gilpin, let us now turn to that most affecting 
 representation which the poet draws of his 
 own mental sufferings, occasioned by the 
 painful depression which has been the subject 
 of so many remarks. 
 
 Look where he comes — in this embowered alcove 
 Stand close concealed, and see a statue move ; 
 Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot faUing slow, 
 Anns hanging idly down, hands clasped below, 
 Interpret to the marking eye distress, 
 Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
 That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue 
 Could argue once, could jest or join the song, 
 Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
 Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
 Renounced ahke its office and its sport, 
 Its brisker and its grayer strains fall short ; 
 Both fail beneath a fever s secret sway, 
 And like a summer-brook are past away. 
 ' This is a sight for pity to peruse. 
 Till she resemble faintly what she views; 
 Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, 
 Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. 
 This, of all maladies that man infest, 
 Claims most compassion, and receives the least. 
 See Poem on Retirement. 
 
 The minute and mournful delineation of 
 mental trouble here submitted to the eye of 
 the reader, and the fact of this living image 
 of woe being a portrait of Cowper drawn by 
 his own hand, impart to it a character of in- 
 imitable pathos, and of singular and indescrib- 
 able interest. 
 
 The physical and moral solution of this 
 evil, and its painful influence on the mind, till 
 the cure is administered by an almighty Phy- 
 sician, are beautifully and affectionately de- 
 scribed. 
 
 Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
 Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; 
 The screws reversed (a task which if he please 
 God in a moment executes with ease), 
 Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, 
 Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 
 Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 
 As ever recompensed the peasant's care. 
 Nor soft declivities, ^with tufted hills. 
 Nor view of waters turning busy mills, 
 Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, 
 Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, 
 
 » See p. 143. 
 
 Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming, groves, 
 And waft it to the mourner as he roves — 
 Can call up life into his faded eye. 
 That passes all he sees unheeded by : 
 No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, 
 No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 
 
 Retirement. 
 
 The lines which follow are important, as 
 proving by his own testimony that, so far 
 from Ids religious views being the occasion 
 of his wretchedness, it was to this source alone 
 that he looked for consolation and support. 
 
 And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill, 
 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill; 
 
 Improve the kind occasion, understand 
 
 A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand, 
 
 To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon, 
 
 The purple evening and resplendent moon. 
 
 The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night, 
 
 Seem drops descending in a shower of light, 
 
 Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, 
 
 Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : 
 
 Yet seek Him, in his favor hfe is found. 
 
 All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : 
 
 Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth 
 
 Shall seem to start into a second birth! 
 
 Nature, assuming a more lovely face, 
 
 Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace. 
 
 Shall be despised and overlooked no more, 
 
 Shall fdl thee with delights unfelt before, 
 
 Impart to things inanimate a voice, 
 
 And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ; 
 
 The sound shall run along the winding vales. 
 
 And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 
 
 Retirement. 
 
 The Editor has entered thus largely into 
 the consideration of Cowper's depressive 
 malady, because it has been least understood, 
 and subject to the most erroneous misrepre- 
 sentations, afliecting the character of Cowper 
 and the honor of religion. One leading ob- 
 ject of the writer's, in engaging in the present 
 undertaking, has been to vindicate both from 
 so injurious an imputation. 
 
 We have now to lay before the readei 
 another most interesting document, of which 
 Cowper is tlie acknowledged author. Tt con- 
 tains the affecting account of the last illness 
 and peaceful end of his brother, the Rev. John 
 Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cam- 
 bridge. The original manuscript was fiiith- 
 fuUy transcribed by Newton, and then pub- 
 lished with a preface, which we have thought 
 proper to retain. It cannot fail to be read 
 whh deep interest and edification; and, while 
 it is a monument of Cowper's pious zeal and 
 fraternal love, it is a striking record of the 
 power of divine grace in producing that great 
 change of heart which we deem to be essen- 
 tial to every professing Christian. This docu- 
 ment is now extremely scarce, and not acces- 
 sible but through private sources.* 
 
 * We are indebted for this copy to a much esteemed 
 and highly valued friend, the Rev. Charles Bridges.
 
 A D E LPHl. 
 
 A SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER, AND AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST IllNESS. 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 REV. JOHN CO¥PER, A.M. 
 
 FELLOW OF BENNET COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 
 
 WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE WITH JOY, 20th MARCH, 1770. 
 WRITTEN BY HIS BROTHER, 
 
 THE LATE WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 
 
 OF THE INNER TEMPLE, AUTHOR OF "THK TASK," ETC. 
 
 FAITHFULLY TRANSCRIBED FROM HIS ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, 
 
 BY JOHN NEWTON, 
 
 RECTOR OF ST. MARY, VVOOLNOTH, AND ST MARV, WOOLCUURCH. 
 
 Tu supplicant! protinus admoves 
 Aurein, beni^iuis: pro Uichriinis mihi 
 Risuin reducis, pro dolore 
 Laetitiamque, alacremque plausum. 
 t Buchanan, Ps. xxx. 
 
 NEWTON'S ORIGINAL PREFACE. 
 
 The Editor's motives, which induce him to 
 publish the following narrative, are chiefly 
 two. 
 
 First, that so striliing a display of the 
 power and mercy of God may be more gen- 
 erally known to the praise and glory of his 
 grace and the instruction and comfort of his 
 people. 
 
 Secondly, the boasted spirit of refinement, 
 the stress laid upon unassisted human reason, 
 and the consequent scepticism to which they 
 lead, and which so strongly mark tlie charac- 
 ter of tlie present times, are not now confined 
 merely to the dupes of infidelity ; but many 
 persons are under their influence, who w'ould 
 be much offl'nded if we charged them witii 
 having renounced Christianity. While no 
 tlieory is admitted in natural history, which 
 is not confirmed by actual and positive exper- 
 iment, religion is the only thing to wliich a 
 trial by this test is refused. Tiie very name 
 of vital experimental religion excites con- 
 tempt and scorn, and provokes resentment. 
 
 The doctrines of regeneration by the pc wer- 
 ful operation of the Holy Spirit, and the ne« 
 cessity of his continual agency and influence 
 to advance the holiness and comforts of those 
 in whose hearts he has already begun a work 
 of grace, are not only exploded and contra- 
 dicted by many who profess a regard for the 
 Bible, and by some who have subscribed to 
 the articles and liturgy of our established 
 church, but they who avow an attachment to 
 them are, upon that account, and that account 
 only, considered as hypocrites or visionaries, 
 knaves or fool«. 
 
 The Editor fears that many unstable persons 
 are misled and perverted by the fine words 
 and fair speeches of those who lie in wait to 
 deceive. But he likewise liopes that, by the 
 blessing of God, a candid perusal of what is 
 here published, respecting the character, sen- 
 timents, and hnppy death of the late Rever- 
 end John Cowpcr, may convince them, some 
 of them at least, of their mistake, and break 
 the snare in which they have been entangled. 
 
 John Newton.
 
 A SKETCH OF THE LIFE 
 
 OF THE LAI B 
 
 REV, JOHN COWPER, A.I. 
 
 As soon as it had pleased God, after a long 
 and sharp season of conviction, to visit me 
 with the consolations of his grace, it became 
 one of my chief concerns, that my relations 
 might be made partakers of the spnie mercy. 
 In the first letter I wrote to my brother,* I 
 took occasion to declare what God had done 
 for my soul, and am not conscious that from 
 that period down to his last illness I wilfully 
 neglected an opportunity of engaging him, if 
 it were possible, in conversation of a spiritual 
 kind. When I left St. Alban's, and went to 
 visit him at Cambridge, my heart being full 
 of the subject, I poured it out before him 
 without reserve ; and, in all my subsequent 
 dealings with him, so far as I was enabled, 
 took care to show that I had received, not 
 merely a set of notions, but a real impression 
 of the truths of the gospel. 
 
 At first 1 found him ready enough to talk 
 with me upon these subjects; sometimes he 
 would dispute, but always without heat or 
 animosity ; and sometimes would endeavor to 
 reconcile the difference of our sentiments, by 
 supposing that, at the bottom, we were both 
 of a mind and meant the same thing. 
 
 He was a man of a most candid and in- 
 genuous spirit ; his temper remarkably sweet, 
 and in his behavior to me he had alwaj's 
 manifested an uncommon aiFection. His out- 
 ward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, 
 or I could learn it by the report of others, 
 was perfectly decent and unblameable. There 
 was nothing vicious in any part of his practice, 
 but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he 
 placed his chief delight in the acquisition of 
 learning, and made such acquisitions in it that 
 he had but few rivals in that of a classical 
 kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, 
 Greek, and Hebrew languages, was beginning 
 to make himself master of the Syriac, and 
 perfectly understood the French and Italian, 
 the latter of which he could speak fluently. 
 These attainments, however, and many others 
 in the literary way, he lived heartily to de- 
 Bpise, not as useless when sanctified and em- 
 
 *"....! had a brother once," &c. 
 
 Tke Task, book ii. 
 
 ployed in the service of God, but when sought 
 after for their own sake, and with a vievv to 
 the praise of men. Learned however as he 
 was, he was easy and cheerful in his conver- 
 sation, and entirely free from the stiffness 
 which is generally contracted by men devoted 
 to such pursuits. 
 
 Thus we spent about two 5^ears, conversing 
 as occasion ofiered, and we generally visited 
 each other once or twice a week, as long as I 
 continued at Huntingdon, upon the leading 
 truths of the gospel. By this time, however, 
 he began to be more reserved ; he would hear 
 me patiently but never reply ; and this I found, 
 upon iiis own confession afterward, was the 
 effect of a resolution he had taken, in order 
 to avoid disputes, and to secure the continu- 
 ance of that peace which had always subsisted 
 between us. When our family removed to 
 Olney, our intercourse became less frequent. 
 We exchanged an annual visit, and, whenever 
 he came amongst us, he observed the same 
 conduct, conforming to all our customs, at- 
 tending family worship with us, and heard 
 the preaching, received civilly whatever passed 
 in conversation upon the subject, but adhered 
 strictly to the rule he had prescribed to him- 
 self, never remarking upon or objecting to 
 anything he heard or saw. This, through the 
 goodness of his natural temper, he was ena- 
 bled to carry so far that, though some things 
 unavoidably happened which we feared would 
 give him offence, he never took any ; for it 
 was not possible to offer him the pulpit, nor 
 when Mr. Newton was with us once at the 
 time of family prayer, could we ask my bro- 
 ther to officiate, though, being himself a min- 
 ister, and one of our own family for the time, 
 the oftice seemed naturally to fall into his 
 hands. 
 
 In September 1769, I learned by letters 
 from Cambridge that he was dangerously ill. 
 I set out for that place the day after I received 
 them, and found him as ill as I expected. He 
 had taken cold on his return from a journey 
 into Wales; and, lest he should be laid up at 
 a distance from home, had pushed forward as 
 far as he could from Bath with a fever upon
 
 LIFE OF 
 
 R^ 
 
 V. JOHN COWPER. 
 
 48i> 
 
 him. Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he 
 discharged, unkiiovvn to himself, sucli a pro- 
 digious quantity of blood, that the physician 
 ascribed it only to the strengtii of his consti- 
 tution tliat lie was still alive ; and assured me, 
 that if the discharge siiould be repeated, he 
 must inevitably die upon the spot. In this 
 state of imminent danger, he seemed to have 
 no more concern about his spiritual interests 
 than when in perfect health. His couch was 
 strewed with volumes of plays, to which he had 
 frequent recourse for amusement. I learned 
 indeed afterwards, that, even at this time, the 
 thoughts of God and eternity would often 
 force themselves upon his mind; but, not ap- 
 prehending his life to be in danger, and trust- 
 ingin themorality of hispastc()nduct,hefound 
 it no ditliciilt matter to thrust them out again. 
 
 As it pleased God that he had no relapse, 
 he presently began to recover strength, and 
 in ten days' time I left him so far restored, 
 that he could ride many miles without fa- 
 tigue, and had every symptom of returning 
 health. It is probable, however, that though 
 his recovery seemed perfect, this illness was 
 the means which God had appointed to bring 
 down his strength in the midst of his jour- 
 ney, and to hasten on the malady which 
 proved his last. 
 
 On the 16th of February, 1770, 1 was again 
 summoned to attend him, by letters which 
 represented him as so ill that the physician 
 entertained but little hopes of his recovery. 
 I found him atllicted with asthma and dropsy, 
 supposed to be the effect of an impost hume 
 in his liver. He was, however, cheerful when 
 I first arrived, expressed great joy at seeing 
 me, thought himself much better than he had 
 been. ;ind seemed to flatter himself with hopes 
 that he should be well again. My situation 
 at this time was truly distressful. I learned 
 from the physician, that, in this instance, as 
 in the last, he was in much greater danger 
 tlriin he suspected. He did not seem to lay his 
 illness at all to heart, nor could I find by his 
 conversation that he had one serious thought. 
 As often as a suitable occasion offered, when 
 we were free from company and interruption, 
 I endeavored to give a spiritual turn to the 
 discourse ; and, the day after my arrival, 
 asked ids permission to pray with him, to 
 which he readily consented. I renewed my 
 attempts in this way as often as I could, 
 though without any apparent success: still 
 he seemed as careless and unconcerned as 
 ever; yet I could not but consider his will- 
 ingness in this instance as a token for good, 
 and observed with pleasure, that though at 
 other times he discovered no mark of seri- 
 ousness, yet when I spoke to him of the 
 Lord's dealings with myself, he received what 
 I said with atfection. would press my hand, 
 and look kindly at me, and seemed to love 
 me the better for it. 
 
 On the 21st of the same month he had a 
 violent fit of the asthma, which seized hivr 
 when he rose, about an hour before noon, 
 and lasted all the day. His agony was dread 
 ful. Having never seen any person afflicted 
 in the same way, I could not help fearing that 
 he would be suffocated ; nor was the physi- 
 cian himself without fears of the same kind. 
 This day the Lord was very present with me 
 and enabled me, as I sat by the poor suffer- 
 er's side, to wrestle for a blessing upon him. 
 I observed to him, that though ith.ad pleased 
 God to visit him with great afflictions, yet 
 mercy was mingled with the dispensation. 1 
 said, " You have many friends, who love you, 
 and are willing to do all they can to serve 
 you; and so perhaps have others in the like 
 circumstances; but it is not the lot of every 
 sick man, how much soever he may be be- 
 loved, to have a friend that can pray for him." 
 He replied, " That is true, and I hope God 
 will have mercy upon me." His love for 
 tne from this time became very remarkable; 
 there was a tenderness in it more than was 
 merely natural; and he generally expressed 
 it by calling for blessings upon me in the 
 most affectionate terms, and with a look and 
 manner not to be described. At night, when 
 he was quite worn out with the fatigue of 
 laboring for breath, and could get no rest, his 
 asthma still continuing, he turned to me and 
 said, with a melancholy air, " Brother, I seem 
 to be marked out for misery ; you know some 
 people are so." That moment I felt my heart 
 enlarged, and such a persuasion of the love 
 of God towards him was wrought in my soul, 
 that I replied with confidence, and, as if I had 
 authority given me to say it, "But that is not 
 your case ; you are marked out for mercy." 
 Through the whole of this most painful dis- 
 pensation, he was blessed with a degree of 
 patience and resignation to the will of God, 
 not always seen in the behavior of established 
 Christians under suflerinsfs so great as his. I 
 never heard a murmuring word escape him ; 
 on the contrary, he would often say, when his 
 piins were most acute, "I only wish it may 
 please God to enable me to suffer without 
 complaining ; I have no right to complain." 
 Once he said, with a loud voice, " Let thy rod 
 and thy staff support and comfort me:" and 
 '■ Oh that it were with me as in times past, 
 when the candle of the Lord .shone upon my 
 tabernacle !" One evening, when I had been 
 ex})ressing my hope that the Lord would 
 show him mercy, he replied, " I hope he will ; 
 I am sure I pretend to nothing." Many times 
 he spoke of himself in terms of the greatest 
 self-abasement, which I cannot now particu- 
 larly remember. I thought I could di.scern. 
 in these expressions, the glimpses of ap- 
 proaching day, and have no doubt at present 
 but that the Spirit of God was gradually 
 preparing him, in a way of true humiliation,
 
 486 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 for that bright display of gospel-grace which 
 he was soon after pleased to aftbrd him.* 
 
 On Saturday the 10th of March, about 
 three in the afternoon, he suddenly burst into 
 tears, and said, with a loud cry, " Oh, forsake 
 me not !" I went to his bed-side, when he 
 grasped my hand, and presently, by his eyes 
 and countenance, I found that he was in 
 prayer. Then turning to me, he said, " Oh, 
 brother, I am full of what I could say to 
 you." The nurse asked him if he would 
 have any hartshorn or lavender. He replied, 
 " None of these things will serve my pur- 
 pose." I said, "But I know what would, 
 my dear, don't I?" He answered, "You do, 
 brother." 
 
 Having continued some time silent, he said, 
 " Behold, I create new heavens, and a new 
 earth," — then, after a pause, "Ay, and he is 
 able to do it too." 
 
 I left him for about an hour, fearing lest 
 he should fatigue himself with talking, and 
 because my surprise and joy were so great 
 that I could hardly bear them. When I re- 
 turned, he threw his arms about my neck, 
 and, leaning his head against mine, he said, 
 " Brother, if I live, you and I shall be more 
 .ike one another than we have been. But 
 whether I live or live not, all is well, and will 
 be so ; I know it will ; I have felt that which 
 I never felt before ; and am sure that God 
 has visited me with this sickness to teach me 
 what I was too proud to learn in health. I 
 never had satisfaction till now. The doc- 
 trines I had been nsed to referred me to my- 
 self for the foundation of my hopes, and 
 there I could find nothing to rest upon. The 
 sheet-anchor of the soul was wanting. I 
 thought you wrong, yet wished to believe as 
 you did. I found myself unable to believe, 
 yet always thought that I should one day be 
 brought to do so. You suffered more than I 
 have done, before you believed these truths ; 
 but our sufferings, though different in their 
 kind and measure, were directed to the same 
 end. I hope he has taught me that which 
 he teaches none but his own. I hope so. 
 These things were foolishness to me once, 
 but now I have a firm foundation, and am 
 satisfied." 
 
 In the evening, when I went to bid him 
 good night, he looked steadfastly in my face, 
 and, with great solemnity in his air and man- 
 ner, taking me by the hand, resumed the 
 discourse in these very words : " As empty, 
 and yet full : as having nothing, and yet pos- 
 sessing all things — I see the rock upon which 
 I once split, and I see the rock of my salva- 
 tion. I have peace in myself, and if I live, I 
 hope it will be that I may be made a mes- 
 senger of peace to others. I have heard that 
 
 * There is a beautiful illustration of this sudden and 
 happy change in Cuwper's poem entitled "• Hope." 
 " As when a felon whom his country's laws," &c. 
 
 in a moment, which I could not have learned 
 by reading many books for many years. I 
 have often studied these points, and studied 
 them vvith great attention, but was blinded 
 by prejudice ; and, unless He, who alone is 
 worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the 
 book to me, I had been blinded still. Now 
 they appear so plain, that though I am con- 
 vinced no comment could ever have made me 
 understand them, I wonder I did not see 
 them before. Yet, great as my doubts and 
 ditficulties were, they have only served to 
 pave the way, and being solved, they make 
 it plainer. The light I have received comes 
 late, but it is a comfort to me that I never 
 made the gospel-truths a subject of ridicule. 
 Though I dissented from the persuasion and 
 the ways of God's people, I ever thought 
 them respectable, and therefore not proper to 
 be made a jest of. The evil I suffer is the 
 consequence of my descent from the corrupt 
 original stock, and of my own personal trans- 
 gressions; the good I enjoy comes to me as 
 the overfiowing of his bounty; but the crown 
 of all his mercies is this, that he has given me 
 a Saviour, and not only the Saviour of man- 
 kind, brother, but my Saviour. 
 
 " I should delight to see the people at 01- 
 ney, but am not worthy to appear amongst 
 them." He wept at speaking these words, 
 and repeated them with emphasis. "I should 
 rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. 
 Newton, and, if I live, shall have much dis- 
 course with him upon these subjects, but am 
 so weak in body, that at present I could not 
 bear it." At the same time he gave me to 
 understand, that he had been five years inquir- 
 ing after the truth, that is, from the time of 
 my first visit to him after I left St. Alban's, 
 and that, from the very day of his ordination, 
 which was ten years ago, he had been dissat- 
 isfied with his own views of the Gospel, and 
 sensible of their defect and obscurity; that 
 he had ahvays had a sense of the importance 
 of the ministerial charge, and had used to 
 consider himself accountable for his doctrine 
 no less than his practice ; that he could ap- 
 peal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that 
 time, and hud never wilfully erred, but al- 
 ways been desirous of coming to the knowl- 
 edge of the truth. He added, that the mo- 
 ment when he sent forth that cry* was the 
 moment when light was darted into his soul ; 
 that he had thought much about these things 
 in the course of his illness, but never till that 
 instant was able to understand them. 
 
 It was remarkable that, from the very in- 
 stant when he was first enlightened, he was 
 also wonderfully strengthened in body, so 
 that from the tenth to the fourteenth of 
 March we all entertained hopes of his recov- 
 ery. He was himself very sanguine in his 
 
 * On the 10th of March, vide supra.
 
 LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 
 
 481 
 
 expectations of it, but frequently said that 
 his desire of recovery extended no farther 
 than his hope of usefulness; adding, "Un- 
 less I may live to be an instrument of good 
 to others, it were better for me to die now." 
 
 As his assurance was clear and unshaken, 
 so he was very sensible of the goodness of 
 the Lord to him in that respect. On the day 
 when his eyes were opened, he turned to me, 
 and, in a low voice, said, " What a mercy it is 
 to a man in my condition, to know his accept- 
 ance ! I am completely satisfied of mine." 
 On another occasion, speaiving to the same 
 purpose, he said, " Tliis bed would be a bed 
 of misery, and it is so — but it is likewise a 
 bed of joy and a bed of discipline. Was I to 
 die tliis night, I know I should be luippy. 
 This assurance I hope is quite consistent 
 with the word of God. It is built upon a 
 sense of my own utter insulliciency, and the 
 all-sufficiency of Christ." At the same time 
 he said, " Brother, I have been building my 
 glory upon a sandy foundation ; I have la- 
 bored night and day to perfect myself in 
 things of no profit; I have sacrihced my 
 health to these pursuits, and am now sutFer- 
 ing ihe consequence of my misspent labor. 
 But how contemptible do the writers J once 
 highly valued now appear to me! 'Yea, 
 doubtless, I count all things loss and dung 
 for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ 
 Jesus my Lord.' I must now go to a new 
 school. I have many things to learn. I suc- 
 ceeded in ray former pursuits. I wanted to 
 be highly applauded, and I was so. I was 
 flattered up to the height of my wishes: now, 
 I must learn a new lesson." 
 
 On the evening of the thirteenth, he said, 
 " What comfort have I in this bed, miserable 
 as I seem to be ! Brother, I love to look at 
 vou. I see now who was ritiht, and who was 
 mistaken. But it seems wonderful that such 
 a dispensation should be necessary to enforce 
 what seems so very plain. I wish myself at 
 OIncy; you have a good river there, better 
 than all the rivers of Damascus. What a 
 scene is passing before me ! Ideas upon these 
 subjects crowd upon me faster than I can give 
 them utterance. How plain do many texts 
 appear, to which, after consulting all the com- 
 mentators, I could hardly atlix a meaning; 
 and now I have their true meaning without 
 any comment at all. There is but one key to 
 the New Testament ; there is but one inter- 
 preter. I cannot describe to you, nor shall 
 ever be able to describe, what I felt in the 
 moMient when it was given to me. May I 
 make a good use of it ! How I shudder when 
 I think of the danger I have just escaped ! I 
 had m:ide up my mind upon these subjects, 
 and was determined to hazard all upon the 
 ■ ustness of my own opinions." 
 
 Speaking of his illness, he said, he had been 
 followed night and day from the very begin- 
 
 ning of it with this text ; I shall not die, but 
 lice, and declare ihe works of the Lord. This 
 notice was fulfilled to him, though not in 
 such a sense as my desires of his recovery 
 prompted me to put upon it. His remarkable 
 amendment soon appeared to be no more than 
 a present supply of strength and spirits, that 
 he might be able to speak of the better bfe 
 which God had given him, which was no 
 sooner done than he relapsed as suddenly as 
 he had revived. About this time he formed a 
 purpose of receiving the sacrament, induced 
 to it principally by a desire of setting his seal 
 to the truth, in presence of those who were 
 strangers to the cliange which had taken place 
 in his sentiments. It must have been admin- 
 istered to him by the Master of the College, 
 to whom he designed to have made this short 
 declaration, " If I die, I die in the belief of the 
 doctrines of the Reformation, and of the 
 Church of England, as it was at the time of 
 the Reformation." But, his strencfth declining 
 apace, and his pains becoming more severe, he 
 could never find a proper opportunity of doing 
 it. His experience was rather peace than joy, 
 if a distinction may be made between joy and 
 that heartfelt peace which he often spoke of 
 in the most comfortable terms ; and which he 
 expressed by a heavenly smile upon his coun- 
 tenance under the bitterest bodily distress. 
 His words upon this subject once were these, 
 " How wonderful is it that God should look 
 upon man, especially that he should look 
 upon me ! Yet he sees me, and takes notice 
 of all that I sutler. I see him too ; he is 
 present before me, and I hear him say, Come 
 unto me, all ye that are we.arij and heavy laden 
 and I will give you rest." Matt. xi. 28. 
 
 On the fourteenth, in the afternoon, I per- 
 ceived that the strength and spirits which had 
 been aftbrded him were suddenly withdrawn, 
 so that by the next day his mind became weak, 
 and his speech roving and faltering. But still, 
 at intervals, he was enabled to speak of di- 
 vine things with great force and clearness. 
 On the evening of the fifteenth, he said, 
 " ' There is more joy in heaven over one sin- 
 ner that repentetli, than over ninety and nine 
 just persons who need no repentance.' That 
 text has been sadly misunderstood by me as 
 well as by others. Where is that just person 
 to be found ? Alas ! what must have become 
 of me, if T had died this day, se'nnight? 
 What should I have had to plead .* My own 
 righteousness ! That would have been of 
 great service to me, to be sure. Well, whither 
 next ■? Why, to the mountains to fall upon us, 
 and to tlie hills to cover us. I am not duly 
 thankful for the mercy I have received. Per- 
 haps I may ascribe some part of my insensi- 
 bility to my great weakness of body. I hope 
 at least that if I was better in health, it would 
 be better with me in these respects also." 
 
 The next day, perceiving that his under
 
 488 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 standing began to suffer by the extreme weak- 
 ness of his body, he said, " I have been vain 
 of my understanding and of my acquirements 
 in this pi ice ; and now God has made me litile 
 better than an idiot, as much as to say, now be 
 proud if you can. Well, while I have any 
 senses left, my thoughts will be poured out 
 in the praise of God. I have an interest in 
 Christ, in his blood and sufferings, and my sins 
 are forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise 
 mm ? When my understanding fails me quite, 
 •IS I think it will soon, then he will pity my 
 jveakness." 
 
 Though the Lord intended that his warfiire 
 ishould be short, yet a warfare he was to have, 
 and to be exposed to a measure of contlict 
 with his own corruptions. His pain being 
 extreme, his powers of recollection much im- 
 paired, and the Comforter withholding for a 
 season his sensible support, he was betrayed 
 into a fretfulness.and impatience of spirit 
 which had never been permitted to show itself 
 before. This appearance alarmed me, and, 
 having an opportunity afforded me by every- 
 body's absence, I said to him, " You were 
 happier last Saturday than you are to-day. 
 Are you entirely destitute of the consolations 
 you then spoke "of? And do you not some- 
 times feel comfort flowing into your heart 
 from a sense of your acceptance with God?" 
 He replied, "Sometimes I do, but sometimes 
 I am left to desperation." The same day, in 
 the evening, he said, " Brother, I believe you 
 are often uneasy, lest what lately passed 
 should come to nothing." I replied by asking 
 him, whether, when he found his patience and 
 his temper fail, he endeavored to pray for 
 power against his corruptions ? He answered, 
 " Yes, a thousand times in a day. But I see 
 myself odiously vile and wicked. If I die in 
 this illness, I beg you will place no other in- 
 scription over me than sucii as may just men- 
 tion my name and the parish where I was 
 minister; for that 1 ever had a being, and 
 what sort of a being I had, cannot be too soon 
 forgot. I was just beginning to be a deist, 
 and had long desired to be so ; and I will own 
 to you what I never confessed before, that my 
 function and the duties of it were a weari- 
 ness to me which I could not bear. Yet, 
 wretched creature and beast as 1 was, I was 
 esteemed religious, thougli I lived without 
 God in the world." About tliis time, I re- 
 minded him of the account of Janfeway, which 
 he once read at my desire. He said he had 
 laughed at it in his own mind, and accounted 
 it mere madness and folly. " Yet base as I 
 am," said he, '• I have no doubt now but God 
 has accepted me also, and forgiven me all my 
 sins," 
 
 I then asked him what he thought of my 
 narrative ?* He replied, " I thought it strange, 
 
 • Cowper's Memoir of Himself. 
 
 and ascribed much of it to the state in which 
 you had been. When I came to visit you in 
 London, and found you in that deep distress, 
 I would have given the universe to have ad- 
 ministered some comfort to you. You may 
 remember that I tried every method of doing 
 it. When I found that all my attempts were 
 vain, I was shocked to the greatest degree. I 
 began to consider your sufferings as a judg- 
 ment upon you, and my inability to alleviate 
 them, as a judgment upon myself When 
 Mr. M.* came, he succeeded in a moment. 
 This surprised me ; but it does not surprise 
 me now. He had the key to your heart, which 
 I had not. That which filled me with disgust 
 against my office as a minister, was tiie same 
 ill success which attended me in my own 
 parisli. There I endeavored to soothe the 
 afflicted, and to reform the unruly by warning 
 and reproof; but all that I could say in either 
 case, was spoken to the wind, and attended 
 with no effect." 
 
 There is that in the nature of salvation by 
 grace, when it is truly and experimentally 
 known, which prompts every person to think 
 himself the most extraordinary instance of its 
 power. Accordingly, my brother insisted 
 upon the precedence in this respect; and upon 
 comparing his case with mine, would by no 
 means allow my deliverance to have been so 
 wonderful as his own. He observed that, 
 from the beginning, both his manner of life 
 and his connexions had been such as had a 
 natural tendency to blind his eyes, and to 
 confirm and rivet his prejudices against tlie 
 truth. Blameless in his outward conduct, and 
 having no open immorality to charge himself 
 with, his acquaintance had been with men of 
 the same stamp, who trusted in themselves that 
 they were righteous, and despised the doc- 
 trines of the cross. Such were all who, from 
 his earliest days, he had been used to propose 
 to himself as patterns for his imitation. Not 
 to go farther back, such was the clergyman 
 under whom he received the first rudiments 
 of his education ; such was the schoolmaster, 
 under whom he was prepared for the Univer- 
 sity ; and such were all the most admired 
 characters there, with whom he was most am- 
 bitious of being connected. He lamented 
 the dark and Christless condition of the place, 
 where learning and morality were all in all, 
 and where, if a man was possessed of these 
 qualifications, he neither doubted himself, nor 
 did anybody else question, the safety of his 
 state. He concluded, therefore, that to show 
 the fallacy of such appearances, and to root 
 out the prejudices which long familiarity with 
 them had fastened upon his mind, required a 
 more than ordinary exertion of divine power, 
 and that the grace' of God was more clearly 
 manifested in such a work than in the con- 
 
 • The Rev. Martin Madau.
 
 LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 
 
 489 
 
 version of one like me, who had no outside 
 righteousness to boast of, and wlio, if I was 
 ignorant of the truili, was not, however, so 
 desperately prejudiced against it. 
 
 His thoughts, I suppose, had been led to 
 this subject, when, one afternoon, while I was 
 writing by the fire-side, he thus addressed 
 himself to the nurse, who sat at his bolster. 
 " Nurse, I have lived tiiree-and-tiiirty years, 
 and I will tell you how I have spent them. 
 When I was a boy, they taught me Latin; 
 and because I was the son of a gentleman, 
 they taught me Greek. These I learned un- 
 der a sort of private tutor ; at the age of 
 fourteen, or thereabouts, they sent me to a 
 public school, where I learned more Latin 
 and Greek, and, last of all, to this place, 
 where I have been learning more Latin and 
 Greek still. Now has not tliis been a blessed 
 life, and much to the glory of God?" Then 
 directing his speech to me, lie said, "Brother, 
 I was fifointr to sav I was born in such a year; 
 but J correct myself: 1 would rather say, hi 
 such a year 1 came into the world. You 
 know when I was born." 
 
 As long as he expected to recover, the 
 souls committed to his care were much upon 
 his mind. One day, when none was present 
 but myself, he prayed thus : — "O Lord, thou 
 art good ; goodness is thy very essence, and 
 thou art the fountain of wisdom. I am a 
 poor worm, weak and foolish as a child. 
 Thou has entrusted many souls unto me ; 
 and I have not been able to teach them, be- 
 cause I knew thee not myself. Grant me 
 ability, O Lord, for I can do nothing without 
 thee, and give me grace to be faitiifnl." 
 
 Li a time of severe and continual pain, he 
 smiled in my face, and said, "Brother, I am 
 as happy as a king." And, the day before 
 he died, when I asked him what sort of a 
 night he had had, he replied, a " sad nigiit, 
 not a wink of .sleep." I said, " Perhaps, 
 though, your mind has been composed, and 
 you have been enabled to pray V " Yes," 
 said he, "I have endeavored to spend the 
 hours in the thoughts of God and prayer : I 
 have been much comforted, .iud all the com- 
 fort I got came to me in this way." 
 
 The next morning I was called up to be 
 witness of his last moments. I found him 
 in a deep sleep, lying perfectly still, and 
 seemingly free from pain. I stayed with 
 iiim till tliey pressed me to quit his room, 
 and in about Hve minutes after I had left him 
 he died ; sooner, indeed, than I expected, 
 though for some days there had been no hopes 
 of his recovery. His death at that. time was 
 rather extraordinary; at least, I thouglit it 
 so; for, wiien I took leave of him the night 
 bef^ore, he did not seem worse or weaker than 
 he h;id been, and, for aught that appenred, 
 miglit have lasted many days ; but the Lord, 
 \n whose sight the death of his saints is pre- 
 
 cious, cut short his sufferings, and gave him 
 a speedy and peaceful departure. 
 
 He died at seven in the morning, on the 
 20th of March, 1770. 
 
 Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
 Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
 From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
 At random, without honor hope, or peace. 
 From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
 His high endeavor and his glad success, 
 His strength to sulTer and his will to serve. 
 But. oh! Thou bounteous Giver of all good. 
 Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown. 
 Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, 
 And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. 
 
 The Task, book v. 
 
 The fraternal love and piety of Cowper 
 are beautifully illustrated in this most inter- 
 esting document. No sooner had he experi- 
 enced the value of religion, and its inward 
 peace and hope,<ln his own heart, than he 
 feels solicitous to communicate the blessing 
 to others. True piety is always diffusive. 
 It does not, like the sordid miser, hoard up 
 the treasure for self-enjoyment, but is en- 
 riched by giving, and impoverished only by 
 withholding. 
 
 Friends, parents, kindred, first it will embrace, 
 Our country next, and next all human race. 
 
 The prejudices of his brother, and yet his 
 mild and amiable spirit of forbearance; the 
 zeal of Cowper, and its final happy result, 
 impart to this narrative a singular degree of 
 interest. Others would have been deterred 
 bv apparent ditliculties; but true zeal is full 
 of faith, as well as of love, and does not eon- 
 template man's resistance, but God's mighty 
 power. 
 
 The example of Jolm Cowper furnishes 
 also a remarkable evidence that a man may 
 be distinguished by the highest endowments 
 of human learning, and yet be ignorant of 
 that knowledge which is emphatically called 
 life eternal. 
 
 'i'he distinction between the knowledge 
 that is derived from books, and the wisdom 
 that Cometh from above, is drawn by Cowper 
 with a happy and just discrimination. 
 
 Knovvle<lge and wisdom, far from being one, 
 Have olltiaies no connexion— knowledge dwelk 
 In heads replete with thousrlits of other men; 
 Wisdom in minds atti ntive lo tiieir own. 
 Knowledfje, a rude. un])rolitable mass, 
 The mere materials witii wliicli wisdom builds, 
 'Till sinootli'd. and squar'd and fitted to its place 
 Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. 
 Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; 
 Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
 
 The Task, book vi. 
 
 It is important to know how far the powers 
 of human reason extend in matters of re- 
 ligion, and where they fail. Reason can ex
 
 490 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 amine the claims of a divine revelation, and 
 determine its authority by the most conclu- 
 sive arguments. It can expose error, and 
 establish the truth ; attack infidelity within 
 its own entrenchments, and carry its victori- 
 ous arms into the very camp of the enemy. 
 It can defend all the outworks of religion, 
 and vindicate its insulted majest)^ But at 
 this point its powers begin to fail. It cannot 
 confer a spirilual apprehension of the truth 
 in the understanding, nor a spiritual recep- 
 tion of it in the heart. This is the province 
 of grace. " No man knovveth the things of 
 God, but the Spirit of God, and he to whom 
 the Spirit hath revealed them." " Not by might, 
 nor by power, hut by my Spirit, saith the 
 Lord." Men of learning endeavor to attain 
 to the knowledge of divine things, in the 
 same manner as they acquire an insight into 
 human things, that is, by human power and 
 human teaching. Whereas divine things re- 
 quire a divine power and^^divine teaching. 
 "All thy children shall be taught of God." 
 Not that human reason is superseded in its 
 use. Man is always a rational and moral 
 agent. But it is reason, conscious of its own 
 weakness, simple in its views, and humble in 
 its spirit, enlightened, guided, and regulated 
 in all its researches by the grace and wisdom 
 that is from above. John Cowper expresses 
 the substance of this idea in the follov/ing 
 emphatic words : — " I have learned that in a 
 moment, which I could not have learned by 
 reading many books for many years. I have 
 often studied these points, and studied them 
 with great attention, but was blinded by pre- 
 I'udice; and unless He, who alone is worthy 
 to unloose the seals, had opened the book to 
 me, I had been blinded still." 
 
 The information supplied respecting John 
 Cowper by preceding biographers is brief and 
 scanty. The following are the particulars 
 wliich the Editor has succeeded in obtaining. 
 John Cowper was considered to be one of 
 the best scholars in the university of Cam- 
 bridge. In 1759, he obtained the Chancel- 
 lor's gold medal, and in 1762 gained both the 
 prizes for Masters of Arts. He was subse- 
 quently elected Fellow of Bennet, and be- 
 came private tutor to Lord Walsingham. 
 He translated the four first books of the 
 Henriade ; his brother William, it is said, 
 the four next (Hayley states two cantos, 
 only, and alleges Cowper's own authority for 
 the fact) ; E. B. Green, Esq., a relative of Dr. 
 Green, the master of the college,* the ninth, 
 and Robert Lloyd the tenth book. It ap- 
 peared in Smollett s edition, in 1762, but the 
 writer has not been able to procure a copy. 
 He aftewards engaged in an edition of Apol- 
 lonius Rhodius,! when his sedentary and 
 
 * He was afterwards Bishop of Lincoln, 
 t The subject of this poem is the Argonautic expedition 
 tiDder Jason. 
 
 studious habits produced an imposthume in 
 the liver, wiiich brought him to hiS grave in 
 
 the thirty-third year of his age. He was 
 buried at Foxton in Cam Iffldge shire, of which 
 place he was rector. 
 
 Dr. Bennet, Bisiiop of Cloyne, in a letter 
 addressed to Dr. Parr, bears the following 
 honorable testimony to his merits. 
 
 " TO THE REV. DR. PARR. 
 
 " Emanuel College, April 18, 1770. 
 "We have lost the best classic and most 
 liberal thinker in our university, Cowper of 
 Ben'et. He sat so long at his studies, that 
 the posture gave rise to an abscess in his 
 liver, and he fell a victim to learning. The 
 goddess has so few votaries here, that she 
 resolved to take the b,est offering we had, 
 and she employed Apollonius Rhodius to 
 strike the blow. I write the author again, 
 Apollonius Rhodius. Cowper had labored 
 hard at an edition of him for several years, 
 and applied so much to his favorite autlior, 
 that it cost his life. I shall make a bold 
 push for his papers. Yet, what omens I 
 have ! Melanctlion did but think of a trans- 
 lation, and he died. Hoeltzlinus owns he 
 wrote tlie latter part of the annotations, 
 manu lassissima et corpore imbecillo, and 
 died before he put the last hand to them. 
 Cowper collates all the editions, makes a 
 new translation, and follows his predecessors. 
 One would think that by some unknown fate, 
 or by some curse of his master, Callimachus, 
 our poet was doomed to remain in obscurity. 
 His enemies may say, that the dulness of 
 his verses bears some resemblance to the 
 torpedo, and benumbs or kills whatever 
 touches it." — See Dr. Parr's Works, vol. 
 vii. p. 75. 
 
 The following elegy was also composed in 
 honor of his memory by one of his fellow 
 collegians, which evinces the high sense en- 
 tertained of his character and classical attain- 
 ments. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN COWPER, OP 
 
 CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 
 
 BY A FELLOW COLLEGIAN. 
 
 Where art thou, Moschus, and where are we all ? 
 Thou from high Hehcon's muse-haunted hill 
 Advanc'd to Sion's mount celestial: 
 Encumber'd we with earth and sorrow still. 
 
 Before the throne thy fjolden lyre is strung, 
 Seraphic descant fills thy raptur'd mind : 
 On Camus' willows pale our harps are hung; 
 Our footsteps hnger on his banks behind. 
 
 The chosen Lawgiver from Pisgah's hill 
 
 His wond'ring eyes around in transport threw : 
 
 On earthly Canaan having gaz'd his fill. 
 
 To heavenly Canaan's glories quick withdrew. 
 
 *^
 
 LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 
 
 49.A 
 
 So, nurst in sacred and in classic lore, 
 With varied science at its fountain frauirht, 
 From human knowledge to tli' exhaustless store 
 Of heaven he stole to taste the fuller draught. 
 
 What boots the beauty of the classic page, 
 And what philosophy's sublimer rule, 
 What all th' advances of maturing age, 
 If dies the wise man as departs the fool 1 
 
 Master of Greece's thundering eloquence, 
 The force of Roman grace to him was known ; 
 The wcU-turn'd period, join'd with manly sense: 
 Sage criticism mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Ah ! what avails the power of harmony. 
 The poet's melody, the critic's skill ! 
 The verse may live, yet must the maker die ; 
 Such is stern Atropos's solemn will. 
 
 Sweet bard of Rhodes,* bright star of Egypt's 
 
 court, 
 Whom Ptolemy's discerning bounty drew 
 To guard fair science in the learned resort. 
 Thy muse alone can pay the tribute due. 
 
 Thy muse, that paints Medea's frantic love. 
 And all the transports of the enamor'd maid. 
 Who dared each strongest obstacle remove. 
 Her reason and her art by love betray'd. 
 
 While hai'dy Jason ploughs old Ocean's plain, 
 First of the Greeks to tempt Barbarian seas. 
 With him we share the dangers of the main. 
 Nor dread the crash of the Symplegades. 
 
 Vain wish ! thy deathless heroes should commend 
 Thy verse to fame, and bid it sweeter sound. 
 He who thy name's revival did intend, 
 In bloom of youth is buried under ground.f 
 
 So, nested on the rock, the parent dove 
 Sees down the cleft her callow offspring fall; 
 Full little may its chirping plaints behove ; 
 She only hears, but cannot help its ca.ll.j^ 
 
 Like the fair swan of fame, the grateful muse 
 Assiduous tends on Lethe's barren bank, 
 To raise the name that envious time would lose, 
 Where many millions erst forever sank. 
 
 While yet I wait, thou ever-honor'd sliadc, 
 Some better bard should the memorial rear. 
 The debt to friendsliip due by me be paid, 
 Weak in poetic fire, in friendsliip's zeal sincere. 
 
 We add the letter addressed by Cowperto 
 ills friend .Mr. Uuwin on this occasion. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 
 
 March 31, 1770. 
 ]My dear Friend, — I am glad that the Lord 
 made you a fellow-laborer witli u.s in praying 
 my dear brother out of darkness into light. 
 It was a blessed work ; and when it shall be 
 your turn to die in tlie Lord, and to rest from 
 
 * Apollnniu3 Rhodius. lit- had tlio chnrLTP of the cele- 
 brated library at Alexandria in the time ot" I'tolciiiy. 
 
 t John (^owper. 
 
 t Tho idea in this stanza is taken from the 4th book of 
 Apulluuius, line 1298. 
 
 all your labors, that work shall follow you. 
 I once entertained hopes of his recovery : 
 from the moment when it pleased God to 
 give him light in his soul, there was, for four 
 days, such a visible amendment in his body 
 as surprised us all. Dr. Glynn himself was 
 puzzled, and began to think that all his 
 threatening conjectures would fail of their 
 accomplishment. I am well satisfied that it 
 was thus ordered, not for his own sake, but 
 for the sake of us, who had been so deeply 
 concerned for his spiritual welfare, that he 
 might be able to give such evident proof of 
 the work of God upon his soul as should 
 leave no doubt behind it. As to his friends 
 at Cambridge, they knew nothing of the mat- 
 ter. He never spoke of these things but to 
 myself; nor to me, when others were within 
 hearing, except that he sometimes would 
 speak in tiie presence of the nurse. He 
 knew well to make the distinction between 
 those who could understand him and those 
 who could not ; and that he was not in cir- 
 cumstances to maintain such a controversy 
 as a declaration of his new views and senti- 
 ments would have exposed liim to. Just 
 after his death, I spoke of this change to a 
 dear friend of his, a fellow of the college, 
 who had attended him through all his sick- 
 ness with assiduity and tenderness. But he 
 did not understand me. 
 
 I now proceed to mention such particulars 
 as I can recollect; and which I had not oj)- 
 portunity to insert in my letters to Olney; 
 for I left Cambridge suddenly, and sooner 
 than I expected. He was deeply impressed 
 with a sense of the difficulties he should 
 have to encounter, if it should please God to 
 raise him again. He saw the necessity of 
 being faithful, and the opposition he should 
 expose himself to by being so. Under the 
 weight of these thoughts, he one day broke 
 out in the following prayer, when only my- 
 self was with him. "O Lord, thou art light; 
 and in thee is no darkness at all. Thou art 
 the fountain of all wi.sdom, and it is essen- 
 tial to thee to be good and gracious. I am a 
 child; O Lord, teach me how I shall conduct 
 myself! Give me the wisdom of the serpent 
 with the harmlessne.ss of the dove ! Bless 
 the souls thou hast committed to the care of 
 thy helpless miserable creature, who lias no 
 wisdom or knowledge of his own, and make 
 me faithful to them, for thy mercy's sake!" 
 Another time he said, ''How wonderful it is, 
 that God should look upon man; and how 
 much more wonderful that he should look 
 upon such a worm as I am ! Yet he does 
 look upon me, and takes tlie exactest notice 
 of all my sufferings. He is present, and I 
 see him (I mean, by faith), and he stretches 
 out his arms towards me," — and he then 
 stretched out his own — "and he says, 'Come, 
 unto me all ye that are weary and heavy
 
 492 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 laden, and I will give you rest!'" He smiled 
 and wept, when lie spoke these words. When 
 he expressed himselfupon these subjects, there 
 was a weight and dignity in his manner such 
 as I never saw before. He spoke with the 
 greatest deliberation, making a pause at the 
 end of every sentence ; and there was some- 
 thing in his air and in the tone of his voice 
 inexpressibly solemn, unlike himself, and un- 
 like what I had ever seen in another. 
 
 This had God wrought. I have praised 
 him for his marvellous act, and have felt a 
 'oy of heart upon the subject of my brother's 
 death, such as I never felt but in my own 
 conversion. He is now before the throne; 
 and yet a little while and we shall meet, never 
 more to be divided. Yours, my very dear 
 friend, with my affectionate respects to your- 
 self and yours, W. C. 
 
 Postscript. — A day or two before his death, 
 he grew so weak and was so very ill, tiiat he 
 required continual attendance, so that he had 
 neither strength nor opportunity to say much 
 to me. Only the day before, he said he had 
 had a sleepless, but a composed and quiet 
 night. I asked him, if he had been able to 
 collect his thoughts. He replied, "All night 
 long I have endeavored to think upon God 
 and to continue in prayer. I had great peace 
 and comfort; and what comfort 1 had came 
 in that way." When I sa,w him the next 
 morning at seven o'clock he was dying, fast 
 asleep, and exempted, in all appearance, from 
 the sense of those pangs which accompany 
 dissolution. I shall be glad to hear from 
 you, my dear friend, when you can find time 
 to write, and are so inclined. The death of 
 my beloved brother teems with many useful 
 lessons. May God seal the instruction upon 
 our hearts ! 
 
 Besides the documents already inserted, 
 Cowper translated the narrative of Mr. Van 
 Lier, a minister of the Reformed Church, at 
 the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Van Lier was 
 born in Holland, in the year 1764; his mother 
 was pious, and brought him up in the prin- 
 ciples of true religion, endeavoring from his 
 earlv youth to direct his mind to the ministry. 
 After the usual course of education, he en- 
 tered at the University, where, though he did 
 not neglect his studies, he forgot his God. 
 His talents seem to have been considerable, 
 his imagination ardent, but his passions not 
 under sufficient control ; and, with all the ele- 
 ments that might have formed a great char- 
 acter, by the misapplication of his time, op- 
 portunities, and faculties, he became vicious, 
 and subsequently a sceptic. God, in mercy, 
 exercised him with a series of trials, but the 
 impression was always ultimately effaced — 
 till at length the blow reached him which 
 
 lacerated his heart, extinguished all his hopes 
 of earthly happiness, and thus finally brought 
 him to God. Among the excellent books 
 that contributed to dispel his errors, he speci- 
 fied the "Cardiphonia" of Newton witii grate- 
 ful acknowledgment. It is justly considered 
 the best of all his works, and has been made 
 eminently useful. Mr. Van Lier subsequently 
 wrote a narrative, in Latin, containing an ac- 
 count of his conversion, and of all the re- 
 markable events of his life. This narrative 
 he addressed to Newton, at whose request it 
 was translated by Cowper. It was published 
 under the title of " The Power of Grace il- 
 lustrated." Interesting as are its contents, 
 yet, as they comprise nearly two hundred 
 pages, we find it impossible to allow space 
 for its insertion, though it is well entitled to 
 appear in a separate form. 
 
 He concludes his narrative in these words : 
 " O happy and glorious hour, when I shall be 
 delivered from all trouble and sin, from this 
 body of death, from the wicked world, and 
 from the snares of Satan! when I shall ap- 
 pear before my Saviour without spot, and 
 shall so behold his glory, and be filled with 
 his presence, as to be wholly and forever en- 
 gaged in adoration, admiration, gratitude, and 
 
 love 
 
 I" 
 
 As we are now drawing towards the con- 
 clusion of this undertaking, some reference 
 is due to names once honored by Cowper's 
 friendship, and perpetuated in his works. A 
 distinguished place is due to the Rev. Wil- 
 liam Cawthorne Unwin. His death has been 
 recorded in a former volume, as well as his 
 burial in the cathedral at Winchester. A 
 Latin epitaph was composed on this occasion 
 by Cowper, but objected to by a relative of 
 the family, because it adverted to his mother's 
 early prayers that God might incline his heart 
 to the ministry. We subjoin the epitaph 
 which replaced the pious and classical com- 
 position of Cowper. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THE 
 
 REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN, M.A. 
 
 RECTOR or STOCK, IN ESSEX. 
 
 lie was educated at the Charter-house, in Lon- 
 don, under the Rev. Dr. Crusius ; and. having 
 gone through the education of that school he 
 was at an early period admitted to Christ's College, 
 Cambridge. He died in this city, the 29th of 
 Nov., 17815, aged forty-one years, leaving a widow 
 and three young children. 
 
 (The above is on a flat stone in the cathedral.) 
 
 And is this the memorial of the interesting 
 and pious Unvi'in'? Shall no monumental 
 tablet record that he was "the endeared and 
 valued friend of Cowper?" We have seldom 
 seen so cold and jejune an epitaph to com.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 493 
 
 tnemorate a man distinguished by so many 
 virtues, and associated witii such interesting 
 recollections. We are happy in being en- 
 abled to furnish a testimony more worthy of 
 him in the following letter, addressed by 
 Cowper to the presenc Lord Carrington. 
 
 TO ROBERT SMITH, ESQ.* 
 Westoii-Underwood, near Olney, Dec. 9, 1786. 
 
 My dear Sir, — We have indeed suffered a 
 great loss by the death of our friend Unwin ; 
 and the shock that attended it was the more 
 severe, as till within a few hours of in's de- 
 cease there seemed to be no very alarming 
 symptoms. All the account tliat we re- 
 ceived from Mr. Henry Thornton, who acted 
 like a true friend on the occasion, and with a 
 tenderness toward all concerned that does 
 him great honor, encouraged our hopes of 
 his recovery; and Mrs. Unwin herself found 
 him on her arrival at Winchester so clieerful, 
 and in appearance so likely to live, that lier 
 letter also seemed to promise us all that we 
 could wish on the subject. But an unex- 
 pected turn in his distemper, which suddenly 
 seized his bowels, dashed all our hopes, and 
 deprived us almost immediately of a man 
 whom we must ever regret. His mind hav- 
 ing been from his infancy deeply tinctured 
 with religious sentiments, he was always im- 
 pressed with a sense of the importance of the 
 great change of all ; and, on former occasions, 
 when at any time he found himself indisposed, 
 wasconsequently subject to distressing alarms 
 and apprehensions. But in this last instance 
 his mind was from the first composed and 
 easy ; his fears were taken away, and suc- 
 ceeded by such a resignation as warrants us 
 ill saying, "that God made all his bed in his 
 sickness." I believe it is always thus, where 
 the heart, though upright towards God, as 
 Uiiwin's assuredly was, is yet troubled with 
 the fear of death. Wlien death indeed comes, 
 he is either welcome, or at least has lost his 
 sting. 
 
 1 have known many such instances, and 
 his mother, from the moment tiiat she learned 
 with what tranquillity he was favored in his 
 last illuess, for that very reason e.vpected it 
 would be his last. Yet not with so much 
 certainty, but that the favorable accounts of 
 him at length, in a great measure, superseded 
 that persuasion. 
 
 She begs me to assure you, my dear dr, 
 how sensible she is, as well as myself, of the 
 kindness of your iM(juirics. She suffers this 
 stroke, not with more patience and submis- 
 sion than I expected, for I never knew her 
 Imrried by any affliction into the loss of 
 either, but in appearance at least, and at 
 present, with less injury to health tiian I ap- 
 preiiended. She observed to me, after read- 
 
 * Afterwards created Lord Carrington. 
 
 ing your kind letter, that though it was a 
 proof of the greatness of her loss, yet it af- 
 forded her pleasure, though a melancholy 
 one, to see how much her son had been loved 
 and valued by such a person as yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin wrote to her daughter-in-law, 
 to invite her and '.he family hither, hoping 
 that a change of scene, and a situation so 
 pleasant as this, may be of service to her, 
 hut we have not yet received her answer. 1 
 have good hope, however, that, great as her 
 affliction m.ust be, she will yet be able to 
 support it, for she well knows whither to re- 
 sort for consolation. 
 
 The virtues and amiable qualities of our 
 friends are the things for which we most 
 wish to keep them; but they are, on the 
 other hand, the very things that in particular 
 ought to reconcile us to their departure. We 
 find ourselves sometimes connected with, and 
 engaged in aifection, too, to a person of 
 whose readiness and fitness for another life 
 we cannot have the highest opinion. The 
 death of such men has a bitterness in it, 
 both to themselves and survivors, which, 
 thank God, is not to be found in the death of 
 Unwin. 
 
 I know, my dear sir, how much you valued 
 him, and I know also, how much he valued 
 you. With respect to him, all is well ; and 
 of you, if I should survive you, wliicli, per- 
 haps, is not very probable, I shall say the 
 same. 
 
 In the meantime, believe me, with the warm- 
 est wishes for your health and happiness, and 
 with Mrs. Unwin's affectionate respects. 
 Yours, my dear sir, 
 
 Most faithfully, W. C. 
 
 Joseph Hill, Esq., survived Cowper many 
 years, and lived to an advanced age. He 
 formerly resided in Great Queen Street, and 
 afterwards in Saville Row, and was eminent 
 in his profession. His widow survived him, 
 and died in the year 1824. Tiie letters ad- 
 dressed to him by Cowper were arranged by 
 Dr. Johnson, and ornamented with a suitable 
 binding. They were finally left as an heir- 
 loom at Wargrave, near Henley. Joseph 
 Jekyll, Esq., the barrister, once celebrated 
 I'or his wit and humor, succeeded to that 
 property, and still survives at the moment in 
 which we are writing. 
 
 Samuel Rose, Esq., after a comparatively 
 short career of professional eminence, was 
 seized with a rheumatic fever, which he 
 caught at Horsham, in attending the Sussex 
 sessions, in 1804. He died in the thir'y- 
 eighth year of his age, declaring to those 
 around him, " I have lived long enough to 
 review my grounds for confidence, and I have 
 unspeakable comfort in assuring those I love 
 that I am daily more reconciled in leaving 
 the world now than at a later period."
 
 494 
 
 COWPER S WORKS. 
 
 Cowper's sentiments of him are expressed 
 
 in the following letter. 
 
 TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Weston-Underwood, Dec. 2, 1T88. 
 My dear Friend, — I told you lately, that I 
 had an ambition to introduce to your ac- 
 quaintance my valuable friend, Mr. Rose. 
 He is now before you. You will find him a 
 person of genteel manners and agreeable 
 conversation. As to his other virtues and 
 good qualities, which are many, and such as 
 are not often found in men of his years, I 
 consign them over to your own discernment, 
 perfectly sure that none of them will escape 
 you. I give you joy of each other, and re- 
 main, my dear old friend, most truly yours, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In recalling the name of Lady Austen, it 
 is sufficient to entitle her to grateful remem- 
 brance, that it is to her we are indebted for 
 the first suggestion of the poem of " The 
 Task," that lasting monument of the fame of 
 Cowper. It has also been recorded that she 
 subsequently furnished the materials for the 
 story of John Gilpin. 
 
 Her maiden name was Richardson ; she 
 was married very early in life to Sir Robert 
 Austen, Baronet, and resided with him in 
 France, where he died. After this event, she 
 lived witli her sister Mrs. Jones, the wife of 
 the Rev. Mr. Jones, minister of Clifton, near 
 Olney. It was thus that her intercourse 
 commenced with Cowper. In a subsequent 
 period, she w-as married to a native of France, 
 M. de TardifF, a gentleman, and a poet, who 
 has expressed, in some elegant French verses, 
 his just and deep sense of her accomplished, 
 endearing character. In visiting Paris witli 
 him in the course of the summer of 1802, 
 she sank under the fatigue of the excursion, 
 and died in that city on the 12th of August. 
 It is due to the memory of this lady to res- 
 cue her name from a surmise injurious to her 
 sincerity and honor ; and the Editor rejoices 
 that he possesses the means of affording her 
 what he conceives to be an ample justifica- 
 tion. In the published correspondence of 
 the late respected Alexander Knox, Esq., a 
 doubt is expressed how far she is not charge- 
 able with endeavoring to supplant Mrs. Unwin 
 in the affections of Cowper. It is already 
 recorded that a breach occurred between the 
 two ladies, and that the poet, with a sensi- 
 tiveness and delicacy that reflect the highest 
 credit on his feelings and judgment, relin- 
 quished the society of Lady Austen from 
 tiiat period. They never met again. There 
 is no direct charge conveyed by Mr. Knox, 
 but there is evidently expressed the language 
 of doubt and surmise. Local impressions 
 are often the best interpretation of question- 
 able occurrences. With this view the Editor 
 
 has endeavored to trace the nature of the 
 rupture, on the spot, by a communication 
 with surviving parties. From these sources 
 of inquiry it appears that Lady Austen was 
 a woman of great wit and vivacity, and pos- 
 sessed the power of exciting much interest 
 by her manner and conversation — that Mrs. 
 Unwin, who was of a more sedate and quiet 
 character, seeing the ascendancy that Lady 
 Austen thus acquired, became jealous, and 
 that a rupture was the consequence. Mr. 
 Andrews, an intelligent inhabitant of Olney, 
 who is my informant, assured me that such 
 was the substance of the case, and that the 
 rest was mere surmise and conjecture. On 
 my asking him whether he knew the impres- 
 sions on Mr. Scott's mind with regard to 
 this event, he added, " that he himself asked 
 Mr. Scott the question, and that his reply 
 was, ' Who can be surprised that two women 
 should be continually in the society of one 
 man, and quarrel sooner or later with each 
 other T " The blunt and honest reply of Mr. 
 Scott we apprehend to be the best commen- 
 tary on the transaction. There may be jeal- 
 ousies in friendship as well as in love ; and 
 the possibility of female rivalship is sufficient 
 to account for the rupture, without the inter- 
 vention of either friendship or love. 
 
 From Mrs. Livius, of Bedford, formerly Miss 
 Barham,* and intimate with Newton, Cowper, 
 and Lady Austen, I learn that, though the 
 vivacity and manner of Lady Austen weak- 
 ened the belief of the depth of her personal 
 religion, yet Mrs. Livius never entertained 
 any doubt of its reality. Her own deep per- 
 sonal piety during a long life, and her just 
 discrimination of character, are sufficient to 
 give weight and aufliority to her judgment. 
 
 I take this opportunity of expressing her 
 conviction that the loss of Lady Austen's so- 
 ciety was a great privation to Cowper ; that 
 she both enlivened his spirits and stimulated 
 his genius, and that the jealousy of Mrs. Un- 
 win operated injuriously by compelling him 
 to relinquish so innocent a source of gratifi- 
 cation. Hayley, in some lines written on 
 the occasion of her death, speaks of her as 
 one who 
 
 Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame ; 
 Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask, 
 And from the mmd of Cowper — call'd " The 
 Task." 
 
 Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed 
 in the year 1806, aged seventy-five, the poet 
 always spoke in the language of unfeigned 
 esteem and affection. 
 
 Sir George Throckmorton's death has been 
 
 * Sister of the late Joseph Foster Barham, Esq. I can- 
 not mention this endeared character, with whom I hava 
 the privilege of being so nearly connected, without re- 
 cording my afTeclionate regard, and high estimation of 
 her piety and virtues.
 
 LIFE OF COVVPER. 
 
 495 
 
 already recorded, and with this event tlie 
 genius of the phice may be said to have de- 
 serted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion 
 exists no longer. His surviving estimable 
 widow, the Catharina of Cowper, resides at 
 Norlluimpton. 
 
 Lady Heskoth, whose affectionate kindness 
 to tlie poet must have endeared her to every 
 reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy- 
 four. 
 
 To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. 
 Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already 
 been borne in the course of this work. He 
 was cousin to the poet, by one remove, wiiich 
 was the reason why he was usually designa- 
 ted as Cowper's kinsman, his mother having 
 been tlie daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, 
 rector of Catfield, Norfolk, own brother to 
 Cowper's mother. His unremitting and 
 watchful care over the poet, for several suc- 
 cessive years, and during a period marked by 
 a painful and protracted ma^ady, his generous 
 sacrifice of his time, and of every personal 
 consideration, that he might administer to 
 tiie peace and comfort of his afHicted friend — 
 his affectionate sympathy, and uniform for- 
 getfuliiess of self, in all the various relations 
 of life — these virtues have justly claimed for 
 Dr. .Tohnson the esteem and love of his 
 friends, and the honorable distinction of be- 
 ing ever identified with the endeared name 
 of Cowper. He was rector of the united 
 parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the 
 county of Norfolk, where he preached the 
 doctrines of the Gospel with fidelity, and 
 adorned them by the Christian tenor of liis 
 life and conduct. He married IMiss Livius, 
 daugliter of the late George Livius, Esq., 
 formerly at the head of the commissariat, 
 iu India, during the government of Warren 
 Hastings. The Editor was connected witli 
 him by marrying the sister of Mrs. .Tohnson. 
 He departed in the autumn of the year 1833, 
 after a short illness, and was followed to the 
 grave by a crowded assemblage of liis parish- 
 ioners, to wiiom he was endeared by iiis 
 virtues. He left his estimable widow and 
 four surviving children to lament his loss. 
 Cowper was engraved on his heart, and his 
 Poems minutely impressed on his memory. 
 Both, therefore, became a frequent tlieme 
 of conversation ; and it is to these sources 
 of information, that the writer is indebted 
 for the knowledge of many facts and inci- 
 dents tiiat are incorporated in the present 
 edition. 
 
 Tiie value which Cowjier attached to the 
 esteem of the Rev. W. IJuli, the friend nnd 
 travelling companion of .Tohn Thornton, Esq., 
 may be seen in the following letter. It 
 alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. 
 Bull on the publication of his first volume of 
 poems. 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL. 
 
 March 24, 1782. 
 Your letter gave me great pleasure, both 
 as a testimony of your approbation and of 
 your regard. I wrote in liopes of pleasing 
 you, and such as you ; and though I must 
 confess that, at the same time, I cast a side- 
 long glance at the good liking of the world 
 at large, I believe I can say it was more for 
 the sake of their advantage and instruction 
 than their praise. They are children ; if we 
 give them pliysic, we must sweeten the rim 
 of the cup with honey — if my book is so far 
 lionored as to be made the vehicle of true 
 knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall 
 rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has 
 procured me a proof of your esteem. 
 
 Yours, most truly, W. C. 
 
 jMr. Bull was distinguished by no common 
 powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagina- 
 tion. It was at his suggestion that Cowper 
 engaged in translating tiie poems of ^ladame 
 Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes 
 and consolations of the Gospel, and left a 
 son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his 
 father's virtues. 
 
 Wherever men have acquired celebrity by 
 lliose powers of genius with which Provi- 
 dence has seen fit to discriminate tliem, a 
 curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter 
 traits of person, habit, and real character. 
 We wish to realize the portrait before our 
 eyes, to see how far all the component parts 
 are in harmony with each other; or whether 
 the elevation of mind which raises them 
 beyond the general standard is perceptible 
 in the occurrences of common life. Tell 
 me, said an inquirer, writing from America, 
 what was the figure of Cowper, what the 
 character of his countenance, the expression 
 of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house 
 he lived in, wlietlicr its aspect was north or 
 south, (Sic. This is amusing, but it shows 
 the power of sympathy with which we are 
 drawn to whatever commands our admira- 
 tion, and e.xcites the emotions of esteem and 
 love. 
 
 The person and mind of Cowper seem to 
 have been formed with equal kindness by na- 
 ture ; and it may be questioned if she ever 
 bestowed on any man, witli a fonder prodi- 
 gality, all the requisites to conciliate affection 
 and to inspire respect. 
 
 He is said to have been handsome in his 
 youth. Ilis features strongly expressed the 
 powers of his mind and all the sensibility of 
 his heart ; and even in his declining years, 
 time seemed to have spared much of its rav- 
 ages, though his mind \\-as harassed by un- 
 ceasing nervous excitement.
 
 496 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 He was of a middle stature, rather strong 
 than delicate in the form of his limbs ; the 
 color of his hair was a light brown, that of 
 his eyes a bluish grey, and his complexion 
 ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not 
 finical ; in his diet temperate, and not dainty- 
 He had an air of pensive reserve in his 
 deportment, and his extreme shyness some- 
 times produced in his manners an indescrib- 
 able mixture of awkwardness and dignity ; 
 bilt no person could be more truly graceful, 
 when he was in perfect health, and perfectly 
 pleased with his society. Towards women, 
 in particular, his behavior and conversation 
 were delicate and fascinating in the highest 
 degree. 
 
 There was a simplicity of manner and char- 
 acter in Covvper which always charms, and 
 is often the attribute of red genius. He was 
 singularly calculated to excite emotions of 
 esteem and love by those qualities that win 
 confidence and inspire sympathy. In friend- 
 ship he was uniformly faithful ; and, if the 
 events of life had not disappointed his fond- 
 est hopes, no man would have been more 
 eminently adapted for the endearments of 
 domestic life. 
 
 His daily habits of study and exercise are 
 so minutely and agreeably delineated in his 
 letters, that they present a perfect portrait of 
 his domestic character. 
 
 His voice conspired with his features to 
 announce to all who saw and heard him the 
 extreme sensibility of his heart ; and in read- 
 ing aloud he furnished the chief delight of 
 those social, enchanting winter evenings, 
 which he has described so happily in the 
 fourth book of " The Task." 
 
 Secluded from the world as he had long 
 been, he yet retained in advanced life sin- 
 gular talents for conversation ; and his re- 
 marks were uniformly distinguished by mild 
 and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of 
 delicate humor, varied by solid and serious 
 good sense, and those united charms of a 
 cultivated mind, which he has himself very 
 happily described in drawing the character 
 of a venerable friend : 
 
 Grave without dullness, learned without pride. 
 
 Exact, yet not precise : though meek, keen-eyed ; 
 
 Who, when occasion justified its use. 
 
 Had wit as bri<xht as ready, to produce; 
 
 Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 
 
 Or from philosophy's enlightened page, 
 
 His rich materials, and regale your ear 
 
 AVith strains it was a privilege to hear. 
 
 Yet, above all. his luxury supreme, 
 
 And his chief glory, was the gospel theme: 
 
 Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 
 
 But to treat justly what he lov'd so well. 
 
 I 
 
 But the traits of his character are nowhere 
 developed with happier effect than in his own 
 writings, and especially in his poems. From 
 
 these we shall make a few extracts, and suf- 
 fer him to draw tlie portrait for himself. 
 
 His admiration of the works of Nature : 
 
 I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan, 
 
 That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss 
 
 But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd 
 
 My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
 
 Had found me, or the hope of being free, 
 
 My very dreams were rural ; rural too 
 
 The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, 
 
 Sportive and jingling her poetic bells, 
 
 Ere yet her car was mistress of their pow'rs. 
 
 No bard could please me but whose lyre was 
 
 tun'd 
 To Nature's praises. Task, book iv. 
 
 The love of Nature's works 
 Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
 Intus'd at the creation of the kind. 
 
 This obtains in all, 
 That all discern a beauty in his works, [form'd 
 And all can taste them : minds that have been 
 And tutor'd. with' a relish more exact, 
 But none witliout some relish, none unmov'd. 
 It is a flame that dies not even there 
 Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, 
 Nor habits of luxurious city-life. 
 Whatever else they smother of true worth 
 In human bosoms quench it or abate. 
 The villas with which London stands begirt, 
 Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, 
 Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air, 
 The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheei 
 The citizen, and brace his languid frame. 
 
 Book It. 
 
 God seen, and adored, in the works of 
 Nature : 
 
 Not a flow'r 
 But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, 
 Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
 Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, 
 And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
 In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, 
 The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 
 
 Book vL 
 
 His fondness for retirement : 
 
 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 wand'rers, gone astray, 
 Each in his own delusions; they are lost 
 In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 
 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. 
 
 Book UL 
 His love for his country : 
 
 England, with all thy faults I love thee still— 
 My country ! and, while yet a nook is left,
 
 LIFE OF COWPER, 
 
 497 
 
 Where English minds and manners may be found, 
 Shall be constraind to love thee. Tho' thy clime 
 Be fickle, and thy year most part defonii'd 
 With dripping rains or wither'd by a frost, 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies. 
 And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
 With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. 
 
 Book ii. 
 
 His humane and generous feelintrs: 
 
 I was born of woman, and drew milk 
 As sweet as charity from human breasts. 
 I think, articulate. I laugh and weep, 
 And exercise all functions of a man. 
 How then should I and any man that lives 
 Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein. 
 Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, 
 And catechise it well ; apply thy glass. 
 Search it. and prove now if it be not blood 
 Congenial with thine own. 
 
 Book iii. 
 
 His love of liberty : 
 
 Oh Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream, 
 The poet's muse his passion and his theme ; 
 Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse ; 
 Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 
 Heroic song from lliy free touch ac(iuircs 
 Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires: 
 Place me where winter breathes his keenest air, 
 And I will sing, if liberty be there; 
 And I will sing at liberty's dear feet. 
 In Afric's torrid chme, or India's fiercest heat. 
 
 Tahh Talk. 
 
 'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'r 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
 And we are weeds without it. 
 
 Task, book v. 
 
 His depressive malady, and the source of 
 its cure : 
 
 I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
 Long since ; with many an arrow deep infix'd 
 My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 There was I found by One, who had himself 
 Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore. 
 And in his hands and leet, the cruel scars.* 
 With gentle force soliciting the darts [live. 
 
 He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me 
 
 Book iii. 
 
 The employmont of his time, and design 
 of his life and writings: 
 
 Me therefore studious of laborious ease, 
 
 Not slothlul, hajjpy to deceive the time, 
 
 Not waste it. and aware that human life 
 
 Is but a loan to be repaid with use, 
 
 When He shall call his debtors to account, 
 
 From whom are all our blessings ; business finds 
 
 E'en here: while sedulous I seek t' improve, 
 
 At least neglect not. or leave uncmploy'd 
 
 The mind he gave me ; driving it, though slack 
 
 Too otl, and much impeded in its work 
 
 By causes not to be divulg'd in vain. 
 
 To its just point— ^/le service of mankind. 
 
 Book iii. 
 
 * The Saviour. 
 
 
 But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek. 
 In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, 
 If he regard not, though divine the theme. 
 Tis not in artful measures, in the chime 
 And idle tinkhng of a minstrel's lyre. 
 To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart 
 Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, 
 Whose approbation prosper — even mine. 
 
 Book vi. 
 
 The office of doing justice to the poetical 
 genius of Cowper has been assigned to an 
 individual so well qualified to execute it with 
 taste and ability, that the Editor begs thus 
 publicly to record his acknowledgments and 
 his unmingled satisfaction. The bowers of 
 the muses are not unknown to the Rev. John 
 Cunningham, and, in contemplating the po- 
 etical labors of others, he might, with a small 
 variation, justly apply to himself the well- 
 known exclamation, "Ed anch'lo son pit- 
 tore."* 
 
 All, therefore, that seems necessary, is 
 simply to illustrate the beauties of Cowper's 
 poetry in the same manner as we have ex- 
 hibited his personal character. We shall 
 present a brief series of poetical portraits. 
 
 The following portrait of Lord Chatham 
 is drawn with great force and spirit : 
 
 In him Demosthenes was heard again ; 
 And freedom taught him her Athenian strain. 
 She clothed him with authority and awe, 
 Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
 His speech his form, his action, full of grace, 
 And all his country beaming in his face, 
 He stood, as some inimitable hand 
 Would strive to make a Paul or Tally stand. 
 No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 
 Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose; 
 And every venal stickler for the yoke 
 Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds : 
 
 There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes 
 A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
 All her reflected features. 
 
 Bacon the sculptor : 
 
 Bacon there 
 Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
 And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.f 
 
 John Thornton, Esq. : 
 
 Some men Tnake gain a fountain, whence proceeds 
 A stream of liberal and heroic deeds; 
 The swell of pity, not to be confined 
 Within the scanty limits of the mind. 
 Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 
 A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : 
 These have an ear for his paternal call, 
 Who make some rich for the supply of all ; 
 
 * .-Mtrilxited to Correggio, after contemplating th« 
 works of Il.apliael. 
 
 t .VlliuliiiL,'ioihemonumentof Lord Chatham, in West 
 minster .\ljbey. 
 
 32 
 
 »
 
 498 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ, 
 And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 
 
 Charity. 
 
 The martyrs of the Reformation : 
 
 Their blood is shed 
 In confirmation of the noblest claim, 
 Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, 
 To walk with God, to be divinely free, 
 To soar and to anticipate the skies. 
 Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown. 
 Till persecution dragg'd them into fame, 
 And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flew 
 —No marble tells us whither. With their names 
 No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : 
 And history, so warm on meaner themes, 
 Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 
 The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire. 
 But gives the glorious suff 'rers little praise. 
 
 Task^ book V. 
 
 Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress : 
 
 thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
 Back to the season of life's happy spring, 
 
 1 pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yet 
 Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget ; 
 Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
 Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 
 Whose huin'rous vein, strong sense, and simple 
 
 style, 
 May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
 Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord, 
 Speaking in parables his slighted word : 
 I name thee not, lest so despis'd a name 
 Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame: 
 Yet, e'en in transitory life's late day, 
 That mingles all my brown with sober grey. 
 Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
 And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 
 
 Tirocinium. 
 
 Brown, the rural designer :* 
 
 Lo ! he comes — 
 Th' omnipotent magician, Brown, appears. 
 Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode 
 Of our forefathers, a grave whisker'd race, 
 But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, 
 But in a distant spot ; where more expos'd 
 It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, 
 .And agueish east, till time shall have transform'd 
 Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove. 
 He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn. 
 Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, 
 And streams, as if created for his use. 
 Pursue the track of his directing wand, 
 Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow. 
 Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades. 
 E'en as he bids. Th' enraptur'd owner smiles. 
 'Tis finish'd. And yet, finish'd as it seems, 
 Still wants a grace, the lovehest it could show. 
 A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. 
 
 TVte Task, book iii. 
 
 London : 
 
 Oh ! thou resort and mart of all the earth, 
 Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind. 
 And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
 , Much that I love and much that I admire, 
 
 * Brown, in Cowper's time, was tlie great designer in 
 the art of laying out grounds for tlie nobility and gentry. 
 
 And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair. 
 That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh, 
 And I can weep, can hope, and yet despond, 
 Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee ! 
 Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once. 
 And thou hast many righteous. Well for thee— 
 That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
 And therefore more obnoxious at this hour, 
 Than Sodom in her day had power to be. 
 For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain. 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye. 
 With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
 Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots 1 
 In London. Where her implements exact. 
 With which she calculates, computes, and scans 
 All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
 Measures an atom, and now girds a world 1 
 In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 
 So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so suppUed, 
 As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 
 Increasing London 1 Babylon of old 
 Not more the glory of the earth than she, 
 A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. 
 
 Book i. 
 
 The gin-palace: 
 
 Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds, 
 
 Once simple, are initiated in arts. 
 
 Which some may practise with politer grace. 
 
 But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learn 
 
 The road that leads from competence and peace, 
 
 To» indigence, and rapine, till at last 
 
 Society, grown weary of the load. 
 
 Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 
 
 But censure profits little ; vain th' attempt 
 
 To advertise in verse a public pest, 
 
 That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds 
 
 His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. 
 
 Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result 
 
 Of all this riot, and ten thousand casks. 
 
 Forever dribbling out their base contents, 
 
 Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, 
 
 Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 
 
 Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! 
 
 Gloriously drunk, obey th' important call ! 
 
 Her cause demands the assistance of your 
 
 throats ; 
 Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 
 
 Task, book iv. 
 
 We add a few short passages : 
 
 How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude ! 
 But grant me still a friend in my retreat 
 Whom I may whisper — solitude is sweet. 
 
 Not to understand a treasure's worth 
 Till time has stolen away the slighted good 
 Is cause of half the poverty we feel. 
 And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
 
 Not a year but pilfers as he goes 
 Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep 
 
 When one that holds communion with the skiea 
 Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise. 
 And once moi'e mingles with us meaner things, 
 'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings; 
 Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, 
 That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 499 
 
 We must not omit a most splendid speci- 
 nnen of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the 
 "Yardley Oak." It is an unfinished poem, 
 and supposed to have been written in the 
 year 1791, and laid aside, without ever hav- 
 ing been resumed, when his attention was 
 engrossed with the edition of lAfilton. What- 
 ever may be the history of this admirable 
 fragment, it has justly acquired for Cowper 
 the reputation of having produced one of the 
 richest and most highly finished pieces of 
 versification that ever flowed from the pen 
 of a poet. Its existence even was unknown 
 both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the 
 latter discovered it buried in a mass of pa- 
 pers. We subjoin in a note a letter ad- 
 dressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, contain- 
 ing further particulars.* 
 
 Though this fragment is inserted among 
 the poems, we extract the following passages, 
 as expressive of the vigor and inspiration of 
 true poetic genius. 
 
 Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball 
 Which babes might play with ; and the thievish 
 
 Seeking her food, with case might have purloin'd 
 
 The auburn nut that held tiice. swallowing down 
 
 Thy yet close-lblded latitude of boughs 
 
 And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
 
 But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
 
 Beneath thy parent tree niellow'd the soil 
 
 Design'd thy cradle ; anil a skipping deer, 
 
 With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 
 
 The soft receptacle, in which, secure, 
 
 Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 
 
 So Fancy dreams. 
 
 Time made thee what thou wast, king of the 
 
 woods ; 
 And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
 For owls to roost in ! Once thy spreadin-r boui^lis 
 O'erhuniT the champaign : and the numerous 
 
 flocks, 
 That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope 
 Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. 
 
 * " January 0, 1804. 
 
 " Amon^ our dear Cowper's papers, I found tlic fol- 
 lowing memorandum : 
 
 YARDLEY OAK IN GIRTH, FKKT SJ, INCHES 6.V. 
 THK OAK AT YARDLEY LODOE, FEET 28, INCHES 5. 
 
 As to Yardley Oak, it stands in Vaidlcy Chase, where 
 the Earls of .Xoilhainpton have a line seat. It was a 
 favorite walk of our dear Cowper, and he once carried 
 me to see that oak. I believe it is live miles at least 
 from Weston Lod'je. Tt is indeed a noble tree, per- 
 fectly sound, and slands in an open pari of the Chase, 
 with only one or two others near it, so iia to be seen to 
 advantage. 
 
 "With respect to the oak at Yardley I,odp;e, that Is 
 quite in decay — a jiollard, and alm^ist IkiHdw. I took an 
 excrescence from it in the year Kill, and if I mistake not, 
 Cowper told me it is said to have been an nak in tlie lime 
 of the CoiKpieror. This lader oak is on Ilic road to Uk; 
 former, but not above half so far fmm Weston l.odifi'. 
 Seinf; only just beyond Killick and I)iii!;Iederry. Tliis is 
 all 1 can tell yon aliont the oaks. Tliey were old ac- 
 quaintances, and i^reat favorites of the bard. How ro 
 joiced I anitohe.ar that he has immortalized one of them 
 in blank verse! WHu're could those one himdred and 
 Bixly-one lines lie hid ? Till this very day I never heard 
 of their existencB, nor suspected it." 
 
 No flock frequents thee now. 
 
 While thus through all the stages thou hast 
 
 push'd 
 Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
 Then twig ; then saphng ; and as cent'ry roll'd 
 Slow alter century, a giant bulk 
 Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root 
 Uphcav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
 With proaiincnt wens globose — till at the last, 
 The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflict 
 On other mighty ones, found also thee. 
 
 Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
 Could shake thee to the root — and time has been 
 When tempests could not.* 
 
 With these acknowledged claims to pop- 
 ular favor, it is pleasing to reflect on the 
 singular moderation of Cowper amidst the 
 snares of literary fame. His motives seem 
 to have been pure and simple, and his main 
 design to elevate the character of the age, 
 and to glorify God. He w^as not insensible 
 to the value of applause, when conferred by a 
 liberal and powerful mind, but even in this 
 instance it was a subdued and chastened feel- 
 ing. A more pleasing evidence could not be 
 adduced than when, Hayley, in one of his 
 visits to Weston, brought a recent newspa- 
 per containing a speech of Mr. Fox, in which 
 that distinguished orator had quoted the fol- 
 lowing impressive verses on the Bastille, in 
 the House of Commons. 
 
 Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts: 
 
 Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, 
 
 That monarchs have supplied from age to age 
 
 With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears, 
 
 The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
 
 There's not an English heart that would not leap, 
 
 To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know, 
 
 That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd 
 
 In forging chains lor us, themselves were free.f 
 
 Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid sat- 
 isfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.J 
 
 * The late Samuel Whitbread, Esq., was an enthusias- 
 tic admirer of the poetrv of Cowper, and solicitous to 
 obtain a relic of the Vardley Oak. Mr IJidl, of Newport 
 Pasnel, promised to send a specimen, but some little 
 delay having occurred, Mr. Whitbread addressed to him 
 the followina; verses, which, t^nanatinsj; from such a man, 
 and not havin? met the public eve, will, we are per- 
 suaded, be considered as a literary ciu-iosity, and of no 
 mean merit. 
 
 "Send me the precious bit of oak. 
 Which your own hand so fondly took 
 From oir the con.secrated tree, 
 A relic dear to you and me. 
 To many 'twoufil a baul)le prove 
 Nor Worth the kee|iini,'.— Those who love 
 The teemin.; ^'raiid jioetic mind, 
 Which flod thought lit in chains to bind, 
 (»f dreadful, dark despairing 1,'loom; 
 Yet left within such ample room, 
 For coruscations .stroni,' and briLjht : 
 Such beams of everlastini,' lii,'ht, 
 As make men ein^y, love, aiul dre.ad. 
 The slructure of that wondrous head, 
 Must prize a bit of Judith's stem, 
 That brought to liLrht that precious gem— 
 The fragment: which in viM-se sublime 
 Records her honors to all lime." a 
 
 t These lines were written prophetically, and previ- 
 ously to the event. 
 t 'FUe l-.ue Lord Erskine was a frequent reciter of pa»
 
 500 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 We have mentioned how little Cowper 
 was elated by praise. We shall now state 
 how much he was depressed by unjust cen- 
 sure. His first voliune of poems hnd been 
 severely criticised by the Analytical Review. 
 His feelings are recorded in the following 
 (hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thorn- 
 ton, Esq. 
 
 Olney, May 21, 1782. 
 
 Dc.'ir Sir, — You have my sincere thanks 
 for your obliging communication, both of my 
 book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of 
 it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I 
 understand iiave spoken of it witli contempt 
 enough ; but, while gentlemen of taste and 
 candor have more favorable thoughts of it, 
 I see reason to be less concerned than I have 
 been about their judgment, hastily framed 
 perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice 
 against the subjects of which it treats. 
 
 Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's 
 sentiments reached me very seasonably, just 
 when, in a fit of despondence, to ^'hich no 
 man is naturally more inclined, I had begun 
 to regret the publication of it, and had con- 
 sequently resolved to write no more. For 
 if a man has the fortune to please none but 
 his friends and their connexions, he has rea- 
 son enough to conclude that he is indebted 
 for the measure of success he meets with, not 
 to the real value of his book, but to the par- 
 tiality of the few that appro\e it. But I now 
 feel myself differently affected towards ray 
 fevorite employment; for which sudden 
 change in my sentiments I may thank you 
 and your correspondent in France, his entire 
 unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he 
 never saw, nor will see, his character as a 
 man of sense and condition, and his acknow- 
 ledged merit as an ingenious and elegant 
 writer, and especially his having arrived at 
 an age when men are not to be pleased they 
 know not why, are so many circumstances 
 
 sages from Cowper's poems. The Editor is indebted to 
 E. H. Barker, Esq., of Thetford, for the followinpf anec- 
 dote which was communicated to him Ijy Joseph Jelvjll, 
 Esq., the eminent comisellor. 
 
 Mr. Jfkyll was dinint; with Lord Oxford, and among 
 the company were Dr. Parr, Home Tooke, Lord Erskine, 
 and Mr. W.Scott (l)rotlier to Lady Oxford). Lord Er- 
 skine recited, in his admirable manner, the verses of 
 Cowper about the Captive, without saying whose they 
 were ; Dr. Parr expressed great admiration of tlie verses, 
 and said that he had never heard of them or seen them 
 before ; he inquired whose Ihey were ? H. Tooke said, 
 " Why, Cowper's." Dr. Parr said he had never read 
 Cowper's poems. " Not read Cowper's poems ?" said 
 Home Tooke, " and you never will, I suppose, Dr. Parr, 
 till they are turned into Greek?" When the company 
 •went into the drawing-room, Lady Oxford presented 
 Dr. Parr with a small edition of Cowper's Poems, and 
 Mr. .lekyll was desired by her ladyship to write in the 
 book, " From the Countess of Oxford to Dr. Parr." 
 Home Tooke wrote also (mderneath, " Who never read 
 the book," and signed his name to it: all present signed 
 their names and added some remark, and among the rest 
 W. Scott. Al the sale of Dr. Parr's books, this volume 
 Irfetched about five pounds, beirg considered valuable and 
 curious, as the W. Scott signsd was supposed to have 
 been Sir W.Scott (since Lorl Stowell). Lord Stowell 
 afterwards took great pains tc contradict the report. 
 
 that give a value to his commendations, and 
 make them the most flattering a po(ir poet 
 could receive, quite out of conceit with 
 himself, and quite out of heart witli iiia 
 occupations. 
 
 If you think it worth your while, when you 
 write next to the Doctor, to inform him liow 
 much he has encouraged me by his approba- 
 tion, and to add my respects to him, you will 
 oblige me still further; for next to the plea- 
 sure it would afford me to hear that it has 
 been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, 
 so fiiT as my volume is in question, than to 
 hear it has pleased the judicious. 
 
 Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respect- 
 ful compliments. 
 
 I am, dear sir. 
 Your affectionate and most obedient servant, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 To John Thornton, Esq. 
 Clapham, Surrey. 
 
 Through this harsh and unwarrantable ex- 
 ercise of criticism, the world might never 
 have possessed the immortal poem fif " The 
 Task," if an American Philosopher had not 
 awarded that honorable meed of just praise 
 and commendation, which an English critic 
 thought proper to withhold. 
 
 But it is not merely the poetic claims of 
 Cowper which have earned for him so just a 
 title to public gratitude and praise. It would 
 be unjust not to bestow particular notice on 
 a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and 
 one that friendship ought especially to honor, 
 as she is indebted to it for a considerable 
 portion of her happiest sources of delight — 
 we mean the talent of writing letters. 
 
 Those of Pope are generally considered to 
 be too labored, and deficient in ease. Swift 
 is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray 
 is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either 
 in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth 
 of affection. 
 
 The letters of Cowper are not distinguished 
 by any remarkable superiority of thought or 
 diction; it is rather the easy and graceful 
 , flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic 
 love of nature, his touching representations 
 of common and domestic life, and above all, 
 the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of 
 his own heart, that constitute their charm 
 and excellence. They form a kind of bio- 
 graphical sketch, drawn by his own hand. 
 His poetry proclaims the author, his corre- 
 spondence depicts the man. We see him in 
 bis walks, in the privacy of his study, in his 
 daily occupations, amid the endearments of 
 home, and with all the qualities that inspire 
 friendship, and awaken confidence and love. 
 We learn what he thought, what he said, his 
 views of men and manners, his personal 
 habits and history. His ideas usually flow 
 without premeditation. All is natural and
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 501 
 
 easy. There is no display, no evidence of 
 conscious superiority, no concealment of iiis 
 real sentiments. He writes as lie feels and 
 thinks, and with such an air of truth and 
 frani<ness, that he seems to stamp upon tiie 
 letter the image of ids mind, with the same 
 fidelity of resemblance that the canvass re- 
 presents his external form and %xtures. We 
 see in them the sterling good sense of a man, 
 the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and 
 the winning softness and delicacy of a wo- 
 man's feelings. He can write upon any sub- 
 ject, or write without one. He can embellish 
 what is real by the graces of his imagination, 
 or invest what is imaginary with the sem- 
 blance of reality. He can smile or he can 
 weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with 
 fervor on the loveliness of nature, talk 
 about his tame hares, or cast the overflow- 
 ings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of 
 friendship. His correspondence is a wreath 
 of many flowers. His letters will always be 
 read with delight and interest, and by many, 
 perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals 
 of his poems. They are justly entitled to 
 the eulogium which we know to have been 
 pronounced upon them by Charles Fox, — 
 that of being '• the best specimens of episto- 
 lary excellence in the English language." 
 
 Among men distinguished by classical taste 
 and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever 
 be considered as elegant specimens of com- 
 position, and formed after the best models of 
 antiquity. 
 
 There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin 
 haxameters, entitled " Votura," beginning 
 thus : 
 
 O matutini rores, auraeque salubres, 
 
 which we believe has never received an Eng- 
 lish dress. A gentleman of literary taste has 
 kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, 
 which we are happy to subjoin in a note.* 
 We trust the author will excuse the insertion 
 of his name. 
 
 We have thus endeavored to exhibit the 
 singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and 
 
 * THE WISH. 
 
 " Ye verdant hills, ye soft umhni'jenus vales, 
 Fanird by lislil Zopliyi's hcaltli-liispiiinii; gales; 
 Ye wodds, whose bouiitis in rich luxuiiaiice wave; 
 Ye sparkling riviilels, whose waters lave 
 Tho^e meads, where erst, at mnrning's dewy prime, 
 (Reckless ol' shoals beneath the stream of Time,) 
 My vagrant feet your (lowery margin press'd. 
 Whilst Heaven gave back the sunshine in my breast: — 
 O, would I he powers that rnle my wayward lot 
 Restore? me to the lone paternal cot 1 
 There, I'ar Irom lolly, fraud's ensnaring wiles, 
 The world's dark frown, or still more dangerous smiles, 
 Let peaceful duties peaci'ful hours engage; 
 Till, winding genlly down the slope of age. 
 Tranquil 1 mark life's swill declining day 
 Fling deeper shades athwart my lessening way 
 And pleased, at last put otf this mortal coil, 
 Airain le mingle with it kindred soil 
 Beneath the grassy turf, or silent stone; 
 Uiis''eii the path 1 trod, iny resting-place unknown." 
 
 T. OsUcr. 
 
 the combination of powers not often united 
 in the same mind. All that now remains i.s 
 to consider the consecration of these faculties 
 to high and holy ends; and the influence of 
 his writings on the literary, the moral, and 
 religious character of his age. 
 
 I'he great end and aim which he proposed 
 to himself as an author has already been 
 illustrated from his writings ; we add one 
 more passage to show the sanctity of his 
 character. 
 
 Since the dear hour that brouo;ht me to thy foot, 
 And cut up all iny follies by the root, 
 I never trusted in an arm but thine, 
 Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine. 
 My prayers and alms, impfirlect and defiled, 
 Were but the feeble eflbrts of a child ; 
 Howe'er pertbrm'd, it was their brightest part, 
 That they proceeded from a grateful heart. 
 Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, 
 Forgive their evil, and accept their good. 
 I cast them at thy feet — my only plea 
 Is what it was — dependence upon thee : 
 While struggling in the vale of tears below, 
 That never tailed, nor shall it fail me now. 
 
 Truth. 
 
 We confess that we are edified by this 
 simple, yet sublime and holy piety. 
 
 It was from this source that Cowper drew 
 the materials that have yiven to his writinsrs 
 the character of so elevated a morality. Too 
 seldom, alasl have poets consecrated their 
 powers to the cause of divine truth. In mod- 
 ern times, especially, we have witnessed a 
 voluptuous imagery and appeal to the pas- 
 sions, ill some highly-gifted writers, which 
 have contributed to undermine public moral- 
 ity, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. 
 But it is the honorable distinction of Cow- 
 per's poetry, that nothing is to be found to 
 excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor 
 a single line tlnit requires to be blotted out. 
 He has done much to introduce a purer and 
 more exalted taste; he is the poet of nature, 
 the poet of the heart and conscience, and, 
 what is a still higher praise, the poet of 
 Christianii}-. He mingled the waters of 
 Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam, 
 and planted the cross amid the bowers of the 
 muses. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that 
 religion is not susceptible of poetry.* If this 
 
 * The reasons which he assigns, in justification of this 
 opinion, are thus specified. 
 
 " Let no pious ear be oR"ended if I advance, in opposi- 
 tion to many authorities, that poetical devotion catmot 
 often please. The doctrines of religion may indeed be 
 defended in a didactic poem ; and he who has the happy 
 power of arguing in verse will not lose it because his sub- 
 ject is sacred. A poet may describe the beauty and the 
 grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring, and the 
 harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the 
 revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his 
 works, in lines which no rcad(!r shall lay aside. The 
 subject of the disputation is not piety, but the motives to 
 piety ; that of the description is not God, but the works 
 of Cod. 
 
 "O)ntemplativo piety, or the inlercouso between Cod 
 and the human soul, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted 
 to implore the mercyof his Creator, and plead the merit*
 
 502 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 be true, it can arise only from the want of 
 religious authors and religious renders. But 
 we venture to deny thie position, and to 
 maintain that religion ennobles whatever it 
 touches. In architecture, what building ever 
 rivalled the magnificence of the temple of 
 Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the im- 
 posing grandeur of St. Paul's? In painting, 
 what power of art can surpass the Transfig- 
 uration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a 
 Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the 
 Cross in a Rubens ? In poetry, where shall 
 we find a nobler production of human genius 
 than the Paradise Lost ? Again, let us listen 
 to the language of the pious Fenelon : 
 
 " No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable 
 to the Psalms. That which begins, ' The 
 God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, and hath 
 called up the earth,' exceeds whatever human 
 imagination has produced. Neither Homer, 
 nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describ- 
 
 of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry 
 can confer. 
 
 " The essence of poetry is invention ; such invention 
 as, by producing something unexpected, surprises and 
 delights. The topics of devotion are few, and being few 
 are universally known ; but, few as they are, they can 
 be made no more ; they can receive no grace from nov- 
 elty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to 
 the mind than the things themselves afford. This effect 
 proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which 
 attract, and the concealment of those which repel the im- 
 agination. But Religion must be shown as it is : sup- 
 pression and addition equally corrupt it ; and such as it 
 is, it is known already. 
 
 " From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good 
 poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his compre- 
 hension and elevation of his fancy ; but this is rarely to 
 be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. Wliat- 
 ever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in 
 the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot 
 be exalted ; Infinity cannot be amplified ; Perfection can- 
 not be improved. 
 
 "The employments of pious meditation are Faith, 
 Thanksgiving, Repentance, and Supplication. Faith, in- 
 variably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with dec- 
 orations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy 
 effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is 
 confined to a few modes, and is to be felt, rather than 
 expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of 
 the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. 
 Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through 
 many tojiics of persuasion; but supplication to God can 
 only cry for mercy. 
 
 " Of sentiments purely rehgious it will be found that 
 the most simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry 
 loses its lustre and its power, because it is applied to 
 the decoration of something more excellent than itself. 
 All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and 
 delight tlie ear, and for these purposes it may be very 
 useful ; but it supplies nothing to the mind. The ideas 
 of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too 
 sacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament ; to re- 
 commend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a 
 (oncave mirror the sidereal hemisphere." — See Life of 
 iValler. 
 
 These i-emarks seem to be founded on very erroneous 
 principles; but having already offered our sentiments, 
 we forbear any further comment, f^xcept to state that we 
 Drofess to belong to the school of Cowpor; that we par- 
 ticipate in the expression of his regret, 
 
 " Pity that Religion has so seldom fovmd 
 A skilful guide into poetic ground :" 
 
 and that we cordially share in his conviction, 
 
 "The flowers would spring where'er she deign'dto stray, 
 And every Muse attend her on her way." 
 
 Table Talk. 
 
 ing the majesty of God, in whose presence 
 empires are as a grain of sand, and the whole 
 universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and 
 removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when 
 he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the 
 softness and sweetness of an eclogue ; at 
 others, he soars above mortal conception. 
 Bat what is there in profane antiquity com- 
 parable to the wailings of Jeremiah, when he 
 mourns over the calamities of his people? or 
 to Nahum, when he foresees in spirit the 
 downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an 
 innumerable army ? We almost behold the 
 formidable host, and hear the arms and the 
 chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Bel- 
 shazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall 
 upon him ; compare it with the most sublime 
 passages of pagan antiquity ; you find noth- 
 ing comparable to it. It must be added that, 
 in the Scriptures, everything sustains itself; 
 whether we consider the historical, the legal, 
 or the poetical part of it, the proper character 
 appears in all." 
 
 It would be singular, if a subject which 
 unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the 
 invisible world, and which is to be a theme 
 of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, 
 could inspire no ardor in a poet's soul; and 
 if the wings of imagination could take flight 
 to every world save to that which is eternal. 
 We leave our Montgomeries to refute so 
 gross an error, and appeal with confidence to 
 the page of Cowper. 
 
 We quote the following passage, to show 
 that religion can not only supply the noblest 
 theme, but also communicate a corresponding 
 sublimity of thought and language. It is the 
 glowing and poetical description of the mil- 
 lennial period, commencing with — 
 
 Sweet is the harp of prophecy. 
 
 We have room only for the concluding por^ 
 
 tion : — 
 
 One song employs all nations, and all cry. 
 '• Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !" 
 The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
 Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
 From distant mountains catch the flying joy ; 
 Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
 Eartii rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. 
 Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; 
 See Salem built, the labor of a God ! 
 Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; 
 All kingdoms and all prmces of the earth 
 Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 
 Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy, 
 And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, 
 Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there; 
 The looms of Ormus. and the mines of Ind, 
 And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. 
 Praise is in all her gates : upon her walls. 
 And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, 
 Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
 Kneels with the native of the farthest west; 
 And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand. 
 And worships. Her report has travell'd forth
 
 LIFE OF COWPER. 
 
 503 
 
 Into all lands. Prom every clime they come 
 To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, 
 
 Sion ! An assembly such as Earth 
 
 Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. 
 
 Task, book vi. 
 
 By this devotional strain of poetry, so 
 adapted to the spirit of the present age, Cow- 
 per is rapidly accomplishing a revolution in 
 the public taste, and creating a new race of 
 readers. He is purifying tiio literary atmo- 
 sphere from its noxious vapors. The muse 
 has too long taken her flight downwards ; 
 Cowper leads her to hold communion with the 
 skies. He lias taught us tliat literary celeb- 
 rity, acquired at the cost of public morals, is 
 but an inglorious triumph, and merits no 
 better title than that of splendid infamy. His 
 page has fully proved that tiie varied tield of 
 nature, the scenes of domestic life, and the 
 rich domain of moral and religious truth, are 
 suthciently ample for the exercise of poetic 
 ta.ste and fancy; while they never fail to 
 tranquillize the mind, to invigorate the princi- 
 ples, and to enlarge the bounds of virtuous 
 pleasure. 
 
 The writings of Cowper have also been 
 higlily beneficial to the church of England. 
 If he has been a severe, he has also been a 
 faithful monitor. We allude to such passages 
 as the following — 
 
 There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
 The le<Tate of the skies ! — His theme divine, 
 His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
 By him the violated law speaks out 
 Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet 
 As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. 
 He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
 Reclaiuis the wand'rer, binds the broken heart. 
 And, arm'd himselt' in panoply complete 
 Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
 Briglit as his own, and trains, by every rule 
 or holy discipline, to glorious war. 
 The sacramental host of God's elect ! [were ! 
 Are all such teachers'? Would to heaven all 
 
 Task, book ii. 
 
 1 venpratp the man, whose heart is warm. 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and 
 
 whose life. 
 Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
 That he is honest in the sacred cause. 
 To such I render more than mere respect. 
 Whose actions say tliat they respect themselves. 
 But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, 
 In conversation frivolous, in dress 
 Extreme — 
 
 From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, 
 Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 
 On skulls that cannot teach and will not learn. 
 
 There was a period when the chase was not 
 considered to be incompatible with the func- 
 tions of the sacred office. On this subject 
 Cowper exclaims, with just and indignant 
 feeling — 
 
 Is this the path of sanctity 1 Is this 
 
 To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss 1 
 
 Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet. 
 Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmouth-street ! 
 The sacred function in your hands is made — 
 Sad sacrilege ! no function, but a trade ! 
 
 The Progress of Error. 
 
 The danger of popular applause : 
 
 O popular applause ! what heart of man 
 Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms 1 
 The wisest and the best feel urgent need 
 Of all their caution in the gentlest gales; 
 But, swell'd into a gust — wlio then, alas ! 
 With all his canvas set, and inexpert. 
 And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power 1 
 Ah, spare your idol ! think him human still. 
 Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! 
 Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. 
 
 These rebukes, pungent as they are, were 
 needed. The works of Mrs. Hannah More 
 bear vniquestionable testimony to this fact. 
 But we may now record with gratitude a very 
 perceptible change, and appeal to the eviden- 
 ces of reviving piety among all classes of the 
 clergy. 
 
 Though the singular and mysterious malady 
 of Cowper has been the occasion of repeated 
 remark, yet we cannot dismiss the subject 
 without a few concluding reflections. 
 
 In contrasting witli his other letters the 
 correspondence with Newton, the chosen de- 
 positary of all his secret woe, it is difficult to 
 recognise in the writer the same identity of 
 character. His mind appears to have under- 
 gone some transforming process, and the gay 
 and lively tints of his sportive imagination to 
 be suddenly shrouded in the gloom of a mys- 
 terious and appalling darkness. We seem to 
 enter into the regions of sorrow and despair, 
 and to trace the terrific inscription so finely 
 drawn by the poet, in his celebrated " Inferno ;" 
 
 " Voi ch' entrate lasciate ogni speranza."* 
 
 Ye who enter here leave all hope behind. 
 
 In contwnplating this afHicting dispensa- 
 tion, and referring every event, as we must, 
 to the appointment or permissive providence 
 of God, we feel constrained to exclaim with 
 the patriarch, " Tlie thunder of Ms power who 
 can under stand V^ But life, as Bishop Hall 
 observes, is made up of perturbations ; and 
 those seem most subject to their occurrence 
 who are distinguished by the gifts of rank 
 fortune, or genius. Such is the disciplin 
 which the moral Governor of the world sees 
 fit to employ for the purification of their pos- 
 sessors! In recording the lot of genius, 
 Milton, it is known, was blind. Pope was af- 
 flicted with sickness, and Tasso, Swift, Smart, 
 and Collins, were exposed to the aberrations 
 of reason. " Moralists," says Dr. Johnson, 
 " talk of the uncertainty of fortune, and of 
 
 * See the " Inferno" of Dante, where this motto is in' 
 scribed over the ontraace into the abodes of woo. 
 t Job xxvi. 14.
 
 504 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 the transitoriness of beauty ; but it is yet 
 more dreadful to consider that the powers of 
 the mind are equally liable to cliauge — that 
 understanding may make its appearance and 
 depart, that it may blaze and expire." R 
 seems as if the mind were too ethereal to be 
 confined within the bounds of its earthly 
 prison, or that the too frequent and intense 
 exercise of thought disturbs the digestive or- 
 gans, and lays ti^e foundation of hypochon- 
 drical feelings, which cloud the serenity of the 
 soul. R is painful to reflect how much our 
 sensations of comfort and happiness depend 
 on the even flow and circulation of the blood. 
 But the connexion of physical and moral 
 causes has been the subject of philosophical 
 remark in all ages. The somewhat antilogous 
 case of the celebrated Dr. Johnson seems to 
 have been overlooked by the preceding biog- 
 raphers of Cowper. " The morbid melan- 
 choly," observes Eoswell, " which was lurking 
 in his constitution, and to which we may as- 
 cribe those peculiarities, and that aversion to 
 regular life, which, at a very early period, 
 marked his character, gathered such strength 
 in his twentieth year, as to afflict him in a 
 dreadful manner. While he was at Lichfield, 
 in the college vacation, in 1729, he felt him- 
 self overwhelmed with a horrible hypochon- 
 dria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and 
 impatience ; and with a dejection, gloom, and 
 despair, which made existence misery. From 
 this dismal malady he never afterwards was 
 perfectly relieved ; and all his labors, and all 
 his enjoyments, were but temporary interrup- 
 tions of its baleful influence." 
 
 Let those to whom Providence has assigned 
 a humbler p.ith, learn the duty of content- 
 ment, and be thankful that if they are 'enied 
 the honors attendant on rank and genius, they 
 are at least exempted from its trials. For 
 where there are heights, there are depths ; and 
 he who occupies the summit is often seen de- 
 scending into the valley of humiliation. 
 
 That a similar morbid temperament may be 
 traced in the case of Cowper is indisputable ; 
 nor can a more conclusive evidence be ad- 
 duced than the words of his own memoir: — 
 "I was struck, not long after my settlement in 
 the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, 
 as none but they who have felt the same can 
 have the least conception of Day and night 
 I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, 
 and rising up in despair."* In his subsequent 
 attack, religion became an adjunct, not a cause, 
 for he describes himself at that period as 
 having lived without religion. The impres- 
 sion under which he labored was therefore 
 manifestly not suggested by a theological 
 creed, but was the delusion of a distempered 
 fancy. Every other view is founded on mis- 
 conception, and must inevitably tend to mis- 
 lead the public. 
 
 * See page 469. 
 
 Before we conclude the life of Cowper, 
 there are some important reflections, arising 
 from his unhappy malady, which we beg to 
 impress on tiie attention of the reader. 
 
 The fruitful source of all his misery wa3 
 the indulgence of an over-excited state of 
 feeling. His mind was never quiescent. Oc- 
 currences, which an ordinary degree of self- 
 possession would have met with calmness, or 
 passive indifl'erence, were to him the subject 
 of mental agony and distress. His imagina- 
 tion gave magnitude to trifles, till what was 
 at first ideal, at length assumed the character 
 of a terrible reality. He was always antici- 
 pating evil ; and so powerful is the influence 
 of fancy, that what we dread, we seldom fail 
 to realize. Thus Swift lived in the constant 
 fear of mental imbecility, and at length in- 
 curred the calamity. We scarcely know a 
 spectacle more pitiable, and yet more repre- 
 hensible. For what is the use of reason, if 
 we reject its dictates'? or the promise of the 
 Spirit to help our infirmities, if we neverthe- 
 less yield to their sway ? How important in 
 the education of youth to repress the first 
 symptoms of nervous irritability, to invigo- 
 rate the principles, and to train the mind to 
 habits of self-discipline, and firm reliance upon 
 God ! The fiir greater proportion of human 
 trials originate not in the appointment of 
 Providence, but may be traced to the want 
 of a well-ordered and duly regulated mind; 
 to the ascendency of passion, and to the ab- 
 sence of mental and moral energy. R is 
 possible to indulge in i\ state of mind that 
 shall rob every blessing of half its enjoyment, 
 and give to every trial a double portion of 
 bitterness. 
 
 We turn with delight to a more edifying 
 feature in his character — 
 
 His submission under this dark dispensation. 
 
 R is easy to exhibit the triumphs of faith 
 in moments of exultation and joy; but the 
 vivid energy of true faith is never more 
 powerfully exemplified, than when it is left to 
 its own naked exercise, unaided by the influ- 
 ence of exciting causes. R is amid the deso- 
 lation of hope, and when the iron enters into 
 the soul — it is amid pain, depression, and 
 sorrow, when the eye is suffused with tears 
 and every nerve vibrates with emotion — to be 
 able to exclaim at such a moment, " Here I 
 am, let him do with me as seemeth him 
 good ;"* this is indeed the faith which is of 
 the operation of the Spirit, which none but 
 God can give, and which will finally lead to a 
 triumphant crown. 
 
 That the mind should still indulge its sor- 
 rows, in moments of awakened feeling, is 
 natural. On this subject we know nothing 
 more touching than the manner in which 
 Cowper parodies and appropriates to himseli 
 
 * Letter to Newton, Blay 20, 1786.
 
 Milton's affecting lamentation over his own 
 blindness :* 
 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day, 
 Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, 
 Or joy, or hope, or Jesus' face divine ; 
 But cloud, &c. 
 
 To thi.s quotation we might add tlie affecting 
 conclusion of the poem of " The Castaway." 
 
 We perish'd each alone ; 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 And vvhehu'd in deeper gulfs than he.f 
 
 The overruling Providence of God is no 
 less discernible in this eieni. 
 
 The severest trials are not without their 
 alleviation, nor the accompaniment of some 
 gracious purpose. Had it not been for Covv- 
 per's visitation, the world might never have 
 been presented witli Tiie Task, nor the Church 
 of Christ been edified with the Olney Hymns. 
 He was constrained to write, in order to di- 
 vert ins melancholy. " Despair," he observes, 
 " made amusement necessary, and I found 
 poetry the most agreeable amusement."| " In 
 such a situation of mind, encompassed by tlie 
 midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand 
 times filled with un.speakable horror, I first 
 commenced an author. Distress drove me to 
 it; and the impossibility of subsisting with- 
 out some employment, still recommends it."^ 
 How wonderful are the ways of God, and 
 what a powerful commentary on Cowper's 
 own celebrated hymn — 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way, &c. 
 
 It will probably be found, at the la.st great 
 day, that the darkest dispensations were the 
 most essential links in the chain of provi- 
 dential dealings; and that what we least un- 
 derstood, and often contemplated with solemn 
 awe on earth, will form the subject of never- 
 ceasing praise in eternity. 
 
 Whalever were On trials of Coivper, they 
 are now terminaled. 
 
 It will be remembered that his kinsman 
 saw, or thought he saw, in the features of 
 his decea.sed friend, "an expression of calm- 
 ness and composure, mingks:l, as it were, 
 with holy surpri.se."i| We would not attach 
 too much importance to a look, but rather 
 rest our hopes of Cowper's happiness on the 
 covenanted mercy and faithfulness of God. 
 Still the supposition is natural and soothing; 
 and we by no means think it improbable that 
 the disembodied spirit migiit communicate to 
 the earthly lineaments, in the moment of de- 
 parture, the impression of its own heavenly 
 joy. And O! what must have been the ex- 
 
 * Piiradiso Lost, book iii. 
 
 t St^e p. 464. 
 
 i I.eltiT to Newton, Aug. 6, 178.>. 
 
 ji I.i'Itcr lo Newton, May 20, 1780. 
 
 [| See page 465. 
 
 pression of that surprise and joy, when, as 
 his immortal spirit ascended to him that gave 
 it, instead of beholding the averted eye of 
 an offended God, he recognized the radian*, 
 smiles of his reconciled countenance, and the 
 caresses of his tenderness and love — when 
 all heaven burst upon his astonished view; 
 and when, amid angels, and archangels, and 
 the spirits of just men made perfect, he was 
 invited to bear his part in the glorious song 
 of the redeemed, Thou art worthy, O Lord, 
 to receive glory, and honor, and power ; for 
 thou hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, 
 and hast made us unto our God kings and 
 priests forever and ever. 
 
 But it is time to close our remarks on the 
 Life and Writings of Cowper. It is a name 
 that has long entwined itself around the 
 affections of our heart, and appealed, from 
 early days, both to conscience and feeling. 
 We lament our inadequacy to fulfil all the 
 duties of the present important undertaking, 
 but the motives which have powerfully urged 
 us to engaged in it are founded on a wish to 
 exhibit Cowper in accordance with his own 
 Christian character and principles ; to vindi- 
 cate him from prevailing misconceptions; and 
 in imputing the gloom of depression, under 
 which he labored, to its true causes, so to 
 treat this delicate subject as to make it the 
 occasion of sympathizing interest, and not of 
 revolting and agonized feelings. The private 
 correspondence, in this respect, is invaluable, 
 and absolutely essential to the clear elucida- 
 tion of his case. Other documents have also 
 been inserted that never appeared in any 
 previous biography of Cowper; and private 
 sources of information have been explored, 
 not easily accessible to other inquirers. We 
 trust this object has been attained, and the 
 hope of so important a result is a source of 
 cheering consolation. The hi.story of Cow- 
 per is fruitful in the pathetic, the sublime, 
 itnd the terrible, so as to produce an effect 
 that seems almost to realize the fictions of 
 romance. A life composed of such materials 
 cannot fail to command attention. It pos- 
 sesses all the bolder lineaments of character, 
 relieved by the fiimiliar, the tender, the sport- 
 ive, and the gay. Emotions art thus excited 
 in which the heart loves to indulge; lor who 
 does not delight alternately in the calmness 
 of repose, and in the excitement of awakened 
 leeling? 
 
 But, independently of the interest created 
 by the events of Cowper's life, there is some- 
 thing singularly impressive in the mechanism 
 of his mind. It is so curiously wrought, and 
 wonderfully made, as to form a subject ibr 
 contemplation to the philosopher, the Chris- 
 tian, and the medical observer. The union 
 of these several qualifications seems neces- 
 sary to analyze the interior springs of thought 
 and action, to mark the character of God's
 
 506 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 providential dealings, and to trace the influ- 
 ence of morbid temperament on the powers 
 of the intellect and the passions of the soul. 
 His mind presents the most wonderful com- 
 binations of the grave and the gay, the social 
 and the retired, ministering to the spiritual 
 joy of others, yet enveloped in the gloom of 
 darkness, enchained with fetters, yet vigorous 
 and free, soaring to the heights of Zion, yet 
 precipitated to the depths below. It resem- 
 bles a beautiful landscape, overshadowed by 
 a dark and impending cloud. Every moment 
 we expect the cloud to burst on the head of 
 the devoted sufferer ; and the awful anticipa- 
 tion would be fulfilled, were it not that a 
 divine hand, wliich guides every event, and 
 without which not even a sparrow falls to the 
 ground, interposes and arrests the shock. 
 Upwards of twenty years expired, during 
 which he was thus graciously upheld. He 
 then began to sink under his accumulated 
 sorrows. But it is worthy of observation, 
 that during this period his mind never suf- 
 fered a total alienation. It was a partial 
 eclipse, not night, nor yet day. He lived 
 .ong enough, both for himself and others, 
 
 sufficient to discharge all the claims of an 
 affectionate friendship, and to raise to him- 
 self an imperishable name on the noble foun- 
 dation of moral virtue. At length, when he 
 stood alone, as it were, like a column in the 
 melancholy waste ; when he was his own 
 world, and the solitary agent, around which 
 clung the sensations of a heart always full, 
 and the reflections of a mind unconscious of 
 a pause — he died. But his last days and 
 moments were soothed by the offices of 
 Christian kindness and the most disinterested 
 regard. His beloved kinsman never left him 
 till he had closed his eyes in death, and till 
 the disembodied spirit, at length, found the 
 rest in heaven, which forever obliterated all 
 its earthly sorrows. 
 
 And there shall be no more curse, but the 
 throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it ; 
 and his servants shall serve him. And they 
 shall see his face ; and his name shall be in 
 their foreheads. And there shall be no night 
 there ; and they need no candle, neither light 
 of the sun ; for the Lord God giveth them 
 light ; and they shall reign forever and ever.—' 
 Rev, xxii. 3 — 3.
 
 ON THE 
 
 GEIIUS AND POETRY OF COAYPER 
 
 BY THE REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, A.M., Vicar of Harrow. 
 
 In presenting to the public the first Com- 
 plete Edition of the Works of Cowper, it is 
 thought desirable to prefix to tlie Poems a 
 short dissertation on his Genius and Poetry. 
 It is true that criticisms abound wiiicli have 
 nearly the same object. It is true also that 
 some of these criticisms are of a very high 
 order of excellence. But perhaps their very 
 number and merit supply a reason for adding 
 at least one to the catalogue. The observa- 
 tions of the different Reviewers are scattered 
 over so large a number of volumes, and these 
 volumes are, many of them, either of so ex- 
 pensive or so ephemeral a character, that an 
 essay which endeavors to collect these criti- 
 cisms into a focus, and present them at once 
 to the eye of the reader, is far from superflu- 
 ous. And the present critique pretends to 
 little more than the accomplishment of this 
 object. The writer is not ashamed to profit 
 from the labor and genius of his predecessors 
 in the same course, and to let them say for 
 him, what he could not say so well for him- 
 self. 
 
 With this apology for what might otlier- 
 wise be deemed a woriv of supererogation, 
 ve enter upon the proposed undertaking. 
 
 And here we must begin by observing that 
 u is impossible not to be struck witli certain 
 peculiarities in tlie histori/ of Cowper, as con- 
 nected with his poetical productions. Al- 
 though, as it has been truly said of him — 
 " born a poet, if ever tiicre was one," — tiiink- 
 ing and feeling upon all occasions as none 
 but a poet could, expressing himself in verse 
 with almost incredible facility, it does not ap- 
 pear that Cowper, between the ages of four- 
 teen and thirty-tin-ec, produced anytiiing be- 
 yond the most trilling specimens of his art. 
 The only lines characteristic of his genius 
 and peculiarities as a poet, and which, though 
 composed at a distance of more tlian thirty 
 years from the publication of " The Task," 
 have so intimate a resemblance to it as to 
 seem to be a page out of the same volume, 
 are those written at the age of eighteen, on 
 finding the heel of an old shoe. 
 
 " This ponderous heel of perforated hide, 
 Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
 Haply rfor such its massy form bespeaks) 
 The weighty tread of soaie rude peasant clown 
 Upbore: on this supported, ott he stretched, 
 With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
 Flattening the stubborn clod ; till cruel time, 
 (What will not cruel time "?) or a wry step, 
 Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
 He who could erst, with even, equal pace. 
 Pursue his destin'd way, with symmetry, 
 And some proportion t'orm'd. now, on one side, 
 Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
 Cursing his frail supporter, treach'rous prop ! 
 With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on." 
 
 A few light and agreeable poems, two 
 hymns written at Huntingdon, with about 
 sixty others composed at Olney, are almost 
 the only known poetical productions of his 
 pen between the years 1749 and 1782, at 
 which last period he committed his volume of 
 poems in rhyme to the press. There are ex- 
 amples in the physical world, of mountains 
 reposing in coldness and quietness for ages ; 
 and, at length, without any apparently new 
 stimulus, awaking from their slumber, and 
 deluging the surrounding vineyards with 
 streams of fire. But it is, we believe, an un- 
 heard-of poetical phenomenon, for a mind 
 teeming with such tendencies and capabilities 
 as that of Cowper, to sleep through so long 
 a period, and, at length, suddenly to awake, 
 when illness and age might seem to. have laid 
 their palsying hand upon its energies, and 
 at once to erect itself into poetical life and 
 supremacy. In general, the poet either ' lisps 
 in numbers,' or begins to put forth his hidden 
 powers under the exciting influence of some 
 new passion or emotion — such as love, fear, 
 hope, or disappointment. But how wide of 
 this was the history of Cowper ! In his case, 
 the muse had no infancy, but sprang full 
 armed from the brain of the poet. 
 
 But, if the tardy development of the poet- 
 ical powers of our author was one peculi- 
 arity in his case, the suddenness and com- 
 pleteness of the development, when it did 
 take place, was, under liis circumstances, »
 
 608 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 still greater subject of surprise. In the ac- 
 count of his life we learn, that, after quitting 
 Westminster school, at the age of eighteen, 
 he spent three years in a solicitor's office ; 
 and passed from thence, at the age of twen- 
 ty-one, into chambers in the Inner Temple. 
 Soon after this event, he says of himself, " I 
 was struck, not long after my settlement in 
 the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, 
 as none but they who have felt the same can 
 h.ave the least conception of. Day and night 
 I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, 
 rising up in despair. I presently lost all rel- 
 ish for the studies to which before I had been 
 closely attached. The classics had no longer 
 any charm for me. I had need of something 
 more salutaiy than amusement, but I had no 
 one to direct me where to tind it." This de- 
 jection of mind, as our readers are aware, led 
 him onward from depth to depth of misery 
 and despair, till at length he was borne away, 
 helpless and hopeless, in the year 1768, to an 
 asylum for insane patients at St. Albans. 
 Released from the awful grasp of a perverted 
 imagination, chiefly by the power of that re- 
 ligion, which, in spite of every fact in his his- 
 tory, has been, with malignant hatred to 
 Christianity, charged as the cause of his mad- 
 ness, he spent the two happiest years of his 
 life at Huntingdon. After this he retired 
 with the Unwin faniily to Olney, in Bucking- 
 hamshire ; and there, after passing through 
 the most tremendous mental conflicts, sank 
 again into a state of despondency ; from which 
 he at length awoke, (if it might be called 
 awaking,) not indeed to be freed from his de- 
 lusions, but, whilst under their dominion, to 
 delight, instruct, and astonish mankind, with 
 some of the most original and enchanting 
 poems in any language. The philosophical 
 work of Browne, dedicated to Queen Caro- 
 line, and composed, as the author says, by a 
 man who had lost his "rational soul," has 
 been always reputed the miracle of literature. 
 But Browne's case is scarcely more remarka- 
 ble than that of Cowper. That a work 
 sparkling with the most childlike gayety and 
 brilliant wit; exhibiting the most cheerful 
 views of the character of God, the face of na- 
 ture, and the circumstances of man, should 
 proceed from a writer who at the time re- 
 garded God as an implacable enemy; the 
 earth we live on as the mere porch to a world 
 of punishment ; and human life, at least in 
 his own case, as the cloudy morning of a day 
 of interminable anguish — all this is to be ex- 
 plained only by the fact that madness dis- 
 dains all rules, and reconciles all contrarie- 
 ties. His history supplies an example, not 
 without its parallel, of a mind — like some 
 weapon drawn from its sheath to fight a par- 
 ticular battle, and then suspended on the 
 walls again — called forth to accomplish an 
 important end, and then sent back again into 
 
 obscurity. And it is no less an evidence, 
 amongst a thousand other instances, that our 
 heavenly Father " in judgment remembers 
 mercy," and bestows this mitigation of the 
 heaviest of all maladies, ihat those exposed 
 to its deadliest influence and themselves de- 
 nied all access to the bright sources of 
 happiness, are sometimes privileged to pour 
 the streams of consolation over the path of 
 others. How truly may it be said of such 
 persons, " Sic vos, non vobis, mellificaLh apes.^^ 
 
 But whilst we speak of certain peculiari- 
 ties in the case of Cowper, as calculated to 
 destroy all reasonable expectation of such 
 poems as he has given to the public, we are 
 not sure that these very peculiarities have not 
 assisted to supply his poetry with some of 
 its characteristic and most valuable features. 
 Among the qualities, for example, by which 
 his compositions are distinguished, are those 
 of strong sense — moderation on all the sub- 
 jects most apt to throw the mind off its bal- 
 ance — maturity in thought, reasoning and 
 imagination — fulness without inflation — the 
 " strength of the oak without its nodosities" 
 — the " inspiration of the Sybil without her 
 contortions" — the most profound and exten- 
 sive views of human nature. But perhaps 
 every one of these qualities is oftener the 
 growth of age than of youth ; and is rather 
 the tardy fruit of patient experience than the 
 sudden shoot of untrained and undisciplined 
 genius. 
 
 In like manner, the poetry of Cowper is 
 characterized by the most touching tender- 
 ness, by the deepest sympathy with the suf- 
 ferings of others, by a penetrating insight 
 into the dark recesses of a tempted and troub- 
 led heart. But where are qualities such as 
 these so likely to be cultivated as in the 
 shady places of a suffering mind, and in the 
 school of that stern mistress who teaches us 
 " from our own to melt at others' woe," and 
 to administer to others the medicines which 
 have healed ourselves? A celebrated physi- 
 cian is said to have inoculated himself with 
 the virus of the plague, in order to practise 
 with more efticacy in the case of others. Such 
 voluntary initiation in sorrow was needless 
 in the case of Cowper; — another hand had 
 opened the wound which was to fiimiliarize 
 him with the deepest trials of suflering hu- 
 manity. 
 
 It is time, however, that we should pro- 
 ceed to consider some of the claims of Cow- 
 per to the character of a poet. Large multi- 
 tudes have found an almost irresistible charm 
 in liis writings. In what peculiarities does 
 this powerful influence mainly reside ? 
 
 In order to reply to this question, we would 
 first direct the attention of our readers to the 
 constitution of his mind. 
 
 And here we may enter on our work by 
 observing, that almost all critics have regarded
 
 HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 
 
 509 
 
 an ardent love of nature as a sine qua non in 
 the constitution of a poet. And nature, 
 surely, never had a more enthusiastic admirer 
 than the author of the Task. How feelingly 
 does he write on this subject ! 
 
 " I have loved the rural walk through lanos 
 01" grassy swarth, close cropp'd hy nit)l)ling sheep, 
 And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
 Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk 
 O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, 
 E'er since, a truant bov, I pass'd my bounds, 
 T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames." 
 
 When Homer describes his shepherd as 
 contemplating the iieavens and earth by the 
 light of the moon and stars, and says, with 
 his accustomed simplicity and grace, — " The 
 heart of the shepherd is glad;" our author 
 might seem to have sat for the portrait. Al- 
 though unacquainted with nature in her sub- 
 limest aspect, every point in creation appears 
 to have a charm for him. To no lips would 
 tlie strain of another poet be more appro- 
 priate. 
 
 " I care not, fortune, what you me deny; 
 You cannot rob me of tree nature's grace ; 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky. [face ; 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 The woods and lawns by living stream at eve." 
 
 It is true, that every enthusiastic lover of 
 nature is not a poet : but a man can scarcidy 
 rise to the dignity of that high office wiio has 
 not a touch of this enthusiasm. Poetry is 
 essentially an imitative art ; and he who is 
 no lover of nature loses all the finest sub- 
 iects of imitation. On the contrary, this at- 
 tachment, especially if it be of an ardent 
 character, supplies subjects to the muse 
 everywhere. Winter or summer, the wilder- 
 ness and the garden, tiie cedar of Libanus, 
 and the hyssop on the wall ; all that is dull 
 and ineloquent to another has a voice for 
 him, and rouses him to think, to feel, to ad- 
 mire, and to speak. The following lines are 
 said to have been introduced into " The 
 Task," to gratify Mrs. Unwin, after the hrst 
 draught of the poem was finished. But 
 wiiat language can exhibit a more genuine 
 attachment to nature 1 
 
 " And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
 Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
 
 Fast lock'd in mine 
 
 Witness a joy that thou hast iloubl'd long. 
 Thou know'st mv i)raise of nature most sincere, 
 And that my raptures are not conjur'd up 
 To serve occasion of poetic pomp. 
 But genuine ; and art partner of them all." 
 
 Nor was the delight which he derived from 
 nature confined, in the case of our poet, to 
 one sense. " All the sounds,-' he writes, 
 "that nature utters are delightful, at least in 
 this country. I should not perhaps find the 
 
 roarings of lions in Africa, or of bears in 
 Russia, very pleasing; but I know of no 
 beast in England, whose voice I do not ac- 
 count musical, save and except only the 
 braying of an ass. The notes of all our 
 birds and fowls please me, without one ex- 
 ception. I should not indeed think of keep- 
 ing a goose in a cage, that I might hang him 
 up in the parlor for the sake of his melody, 
 but the goose upon a common, or in a farm- 
 yard, is no bad performer. Seriously, how- 
 ever, it strikes me as a very observable in- 
 stance of providential kindness to man, that 
 such an exact accord has been contrived be- 
 tween his ear and the sounds with which, at 
 least in a rural situation, it is almost every 
 moment visited. The fields, the woods, the 
 gardens, have each their concerts; and the 
 ear of man is forever regaled by creatures 
 who seem only to please themselves. Even 
 the ears that are deaf to the Gospel are con- 
 tinually entertained, though without knowing 
 it, by sounds for which they are solely in- 
 debted to its Author."* 
 
 It is interesting to compare with this the 
 poetical expression of the same thought. 
 
 " Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
 Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
 The tone of languid nature . . . 
 
 Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 
 
 But animated nature sweeter still, 
 
 To soothe or satisfy the human ear. 
 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
 
 The livedong night. Nor those alone whose notes 
 
 Nice llnger'd art must euaulate in vain ; 
 
 But cawing rooks, and kites, that swim sublime 
 
 In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 
 
 The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 
 
 That hails the rising moon, have charms for me." 
 
 Another poetical quality in the mind of 
 Cowper is his ardent love of his species — a 
 love which led him to contemplate, with the 
 most solicitous regard, their wants, tastes, 
 passions ; their diseases, and the appropriate 
 remedies for them. It has been justly ob- 
 served, that, if there are some who have little 
 taste for the poetry which delineates only in- 
 animate beings or objects, there is hardly 
 any one who does not listen, with sympathy 
 and delight, to that which exhibits tiie for- 
 tunes and feelings of man. The truth is, 
 we suppose, that this last order of topics is 
 most easily brought home to our own busi 
 ness and bosoms. Aristotle considers that 
 the imitation or delineation of human action 
 is one of the main objects of poetry. But if 
 this be true, if the " proper study of mankind 
 is man," and one of the highest offices of 
 poetry be to exhiliit, as upon the stage, the 
 fortunes and passions of his fellow beings — ■ 
 few have attained such eminence in his art 
 as Cowper. His hymns are the close tran' 
 
 * Letter to Mr. Newton.
 
 610 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 scripts of his own soul. His rhymed poems 
 have more of a didactic character ; but they 
 are for the most part exhibitions of man in 
 all his attitudes of thought and action. They 
 are mirrors in which every man may contem- 
 plate his own mind. In the "Task," he 
 passes every moment from the contempla- 
 tion of nature to that of the being who in- 
 habits this fair, though fallen, world. He 
 lashes the vices, laughs at the follies, mourns 
 over the guilt of his species ; he spares no 
 pains to conduct the guilty to the feet of 
 their only true Friend, and to land the mis- 
 erable amidst the green pastures and still 
 waters of heavenly consolation. 
 
 Another property in the mind of Cowper, 
 which has given birth to some of the noblest 
 passages in his poems, is his intense love of 
 freedom. The political state of this country 
 was scarcely ever more degraded than at the 
 period when he began to write; and every 
 real patriot who could wield the pen, or lift 
 the voice in the cause of legitimate and regu- 
 lated freedom, had plenty to do at home. At 
 the same period also the prolligacy and ty- 
 ranny of the privileged orders in France, and 
 other of the old European dynasties, were 
 such as to provoke the indignation of every 
 lover of liberty. And lastly, at this time, 
 that horrible traffic in human flesh, that cap- 
 ital crime, disgrace, and curse of the human 
 species, the Slave Trade, prevailed in all its 
 horrors. How splendid are many of the 
 passages scattered so prodigally through his 
 poems, in which the author rebukes the crimes 
 of despotism and cruelty at home or abroad, 
 and claims for mankind the high privileges 
 with which God, by an everlasting charter, 
 had endowed them. 
 
 What lines can breathe a deeper indigna- 
 tion than those quoted with such admiration 
 by Mr. Fox, in the House of Commons, on 
 the Bastile ? 
 
 " Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, 
 Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, 
 That monarchs have supplied, from age to age, 
 With music such as suits their sovereign ears, 
 The sighs and groans of miserable men ; 
 There's not an English heart that would not leap 
 To hear that ye were fallen at last." 
 
 And what passage in any uninspired writer is 
 more noble and heart-stirring, than that on 
 the decision in the case tried by the illustri- 
 ous Granville Sharpe, to establish the liberty 
 of all who touched the soil of England — a 
 passage confessedly the foundation of the 
 noblest effort of Curran, in his great speech 
 on the liberty of the subject! 
 
 " I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
 To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 
 Just estimation priz'd above all price, 
 I had much rather be myself the slave, 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
 We have no slaves at home — then why abroad 1 
 And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
 And let it circulate through ev'ry vein 
 Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's pow'f 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too." 
 
 But after all, perhaps, the peculiarity in the 
 mind of Cowper, which gives the chief charm 
 to his poetry, is the depth and ardor of his 
 piety. 
 
 It is impossible not to be aware of the 
 severance which critics have labored to effect 
 between religion and poetry, — ^between the 
 character of the prophet and the poet : and 
 that Johnson's decision is thought by some 
 to be final on the subject. Cowper himself 
 admits that the connection has been rare be- 
 tween the two characters — as witness the 
 following lines — 
 
 " Pity religion has so seldom found 
 A skilful guide into poetic ground ! [to stray. 
 For flow'rs would spring where'er she deigned 
 And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. 
 Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, 
 And many a compliment politely penn'd ; 
 But, unattir'd in that becoming vest 
 Religion weaves for her, and half undrest, 
 Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, 
 A wintry figure like a wither'd thorn." 
 
 But he does not despair of seeing some 
 
 " Bard all fire, 
 Touch'd with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, 
 And tell the world, still kindUng as he sung, 
 Witli more than mortal music on his tongue, 
 That he who died below, and reigns above, 
 Inspires the song, and that his name is ' Love.' " 
 
 Indeed no theory can have less foundation 
 either in philosophy or in fact, than that po- 
 etry and religion have too little in common, 
 for either to gain by an attempt to unite tliem. 
 They seem to us born for each other. And, 
 so important is this topic, that, although at 
 the risk of repeating what has been said else- 
 where, it may be well for a moment, to dwell 
 upon it. 
 
 The theory which endeavors to secure a 
 perpetual divorce between religion and po- 
 etry has not the authority of the great critics 
 of antiquity. Longinus maintains, in one 
 place, that " he who aims at the reputation 
 of a sublime writer must spare no labor to 
 educate his soul to grandeur, and to impreg- 
 nate it with great and generous ideas." And 
 he affirms, in another, that " the faculties of 
 the soul will grow stupid, the spirit be lost, 
 and good sense and genius lie in ruins, when
 
 HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 
 
 511 
 
 the care and study of man is engaged about 
 the mortal and worthless part of himself, 
 and he has ceased to cultivate virtue, and 
 polish up the nobler part, his soul." Quin- 
 tilian has a whole cliapter to prove that a 
 great writer must be a good man. And the 
 greatest modern critics hold the same lan- 
 guage. But, perhaps, in no passage is the 
 truth upon this subject more nobly expressed, 
 and a difficulty connected witli it more ably 
 explained, than in the following verses of a 
 poem now difficult of access : 
 
 " But, of our souls the high-born loftier part, 
 Th' ctiiereal emrgies that touch the heart; 
 Conceptions ardent, laborin^r thought intense, 
 Creative fancy's wild magiiiiicence ; 
 And all the dread sublimities of song 
 — These. Virtue, these to thee alone belong. 
 Chill'd by the breath of Vice, their radiance dies, 
 And brightest burns, when lighted at the skies ; 
 Like vestal lamps, to purest bosoms giv'n, 
 And kindled only by a ray from heav'n."* 
 
 Nor does this sentiment stand o;i tlie mere 
 autiiority of critics ; but appears to be founded 
 on just views of the constitution of our na- 
 ture. Lighter themes can be expected to 
 awaken only light and transient feelings in 
 the bosom. Tiie profouiklcr topics of relig- 
 ion sink deeper; touch all the liidden springs 
 of tliought and action ; and awaken emotions, 
 which have all the force and permanence of 
 the great principles and interests in whicli 
 tliey originate. 
 
 To us, no assertion would seem to have 
 less warrant, than that tasle suffers by its al- 
 liance with religion. The proper objects of 
 taste are beauty and sublimity; and if (as a 
 modern critic seems to us to li.ive iiicontro- 
 vertibly established) beauty and sublimity do 
 not reside in the mere forms and colors of 
 the objects we contemplate, but in liie asso- 
 ciations which they suggest to the mind, it 
 cannot be questioned that the associations 
 suggested to a man of piety, exceed botli in 
 beauty and sublimity those of every otlier 
 class. God, as a Father, is the most lovely 
 of all objects — God, as an avenger, is the 
 most terrible ; and it is to tlie religious man 
 exclusively, that tin's at once nio.st tender and 
 mo.st terrible Being is di.sclosed, in all the 
 beauty and majesty of holiness, by every ob- 
 ject wliich he contemplates — 
 
 " Prajsentiorem conspicimus Deum 
 Per invias rupes. fera per juga, 
 Clivos(]ue pra!ruptos sonantes, 
 Inter aquas, neinorumque noctem." 
 
 Or, as the same sentiment is expressed by 
 Cowper, 
 
 " His are the mountains, and the valleys his 
 And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
 
 * Grunt's (now Lord Glenelg) prize poem on "Resto- 
 'ikUun of Learning in tlie East." 
 
 With a propriety that none can feel, 
 But who, with filial confidence inspired, 
 Can lift to lieaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
 And smiling say, — ' My Father made them all !' 
 
 It is striking to what an extent the greats 
 est poets of all ages and countries have called 
 in religion, under some form or other, to their 
 assistance. How are tlie Iliad and Odyssey 
 ennobled by their mytiiological machinery; 
 by the scales of Fate, the frown of Jove, and 
 the intercession of Minerva ! How anxiously 
 does Virgil labor to give a moral and relig- 
 ious character to his Georgixjs and J^neid! 
 And how nobly do these kindred spirits, by 
 a bold fiction bordering upon truth, display 
 tlie eternal mansions of joy and of misery, 
 of reward and of punishment ; thus disclos- 
 ing, not by the light of revelation, but by the 
 blended Hashes of genius and tradition, the 
 strongest incentives to virtue, and the most 
 terrific penalties of crime. 
 
 The same may be alHrmcd of many of our 
 own most distinguished poets ; of " the sage 
 and serious Spenser," and the immortal au- 
 thor of " the Paradise Lost" him- elf Nor 
 can we hesitate to trace the deep interest 
 continually excited by the poetry of Cowper 
 in great measure, to the same source. Though 
 often careless in the structure of his verse; 
 though sometimes lame, and lengthy, and 
 prosaic in his manner; thougli frequently 
 employed about unpopulnr topics; he is per- 
 haps the most popular, with tlie exception of 
 one, of all the Englisii poets: and we be- 
 lieve that the main source of his general ac- 
 ceptance is the fiict that he never fails to in- 
 troduce tlie Creator into the scenes of his 
 own universe ; that, by the soarings of his 
 own mind, he lifts us from earth to heaven, 
 and "makes us familiar with a world unseen;" 
 that he draws largely from the mine of Scrij)- 
 ture, and thus exiiibits the majesty and love 
 of the Divine Being, in words and imagery 
 which the great object of his wonder and love 
 Himself provides. 
 
 It is wholly needless for us to refer to any 
 particular parts of the works of our author, 
 as illustrative of his deep and sanguine spirit 
 of piety. That spirit breathes through every 
 line and letter. It is, if we may so speak, 
 the animating soul of liis verses. The mind 
 of the Christian reader is refreshed, in every 
 step of his progress, by the conviction that 
 the songs thus sung on earth were taught 
 from Heaven; and that, in resigning hiin.sclf 
 to the sweetest associate for this world, he 
 is choosing the very best guide to another. 
 Indeed, few have been disposed to deny to 
 Cowper the highest of all poetical titles-— 
 tiiat of The Poet of Christianity. In this 
 field he has but one rival, the author of the 
 " Paradise Lost." And happilv the provinces 
 which they have chosen for themselves within 
 the sacred enclosure are, for the most part,
 
 512 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 so distinct, that it is scarcely necessnTy to 
 bring them into comparison. The distin- 
 guishing qualities of Milton are a surpassing 
 elevation of thought and energy of expres- 
 sion, which leave the mind scarcely able to 
 breathe under the pressure of his majesty, 
 courage, and sublimity. The main defect of 
 his poetry, as has been justly stated by an 
 anonymous critic, is " the absence of a charm 
 neither to be named nor defined, which would 
 render the whole as lovely as it is beautiful, 
 and as captivating as it is sublime." " His 
 poetry," it is added by the same critic, " will 
 be ever praised by the many, and read by the 
 few. The weakest capacity may be offended 
 by its faults, but it requires a genius equal 
 to his own to comprehend and enjoy all his 
 merits. 
 
 " Cowper rarely equals Milton in sublimity, 
 to which his subjects but seldom led; he ex- 
 cels him in easy expression, delicate pleas- 
 antry, and generous satire ; and he resembles 
 hiju in the temperate use of all his transcend- 
 ent abilities. He never crushes his subject 
 by falling upon it, nor permits jiis subject to 
 crush hmi by falling beneath it. Invested 
 with a sovereign command of diction, and en- 
 joying unlimited freedom of thought, he is 
 never prodigal of words, and he never riots 
 amidst the exuberance of his conceptions; 
 his economy displays his wealth, and his mod- 
 eration is the proof of his power; his richest 
 plirases seem the most obvious expression of 
 his ideas, and his mightiest exertions are made 
 apparently without toil. This, as we have 
 already observed, is one of the grandest char- 
 acteristics of Milton. It would be ditiicult 
 to name a third poet of our country who 
 could claim a similar distinction. Others, 
 like Cowley, overwhelm their theme with 
 their eloquence, or, like Young, sink exhaust- 
 ed beneath it, by aiming at magnificent, but 
 unattainable compression ; a third class, like 
 Pope, wii^iever tliey write well, write their 
 best, and never win but at full speed, and 
 with all their might; while a fourth, like 
 Dryden and Churchill, are confident of their 
 strength, yet so careless of their strokes, that 
 when they conquer, it seems a matter of 
 course, and when they fall, a matter of no 
 consequence, for they can rise again as soon 
 as they please. Milton and Cowper alone 
 appear always to walk within the limits of 
 their genius, yet up to the height of their 
 great argument. We are not pretending to 
 exalt them above all other British poets ; we 
 have only compared them together on one 
 point, wlierein they accord with each other, 
 and differ from the rest. But there is one 
 feature of resemblance between them of a 
 nobler kind. These good and fiiithful ser- 
 vants, who had received ten talents each, nei- 
 ther buried them in the earth, nor expended 
 Lhem for their own glory, nor lavished them 
 
 in profligacy, but occupied them for their Mas. 
 ter's service ; and we trust have botli entered 
 into his joy. Their unfading labors, (not sub- 
 ject to change, from being formed according 
 to the fashion of this world, but being of 
 equal and eternal interest to man in all ages,) 
 have disproved the idle and impious position 
 which vain pliilosopliy, hating all godliness, 
 has endeavored to establish, — that religion 
 can neither be adorned by poetry, nor poetry 
 ennobled by religion."* 
 
 Having thus noticed some of those grand 
 peculiarities in the mind of Cowper, which 
 appear to have mainly contributed to place 
 him among the highest order of poets, we 
 proceed to point out some subordinate quali- 
 fications, without which, those already re- 
 ferred to would have failed to raise him to 
 his present elevation. Even the buoyant spir- 
 it of a poet has certain inferior members by 
 which it is materially assisted in its upward 
 flight. 
 
 In the first place, then, he was one of the 
 most simple and natural of all writers. With 
 the exception of the sacred volume, it would 
 perhaps be impossible to name any composi- 
 tions with so large a proportion of simple 
 ideas and Saxon monosyllables. He began 
 to be an author when Pope, with his admira- 
 ble critic Johnson, had established a taste for 
 all that was most ornate, pompous, and com- 
 plicated in phraseology. But, with due re- 
 spect for the genius and power of this class 
 of writers, he may be said to have hewn out 
 for himself a new path to glory. It has been 
 justly said by an accomplished modern critic 
 and poet, that, "between the school of Dry- 
 den and Pope, with their few remembered 
 successors, not one of whom ranks now above 
 a fourth-rate poet; for Young, Thomson, 
 Goldsmitli, Gr;iy, and Collins, though flour- 
 isliing in the interval, were not of their school, 
 but all, in their respective ways, originals ; — 
 between the scliool of Dryden and Pope, and 
 our undisciplined, independent contempora- 
 ries, Cowper stands as having closed the age 
 of the former illustrious masters, and com- 
 menced that of the eccentric leaders of the 
 modern f;ishions in song. We cannot stop 
 to trace the affinity which he bears to either 
 of these generations, so dissimilar from each 
 other ; but it would be easy to show how lit- 
 tle he owed to his immediate forerunners, and 
 liow much his immediate followers have been 
 indebted to him. All the cant phrases, all the 
 technicalities, of the former school he utterly 
 threw away, and by his rejection of them they 
 became obsolete. He boldly adopted caden- 
 ces of verse unattempted before, which though 
 frequently uncouth, and sometimes scarcely 
 
 * Eclectic Review. Tliis criticism it has been as-ier- 
 tained is from tlie pen of Mr. James Montgomery ; and 
 the desire inseparably to connect what is so just and able 
 with the works of Cowper has been the inducement, 
 ikotwithstanding its length, to introduce it here.
 
 HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 
 
 513 
 
 reducible to rhythm, were not seldom ingeni- 
 ously significant, and signally energetic. He 
 feared not to employ colloquial, pliilosophi- 
 cal, judicial idioms, and forms of argument, 
 and illustrations, wiiich enlarged the vocabu- 
 lary of poetical terms, less by recurring to 
 obsolete ones, (which has been too prodigally 
 done since,) than by hazardous, and generally 
 happy innovations of more recent origin, which 
 have become graceful and dignified by usage, 
 though Pope and his imitators durst not have 
 touclied them. The eminent adventurous re- 
 vivers of English poetry about thirty years 
 ago, Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, 
 in their blank verse, trod directly in the steps 
 of Cowper, and, in their early productions at 
 least, were each, in a measure, what he made 
 them. Our author may be legitimately styled 
 the father of tliis triumvirate, who are, in 
 truth, the living fathers of the innumerable 
 race of moderns, whom no human ingenu- 
 ity could well classify into their respective 
 schools."* 
 
 The simplicity of Cowper as a tJiinker, ex- 
 aminer, and writer, is unquestionably one of 
 his greatest charms. He constantly reminds 
 us of a highly-gifted and intelligent cliild. 
 In all that he says and does, there is a total 
 absence of all plot and stratagem, of all pre- 
 tensions to think profoundly, or write finely; 
 though, without an efl'ort, he does both. His 
 manner is to invite you to walk abroad with 
 him amidst the glories of nature; to fix at 
 random on some point in the landscape; to 
 display its beauties or its peculiarities — to 
 touch on some feature which has, perhaps, 
 altogether escaped your own eye — to pour 
 out the simplest thoughts in the simplest 
 language — and to make you feel that never 
 man before had so sweet, so moral, so de- 
 vout, so affectionate, so gifted, so musical a 
 companion. The simplicity of his style is, 
 wc believe, considering its strength, without 
 a parallel. No author, perhaps, has done 
 more to recover the language of our country 
 from the grasp and tyranny of a foreign idiom, 
 and to teach EngHsh people to speak in Eng- 
 lish accents. In some instances, it may be 
 granted, that he is somewhat more colloquial 
 and homely than the dignity of his subject 
 warrants. But for offences of this kind lie 
 makes the amplest compensation, by leading 
 us to those "wells of undefded English," at 
 which he had drunk so deeply, and whence 
 alone the pure streams of our national com- 
 position are to be drawn. 
 
 It is next to be noticed, as to the style of 
 Cowper, tliat it is as nervous as it is clear and 
 unpretending. It is impossible to compare 
 the worJvs of Addison, and others of the sim- 
 ple class of writers, with Johnson, and those 
 of the opposite class, without feeling that 
 what they gun in simplicity they often lose 
 
 * Montgomery's Essay on Cowpcr's Poems. 
 
 in strength and power. But the language of 
 Cowper is often to the full as vigorous and 
 masculine as that of Shakspeare. Bring a 
 tyrant or a slave-driver before him for judg- 
 ment ; and the axc of the one and the scourge 
 of the other are not keener weapons than the 
 words of the poet. 
 
 It would be diflicult to find in any writer a 
 more striking example of nervous phrase- 
 ology than we have in the well-known lines : 
 
 " But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- 
 tween 
 Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks 
 Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
 Than all invective, is his bold harangue, 
 While tlirough that public organ of report 
 He hails the clergy ; and defying shame. 
 Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
 He teaches those to read, whom schools dis- 
 missed 
 And colleges, untaught ; sells accent, tone, 
 And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r 
 Th' adagio and andante it demands. 
 He grinds divinity of other days 
 Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
 To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
 Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. 
 Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware 1 
 O name it not in Gath ! — It cannot be, [aid. 
 
 That grave and learned clerks should need such 
 He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll ; 
 Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 
 Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church !" 
 
 In the next place, it will not be questioned, 
 we think, by any reader of the preceding let- 
 ters, that Cowper was a icit of the very high- 
 est order — and this quality is by no means 
 confined to his prose, but enters largely into 
 everything that he writes. No author sur- 
 prises us more frequently with rapid turns 
 and unexpected coincidences. The mock 
 sublime is one of his favorite implements; 
 and he employs it with almost unrivalled 
 success. There is also a delicacy of touch 
 in his witticisms which is more easily felt 
 than described. And his wit has this noble 
 singularity, that it is never derived from 
 wrong sources, or directed to wrong ends. 
 It never wounds a feeling heart, or deepens 
 the blush upon a modest cheek. Other wits 
 are apt to dip their vessels in any stream 
 which presents itself: Cowper draws only 
 from the purest fountains. It has been said 
 of Sterne, that he hides his pearls in a ditch, 
 and forces his readers to dive for them ; but 
 the witticisms of Cowper are as well calcu- 
 lated to instruct as to delight. 
 
 This last topic is intimately connected with 
 another, which, in touching on the excellen- 
 ces of Cowper as a poet, cannot be passed 
 over, — we mean, the astonishing/era7(7(/ of 
 his ima^innlion. It was observed to the 
 writer of tliese pages by the late Sir James 
 Mackintosh, of the friend and ornament of 
 his species, William Wilberforce, that "he
 
 614 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 was perhaps the finest of all orators of his 
 own particular order — that the wealth of his 
 imagination was such, that no idea seemed to 
 present itself to his mind without its accom- 
 panying image or ghost, which he could pro- 
 duce at his pleasure, and which it was a mat- 
 ter of self-denial if he did not produce." And 
 the latter part of this criticism might seem to 
 be made for Cowper. His mind appears 
 never to wait for an image, but to be over- 
 run by them. In argument or description — 
 in hurhng the thunders of rebuke, or whis- 
 pering the messages of mercy — he does but 
 wave his wand, and a host of spiritual es- 
 sences descend to darken or brighten the 
 scenes at liis bidding ; to supply new weap- 
 ons of rebuke, or new visions of love and 
 joy. Some of his personifications are among 
 the finest specimens in any language. What, 
 for example, has more of the genuine spirit 
 of poetry, than the personification of Famine, 
 in the following lines ? — 
 
 " He calls for Famine 
 
 and the meagre fiend 
 
 Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips 
 And taints the golden ear." 
 
 What is more lively or forcible than his 
 description of Time ? — 
 
 " Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
 Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound ; 
 But the world's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
 Theirs, should I paint him. has his pinions fledged 
 With motley plumes ; and where the peacock 
 
 shows 
 His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red 
 With spots quadrangular of diamond form, 
 Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, 
 And spades, the emblems of untimely graves. 
 What should be and what was an hour-glass 
 Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace [once. 
 Well does the work of his destructive scythe." 
 
 What, again, is superior in this way to his 
 address to Winter ? — 
 
 " O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year ! 
 Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, 
 Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other 
 snows [clouds. 
 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in 
 A lifeless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
 But urged by storms alang its slippery way." 
 
 But the examples of this species of per- 
 sonification are without number: and we are 
 not afraid to bring many of them into com- 
 pai-ison with the Discord of Homer, the Fame 
 of Virgil, or the Famine of Ovid — passages 
 of so powerful a cast as at once, and without 
 any assistance, to establish the poetical au- 
 thority of their inventors. 
 
 It may seem strange to some, that we 
 should assign a place, among the poetical 
 claims of Cowper, to his strong sense. He 
 appears to us to be one of the most just, 
 
 natural, and rational of all writers; and, 
 however poetry may seem to appropriate to 
 herself rather the remote and visionary re- 
 gions of fiction than that of dull reality, we 
 are disposed to think, that, even in her wild- 
 est wanderings, she will maintain no real and 
 permanent ascendency over the mind, if she 
 widely deviates from nature and good sense. 
 " Monstrous sights," says Seattle, and he 
 might have added, monstrous conceptions, 
 " please but for a moment, if they please at 
 all ; for they derive their charm merely from 
 the beholders' amazement. I have read in- 
 deed of a man of rank in Sicily who chooses 
 to adorn his villa with pictures and statues 
 of the most unnatural deformity. But it is 
 a singular instance ; and one would not be 
 much more surprised to hear of a man living 
 without food, or growing fat upon poison. 
 To say of anything that it is 'contrary to 
 nature,' denotes censure and disgust on the 
 part of the speaker ; as the epithet ' natural' 
 intimates an agreeable quality, and seems, 
 for the most part, to imply that a thing is as 
 it ought to be, suitable to our own taste, and 
 congenial to our own disposition. . . 
 Think how we should i-elish a painting in 
 which there was no regard to colors, propor- 
 tions, or any of the physical laws of nature ; 
 where the eyes and ears of animals were 
 placed in their shoulders; where the sky 
 was green, and the grass crimson." Such 
 distortions and anomalies would not be less 
 offensive in poetry than in the sister art. And 
 it is one of the main so;n"ces of delight in 
 Cowper, that all is in its due proportion, and 
 wears its right colors ; that the " eyes and 
 ears" are in " their proper places ;" that his 
 skies are blue, and his grass is green ; and 
 that every reflection of the poet has, what he 
 himself calls the 
 
 " Stamp and clear impression of good sense." 
 
 The very passage in the sixth book of " The 
 Task," from wiiich this line is taken, and 
 which furnishes perhaps the most perfect un- 
 inspired delineation of a true Christian, sup- 
 plies, at the same time, an admirable exam- 
 ple of the quality we mean ; and shows, that 
 even where his feelings were the most in- 
 tensely interested, his passions were under 
 the control of his reason; that, when he 
 mounted the chariot of the sun, he took care 
 not to approach too near the flaming lumi- 
 nary. 
 
 It would be impossible, in a sketch such 
 as this, not to advert to the powers of the 
 author as a satirist. And here, we think the 
 most partial critic will be scarcely disposed 
 to deny, that he sometimes handles his knife 
 a little at random and with too much sever- 
 ity. He had early in life been intimate with 
 Churchill ; and, with scarcely a touch of the 
 temper of that right English poet, had plainly
 
 HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 
 
 615 
 
 caught something of his manner. There is 
 this wide distinction between him and his 
 master — that his irony and rebuke are never 
 the weapons of party, or personabty, but of 
 truth, honor, and the pubhc good. The 
 strong, tliough homely image, applied by 
 Churchill to another critic, — 
 
 " Like a butcher, doom'd for Hfe 
 In liis mouth to wear his knife," — 
 
 is too just a picture of its author, but is infi- 
 nitely far from being that of Cowpcr. It was 
 well said of his satire, that " it was the off- 
 spring of benevolence ; and tiiat, like the Pe- 
 lian spear, it furnishes the only cure for the 
 wound it infhcts. When he is obliged to 
 blame, he pities ; when he condemns, it is 
 witli regret. His censures display no tri- 
 umphant superiority; but rather express a 
 turn of feeling such as we might suppose an- 
 gels to indulge in at tlie prospect of human 
 frailty." 
 
 But, if his satirical powers were sometimes 
 indulged to excess, it is impossible to deny 
 that he was, generally and habitually, of all 
 poets, the most sympathizing and tender. 
 Nothing in human composition can surpass 
 the tenderness of the poem on receiving his 
 mother's picture, or of those exquisite lines 
 addressed to a lady in France suffering under 
 deep calamity, of which last we shall quote a 
 few for the ornament of our page : — 
 
 " The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown : 
 No trav'ller ever reach'd that blest abode, 
 Wlio found not thorns and briers in his road. 
 The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
 Cheer'd as tliey go by many a sprightly strain. 
 Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread 
 With unshod feet they yet securely tread, 
 Adiuonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend. 
 Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
 But He, wlio knew wliat 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 liis grace desi;xn'<l 
 To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
 Calfd for a cloud to darken all tiieir years, 
 And said, ' Go, spend them in the vale of tears.' 
 O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! 
 O salutary streams that murmur there ! 
 These flowing from the fount of grace above, 
 Those breathed from lips of everlasting love." 
 
 The Hymns are almost uniformly of the 
 same character. Drawn from the deep re- 
 cesses of a broken heart, they find a ^Jiort 
 and certain way to tlie bosom of other.s. 
 
 And this leads to the notice of another pe- 
 culiarity in his writings. It is said to have 
 been a favorite maxim with Lord Byron, 
 "that every writer is interesting to others in 
 proportion as he is able and willing to seize 
 and to display to them the iiidden workings 
 of his own soul." The noble critic is him- 
 
 self a strong exemplification of the truth of 
 his own rule. Not merely his heroes and his 
 heroines, but his rocks, mountains, and rivers, 
 are a sort of/ac simile of liimself The blue 
 lake reposing among the mountains is the 
 bard in a state of repose. The thunder leap- 
 ing from rock to rock is the same mind under 
 the strong excitement of passion. But per- 
 haps of all writers Cowper is the most habit- 
 ually what may be termed an experimentalist 
 in poetry. He sought in " the man within," 
 the secret machinery by which to toucli and 
 to control the world witliout. He felt deeply ; 
 and caught the feeling as it arose, and trans- 
 ferred it, warm from the heart, to his own pji- 
 per. Hence one great attraction of his writ- 
 ings. " As face answereth to face in water, 
 so the heart of man to man." The sensations 
 of other men are to a great degree our own ; 
 and tlie poetical exhibition of these sensations 
 is tlie presenting to us a sort of illuminated 
 mirror in which we see ourselves, and are, 
 according to the view, moved to sorrow or to 
 joy. Preachers as well as poets will do well 
 to remember this law of our nature, and will 
 endeavor to analyze and to delineate their 
 owu feelings, if they mean to reach those of 
 others. Uiihapiiily, the noble author of this 
 canon in philo-sopiiy and literature had no 
 very profitable picture of this kind to display 
 to his fellow men. He speaks, however, of 
 " unmasking the hell that dwelt within." And 
 he has taught no unimportant lesson to his 
 species, if he has instructed us in the utter 
 wretchedness of those who, gifted with the 
 noblest powers, refuse to consecrate them to 
 the glorious Giver. But, however unprofita- 
 ble his own application of the rule, the rule 
 itself is valuable ; and, in the case of Cowper, 
 we have the application of it, both on the 
 largest scale and to tlie best possible purpose. 
 There is one other feature in the mind of 
 Cowper on which, before quitting the subject 
 of this examination, we must be permitted to 
 say a few words. It has been the habit with 
 many, while freely conceding to our poet most 
 of the humbler claims to reputation for which 
 we have coiiteiided, to assign him only a sec- 
 ond or third phico in the scale of poets, on 
 the ground tliat he is, according to tiieir esti- 
 mate, altogether " incapable of the true sub- 
 limed Now, it must be admitted that, if the 
 only true sublimity in writing be to write like 
 Milton, Cowper cannot be ranked in the same 
 class as a poet. Of ]Miltou it may be .said, in 
 the words of a poet as great as himself — 
 
 " He doth bestride the world 
 I>ike a Colossus : and we petty men 
 \VaIk under his huge legs." 
 
 Nothing can be more astoni.shinfj than the 
 composure and dignity with which, like his 
 own Satan, he climbs the " empyreal height" 
 — sails between worlds and worlds — and
 
 bl6 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 moves among thrones and principalities, as if 
 in his natural element. " The genius of (low- 
 per." as it has been justly said, " did not lead 
 him to emulate the songs of the seraphim :" 
 but though, in one respect, he moves in a 
 lovi^er region than his great master in what 
 may be termed the " moral sublime," he is by 
 no means inferior to him. Scarcely any po- 
 etry awakens in the mind more of those deep 
 emotions of " pity and terror," which the great 
 critic of antiquity describes as the main sour- 
 ces of the sublime ; and by which poetry is 
 said to ''purge the mind of her votaries." In 
 this view of the sublime we know of few pas- 
 sages which surpass the description of " lib- 
 erty of soul," in the conclusion of the 5th 
 book of " The Task." 
 
 " Then liberty, like day, 
 Breaks on the soul ; and, by a flash from heav'n, 
 Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 
 A voice is heard that nK.rtal ears hear not, 
 Till Thou hast touch'.! them ; 'tis the voice of 
 A loud hosanna sent from all thy works ; [song, 
 Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 
 And adds his rnpture to the gen'ral praise. 
 In that blest moment, jNriture, throwmg wide 
 Her veil opaque, discIorieB with a smile 
 The Author of her beauties ; who, retir'd 
 Behind His own creation, works unseen 
 By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. 
 Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
 Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
 Prom Thee departing they are lost, and rove 
 At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
 From Thee is all that soothes the life of man. 
 His high endeavor, and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
 But, O Thou bounteous Giver of all good. 
 Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
 Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; 
 And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away !" 
 
 In like manner the Millennium of Cowper 
 is at least not inferior to the Messiah of Pope. 
 The corresponding passage in tlie latter writ- 
 er is greatly inferior to that in which our 
 poet says, — 
 
 " No foe to man 
 
 Lurks in the serpent now — the mother sees, 
 And smiles to see, her infant's hand 
 Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, 
 To stroke his azure neck, and to receive 
 The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue." 
 
 And few passages in any poem have more of 
 the true sublime than that which follows soon 
 after the last extract : — 
 
 " One song employs all nations, and all cry 
 'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!' 
 The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
 
 Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
 From distant mountains catch the flying joy : 
 Till nation after nation taught the stram. 
 Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round." 
 
 Having offered these general observation!: 
 " on the Genius and Poetry" of Cowper, and 
 having so largely drawn from his sweet find 
 instructive pages, it is not thought necessary 
 to supply any more specific notice of his sev- 
 eral poems. It is superfluous to enter upon 
 a detailed proof that his poems in rhyme, 
 though occasionally brightened by passages 
 of extraordinary merit, are often prosaic in 
 their character, and halting and feeble in the 
 versification ; that his shorter poems, whether 
 of a gay or of a devotional cast, are, for pa- 
 tlios, wit, delicacy of conception, and felicity 
 of expression, unequalled in our language ; 
 that his Homer is an evidence, not of his in- 
 capacity as a translator, but of the impossi- 
 bility of transmuting into stiff unyielding 
 English monosyllables the rich compounds 
 of the Greek, without a sacrifice both of sound 
 and sense ; that " The Task" outruns in power, 
 variety, depth of thought, fertility of imagin- 
 ation, vigor of expression, in short, in all 
 which constitutes a poet of the highest order, 
 every hope which his earlier poems had al- 
 lowed his readers to indulge. The dawn 
 gave little or no promise of such a day. The 
 porch was in no sense commensurate to the 
 temple afterwards to be erected. On the 
 whole, his " Poems" will always be considered 
 as one of the richest legacies which genius 
 and virtue have bequeathed to mankind ; and 
 will be welcomed wherever the English lan- 
 guage is known, and English minds, tastes, 
 and habits prevail ; wherever the approbation 
 of what is good and the abhorrence of what 
 is evil are felt; wherever truth is honored, 
 and God and his creatures are loved. 
 
 With these observations we bring our im- 
 perfect criticisms on the Poems of Cowper to 
 a conclusion. The writer of them does not 
 hesitate to say that he has been amply re- 
 warded for his own critical labors, by the 
 privilege of often escaping from his own page 
 to that of his author. And the reader of 
 them will be still more largely compensated 
 if, when weary of the critic, he will turn aside 
 to breathe an ardent supplication to the Giver 
 of all that was good and great in Cowper, 
 that he himself may drink deeply of the spirit, 
 without participating in the sorrows of tlois 
 most holy, most distinguished, most suffer- 
 ing, but now most triumphant, servant of the 
 God and Saviour to whom he so nobly and 
 habitually dedicated all his powers.
 
 PREFACE TO THE POEMS 
 
 When an author, by appearing in print, re- 
 que.-its an atidience of the pubhc, and is upon 
 tlic point of spealcin^f for himself, wlioever 
 presumes to step before him with a preface, 
 and to say, " Nay, but hear me first," should 
 have something worthy of attention to offer, 
 or he will be justly deemed officious and im- 
 pertinent. The judicious re.ider has proba- 
 bly, upon other occasions, been beforehand 
 with me in this reflection ; and I am not very 
 willing- it should now be applied to me, how- 
 ever I may seem to expose myself to the dan- 
 ger of it. But the thought of having my own 
 name perpetuated in connection with the name 
 in the title-page is so pleasing and flattering 
 to the feelings of my heart, that I am content 
 to risk something for the gratification. 
 
 This Preface is not designed to commend 
 the Poems to which it is prefixed. My testi- 
 mony would be insufficient for those who are 
 not qualified to judge properly for themselves, 
 and unnecessary to those who are. Besides, 
 the reasons which render it improper and un- 
 seemly ror a man to celebrate his own per- 
 formances, or those of his nearest relatives, 
 will have some influence in suppressing much 
 of what he might otherwise wish to say in 
 favor of a friend, when that friend is indeed 
 an aller idem, and excites almost the same 
 emotions of sensibility and affection as he 
 feels for himself. 
 
 It is very probable these Poems may come 
 into the hands of some persons, in whom the 
 sight of the author's name will awaken a re- 
 collection of incidents and scenes, which 
 through length of time thcv had almost for- 
 gotten. They will be reminded of one who 
 was once the companion of their chosen hours, 
 and who set out with them in early life in the 
 paths which lead to literary honors, to influ- 
 ence and affluence, with eciual prospects of 
 success. But he was suddenly and i)0wcr- 
 fuUy withdrawn from those pursuits, and he 
 left them without regret ; yet not till he had 
 sufficient opi)ortunity of counting the cost, 
 and of knowing the value of what he gave 
 up. If happiness could have been found in 
 classical attainments, in an elegant taste, in 
 the exertions of wit, fancy, and genius, and 
 in the esteem and converse of such persons, 
 as in these I'espects were most congenial with 
 himself, he would have been happy. But he 
 
 was not — he wondered (as thousands in a 
 similar situation still do) that he should con- 
 tinue dissatisfied, with all the means appa- 
 rently conducive to satisfiiction within his 
 reach — But in due time the cause of his dis- 
 appointment was discovered to him — he had 
 lived without God in the world. In a memo- 
 rable hour, the wisdom which is from above 
 visited his heart. Then he felt himself a 
 wanderer, and then he found a guide. Upon 
 this change of views, a change of plan and 
 conduct followed of course. When he saw 
 the busy and the gay world in its true ight. he 
 left it with as little reluctance as a prisoner, 
 when called to liberty, leaves his dungeon. 
 Not that he became a Cynic or an Ascetic — 
 a heart filled with love to God will assuredly 
 breathe benevolence to men. But the turn 
 of his temper inclining him to rural life, he 
 indulged it, and, the providence of God evi- 
 dently preparing his way and marking out his 
 retreat, he retired into the country. By these 
 steps, the good hand of God, unknown to me, 
 was providing for me one of the principal 
 blessings of my life ; a friend and a counsel- 
 lor, in whose company for almost seven years, 
 though we were seldom seven successive wak- 
 ing hours separated, I always found new pleas- 
 ure — a friend who was not only a comfort to 
 myself, but a blessing to the affectionate poor 
 people among whom I then lived. 
 
 Some time after inclination had thus re- 
 moved him from the hurry and bustle of life, 
 he was still more secluded by a long indis- 
 position, and my pleasure was succeeded by 
 a proportionable degree of anxiety and con- 
 cern. But a hope, that the God whom he 
 served would support him under his affliction, 
 and at length vouchsafe him a hnppy deliver- 
 ance, never forsook me. The desirable crisis, 
 I trust, is now nearly approaching. The dawn, 
 the presage of returning day, is already ar- 
 rived. He is again enabled to resume his 
 pen, and some of the first fruits of his recov- 
 ery are here presented to the public. In his 
 principal subjects, the same acumen, which 
 distinguished him in the early period of life, 
 is happily employed in illustratmg and enforc- 
 ing the truths of which he received such deep 
 and unalterable impressions in his maturer 
 years. His satire, if it may be called so, is 
 "benevolent, (like tlie operations of the skilful
 
 518 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 and humane surgeon, wlio wounds only to 
 heal,) dictated by a just regard for the honor 
 of God, an indignant grief excited by the 
 profligacy of the age, and a tender compas- 
 sion for the souls of men. 
 
 His favorite topics are least insisted on in 
 the piece entitled Table Talk ; which there- 
 fore, with some regard to the prevailing taste, 
 and that those, who are governed by it, may 
 not be discouraged at the very threshold from 
 proceeding fjirther, is placed first. In most 
 of the large poems which follow, his leading 
 design is more explicitly avowed and pursued. 
 He aims to communicate his own perceptions 
 of the truth, beauty, and influence of the re- 
 ligion of the Bible — a religion, which, how- 
 ever discredited by the misconduct of many, 
 who have not renounced the Christian name, 
 proves itself, when rightly understood, and 
 cordially embraced, to be the grand desidera^ 
 tum, which alone can relieve the mind of man 
 from painful and unavoidable anxieties, in- 
 spire it with stable peace and solid hope, and 
 furnish those motives and prospects which, in 
 the present state of things, are absolutely ne- 
 cessary to produce a conduct worthy of a ra- 
 tional creature, distinguished by a vastness 
 of capacity which no assemblage of earthly 
 good can satisfy, and by a principle and pi-e- 
 intimation of immortality. 
 
 At a time when hypothesis and conjecture 
 m philosophy are so justly exploded, and lif> 
 tie is considered as deserving the name of 
 knowledge, which will not stand the test of 
 experiment, the very use of the term experi- 
 mental in religious concernments is by too 
 many imhappily rejected with disgust. But 
 we well know, that they, who affect to despise 
 the inward feelings which religious persons 
 speak of, and to treat them as enthusiasm and 
 folly, have inward feelings of their own, which, 
 though they wou.d, they cannot, suppresss. 
 We have been too long in the secret our- 
 
 selves, to account the proud, the ambitious, 
 or the voluptuous, happy. We must lose 
 the remembrance of what we once were, be- 
 fore we can believe that a man is satisfied 
 with himself, merely because he endeavors to 
 appear so. A smile upon the face is often 
 but a mask worn occasionally and in com- 
 pany, to prevent, if possible, a suspicion of 
 what at the same time is passing in the heart. 
 We know that there are people who seldom 
 smile when they are alone, who therefore are 
 glad to hide themselves in a throng from the 
 violence of their own reflections ; and who, 
 while by their looks and their language they 
 wish to persuade us they are happy, would 
 be glad to change their condition with a dog. 
 But in defiance of all their efforts they con- 
 tinue to think, forbode, and tremble. This we 
 know, for it has been our own state, and there- 
 fore we know how to commiserate it in 
 others. — From this state the Bible relieved 
 us — when we were led to read it with atten- 
 tion, we found ourselves described. We 
 learned the causes of our inquietude — ^we 
 were directed to a method of relief — we 
 tried, and we were not disappointed. 
 
 Deus nolis haec otia fecit. 
 
 We are now certain that the gospel of 
 Christ is the power of God unto salvation to 
 every one that believeth. It has reconciled 
 us to God, and to ourselves, to our duty and 
 our situation. It is the balm and cordial of 
 the present life, and a sovereign antidote 
 against the fear of death. • 
 
 Sed hactenus hisc. Some smaller pieces 
 upon less important subjects close the vob 
 ume. Not one of them, I believe, was writ- 
 ten with a view to publication, but I was un- 
 willing they should be omitted. 
 
 John Newton. 
 
 Charles Square, Hoxton, 
 Februai-y 18, 1782.
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 Si te forte mese gravis uret sarcina chartae, 
 
 AbjlCitO. HOR. LIB. I., KP. 
 
 13, 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. I 
 
 True and false ^lory — Kings made for man — Attributes ■ 
 of royalty in "Enijland — Quovedo's satire on Icings— | 
 Kin^s ohjt'Cts of pity — Inquiry conceruint; tlie cause of 
 Eni;lislimen''s scorn of arbitrary rule — Character of tlie 
 Eiiiflisliuian and the Frenchman — Charms of freedom 
 — i'reedoin sometimes needs the restraint of discipline 
 — Reference to the riots in London — Tribute to Lord 
 Chatham— Political state of England— The vices that 
 debase her portend her downfall — Political events the ; 
 instruraenls of Providence — The poet disclaims pro- 1 
 plietic inspiration— Tlic choice of a mean subject de- ' 
 notes a weali mind — Reference to Homer, Virgil, and ! 
 Milton — Progress of poesy — The poet laments that re- i 
 ligion is not more frequently united with poetry. 
 
 A. You tolJ me, I remember, glory, built 
 On selfish principles, is shame and guilt : 
 The deeds, that men admire as half divine, 
 Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. 
 Strange doctrine this ! that without scruple tears 
 The laurel that the very lightning spares ; 
 Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, 
 And eats into his bloody sword like rust. 
 
 B . I grant that, men continuing what they are, 
 Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war, 
 And never meant the rule should be applied 
 
 To him that lights with Justice on his side. 
 
 Let laurels drench'd in pure Parnassian dews 
 Reward his memory, dear to every muse, 
 Who, with a courage of unshaken root, 
 In honor's field advancing his firm foot. 
 Plants it upon the line that Ju.stice draws, 
 And will prevail or ))erish in her cause. 
 'Tis to the virtues of such men man owes 
 His portion in the good that Heaven bestows. 
 And when recording History displays 
 Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, 
 Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died. 
 Where duty placed them, at their country's side ; 
 The man that is not moved whh wliat he reads, 
 That takes not fire at their heroic deeds. 
 Unworthy of the blessings of the brave, 
 ^s base in kind, and l)orn to be a slave. 
 
 But let eternal infamy pursue 
 The wretch to nought but his ambition true, 
 Who, for the sake of filling with one blast 
 The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. 
 Think yourself stationed on a towering rock. 
 To see a peojjle scattered like a flock, 
 Some royal mastitT panting at their heels. 
 With all the savage thirst a tiger t'eels ; 
 Then view him selt-proclaini'd in a gazette 
 Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. 
 The globe and sci ptre in such hands misplaced, 
 Those ensiijns of dominion, liow disgraced! 
 
 The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting houT; 
 And Death's own scythe, would better speak hia 
 
 power ; 
 Then crrace the bony phantom in their stead 
 With tne king's shoulder-knot and gay cockade ; 
 Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, 
 The same their occupation and success. 
 
 A. 'Tis your belief the worldwasmade forman; 
 Kings do but reason on the self-same plan ; 
 Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, 
 Who think, or seem to think, man made for them. 
 
 B. Seldom, alas ! the power of logic reigns 
 With much sufficiency in royal brains ; 
 Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone. 
 Wanting its proper base to stand upon. 
 
 Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim 
 That tell you so — say, rather, they for him. 
 That were indeed a king-ennobling thought, 
 Could they, or would they, reason as they ought 
 The diadem, with mighty projects fined. 
 To catch renown by ruining mankind, 
 Is worth, with all its gold and glittering stcie, 
 Just what the toy will sell for, and no mcic. 
 Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good, 
 How seldom used, how little understood ! 
 To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; 
 Keep Vice restrain'd behind a double guard ; 
 To quell the faction that aflronts the throne 
 By silent magnanimity alone; 
 To nurse with tender care the thriving arts ; 
 Watch every beam Philosophy imparts ; 
 To give religion her unbridled scope, 
 Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; 
 With close fidelity and love unfeign'd 
 To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; 
 Covetous only of a virtuous praise ; 
 His hfe a lesson to the land he swaj^s ; 
 To touch the sword with conscientious awe. 
 Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw ; 
 To sheath it in the peace-restoring close 
 With joy beyond what victory bestows — 
 Blest country, where these kingly glories shine 
 Blest England, if this happiness be thine ! 
 
 A. Guard what you say : the patriotic tribe 
 Will sneer, and charge vou with a bribe. — h. 
 
 bribe'? 
 The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, 
 To lure me to the baseness of a lie ; 
 And. of all Hes, (be that one poet's boast,) 
 The lie that flatters I abhor the most. 
 Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign, 
 But he that loves him has no need to feign. 
 
 A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown ad- 
 Seems to imply a censure on the rest, [dress'd
 
 520 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, 
 Ask'd when in hell, to see the royal jail ; 
 Approved their method in all other things ; 
 But where, good sir, do you confine your kings 1 
 There — said his guide — the group is in full view. 
 Indeed ! — replied the don — there are but few. 
 His black interpreter the charge disdain'd — 
 Few, fellow^ — there are all that ever reign'd. 
 Wit, undistinguishing is apt to strike 
 The guilty and not guilty both alike : 
 I grant the sarcasm is too severe. 
 And we can readily refute it here ; 
 While Alfred's name, the father of his age, 
 And the Sixth Edward's grace the historic page. 
 
 A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all : 
 By their own conduct they must ttand or fall. 
 
 B. True. While they live, the courtly laureate 
 pays 
 
 His quitrent ode, his peppercorn of praise, 
 And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to wnte, 
 Adds as he can, his tributary mite : 
 A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, 
 A monarch's errors are forbidden game ! 
 Thus, free from censure, overawed by fear. 
 And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear. 
 The fleeting forms of majesty engage 
 Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage : 
 Then leave their crunes for history to scan. 
 And ask with busy scorn. Was this the man 1 
 
 I pity kings whom worship waits upon. 
 Obsequious from the cradle to the throne ; 
 Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows. 
 And binds a wreath about their baby brows ; 
 Whom education stiflens into state. 
 And death awakens from that dream too late. 
 Oh ! if servility with supple knees. 
 Whose trade it is to smile to crouch, to please ; 
 If smooth dissimulation, skill'd to grace 
 A devil's purp.ise with an angel's face; 
 If smiling peeresses and simpering peers. 
 Encompassing his throne a few short years ; 
 If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed, 
 That wants no driving and disdains the lead ; 
 If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks. 
 Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks. 
 Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone. 
 While condescending majesty looks on — 
 If monarchy consist in such biise things, 
 Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! 
 
 To be suspected thwarted, and withstood. 
 E'en when he labors for his country's good; 
 To see a band call'd patriot for no cause, 
 But that they catch at popular applause, 
 Careless of all the anxiety he feels. 
 Hook disappointment on the public wheels ; 
 With all their flippant fluency of tongue, 
 .Most confident when palpably most wroncr — 
 If this be kingly then farewell for me 
 All kingship and may I be poor and free ! 
 To be the Table Talk of clubs up sitairs. 
 To which the unwash'd artificer repairs. 
 To indulge his genius after long fati<fue, 
 By diving into cabinet intrigue ; 
 (For what kings deem a toil as well they may, 
 To him is relaxation and mere plav :) [vail. 
 
 To win no praise when well-wrought plans pre- 
 But to be rudely censur'd when they tail ; 
 To doubt the love his favorites may" pretend, 
 And in reality to find no friend ; 
 If he indulge a cultivated taste. 
 His galleries with the works of art well graced. 
 To hear it call'd extravagance and waste : 
 
 If these attendants, and if such as these, 
 Must follow royalty, then welcome ease; 
 However humble and confined the sphere, 
 Happy the state that has not these to fear! 
 
 A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative 
 have dwelt 
 
 On situations that they never felt. 
 
 Start up sagacious cover'd with the dust 
 
 Of dreaming study and pedantic rust, 
 
 And prate and preach about what others prove, 
 
 As if the world and they were hand and glove. 
 
 Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares ; 
 
 They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs ; 
 
 Poets, of all men, ever least regret 
 
 Increasing taxes and the nation's debt. 
 
 Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse 
 
 The mighty plan, oracular, in verse, 
 
 No bard, howe'er majestic, old or new, 
 
 Should claim my fix'd attention more than you. 
 
 B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay 
 To turn the course of Helicon that way : 
 
 Nor would the Nine consent the sacred tide 
 Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside, 
 Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse 
 The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. 
 
 A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of 
 rhyme 
 
 To themes more pertinent, if less subhme. 
 W^hen ministers and ministerial arts ; 
 Patriots, who love good places at their hearts; 
 When admirals, extoll'd for standing still, 
 Or doing nothing with a deal of skill; 
 Generals, who will not conquer when they may, 
 Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good 
 
 pay; 
 
 When Freedom, wounded almost to despair. 
 
 Though discontent alone can find out where — 
 
 When theme-; like these employ the poet's tongue, 
 
 I hear as muie as if a syren sung. 
 
 Or tell me, if you can, what power maintains 
 
 A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains % 
 
 That were a theme might animate the dead, 
 
 And move the lips of poets cast in lead. 
 
 B. The cause, though worth the search, may 
 yet elude 
 
 Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. 
 They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim, 
 Who seek jt in his cUmate and his frame. 
 Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here 
 With stern severity deals out the year. 
 Winter invades the spring, and often pours 
 A chilling flood on summer's drooping flowers ; 
 Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal beams, 
 Ungenial l>lasts attending curl the streams : 
 The peasants urge their hai-vest, ply the fork 
 With double toil, and shiver at their work; 
 Thus with a rigor, for his good design'd. 
 She rears her Avorite man of all mankind. 
 His form robust and of elastic tone, 
 Proportion'd well half muscle and half bone, 
 Supplies with warm activity and force 
 A mind well lodged, and masculine of course. 
 Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires 
 And keeps ahve his fierce but noble fires. 
 Patient of constitutional control. 
 He bears it with meek manliness of soul; 
 But. if authority grow wanton, woe 
 To him that treads upon his free-born toe ; 
 One step beyond the boundary of the laws 
 Fires him at once in Freedom's glorious cause. 
 Thus proud Prerogative, not much rever'd, 
 Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard ;
 
 TABLE TALK 
 
 521 
 
 And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, 
 Is kept to strut. look big and talk away. 
 
 Born in a climate softer tar than ours, 
 Not tbrm'd like us,, with such Herculean powers, 
 The Frencliiiian. easy debonair, and brisk, 
 Give him his lass his fiddle, and his t'risk. 
 Is always happy, reign whoever may, 
 And 1-iughs the sense of misery far away : 
 He drinks his simple beverage wita a gust; 
 And feasting on an onion and a crust, 
 We never feel the alacrity and joy 
 With which he shouts and carols. Vive le Roi ! 
 Fill'-d with as much true merriment and glee 
 As if he heard his king say — Slave, be free. 
 
 Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows. 
 Less on extirior things than most suppose. 
 Vigilant over all that he has made. 
 Kind Providence attends with gracious aid; 
 Bids equity througliout his works prevail, 
 And weighs the nations in an even scale ; 
 He can encourage slavery to a smile, 
 And fdl with discontent a British isle. 
 
 A. Freeman and slave then, if the case be such. 
 Stand on a level ; and you prove too much : 
 
 If all men indiscriminately share 
 
 His Ibstering power, and tutelary care, 
 
 As well be yoked by Dcspotisafs hand, 
 
 Asdwell atlargein Britain's charter'd land, [show, 
 
 B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to 
 That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. 
 The mind attains beneath her happy reign 
 
 The growth that Nature meant she should attain ; 
 
 The varied fields of science, ever new, 
 
 Opening and wider opening on her view. 
 
 She ventures onward with a prosperous force. 
 
 While no base fear impedes her in her course : 
 
 Religion, richest favor of the skies, 
 
 Stands most reveal'd betbre the freeman's eyes; 
 
 r?o shades of superstition blot the day, 
 
 Liberty chases all that gloom away. 
 
 The soul, emancipated, unoppress'd. 
 
 Free to prove all things and hold fast the best, 
 
 Learns much ; and to a thou.sand listening minds 
 
 Comamnicates with joy the good she finds ; 
 
 Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show 
 
 His manly Ibrehead to the fiercest foe ; 
 
 Glorious ni war. but for tine sake of peace. 
 
 His spirits rising as his toils increase, 
 
 Guards well what arts and industry have won. 
 
 And Freedom claims him Ibr her firstborn son. 
 
 Sl'ives fight for what were better cast away — 
 
 The chain that binds them and a tyrant's sway. 
 
 But they tiuit fitrht for freedom umlrrtake 
 
 Tile noi>lest cause mankind can have at stake: 
 
 Religion virtue, truth whate'cr we call 
 
 A blessing — freedom is the pledge of all. 
 
 O Li!)erty ! the prisoner's pleasing. dream, 
 
 The poet's muse his pas.^ion. and his theme; 
 
 Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse; 
 
 Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 
 
 Heroic song from thy free touch acquires 
 
 Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires. 
 
 Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air. 
 
 And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; 
 
 And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet, 
 
 In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. 
 
 .1. Sing wliere you please; in such a cause I 
 An Iwiglish poet's privilege to rant: [grant 
 
 But is not Freedom — at least is not ours 
 Too apt to play the wanton with her powers. 
 Grow freakish and, o'erleaping every mound, 
 Spread anarchy and terror all around "? 
 
 B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay vour 
 horse 
 For bounding and curveting in his course ] 
 Or if, when ridden with a careless rein, 
 He break away, and seek the distant plain 1 
 No. His high mettle, under good control [goal 
 Gives him Olympic spe'ed. and shoots him to the 
 
 Let Discipline employ her wholesome arts ; 
 Let magistrates alert perlbrm their parts, 
 Not skulk or put on a prudential mask, 
 As if their duty were a desperate task; 
 Let active laws apply the needt'ul curb. 
 To guard the peace that riot would disturb ; 
 And Liberty, preserved from wild excess. 
 Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. 
 When Tumult lately burst his prison door, 
 And set plebeian thousands in a roar ; 
 When he usurp'd authority's just place, 
 And dared to look his master in the face ; 
 When the rude rabble's watchword was— Destroy, 
 And blazing London seem'd a second Troy ; 
 Liberty blush'd and hung her drooping head. 
 Beheld their progress with the deepest dread ; 
 Blush'd that efl'ects like these she should produce, 
 Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose. 
 She loses in such storms her very name. 
 And fierce licentiousness should bear the blame. 
 
 Incomparable gem ! thy worth untold ; 
 Cheap, though blood-bought and thrown away 
 
 when sold ; 
 May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend 
 Betray thee, while professing to defend ! 
 Prize it. ye ministers ; ye monarchs, spare ; 
 Ye patriots guard it with a miser's care. 
 
 A. Patriots alas ! the few that have been found. 
 Where most they fiourish, upon English ground, 
 The country's need have scantily supplied. 
 And the last left the scene when Chatham died. 
 
 B. Not so — the virtue still adorns our age, 
 Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 
 In him Demosthenes was heard again ; 
 Liberty taught him her Athenian strain ; 
 She clothed him with authority and awe. 
 Spoke trom his lips and in his looks gave law. 
 His speech his form his action full of grace, 
 And all his country beaming in his face. 
 
 He stood, as some inimitable hand 
 
 ■Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 
 
 No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 
 
 Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
 
 And every venal stickler lor the yoke 
 
 Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 
 
 Such men are raised to station and command, 
 WHien Providence means mercy to a land. 
 He speaks and they appi^ar; to him they owe 
 Skill to direct and strength to strike the blow; 
 To manage with address to seize with power 
 Tile crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
 So Gideon earned a victory not his own; 
 Subserviency his praise, and that alone. 
 
 Poor England ! thou art a devoted deer, 
 Beset with every ill but that of fear. 
 The nations hunt ; all mark thee for a prey ; [bay: 
 They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at 
 Undaunted still though wearied and perplex'd. 
 Once Chatham Sieved thee : but who saves theo 
 Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps along [next'J 
 X\\ tiiat should be the boast of British song. 
 'Tis not the wreath that once adorn 'd thy brow. 
 The prize of happier times will serve thee now. 
 Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race, 
 Patterns of every virtue, every grace.
 
 6B2 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 Confess'd a God ; they kneel'd before they fought, 
 And praised him in the victories he wrought. 
 Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
 Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth ; 
 Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, 
 Is but the fire without the sacrifice. 
 The stream that teeds the wellspring of the heart 
 Not more invigorates Ufe's noblest part. 
 Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
 The powers that sin has brought to a decline. 
 
 A. The inestimable estimate of Brown 
 Rose Uke a paper-kite, and charm'd the town ; 
 But measures, plann'd and executed well. 
 Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell. 
 
 He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, 
 And victory refuted all he said. 
 
 B. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss ; 
 Its error, if it err'd, was merely this — 
 
 He thought the dying hour already come, 
 And a complete recovery struck him dumb. 
 But that effeminacy, folly, lust. 
 Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must ; 
 And that a nation shamefully debased 
 Will be despised and trampled on at last. 
 Unless sweet penitence her powers renew, 
 Is truth, if history itself be true. 
 There is a time, and justice marks the^ate. 
 For long forbearing clemency to wait ; 
 That hour elapsed, the incurable revolt 
 Is punish'd. and down comes the thunderbolt. 
 If Mercy then put by the threatening blow. 
 Must she perform the same kind office now 1 
 May she ! and, if offended Heaven be still 
 Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will. 
 'Tis not, however, insolence and noise, 
 The tempest of tumultuary joys. 
 Nor is it yet despondence and dismay 
 Will win her visits or engage her stay ; 
 Prayer only, and the penitential tear. 
 Can call her smiling down, and fix her here. 
 
 But when a country (one that I could name) 
 In prostitution sinks the sense of shame ; 
 When infamous venality, grown bold. 
 Writes on his bosom, to be let or sold ; 
 When perjury, that Heaven-defying vice, 
 Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price. 
 Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made. 
 To turn a penny in the way of trade ; 
 When avarice starves (and never hides his face) 
 Two or three millions of the human race. 
 And not a tongue inquires how, where, or when. 
 Though conscience will have twinges now and 
 When profanation of the sacred cause [then: 
 In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws, 
 Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fallen and lost. 
 In all that wars against that title most ; 
 What follows next let cities of great name, 
 And regions long since desolate proclaim. 
 Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome 
 Speak to the present times and times to come ; 
 They cry aloud in every careless ear. 
 Stop, while ye may ; suspend your mad career ; 
 O learn, from our example and our fate. 
 Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late ! 
 
 Not only Vice disposes and prepares 
 The mind that slumbers sweetly in her snares. 
 To stoop to tyranny's usurp'd command. 
 And bend her polish'd neck beneath his hand 
 (A dire effect, by one of Nature's laws 
 Unchangeably connected with its cause) ; 
 But Providence himself will intervene, 
 To throw his dark displeasure o'er the scene. 
 
 All are hi* instruments ; each form of war. 
 What burns at home, or threatens from afar, 
 Nature in arms, her elements at strife, 
 The storms that overset the joys of life. 
 Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land. 
 And waste it at the bidding of his hand. 
 He gives ths word, and mutiny soon roars 
 In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores ; 
 The standards of all nations are unfurl'd; 
 She has one foe, and that one foe the world. 
 And if he doom that people with a frown. 
 And mark them with a seal of wrath press'd down. 
 Obduracy takes place ; callous and tough, 
 The reprobated race grows judgment proof: 
 Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven roars 
 
 above ; 
 But nothing scares them from the course they love. 
 To the lascivious pipe and wanton song. 
 That charm down fear, they frohc it along, 
 With mad rapidity and unconcern, 
 Down to the gulf from which is no return. 
 They trust in navies, and their navies fail — ■ 
 God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail ! 
 They trust in armies, and their courage dies ; 
 In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies ; 
 But all they trust in withers, as it must, 
 When He commands in whom they place no trust. 
 Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast 
 A long despised, but now victorious host; 
 Tyranny sends the chain that must abridge 
 The noble sweep of all their privilege ; 
 Gives liberty the last, the mortal, shock ; 
 Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the Iocs. 
 
 A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, 
 Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach ] 
 
 B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire 
 The Muse imparts, and can command the lyre, 
 Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, 
 Whate'er the theme, that others never feel. 
 
 If human woes her soft attention claim, 
 
 A tender sympathy pervades the frame, 
 
 She pours a sensibility divine 
 
 Along the nerve of every feeling line. 
 
 But if a deed not tamely to be borne 
 
 Fire indignation and a sense of scorn. 
 
 The strings are svpept with such a power, so loud, 
 
 The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd. 
 
 So, when remote futurity is brought 
 
 Before the keen inquiry of her thought, 
 
 A terrible sagacity informs 
 
 The poet's heart ; he looks to distant storms ; 
 
 He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers ! 
 
 And, arm'd with strength surpassing human 
 
 powers. 
 Seizes events as yet unknown to man. 
 And darts his soul into the dawning plan. 
 Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name 
 Of prophet and of poet was the same ; 
 Hence British poets too the priesthood shared, 
 And every hallowed druid was a bard. 
 But no prophetic fires to me belong ; 
 I play with syllables and sport in song. 
 
 A. At Westminster, where Mttle poets strive 
 To set a distich upon six and five. 
 Where Discipline helps opening buds of sense 
 And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
 I was a poet too : but modern taste 
 Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste. 
 That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms. 
 Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. 
 Thus all success depending on an ear. 
 And thinking I might purchase it too dear,
 
 TABLE TALK. 
 
 523 
 
 If sentiment were sacrificed to sound, 
 And truth cut short to make a period round, 
 I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse 
 Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. 
 
 B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, 
 And some wits fiajr through fear of losing it. 
 Give me the lino that ploughs its stately course, 
 Like a proud swan, conquering the stream hy 
 
 force ; 
 That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, 
 Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. 
 When labor and when dullness, club in hand, 
 Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand, 
 Beating alternately, in measured time, 
 The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme. 
 Exact and regular the sounds will be ; 
 But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 
 
 From him who rears a poem lank and long, 
 To him who strains his all into a song; 
 Perhiips some bonny Caledonian air. 
 All birks and braes, though he was never there ; 
 Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains. 
 Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; 
 A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke — 
 An art contriv'd to advertise a joke, 
 So that the jest is clearly to be seen. 
 Not in the words — but in the gap between ; 
 Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ. 
 The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. 
 
 To dally much with subjects mean and low 
 Proves tiuit tlie mind is weak, or makes it so. 
 Neglected talents rust into decay, 
 And every eflbrt ends in pushpin play 
 The man that means success should soar above 
 A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove ; 
 Else, summoning the muse to such a theme, 
 The fruit of all her labor is whipp'd cream. 
 As if an eagle flew aloft, and then — 
 Stoop'd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. 
 As if the poet, purposing to wed. 
 Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. 
 
 Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd. 
 And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard; 
 To carry nature lengths unknown before, 
 To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. 
 Thus genius rose and set at order'd times, 
 And shot a day-spring into distant climes, 
 Ennobling every region that he chose; 
 He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 
 And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, 
 Emerged all splendor in our isle at last. 
 Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, 
 Then show far ofl" their shining plumes again. 
 
 A. Is genius only found in epic lays'? 
 Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. 
 Make (heir iieroic jjowers your own at once. 
 Or candidly confess yourself a dunce. 
 
 D. These were tiic chief; each interval of 
 night 
 VVas gracinl with many an undulating light. 
 In less illustrious bards his beauty shone 
 A meteor, or a star ; in these, the sun. 
 
 The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, 
 While the poor grasshoppir must chirp below. 
 Like him unnoticed I. and such as I, 
 Spread littlr wings and rather skip than fly; 
 Perch'd on th:; meagre produce of the land. 
 An ell or two of prospect we command ; 
 But never peep beyond the thorny bound, 
 Or oaken iVmce, that hems the paddock round. 
 
 In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart 
 Had faded, poetry was not an art; 
 
 Language, above all teaching, or if tauo-ht, 
 
 Only by gratitude and glowing thought, 
 
 Elegant as simplicity, and warm 
 
 As ecstacy, unmanacled by form. 
 
 Not prompted, as in our degenerate days, 
 
 By low ambition and the thirst of praise. 
 
 Was natural as is the flowing stream. 
 
 And yet magnificent — a God the theme ! 
 
 That theme on earth exhausted, though above 
 
 'Tis found as everlasting as his love, 
 
 Man lavish 'd all his thoughts on human things — 
 
 The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings; 
 
 But still, while virtue kindled his delight. 
 
 The song was moral and so far was right. 
 
 'Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind 
 
 To joys less innocent, as less refined ; 
 
 Then Genius danced a bacchanal ; he crown'd 
 
 The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, bound 
 
 His brows with ivy, rush'd into the field 
 
 Of wild imagination, and there reel'd, 
 
 The victim of his own lascivious fires. 
 
 And. dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred 
 
 wires : 
 Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rorde 
 This bedlam part ; and others nearer home. 
 When Cromwell fought for power, and while he 
 
 reign'd 
 The proud protector of the power he gain'd. 
 Religion, harsh, intolerant, austere. 
 Parent of manners like herself severe. 
 Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, 
 Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace ; 
 The dark and sullen humor of the time 
 Judged every effort of the muse a crime ; 
 Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast, 
 Was lumber in an age so void of taste. 
 But when the second Charles assumed the sway 
 And arts revived beneath a softer day, 
 Then, like a bow long forced into a curve. 
 The mind, released from too constrain'd a nerve 
 Flew to its first po.sition with a spring, 
 That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring. 
 His court, the dissolute and hateful school 
 Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, 
 Swann'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid 
 Willi brutal lust as ever Circe made. 
 From these a long succession, in the rage 
 Of rank obscenity, debauch'd their age : 
 Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redress 
 The abuses of her sacred charge, the press. 
 The Muse instructed a well-nurtured train 
 Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, 
 .Vnd claim the palm for purity of song. 
 That lewdness had usurp'd and worn so long. 
 Then decent pleasantry and sterling siyise. 
 That neither gave nor would endure offence, 
 Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen, 
 Th(' puppi pack that had defiled the scene. 
 In front of these came Addison. In him 
 Humor in holiday and slightly trim, 
 Suljlimity and Attic taste combined, 
 To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. 
 Then Pope, as harmony itself exact. 
 In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, 
 Gave virtue and morality a grace, 
 That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, 
 Levied a tax of wonder and applause. 
 E'en on the tools that trampled on their laws. 
 But he (his musical finesse was such, 
 So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) 
 jNIade poetry a mere mechanic art; 
 And every warbler has his tune by heart.
 
 Nature imparting her satiric gift, 
 
 Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, 
 
 With droll sobriety they raised a smile 
 
 At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while 
 
 That constellation set, the world in vain 
 
 Must hope to look, upon their like again. 
 
 A. Are we then left 1 — B. Not wholly in the 
 dark; 
 Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark, 
 Sufficient to redeem the modern race 
 From total night and absolute disgrace. 
 W'hile servile trick and imitative knack 
 Confine the million in the beaten track, 
 Perhaps some courser who disdains the road, 
 Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. 
 
 Contemporaries all surpass'd, see one; 
 Short his career indeed, but ably run; 
 Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers. 
 In penury consumed his idle hours ; 
 And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown. 
 Was left to spring by vigor of his own. 
 Lifted at length, by dignity of thought 
 And dint of genius, to an affluent lot. 
 He laid his head in luxury's soft lap, 
 And took, too often, there his easy nap. 
 If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, 
 'Twas neghgence in him not want of worth. 
 Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse. 
 Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, 
 Spendthrift alike of money and of wit. 
 Always at speed, and never drawing bit, 
 He struck the lyre in such a careless mood. 
 And so disdain'd the rules he understood, 
 The laurel seem'd to wait on his command ; 
 He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. 
 Nature, exerting an unwearied power, 
 Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower: 
 Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
 The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads ; 
 She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
 With music modulating all their notes; 
 And charms the woodland scenes and wilds un- 
 known. 
 With artless airs and concerts of her own : 
 But seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
 Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 
 Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 
 Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought; 
 Fancy, that from tlie bow that spans the sky 
 Brings colors, dipp'd in heaven, that never die ; 
 A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
 Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 
 And, as the sun, in rising beauty dress'd, 
 Looks to the westward from the dappled east, 
 And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
 Ere yet nis race begins, its glorious close; 
 An eye like his to catch the distant goal ; 
 Or ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
 Like his to shed illuminating rays 
 On every scene and subject it surveys : 
 
 Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name, 
 And the world cheerfully admits the claim. 
 Pity Religion has so seldom found 
 A skilful guide into poetic ground I [stray, 
 
 The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to 
 And every muse attend her in her way. 
 Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend. 
 And many a compliment poUtely penn'd ; 
 But, unattired in that becoming vest 
 Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd, 
 Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, 
 A wintry figure, like a wither'd thorn. 
 The shelves are full, all other themes are sped ; 
 Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread. 
 Satire has long since done his best; and curst 
 And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst ; 
 Fancy has sported all her powers away 
 In tales, in trifles, and in children's play ; 
 And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, 
 Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 
 'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, [lyre, 
 Touch'd with a coal from heaven, assume the 
 And tell the world, still kindling as he suncr, 
 With more than mortal music on his toncrue. 
 That He, who died below, and reigns above, 
 Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. 
 
 For, after all, if merely to beguile, 
 By flowing numbers and a flowery style, 
 The tedium that the lazy rich endure, 
 Which now and then sweet poetry may cure ; 
 Or, if to see the name of idol self, [shelf, 
 
 Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the 
 To float a bubble on the breath of fame. 
 Prompt his endeavor and engage his aim. 
 Debased to servile purposes of pride, 
 How are the powers of genius misapplied ! 
 The gift, whose office is the Giver's praise, 
 To trace him in his word, his works, his ways ! 
 Then spread the rich discovery, and invite 
 Mankind to share in the divine delight : 
 Distorted from its use and just design, 
 To make the pitiful possessor shine, 
 To purchase at the tool- frequented fair 
 Of vanity a wreath for self to wear. 
 Is profanation of the basest kind — 
 Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. 
 
 A. Hail, Sternhold, then ! and, Hopkins, hail! 
 — B. Amen. 
 If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen ; 
 If acrimony, slander, and abuse. 
 Give it a charge to blacken and traduce; [ease, 
 Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers, Prior's 
 With all that fancy can invent to please. 
 Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall. 
 One madrigal of theirs is worth them all. 
 
 A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe. 
 To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. 
 
 B. No matter — we could shift when they were 
 not; 
 
 And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot.
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 Si quid loquar audiendum. Hor. lib. iv. Od. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Oricjin of error — Man endowed with freedom of will — 
 Motives for action — Attractions of music — The chase — 
 Those amusements not suited to the Clergy — Case of 
 Occiduus — Force of example — Due observance of tlio 
 Sabbath — Cards and dancing — The drunkard and the 
 coxcomb — Folly and innocence — Hurtful pleasures- 
 Virtuous pleasures — EITects of the inordinate indul- 
 gence of pleasure — Dangerous tendency of many works 
 of imagination — Apostrophe to Lord Chesterfield — Our 
 earliest years the most important— Fashionable edu- 
 cation — The errand tour — Accomplishments have taken 
 the place of virtue — Qualities requisite in a critic of the 
 Bible — Power of the press— Solicitude of enthusiasm 
 to make proselytes— I'ondness of authors for their lit- 
 erary progeny — The blunderer impatient of contradic- 
 tion — Moral faults and errors of the understanding re- 
 ciprocally produce one another — The cup of pleasure 
 to be tasted with caution— Force of haljit— The wan- 
 derer from the right path directed to the Cross. 
 
 Sing, muse, (if such a theme, so dark, so long, 
 May find a muse to ifrace it with a song), 
 By what unseen and unsuspscted arts 
 The serpent Error twines round human hearts ; 
 Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery 
 
 shades. 
 That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades, 
 The poisonous, black, insinuating worm 
 Successfully conceals her loathsome form. 
 Take, if ye can ye careless and supine. 
 Counsel and caution froiu a voice like mine ! 
 Truths, that the theorist could never reach. 
 And observation taught me, I would teach. 
 
 Not all, whose eloquenc-e the fancy fills, 
 Musical as the chime of tinkhng rills, 
 Weak to perform though mighty to pretend. 
 Can trace her mazy windings to their end; 
 Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure. 
 Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure. 
 The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear. 
 Falls soporific on the listless ear; 
 Like quicksilver, the rhetoric they display 
 Shines as it runs Imt, grasp'd at slips away. 
 
 Placed tor his trial on this bustling stage, 
 From thoughtli\ss youth to ruminating age. 
 Free in his will to choose or to refuse, 
 Man may improve the crisis or abuse ; 
 Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan, 
 Say, to what bar amenable were man 1 
 With nought in charge he could betray no trust; 
 And, if he llU would fall because he must: 
 If love reward him, or if vengeance strike, 
 His recoaipense in botli unjust alike. 
 Divine authority within his hroast 
 Brings every thought word action, to the test ; 
 Warns hint or proaipts approves him or restrains, 
 As reason, or as passion takes the reins. 
 Heaven from above, and conscience from within, 
 Cries in his startled ear — Abstain from sin ! 
 
 The world around solicits his desire, 
 And kindles in his soul a treacherous fire, 
 While, all his purposes and steps to guard, 
 Peace follows virtue as its sure reward ; 
 And pleasure brings as surely in her train 
 Remorse and sorrow, and vindictive pain. 
 
 Man, thus endued with an elective voice, 
 Must be supplied with objects of his choice. 
 Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight, 
 Or present or in prospect meet his sight : 
 Those open on the spot their honeyed store ; 
 These call him loudly to pursuit of more. 
 His unexhausted mine the sordid vice 
 Avarice shows, and virtue is the price. 
 Here various motives his ambition raise — 
 Power, pomp, and splendor, and the thirst of 
 
 praise ; 
 There beauty wooes him with expanded arms; 
 E'en bacchanalian madness has its charms. 
 
 Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined 
 Might well alarm the most unguarded mind, 
 Seek to supphint his inexp,3rienced youth. 
 Or lead him devious from the path of truth ; 
 Hourly allurements on his passions press. 
 Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess 
 
 Hark ! how it floats upon the dewy air ! 
 O what a dying, dying close was there ! 
 'Tis harmony, from yon sequester'd bower. 
 Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour! 
 Long ere the charioteer of day had run 
 His morning course the enchantment was begun ; 
 And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, 
 Ere yet the pleasing toil becoiues a pain 
 
 Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent. 
 That virtue points to? Can a life thus spent 
 Lead to the bliss she promises the wise, 
 Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the 
 
 skies 1 
 Ye devotees to your adored employ, 
 Enthusiasts drunk with an unreal joy. 
 Love makes the music of the blest above, 
 Heaven's harmony is universal love ; | bined, 
 And earthly sounds though sweet and well com- 
 And lenient as soil opiates to the mind, 
 Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind. 
 Grey dawn appears; thesportsaian and his train 
 Speckle the bosom of the distant plain ; 
 'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighboring lairs; 
 Save that his scent is less acute than theirs, 
 For persevering chase, and ln-adlong leaps, 
 True beagle as the stanche.st hound lie keeps. 
 Churtred with the folly of his life's mad scene, 
 
 I He takes offence, and wonders what you mean , 
 The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays — 
 'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. 
 Again impetuous to the field he flies; 
 
 I Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies;
 
 526 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, 
 Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom. 
 
 Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place. 
 Lights of the world and stars of human race ; 
 But, if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, 
 Prodigies ominous and view'd with fear : 
 The comet'j baneful influence is a dream ; 
 Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme. 
 What then ! are appetites and lusts laid down 
 With the same ease that man puts on his gown 1 
 Will avarice and concupiscence give place, 
 Charm'd by the sounds — Your Reverence, or 
 
 your Grace 1 
 No. But his own engagement binds him fast ; 
 Or, if it does not. brands him to the last 
 W'hat atheists call him — a designing knave, 
 A mere church juggler, hypocrite and slave. 
 Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest, 
 A cassock'd huntsman and a fiddling priest ! 
 He t'rom Italian songsters takes his cue : 
 Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too. 
 He takes the field. The master of the pack 
 Cries — Well done, saint ! and claps him on the 
 Is this the path of sanctity 1 Is this [back. 
 
 To stand a waymark on the road to bliss 1 
 Himself a wanderer from the narrow way, 
 His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray 1 
 Go. cast your orders at your bishop's feet. 
 Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmouth-street ! 
 The sacred function in your hands is made — 
 Sad sacrilege — no function, but a trade ! 
 
 Occiduus is a pastor of renown, [down. 
 
 When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath 
 W'ith wire and catgut he concludes the day, 
 Quavering and semiquavering care away. 
 The full concerto swells upon your ear ; [swear 
 All elbows shake. Look in, and you would 
 The Babylonian tyrant with a nod 
 Had summon'd them to serve his golden god. 
 So well that thought the employment seems to 
 
 suit. 
 Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. 
 O fie ! 'tis evangelical and pure : 
 Observe each face, how sober and demure ! 
 Ecstacy sets her stamp on every mien ; 
 Chins fallen, and not an eyeball to be seen. 
 Still I insist, though music heretofore 
 Has charm'd me much (not e'en Occiduus more), 
 Love, joy. and peace make harmony more meet 
 For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet. 
 
 Will not the sickliest sheep of every flock 
 Resort to this example as a rock ; 
 There stand and justify the foul abuse 
 Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse ; 
 If apostolic gravity be free 
 To play the tool on Sundays, why not we? 
 If he the tinkling harp.-5ichord regards 
 As inoffensive, what offence in cards 1 
 Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay ! 
 Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. 
 
 O Italy ! — Thy sabbaths will be soon 
 Our sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon. 
 Preaching and pranks will share the motley 
 
 scene, 
 Ours parcelled out, as thine have ever been, 
 God's worship and the mountebanks between. 
 What says the prophet 1 Let that day be blest 
 With holiness and consecraled rest. 
 Pastime and business, both it should exclude, 
 And bar the door the moment they intrude ; 
 Nobly distinguished above all the six 
 By deeds in which the world must never mix. 
 
 Here him again. He calls it a dehght, 
 A day of luxury observed aright, [guest, 
 
 When the glad soul is made Heaven's weicomo 
 Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast. 
 But triflers are engaged and cannot come ; 
 Their answer to the call is — Not at home. 
 
 O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain. 
 The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again ! 
 Cards, with what rapture, and the polish'd die, 
 I The yawning chasm of indolence supply ! 
 Then to the dance, and make the sober moon 
 W^itness of joys that shun the sight of noon. 
 Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball, 
 The snug close party, or the splendid hall, 
 Where Night, down stooping from her ebon 
 
 throne. 
 Views constellations brighter than her own. 
 'Tis innocent, and harmless, and refined, 
 The balm of care, Elysium of the mind. 
 Innocent ! Oh. if venerable Time 
 Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime. 
 Then with his silver beard and magic wand, 
 Let Comus rise archbishop of the land ; 
 Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe, 
 Grand metropolitan of all the tribe. 
 
 Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast, 
 The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste. 
 Rufillus. exquisitely form'd by rule, 
 Not of the moral but the dancing school, 
 Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone 
 As tragical as others at his own. 
 He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score. 
 Then kill a constable, and drink five more ; 
 But he can draw a pattern, make a tart. 
 And has the ladies' etiquette by heart. 
 Go, fool; and, arm in ann with Clodio, plead 
 Your cause before a bar you little dread ; 
 But know, the law that bids the drunkard die 
 Is tar too just to pass the trifler by. 
 Both baby-featured, and of infant size, 
 View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes. 
 Folly and innocence are so alike. 
 The difference, though essential, fails to strike. 
 Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, 
 A simpering countenance, and a trifling air; 
 But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 
 Dehghts us, by engaging our respect. 
 Man. Nature's guest by invitation sweet. 
 Receives t'rom her both appetite and treat ; 
 But, if he play the glutton and exceed, 
 His benefactress blushes at the deed. 
 For Nature, nice, as Uberal to dispense. 
 Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. 
 Daniel ate pulse by choice — example rare ! 
 Heaven bless'd the youth, and made him fresh 
 
 and fair. 
 Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan. 
 Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan : 
 He snuffs far off the anticipated joy ; 
 Turtle and venison all his thoughts employ ; 
 Prepares for meals as jockeys take a sweat, 
 Oh, nauseous ! — an emetic tor a whet ! 
 Will Providence o'erlook the wasted wood 1 
 Temperance were no virtue if he could. 
 
 That pleasures, therctbre. or what such we call 
 Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all. 
 And some, that seem to threaten virtue less 
 Still hurtful in the abuse, or by the excess. 
 
 Is man then only tor his torment placed 
 The centre of delights he may not taste "? 
 Like fabled Tantalus, condemn'd to hear 
 The precioas stream still purlmg in his ear, 
 
 *l 
 
 I
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 621 
 
 Lip-deep in what he longs for. and yet curst 
 With prohibition and perpetual thirst 1 
 No, wraiiijler — destitute of shauie and sense, 
 The precept, that enjoins him abstinence, 
 Forbids hmi none but tiie licentious joy, 
 Whose iVuit, though tair, tempts only to destroy. 
 Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid 
 In every bosom where her nesi is made, 
 Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him rest, 
 And proves a raging scorpion in his breast. 
 No pleasure 1 Are domestic comforts dead 1 
 Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled ] 
 Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame. 
 Good sense, good health, good conscience, and 
 
 good fame 1 
 All these belong to virtue, and all prove 
 That virtue has a title to your love. 
 Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
 Stand starved at j'our inhospitable door"? 
 Or if yourself, too scantily supplied. 
 Need help, let honest industry provide. 
 Earn, if you want; if you aboiiiid, impart: 
 These both are pleasures to tlie feeling heart. 
 No pleasure 1 Has some sickly eastern waste 
 Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast 1 
 Can Hritisli Paradise no scenes aflbrd 
 To please her sated and indilTerent lord 1 
 Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run 
 Quite to the lees 1 And has religion none "? 
 Brutes capable would tell you "tis a lie. 
 And judge you from the kennel and the stye. 
 Delights like these, ye sensual and profane, 
 Ye are bid, begg'd, besought to entertain ; 
 Call'd to these crystal streams, do ye turn off 
 Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough ? 
 Envy the beast, then, on whom Heaven bestows 
 Your pleasures, with no curses at the close. 
 
 Pleasure admitted in undue degree 
 Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 
 'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice 
 Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use; 
 .\mbition, avarice, and the lust of fame, 
 And woman, lovely woman, does the same. 
 The heart surrender'd to the ruling power 
 Of some ungovern'd passion every hour, 
 Finds by degrees the truths that once bore sway, 
 And all their deep impressions wear away ; 
 So coin grows smooth, in tratlic current pass'd. 
 Till Caesar's image is eilaced at last. 
 
 The breach, though small at lirst, soon opening 
 wide. 
 In rushes folly with a full-moon tide, 
 Then welcome errors, of whatever size, 
 To justily it by a thousand lies. 
 As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, 
 And hides the ruin that it feeds upon; 
 So sophistry cleaves close to and protects 
 Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects. 
 Mortals whose pleasures are their only care, 
 First wish to be imi)osed on, and then are. 
 And lest tile fiilsomi' artifice should fail. 
 Themselves will hide its coarseness with a veil. 
 Not more industrious are the just and true 
 To give to Virtue what is Virtue's due — 
 The praise of wisdom, comeliness, and worth. 
 And call her charms to public notice forth — 
 Than Vice's mean and disingenuous race 
 To hide the shocking features of her face. 
 Her form with dress and lotion they repair: 
 Then kiss their idol, and pronounce her fair. 
 
 Tiie sacred im])lement I now employ 
 Mi^jht prove a mischief, or at best a toy; 
 
 A trifle, if it move but to amuse ; 
 But, if to wrong the judgaient and abuse. 
 Worse than a poniard in the basest hand, 
 It stabs at once the morals of a land. 
 
 Ye writers of what none with safety reads, 
 Footing it in the dance that Fancy leads ; 
 Ye novelists, who mar what ye would mend. 
 Snivelling and drivelling lolly without end ; 
 Whose correspondmg misses fill the ream 
 With sentimental frippery and dream. 
 Caught in a delicate soft silken net 
 By some lewd earl, or rake-hell baronet : 
 Ye pimps, who, under virtue's fair pretence. 
 Steal to the closet of young innocence. 
 And teach her, inexperienced yet and green. 
 To scribble as you scribbled at fifteen ; 
 Who, kindling a combustion of desire. 
 With some cold moral think to quench the fire ; 
 Though all your engineering proves in vain 
 The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again ; 
 Oh that a verse had power, and could command 
 Far, far away, these flesh-ilies of the land, 
 Who fasten without mercy on the fair. 
 And suck, and leave a craving maggot there ! 
 Howe'er disguised the inflammatory tale 
 And cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil ; 
 Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust 
 And relish of their pleasure all to lust. 
 
 But the muse, eagle-pinion'd. has in view 
 A quarry more important still than you ; 
 Down, down the wind s!ie swi;ns, and sails away 
 Now stoop- upon it, and now grasps the prey. 
 
 Petronius ! all the muses weep for thee ; 
 But every tear shall scald thy muinory : 
 The graces too, while Virtue at tlieir shrine 
 Lay bleeding under that soil hand of thine, 
 Pelt each a mortal stab in her own breast, 
 Abhorr'd the sacrifice, and cursed the priest 
 Thou polish'd and high-finish'd foe to truth, 
 Gi'aybeard corrupter of our listening youth. 
 To purge and skim away the filth of vice, 
 That so refined it might the more entice. 
 Then pour it on the morals of thy son. 
 To taint his heart was worthy of thine own ! 
 Now, while the poison all high life pervades 
 ^Vrite, if thou canst, one letter from the shades, 
 One, and one only, charged with deep regret. 
 That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet; 
 One sad epistle thence may cure mankind 
 Of the plague spread by bundles left behind. 
 
 'Tis granted and no plainer truth appears 
 Our most important are our earliest years; 
 The mind, impressible and soft, with ease 
 Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees. 
 And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue 
 That Education gives her, false or true. 
 Plants raised with tenderness are seldoai strong 
 Man's coltisii disposition asks the thong; 
 And without discipline the favorite child. 
 Like a neglected forester, runs wild. 
 But we, as if good qualities would grow 
 Spontaneous, take l)ut little pains to sow: 
 We give some Latin and a smatch of Greek; 
 Teacli him to fence and figure twice a week; 
 And having done, we tliink the best we can. 
 Praise his proficiency, and dub him man. 
 
 Frona school to Cam or Isis, and thence home 
 And thence with all convenient speed to Rome, 
 With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay. 
 To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day; 
 Witli memorandum book for every town. 
 And every post, and where the chaise broke down
 
 628 
 
 COWPER'P vVORKS, 
 
 His stock, a few French phrases got by heart, 
 With much to learn but nothing to impart; 
 The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, 
 Sets off a wanderer into tbreign lands. 
 Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair. 
 With awkward gait stretch'd neck, and silly stare. 
 Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, 
 And steeples towering high, much like our own ; 
 But show peculiar Ught by many a grin 
 At popish practices observed within. 
 
 Ere long some bowing smirking, smart abbe 
 Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way ; 
 And, being always primed with polit 'sse 
 For men of their appearance and address. 
 With much compassion undertakes the task 
 To tell them more than they have wit to ask ; 
 Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread, 
 Such as, when legible, were never read, 
 But being canker'd now and hall" worn out. 
 Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt ; 
 Some headless hero, or some Csesar shows — 
 Defective only in his Roman nose ; 
 Exhibits elevations, drawings plans, 
 Models of Herculanum pots and pans ; 
 And sells them medals which, if neither rare 
 Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care. 
 
 Strange the rec.'tal ! from whatever cause 
 His great improven_ent and new lights he draws. 
 The squire, once bashful, is shamefaced no more, 
 But teems with powers he never felt before ; 
 Whether increased momentum, and the force 
 With which from clime to clime he sped his course, 
 (As axles sometimes kindle as they go,) 
 Chafed him, and .brought dull nature to a glow ; 
 Dr whether clearer skies and softer air. 
 That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, 
 Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran. 
 Unfolded genially, and spread the man ; 
 Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace, 
 By shrugs and strange contortions of his face. 
 How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, 
 Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. 
 
 Accomplishments have taken virtvie's place, 
 And wisdom falls before exterior grace: 
 We slight the precious kernel of the stone, 
 And toil to polish its rough coat alone. 
 A just deportment manners graced with ease, 
 Elegant phrase, and figure form'd to please, 
 Are qualities that seem to comprehend 
 Whatever parents, guardians, schools, intend ; 
 Hence an unfurnish'd and a listless mind 
 Though busy, trifling ; empty, though refined ; 
 Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash 
 With indolence and luxury, is trash ; 
 While learning, once the man's exclusive pride, 
 Seems verging fast towards the female side. 
 Learning itself received into a mind 
 By nature weak, or viciously inclined, 
 Serves but to lead philosophers astray, 
 Where children would with ease discern the way. 
 And of all arts sagacious dupes invent, 
 To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent, 
 The worst is — Scripture warp'd from its intent. 
 
 The carriage bowls along, and all are pleased 
 If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greased ; 
 But if the rogue be gone a cup too far, 
 Left out his linchpin, or forgot his tar, 
 It suffers interruption and delay. 
 And meets with hindrance in the smoothest 
 
 way. 
 When some hypothesis absurd and vain 
 Has fiU'd with all its fumes a critic's brain. 
 
 The text that sorts not with his darling whim, 
 
 Though plain to others, is obscure to him. 
 
 The will made subject to a lawless force, 
 
 All is irregular, and out of course ; 
 
 And Judgment drunk, and bribed to lose his way 
 
 Winks hard and talks of darkness at noonday. 
 
 A critic on the sacred book should be 
 Candid and learn'd dispassionate and free: 
 Free from the wayward bias bigots feel, 
 From fancy's influence, and intemperate zeal ; 
 But above all, (or let the wretch refrain. 
 Nor touch the page he cannot but profane,) 
 Free from the domineering power of lust • 
 A lewd interpreter is never just. 
 
 How shall I speak tliee, or thy power address, 
 Thou god of our idolatry, the Press 1 
 By thee religion liberty and laws, 
 Exert their influence and advance their cause; 
 By thee worse plaguesthan Pharaoh's land befell 
 Diffused, make Earth the vestibule of Hell; 
 Thou fouirtain, at which drink the good and wise, 
 Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ; 
 Like Eden's dread probationary tree. 
 Knowledge of go d and evil is from thee! 
 
 No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest 
 Till half mankind were like laaiself possess'd. 
 Philosophers who darken and put out 
 Eternal truth by everlasting doubt ; 
 Church quacks, w th passions under no command. 
 VvMio fill the world with doctrines contraband, 
 Discoverers of they know not what, confined 
 Within no bounds — the blind that lead the blind ; 
 To streams of popular opinion drawn, 
 Deposit in those shallows all their spawn. 
 The wriggHng fry soon fill the creeks around, 
 Poisoning the water.s where their swarms abound. 
 Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood, [food. 
 Minnows and gudgeons gorge the unwholesome 
 The propagated myriads spread so fast, 
 E'en Leuwenhoeck himself would stand aghast, 
 Employ'd to calculate the enormous sum 
 And own his crab-coaiputing powers o'ercome. 
 Is this hyperbole 1 The world well known. 
 Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one. 
 
 Fresh confidence the speculatist takes 
 From every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes; 
 And therefore prints: himself but half deceived, 
 Till others have the soothing tale believed. 
 Hence comment after comment, spun as fine 
 As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line. 
 Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey 
 Is misapplied to sanctify their sway. 
 If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend, 
 Hebrew or Syriac shall be forced to bend ; 
 If languages and copies all cry, No — 
 Somebody proved it centuries ago. 
 Like trout pursued, the critic in despair 
 Darts to the mud, and finds his safety there : 
 Women, whom custom has forbid to fly 
 The scholar's pitch, (the scholar best knows why.) 
 With all the simple and unletter'd poor. 
 Admire his learning, and almost adore. 
 Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong, 
 With such fine words famihar to his tongue. 
 
 Ye ladies ! (for, indifferent in your cause, 
 I should deserve to forfeit all applause) 
 Whatever shocks or gives the least offence 
 To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense, 
 (Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide.) 
 Nor has, nor can have Scripture on its side. 
 
 None but an author knows an author's carefc, 
 Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bear(»-
 
 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
 
 629 
 
 Committed once into the public arms, 
 
 The baby seems to smile with added charms. 
 
 Like souiething precious ventured far from shore, 
 
 'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more. 
 
 He views it with complacency supreme, 
 
 Solicits kind attention to his dream; 
 
 And daily, more onamor'd of the cheat, 
 
 Kneels, and asks Heaven to bless the dear deceit. 
 
 So one, whose story serves at least to show 
 
 Men loved their own productions long ago, 
 
 Wooed an unfeeling statue for his wife, 
 
 Nor rested till the gods had given it life. 
 
 If .some mere driveller suck the sugar'd fib, 
 
 One that still needs his leading string and bib, 
 
 And praise his genius, he is soon repaid 
 
 In praise applied to the same part — his head; 
 
 For 'tis a rule that holds forever true, 
 
 Grant me discernment, and I grant it you. 
 
 Patient of contradiction as a child, 
 Affable, humble, dillident and mild ; 
 Such was Sir Isaac and such Boyle and Locke ; 
 Your blunderer is as sturdy as a rock. 
 The creature is so sure to kick and bite, 
 A muleteer's the man to set him right. 
 First Appetite enlists him, Truth's sworn foe, 
 Then obstinate ydl-will confirms him so. 
 Tell him he wanders ; that his error leads 
 To Intal ills; that, though the path he treads 
 Be flowery, and he see no cause of fear, 
 Death and the pains of hell attend him there : 
 In vain ; the slave of arrogance and pride. 
 He has no hearing on tlic ])rudent side. 
 His still refuted quirks he still repeats; 
 New laised objections with new quibbles meets; 
 Till, sinking m the quicksand he defends, 
 He dies disputing and the contest ends — 
 But not the mischiefs; they, still letl behind. 
 Like thistle-seeds, are sown by every wind. 
 
 Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill ; 
 Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
 And, with a clear and shining lamp supplied, 
 First put it out, then take it for a guide. 
 Halting on crutches of unequal size, 
 One leg by truth supported, one by lies. 
 They sidle to the goal with awkward pace, 
 Secure of nothing — but to lose the race. 
 
 Faults in the life breed errors in the brain, 
 And these reciprocally those again. 
 The mind and conduct mutually imprint 
 And stamp their image in each other's mint; 
 Each sire and dam of an internal race. 
 Begetting and conceiving all that's base. 
 
 None sends his arrow to the mark in view, 
 Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue. 
 
 For though, ere yet the shaft is on the wing, 
 Or when it first forsakes the elastic string, 
 It err but little from the intended line, 
 It falls at last far wide of his desitrn ; 
 So he who seeks a mansion in the sky. 
 Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye ; 
 That prize belongs to none but the sincere, 
 The least obliquity is fatal here. 
 
 With caution taste the sweet Circean cup; 
 He that sips often, at last drinks it up. 
 Habits are soon assumed ; but when we strive 
 To strip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive. 
 Call'd to the temple of impure delight. 
 He that abstains and he alone, does right. 
 If a wish wander that way, call it home ; 
 He cannot long be safe wliose wishes roam. 
 But if you pass the thieshold, you are caugt-.it; 
 Die then, if power Almighty save you not. 
 There hardening by degrees, till double steel'd. 
 Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd ; 
 Then laugh at all you trembled at betbre; 
 And. joining the freethinkers' brutal roar. 
 Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense- 
 That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense. 
 If clemency revolted by abuse 
 Be damnable, then damn'd without excuse. 
 
 Some dream that they can silence, when they 
 will. 
 The storm of passion, and say. Peace, be still: 
 But ■• Thus far and no farther," when address'd 
 To the wild wave, or wilder human breast, 
 Implies authority that never can, 
 That never ought to be the lot of man. 
 
 But. muse, forbear ; long flights forebode a fall ; 
 Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all. 
 
 Hear the just law — the judgment of the skies! 
 He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies ; 
 And he that will be cheated to the last, 
 Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast. 
 But if the wanderer his mistake discern, 
 .Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, 
 Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss 
 Forever and forever 1 No — the cross ! 
 There and there only (though the deist rave, 
 And atheist, if Earth bear so base a slave); 
 There and there only is the power to save. 
 There no delusive hope invites despair ; 
 No mockery meets j'ou, no deception there, 
 The spells and charms, that blinded you before, 
 All vanish there, and fascinate no more. 
 
 I am no preacher, let this hint suffice — 
 The cross once seen is death to every vi;e; 
 Else He that hung there suffei'd all his pain, 
 Bled, groan'd, and agonized, and died, iji v£un. 
 34
 
 TRUTH, 
 
 Pensantur trutina. Hor. lib. ii. Kp, I. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 riie pursuit of error leads to destruction — Grace leads 
 the right way — Its direction desj)ised — Tlie self-sutfl- 
 cient Pharisee compared with the peacock — The plieas- 
 aut compared witli the Christian — Heaven abtiors af- 
 fected sanctity— The hermit and liis penances— Tlie 
 seh-torturing Braui in— Pride the ruling principle of 
 both — Picture of a sanctimonious prude — Picture of a 
 saint — Freedom of a Cliristian- Importance of motives, 
 illustrated by the conduct of two servants — The trav- 
 eller overtaken by a storm likened to the sinner dread- 
 ing the vengeance of uje Almighty — Dangerous siaie 
 of those who are jusi in their own conceit — The tail 
 moments of the infidel — Cfintent of the ignorant but 
 believing cottager — The rich, the wise, and the great, 
 neglect the means of winning heaven — Poverty the best 
 soil for religion — What man really is, and what in his 
 own esteem — Unbelief often terminates in suicide — 
 Scripture the only cure of woe — Pride the passion most 
 hostile to truth — Danger of slighting the mery offered 
 by the Gospel — Plea for the virtuous heathen — Com- 
 mands given by God on Sinai — The judgment-day — 
 Plea of the believer. 
 
 Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'd, 
 His ship half founder'd, and his compass lost, 
 Sees, far as human optics may command, 
 A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land ; 
 Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies ; 
 Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! 
 Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes, 
 His well-built systems, philosophic dreams; 
 Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell ! 
 He reads his sentence at the iiames of hell. 
 
 Hard lot of man — to toil for the reward 
 Of virtue, and yet lose it ! Wherefore hard 1 — 
 He that would wm the race must guide his horse 
 Obedient to the customs of the course ; 
 Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies, 
 A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. 
 Grace leads the right way ; if you choose the 
 
 wrong, 
 Take it and perish -f but restrain your tongue ; 
 Charge not, with light suilicient and left free. 
 Your wilful suicide on God's decree. 
 
 Oh how unlike the complex works of man, 
 Heav'n's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan ! 
 No meretricious graces to beguile. 
 No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; 
 From ostentation, as from weakness, free, 
 It stands like the ceruhan arch we see, 
 Majestic in its own simplicity. 
 Inscribed above the portal from afar 
 Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, 
 Legible only by the light they give, 
 Stand the soul-quickening words — believe, j*nd 
 LIVE. [most, 
 
 Too many, shock'd at what should charm them 
 Despise the plain direction, and are lost, [dain) 
 Heaven on such terms ! (they cry with proud dis- 
 tncredible, impossible, and vedn ! — 
 
 Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey; 
 And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way 
 These are the sober, in whose cooler brains 
 Some thought of mimortality remains; 
 The rest too busy or too gay to wait 
 On the sad theme, their everlastm^ state, 
 Sport for a day, and perish in a night ; 
 The foam upon the waters not so light. 
 
 Who judged the Pharisee ! What odious causa 
 Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws 1 
 Had he seduc'd a virgin, wr(^ .if'd a friend, 
 Or stabb'd a man to serve soiiie private end 1 
 Was blasphemy his sin 1 Or did he stray 
 From the strict duties of the sacred day 7 
 Sit long and late at the carousing board 1 
 (Such were the sins with which he charged hia 
 
 Lord.) 
 No — the man's morals were exact. What then % 
 'Twas his ambition to be seen of men; 
 His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice 
 Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; 
 He wore them as fine tre ppings for a show, 
 A praying, synagogue-lrequenting beau. 
 
 The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see^- 
 Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! 
 Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold 
 His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold : 
 He treads as if some solemn music near. 
 His measured step was govern'd by his ear ; 
 And seems to say — Ye meaner fowl give place ; 
 I am all splendor, dignity, and grace ! 
 
 Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, 
 Though he, too, has a glory in his plumes. 
 He, Christian- like, retreats with modest mien 
 To the close copse or far sequester'd green. 
 And shines without desiring to be seen. 
 The plea of works, as arrogant and vdin, 
 Heaven turns from with abhorrence and dis- 
 dain; 
 Not more affronted by avowed neglect, 
 Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. 
 What is all righteousness that men devise ? 
 What — but a sordid bargain for the skies 1 
 But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, 
 As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne 
 
 His dwelUng a recess in some rude rock ; 
 Book, beads, and maple dish, his meagre stock; 
 In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress'd, 
 Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd ; 
 Adust with stripes told out for every crime, 
 And sore tormented, long before his time; 
 His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid, 
 His praise postponed, and never to be paid ; 
 See the sage hermit, by mankind admired. 
 With all that bigotry adopts inspired, 
 Wearing out hfe in his rehgious whim, 
 Till his religious whimsy wears out him.
 
 His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd, 
 You think hiin humble — God accounts him 
 
 proud. 
 High in demand, though lowly in pretence, 
 Of all his conduct this the genuine sense — 
 My penitential stripes, my streaming blood, 
 Have purcluiscil heaven, and proved my title 
 good. 
 
 Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply 
 To your weak sight her telescopic eye. 
 The bramin kindles on his own bare head 
 The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade! 
 His voluntary pains, severe and lontj. 
 Would give a barbarous air to Hriti.sli song ; 
 No grand inquisitor could worse invent, 
 Than he contrives to sutler well content. 
 
 Which is the saintlier worthy of the two 1 
 Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. 
 Your sentence and mine diller. What's a name 1 
 I say the bramm has the fairer claim. 
 If sufferings scripture nowhere recommends. 
 Devised by self, to answer sellish ends. 
 Give saintship, then all Europe must agree 
 Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. 
 The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, 
 And prejudice have left a passage clear) 
 Pride has attained a most luxuriant growth, 
 And poison'd every virtue in them both, [lean ; 
 Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows 
 Humility may clothe an English dean; 
 That grace was Cowper's— his. confess'd by all — 
 Though placed in golden Durham's second stall. 
 Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, 
 His palace, and his lacqueys, and ' My Lord," 
 More nourish pride, that condescending vice, 
 Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; 
 It thrives in misery, and abundant grows : 
 In misery fools upon themselves impose. 
 
 But why before us protestants produce 
 An Indian mystic or a French recluse 1 
 Their sin is plain ; but what have we to fear, 
 Reforui'd and well-instructed 1 You shall hear. 
 
 Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features 
 She might be young some forty years ago, [show 
 Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips. 
 Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, 
 Her eyebrows arched, her eyes both gone astray 
 To watch yon amorous couple in their play, 
 With bony and unkcrchief 'd neck defies 
 The rude inclemency of wintry skies, 
 And sails with lapp .t head and mincing airs 
 Duly at clink of bell to morning prayers. 
 To thrift and parsimony much inclined, 
 She yet allows herself tliat hoy behind ; 
 The shivering urchin, bending as he goes. 
 With slipshod heels and dewdrop at his nose, 
 His predecessor's coat advanced to wear. 
 Which future pages yet arc doom'd to share, 
 Carries her Hible tuck'd beneath his arm. 
 And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm. 
 
 She, half an angel in her own account. 
 Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount. 
 Though not a grace appears ^n strictest search, 
 But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. 
 Conscious of age, she recollects her youth, 
 And tells, not always with an eye to truth, [came, 
 Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he 
 Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ; 
 Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay. 
 And drank the little bumper every day. 
 Of temper as cnvenom'd as an asp. 
 Censorious, and her every word a wasp ; 
 
 In faithful memory she records the crimes 
 
 Or real, or fictitious, of the times; 
 
 Laughs at the reputations she has torn, 
 
 And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. 
 
 Such are the li'uits of sanctimonious pride, 
 Of malice fed while flesh is mortified : 
 Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers. 
 Where hermits and where bramins mectwith theirs, 
 Your portion is with them. — Nay, never trown, 
 But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. 
 
 Artist, attend — your brushes and your paint — 
 Produce them, take a chair — now draw a saint. 
 Oh sorrowful and sad ! the streaming tears 
 Channel her cheeks — a Niobe appears ! 
 Is this a saint 1 Throw tints and all away — 
 True piety is cheerful as the day, 
 Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan 
 For others' woes, but smiles upon her own. 
 
 What purpose has the King of saints in view 1 
 Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew 1 
 To call up plenty iVom the teeming earth, 
 Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth 1 
 Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved 
 From servile tear, or be the more enslaved 1 
 To loose the links that gall'd mankind before, 
 Or bind them taster on, and add still more 1 
 The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, 
 Or, if a chain, the golden one of love: 
 No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, 
 What fear he feels his gratitude inspires. 
 Shall he, for such deliverance freely wrought, 
 Recompense ill 1 He trembles at the thought. 
 His Master's interest and his own combined 
 Prompt every movement of his heart and mind • 
 Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince. 
 His freedom is the freedom of a prince. 
 
 Man's obligations infinite, of course 
 His lite should prove that he perceives their force ; 
 His utmost he can render is but small — 
 The piinciple and motive all in all. 
 You have two servants — Toaa, an arch, sly rogue. 
 From top to toe the Geta now in vogue. 
 Genteel in figure, easy in address, 
 3Ioves without noise, and swift as an express. 
 Reports a message with a pleasing grace. 
 Expert in all the duties of his place ; 
 Say, on what hinge does his obedience movel 
 Has he a world of gratitude and love 1 
 No, not a spark — 'tis all mere sharper's play ; 
 He likes your house, your housemaid, and your 
 Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, [pay ; 
 
 Tom quits you, with — Your most obedient, sir. 
 
 The dinner served, Charles takes his usual 
 Watches your eye, anticipates command ; [stand, 
 Sighs, if perhaps j-our appetite should fail; 
 And, if he but suspects a frown, turns pale ; 
 Consults all day your interest and your ease. 
 Richly rewarded if he can but please ; 
 And, proud to make his firm attachment known, 
 To save your life, would nobly risk his own. 
 
 Now which stands highest in your serious 
 thought 1 
 Charles, without doubt say you — and so he ought; 
 One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds. 
 Excels ten thous|Lnd mercenary deeds. 
 
 Thus Heaven approves as honest and sincere 
 The work of generous love and filial fear; 
 But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge 
 Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge. 
 
 Where dwell thesa matchless saints 1 old Curio 
 E'en at your side, sir, and be tore your eyes, [cries. 
 The favor'd few — the enthusiasts you despise.
 
 And, pleased at heart because on holy ground, 
 Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, 
 Reproach a people with his single iiill, 
 Antl cast his filthy raiment at them all. 
 Attend ! an apt similitude shall show 
 Whence springs the conduct that olTends you so. 
 See where it smokes along the sounding plain, 
 Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, 
 Peal upon peal redoubling all around, 
 Shakes it again and faster to the ground ; 
 Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, 
 Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. 
 Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed, 
 And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed; 
 Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his 
 
 case. 
 He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. 
 Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude, 
 Long liid by interposing hill or wood. 
 Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, 
 By some kind hospitable heart possess'd. 
 Offer him warmth, security, and rest; 
 Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease. 
 He hears the tempest howling in the trees ; 
 What glowing thanks his^lips and heart employ, 
 While danger past is turn'd to present joy. 
 So fares it with the sinner, when he feels 
 A growing dread of vengeance at his heels: 
 His conscience like a glassy lake before, 
 Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar; 
 Tlie law, grown clamorous, though silent long, 
 Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong — 
 Asserts the right of his offended Lord, 
 And death, or restitution is the word : 
 The last impossible, he fears the first. 
 And, having well deserved, expects the worst. 
 Then welcome refuge and a peaceful home ; 
 Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come ! 
 Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide, 
 Or bury me in ocean's angry tide ! — ■ 
 The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes 
 I dare not — And you need not, God replies ; 
 The remedy you want I freely give ; 
 The book shall teach you — read, believe and live ! 
 'Tis done — the raging storm is heard no more, 
 Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore : 
 And Justice, guardian of the dread command, 
 Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand. 
 A soul redeem'd deaiands a life of praise ; 
 Hence the complexion of his future days, 
 Hence a demeanor holy and unspeck'd, 
 And the world's hatred as its sure effect. 
 
 Some lead a life unblameable and just. 
 Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust : 
 They never sin — or if (as all offend) 
 Some trivial slips their daily walk attend, 
 The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, 
 A slight gratuity atones for all. 
 For though the pope has lost his interest here, 
 And pardons are not sold as once they were, 
 No papist more desirous to compound, 
 Than some grave sinners upon English ground. 
 That plea refuted, other quirks they seek — 
 Mercy is infinite, and man is weak; 
 The future shall obliterate th%past. 
 And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last. 
 
 Come then — a still, small whisper in your ear — 
 He has no hope who never had a fear ; 
 And he that never doubted of his state, 
 He may perhaps — perhaps he may — too late. 
 
 The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; 
 Learnuig is one, and wit, however rare. 
 
 The Frenchman, first in literary fame, [same) 
 (Mention him, if you please. Voltaire 'i — The 
 With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied, [died ; 
 Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and 
 The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew 
 Son-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; 
 An infidel in health, but what yvhen sick ? 
 Oh— then a text would touch him at the quick; 
 View him at Paris in his last career. 
 Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ; 
 Exalted on his pedestal of pride, 
 And fumed with frankincense on every side. 
 He begs their flattery with his latest breath. 
 And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death ' 
 Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, 
 Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; 
 Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay 
 Shutfling her threads about the live-long day, 
 Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night 
 Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ; 
 She, for her humble sphere by nature fit. 
 Has little understanding, and no wit, 
 Receives no praise ; but though her lot be such, 
 (Toilsome and indigent.) she renders much ; 
 Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true—" 
 A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 
 And in that charter reads with sparkhng eyes, 
 Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
 Oh, happy peasant ! Oh, unhappy bard 1 
 His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 
 He praised perhaps for ages yet to come. 
 She never heard of half a mile from home : 
 He, lo.st in errors, his vain heart prefers. 
 She, safe in the simplicity of hers. 
 
 Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound 
 In science win one inch of heavenly ground. 
 And is it not a mortifying thought 
 The poor should gain it, and the rich should not! 
 No — the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget 
 One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret ; 
 Regret would rouse them and give birth to prayer, 
 Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them 
 Not that the Former of us all in this, [there. 
 Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice ; 
 The supposition is replete with sin. 
 And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. 
 Not so— the silver trumpet's heavenly call 
 Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all : 
 Kings are invited, and would kings obey. 
 No slaves on earth more welcome were than they ; 
 But royalty, nobility, and state. 
 Are such a dead preponderating weight. 
 That endless bliss, (how strange soe'er it seem,) 
 In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 
 'Tis open, and ye cannot enter — why 1 
 Because ye will not, Conyers would reply — 
 And he says much that many may dispute 
 And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 
 Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want, 
 The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant 
 No soil like poverty for growth divine, 
 As leanest land supplies the richest wine. 
 Earth gives too liitle, giving only bread. 
 To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head : 
 To them the sounding jargon of the schools 
 Seems what it is— a cap and bells for fools : 
 The light they walk by, kindled from above. 
 Shows' them the shortest way to life and love: 
 They, strang'ers to the controversial field, 
 Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield, 
 And never check'd by what impedes the wise, 
 Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.
 
 Envy, ye great, the dull unletter'd small : 
 JTe have much cause tor envy — but not all. 
 We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sveays, 
 And one who wears a coronet and prays ; 
 Like gleanings of an olive tree, they show 
 Here and there one upon the topmost bough. 
 
 How readily, upon the Gospel plan. 
 That question has its answer — W hat is man 1 
 Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretcli ; 
 An instrument, whose cliorils upon the stretch, 
 And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, 
 Yield only discord in his Maker's ear : 
 Once the blest residence of truth divine, 
 Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine, 
 Where, in his own oracular aliode, • 
 Dwelt visibly the light-creating God; 
 But made long since, like Babylon of old, 
 A den of mischiefs never to be told : 
 And she. once mistress of the realms around. 
 Now scattered wide and nowhere to be found, 
 As soon shall rise and re-asce;id the throne. 
 By native power and energy her own, 
 As nature, at her own peculiar cost, 
 Restore to man the glories he has lost. 
 Go — bid the winter cease to chill the year, 
 Replace the wandering comet in his sphere, 
 Then boast (but wait for tliat unhoped for hour) 
 The seli-restoring arm of human power. 
 But what is man in his own proud esteem 1 
 Hear him — himself the poet and the theme: 
 A monarch clothed with majesty and awe, 
 His mind his kingdom, and his will his law; 
 Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes. 
 Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies, 
 Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod, 
 And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God! 
 
 So sings he, cliarm'd with his own mind jind 
 form, 
 The song magnificent — the theme a worm ! 
 Hiuiself so much the source of his delight, 
 His Maker has no beauty in his sight. 
 See where he sits, contemplative and fix'd, 
 Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd. 
 His passions tamed and all at his control. 
 How perfect the composure of his soul ! 
 Complacency has breathed a gentle gale 
 O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail: 
 His books well trimm'd. and in the gayest style, 
 Like regimental coxcombs, rank and file. 
 Adorn his intellects as well as shelves. 
 And teach him notions splendid as themselves: 
 The Bible only stands neglected there. 
 Though that of all most worthy of his care ; 
 And, like an infant troul)lcsome awake. 
 Is left to sleep lor peace and quiet sake. 
 
 W'hat shall the man deserve of human kind, 
 Whose happy skill and industry combined 
 Shall prove (what argument could never yet) 
 The Bible an imposture and a cheat'? 
 The praises of the libertine profess'd. 
 The worst of men. and curses of the best. 
 Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes; 
 The dying, trembling at the awful close ; 
 Where the betray'd. forsaken, and oppress'd ; 
 The thousands whom the world lorbids to rest; 
 Where should tliey find, (those comforts at an 
 
 end. 
 The Scripture yields.) or hope to find, a friond? 
 Sorrow might muse herself to madness then, 
 And. seeking exile from the sirrht of men. 
 Bury herself in solitude protbund, 
 'Jrow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. 
 
 Thus often Unbelief grown sick of life. 
 
 Flics to the tempting pool, or felon knife. 
 
 The jury meet, the coroner is short. 
 
 And lunacy the verdict of the court. 
 
 Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known. 
 
 Such lunacy is ignorance alone ; 
 
 They knew not, what some bishops may not 
 
 know. 
 That Scripture is the only cure of woe. 
 That field of promise how it flings abroad 
 Its odor o'er the Christian's thorny road ! 
 The soul, reposing on assured rehef. 
 Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, 
 Forgets her labor as she toils along, 
 Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song. 
 
 But the same word, that, like the polish'd 
 share. 
 Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care. 
 Kills too the flowery weeds, where'er they grow. 
 That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. 
 Oh that unwelcome voice of heavenly love. 
 Sad messenger of mercy frbm above ! 
 How does it grate upon his thankless ear. 
 Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear 1 
 His will and judgment at continual strife. 
 That civil war embitters all his life; 
 In vain he points his powers against the skies. 
 In vain he closes or averts his eyes. 
 Truth will intrude — she bids him yet beware ; 
 And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair. 
 Though various foes ai^ainst the Truth combine, 
 Pride above all opposes her design ; 
 Pride, of a growth superior to the rest. 
 The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest. 
 Swells at the thought, and. kindling into rage. 
 Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. 
 
 And is the soul indeed so lost 1 — she cries. 
 Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise 1 
 Torpid and tiull, beneath a frozen zone. 
 Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own 1 
 Grant her indebted to what zealots call 
 Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all ! 
 Some beams of rectitude she yet displays, 
 Some love of virtue, and some power to praise ; 
 Can lifl herself above corporeal things. 
 And, soaring on her own unborrow'd wings, 
 Possess herself of all that's good or true. 
 Assert the skies* and vin<licate her due. 
 Past indiscretion is a venial crime ; 
 And if the youth, unmellowed yet by time, 
 Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude;. 
 Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude, 
 Maturer years shall happier stores produce, 
 And meliorate the well-concocted juice. 
 Then conscious of her meritorious zeal. 
 To .Justice she may make her bold appeal; 
 And leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind. 
 The worthless and unfruitful ol" mankind. 
 Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied, 
 Retorts the affront against the crown of pride. 
 
 Perish the virtue, as it ought, al>horr'd, 
 And the fool with it, who insults his Lord. 
 The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought 
 Is not for you — the righteous need it not. 
 Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets. 
 The worn-out nuisance of the public streets. 
 Herself from morn to night, from night to mom, 
 Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn 1 
 The gracious shower, unlimited and free. 
 Shall fall on her, when Heaven denies it thee. 
 Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drill — 
 That man is dead in sin, and Uf'e a gilV
 
 064 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Is virtue, then, unless of Christian growth, 
 Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both ■? 
 Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe, 
 For ignorance of what they could not know 1 — 
 That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue, 
 Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong! 
 Truly, not I — the partial light men have. 
 My creed persuades me, well employ'd, may save ; 
 While he that scorns the noon-day beam, per- 
 verse. 
 Shall find the blessing, unimproved, a curse. 
 Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind 
 Left sensuality and dross behind, 
 Possess, for me, their undisputed lot, 
 And take, unenvied, the reward they sought. 
 But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea. 
 Not blind by choice, but destined not to see. 
 Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame 
 Celestial, though they knew not whence it came, 
 Derived from the same source of light and grace, 
 That guides the Christian in his swifter race ; 
 Their judge was conscience, and her rule their 
 
 law: 
 That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe. 
 Led them however faltering, faint and slow. 
 From what they knew to what they wish'd to 
 
 know. 
 But let not him that shares a brighter day 
 Traduce the splendor of a noontide ray, 
 Prefer the twilight of a darker time. 
 And deem his base stupidity no crime ; 
 The wretch, who slights the bounty of the skies. 
 And sinks, while favor'd with the means to, rise. 
 Shall find them rated at their full amount. 
 The good he scorn'd all carried to account. 
 
 Marshalling all his terrors as he came, 
 Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame, 
 Prom Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law — 
 Life for obedience — death for every flaw. 
 
 When the great Sovereign would his will eipresa 
 He gives a perfect rule, what can he less"? 
 And guards it with a sanction as severe 
 As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear : 
 Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim, 
 And man might safely trifle with his name. 
 He bids them glov/ with unremitting love 
 To all on earth, and to himself above ; [tongue. 
 Condemns the injurious deed, the slanderous 
 The thought that meditates a brother's wrong; 
 Brings not alone the more conspicuous part, 
 His conduct, to the test, hut tries his heart. 
 
 Hark ! universal nature shook and groan'd, 
 'Twas the last trumpet — see the Judge enthron'd : 
 Rouse all your courage at your utmost need. 
 Now summon every virtue, stand and plead. 
 What ! silent 1 Is your boastmg heard no more 1 
 That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before, 
 Had shed immortal glories on your brow, 
 That all your virtues cannot purchase now. 
 All joy to the believer 1 He can speak — 
 [ Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek, [foot 
 j Since the dear hour that brought me to thy 
 I And cut up all my follies by the root, 
 I never trusted in an arm but thine, 
 I Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine : 
 My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, 
 Were but the feeble elTorts of a child ! 
 j Howe'er performed, it was their brightest part, 
 j That they proceeded from a grateful heart: 
 1 Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, 
 Forgive their evil and accept their good : 
 I cast them at thy feet — my only plea 
 ■ Is what it was, dependence upon thee : 
 I While struggling in the vale of tears below, 
 That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now. 
 
 Angelic gratulations rend the skies, 
 Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise, 
 Humihty iscrown'd, and Faith receives the prize. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 Tantane, tarn patiens, nuUo certamine tolli 
 Dona sines '? Viro. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Expostulation with the Muse weeping for England — Her 
 apparently prosperous condition— State of Israel when 
 the prophet wept over it — The Babylonian Captivity — 
 When nations decline, the evil comraences in the 
 Church — State of the Jews in the time of oiu- Saviour — 
 Evidences of their having been the most favored of na- 
 tions — Causes of their downfall — Lesson taught by it — 
 Warning to Britain— The hand of Providence to be 
 traced in adverse events — England's trangressions — 
 Her vain-glory — I^er conduct towards India — Abuse of 
 the sacrament — Obduracy against repentance — Futility 
 of fasts— Character of the Clei-gy— The poet adverts 
 to the state of the ancient Britons — Beneficial intluenoe 
 of the Roman power — England under papal suprem- 
 acy — Favors since bestowed on her by Providence — 
 Reasons for gratitude to Ood and for seeking to se- 
 cure his favor — With that she may lefy a world in 
 arms— The poet anticipates little elfect Irom his warning. 
 
 Why weejis the muse for England 1 What appears 
 In England's case to move the muse to tears 1 
 
 From side to side of her delightful isle 
 Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile "? 
 Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer 
 A new-found luxury, not seen in her 1 
 Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued, 
 Or where does cold reflection less intrude 1 
 Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn, 
 Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn ; 
 Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies 
 The fervor and the Ibrce of Indian skies : 
 Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce wait* 
 To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; 
 Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice 
 Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice, 
 Forbid in v.ain to push his daring way 
 To darker climes, or chmes of brighter day ; 
 Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll, 
 From the W'orlds girdle to the frozen pole j
 
 E T.- - " ^ -^ rj 1 «i T Q ® K » 
 
 "n
 
 \
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 535 
 
 The chariots bounding in her wheel- worn streets, 
 Her vaults below, where every vintage meets ; 
 Her theatres, her revels, and her sports ; 
 The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, 
 But age, in spite of weakness and ot" pain. 
 Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again ; 
 All speak her happy; let the muse look round 
 From East to West, no sorrow can be found; 
 Or only what, in cottages confined. 
 Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. 
 Then wherefore weep for England 1 What ap- 
 pears 
 In England's case to move the muse to tears 1 
 
 The prophet wept for Israel; wisli'd his eyes 
 W^ere fountains fed with infinite supplies ; 
 For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong; 
 There were the scorner's and the slanderer's 
 
 tongue ; 
 Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, 
 As interest biass'd knaves, or fasliion fools ; 
 Adultery, neighing at his neighbor's door; 
 Oppression laboring hard to grind the poor; 
 The partial balance and deceitl'ul weight ; 
 The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate ; 
 Hypocrisy, formality in prayer, 
 And the dull service of the lip were there. 
 Her women, insolent and sell-caress'd, 
 By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd, 
 Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart 
 To modest checks, and borrow'd one from art; 
 Were just such trifles, without worth or use. 
 As silly pride and idleness produce ; 
 Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounced around. 
 With feet too delicate to touch the ground, [eye. 
 They stretcli'd the neck, and roU'd the wanton 
 And sigh'd for every fool that flutter'd by. 
 
 He saw his people slaves to every lust, 
 Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust; 
 He heard the wheels of an avenging God 
 Groan heavily along the distant road ; 
 Saw Babylon set wide her two-leaved brass 
 To let the military deluge pass ; 
 Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd, 
 Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd ; 
 Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry, 
 Stamp'dwith his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; 
 But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in 
 
 vain. 
 Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain, 
 And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit 
 Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute : 
 They scorn 'd his inspiration and his theme, 
 Pronounc'd him frantic, and his fears a dream; 
 With self-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours. 
 Till the foe found them, and down fell the 
 towers. 
 
 Long time Assyria bound them in her chain, 
 Till penitence had purged th(; public stain, 
 And Cyrus with ri-lenting pity moved, 
 Return'd them happy to the land they loved; 
 There, proof against ])ros[ierity. awhde 
 They stood the test of her ensnaring smile. 
 And had the grace in scenes of peace to show 
 The virtue they had Icarn'd in scenes of woe. 
 But man is frail, and can but ill sustain 
 A long imnuinity from grief and pain ; 
 And, after all the joys that Plenty leads, 
 With tiptoe step Vice silently succeeds [rod. 
 
 When he that ruled them with a shepherd's 
 In tbrm a man. in dignity a God, 
 Came, not expected in that humble guise, 
 To sill anil search them with unerring eyes, 
 
 He found, conceal'd beneath a fair outside, 
 The filth of rottenness and worm of pride; 
 Their piety a system of deceit, 
 Scripture employ'd to sanctify the cheat ; 
 The Pharisee the dupe of his own art. 
 Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart. 
 
 When nations are to perish in their sins, 
 'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
 The priest, whose office is, with zeal sincere, 
 To watch the Ibuntain, and preserve it clear. 
 Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink, 
 While others poison what the flock must drink ; 
 Or, waking at the call of lust alone. 
 Infuses lies and errors of his own : 
 His unsuspecting sheep beheve it pure ; 
 And, tainted by the very means of cure, 
 Catch from each other a contagious spot, 
 The foul forerunner of a general rot. 
 Then truth is hush'd. that Heresy may preach ; 
 And all is trash that reason cannot reach ; 
 Then God's own image on the soul impress'd 
 Becomes a mockery, and a standing jest ; 
 And faith, the root whence only can arise 
 The graces of a lite that wins the skies. 
 Loses at once all value and esteem. 
 Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream ; 
 Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth. 
 Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth ; 
 While truths, on which eternal things depend, 
 Find not, or hardly find, a single friend : 
 As soldiers watch the signal of command, 
 They learn to how, to kneel, to sit, to stand ; 
 Happy to fill religion's vacant place ; 
 With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace. 
 
 Such, when the Teacher of his church wai 
 there. 
 People and priest, the sons of Israel were ; 
 Stiff' in the letter, lax in the design 
 And import of their oracles divine ; 
 Their learning legendary, false, absurd. 
 And yet exalted above God's own word ; 
 They drew a curse trom an intended good, 
 PuiT'd up with girts they never understood. 
 He judg'd them with as terrible a frown. 
 As if not love, but wrath, had brought him down 
 Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs. 
 Had grace for others' sins, but none for theirs ; 
 Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran — 
 Rhetoric is artifice, the work of man ; 
 And tricks and turns that fancy may devise, 
 Are far too mean tor Him that rules the skies. 
 The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore 
 The mask from faces never seen before ; 
 He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, 
 Show'd that they follow'd all they seem'd to 
 
 shun ; 
 Their prayers made public, their excesses kept 
 As private as the chambers where they slept ; 
 The temple and its holy rites profaned 
 By mummeries He that dwelt in it disdain'd ; 
 Uplifted hands, that at convenient times 
 Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, 
 W^asii'd with a neatness scrupulously nice, 
 And free from every taint but that of vice. 
 Judgment, however tardy, mends her pace 
 When obstinacy once has conquered grace. 
 They saw distemper heal'd. and life restor'd. 
 In answer to the fiat of his word-, 
 Confessed tlie wonder, and with daring tongue 
 Blasphemed the authority from which it sprung. 
 They knew, by sure prognostics seen on high, 
 The future tone and temper of the sky ;
 
 636 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 But, grave dissemblers ! could not understand 
 That sin let loose speaks punishment at hand. 
 
 Ask now of history's authentic page, 
 And call up evidence from every age ; 
 Display with busy and laborious hand 
 The blessings of the most indebted land ; 
 What nation will you find whose annals prove 
 So rich an interest in Almighty love '? 
 Where dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient 
 
 day 
 A people planted, water'd blest as thejl 
 Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaim 
 The favors pour d upon the Jewish name ; 
 Their freedom purchased for them at the cost 
 Of all their hard oppressors valued most : 
 Their title to a country not their own 
 Made sure by prodigies till then unknown ; 
 For them the states they left made waste and void ; 
 For them the states to which they went destroy'd ; 
 A cloud to measure out tiieir march by day, 
 By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way ;• 
 That moving signal summoning, when best. 
 Their host to move, and, when it stay'd, to rest. 
 For them the rocks dissolved into a flood. 
 The dews condensed into angelic food. 
 Their very garments sacred old yet new, 
 And Time forbid to touch them as he flew ; 
 Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to stand 
 While they pass'd through to their appointed 
 
 land ; 
 Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love. 
 And graced with clear credentials trom above; 
 Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing ; 
 Their God their captain,* lawgiver, and king ; 
 Crown 'd with a thousand victories, and at last 
 Lords of the conquer'd soil there rooted fast, 
 ,Tn peace possessing what they won by war, 
 rheir name far publish'd, and revered as far ; 
 Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'd 
 With all that man e'er wish'd. or Heaven be- 
 
 stowd 1 
 They and they only, amongst all mankind, 
 Received the transcript of the Eternal Mind : 
 Were trusted with his own engraven laws. 
 And constituted guardians of his cause ; 
 Theirs were the prophets theirs the priestly call, 
 And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all. 
 In vain the nations that had seen them rise 
 With fierce and envious, yet admiring eyes. 
 Had sought to crush them guarded as they were 
 By power divine and skill that could not err. 
 Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure, 
 And kept the faith immaculate and pure, 
 Then the proud eagles of all-conquering Rome 
 Had found one city not to be o'ercome ; 
 And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'd 
 Had bid defiance to the warring world. 
 But grace abused brings forth the foulest deeds. 
 As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. 
 Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, 
 They set up self that idol god within ; 
 View'd a Deliverer with disdain and hate, 
 Who left them still a tributary state ; 
 Seized fast his hand held out to set them free 
 From a worse yoke, and nail'd it to the tree : 
 There was the consummation and the crown, 
 .The flower of Israel's infamy full blown ; 
 Thence date their sad declension, and their fall, 
 Their woes, not yet repeald thence date them 
 Thus fell the best instructed in her day, [all. 
 And the most favord land, look where we may. 
 * Vide Josh. V. 14. 
 
 Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes [skies; 
 
 Had pour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman 
 In other climes perhaps creative art, 
 With power surpassing theirs perform'd her part ; 
 Might give more life to marble, or might fill 
 The glowing tablets with a juster skill, 
 Might shine in table, and grace idle themes 
 With all the embroidery of poetic dreams; 
 'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan 
 That truth and mercy had reveal'd to man ; 
 And, while the world beside that plan unknown 
 Deified useless wood or senseless stone. 
 They breathed in faith their well-directed prayers, 
 And the true God, the God of truth was theirs. 
 
 Their glory faded, and their race dispersed, 
 The last of nations now, though once the first. 
 They warn and teach the proudest, would they 
 
 learn — 
 Keep wisdoai, or meet vengeance in your turn : 
 If we escaped not, if Heaven spared not us, 
 Peel'd, scatter'd and exterminated thus ; 
 If vice received her retribution due. 
 When we were visited, what hope for you 1 
 When God arises with an awful frown, 
 To punish lust, or pluck presumption down ; 
 When gifts perverted or not duly prized, 
 Pleasure o'ervalued, and his grace despised, 
 Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand, 
 To pour down wrath upon a thankless land • 
 He will be found impartially severe. 
 Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear. 
 
 Oh Israel, of all nations most undone ! 
 Thy diadem displaced, thy sceptre gone ; 
 Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased, 
 And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst; 
 Thy services, once holy without spot, 
 Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot 
 Thy Levites, once a consecrated host, 
 No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, 
 And thou thyself o'er every country sown. 
 With none on earth that thou canst call thine 
 Cry aloud thou that sittest in the dust, [own; 
 Cry to the proud, the cruel and unjust; 
 Knock at the gates of nations rouse their fears ; 
 Say wrath is coming and the storm appears; 
 But raise the shrillest cry in British ears. 
 
 What ails thee, restless as the waves that roai, 
 And fling their foam against thy chalky shore 1 
 Mistress, at least while Providence shall please, 
 And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas — 
 Why, having kept good faith, and often shown 
 Friendship and truth to others find'st thou none ; 
 Thou that hast set the persecuted free, 
 None interposes now to succor thee. 
 Countries indebted to thy power, that shine 
 With light derived from thee, would smother thine 
 Thy very children watch tor thy disgrace, 
 A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. 
 Thy rulers load thy credit year by year, 
 With sums Peruvian mines could never clear ; 
 As if like arches built with skilful hand 
 The more 'twere press'd. the firmer it would stand. 
 
 The cry in all thy ships is still the same. 
 Speed us away to battle and to fame. 
 Thy mariners "explore the wild expanse, 
 Impatient to descry the flags of France : 
 But though they fight, as thine have evei fought, 
 Return ashamed without the wieaths they sought 
 Thy senate is a scene of civil jar. 
 Chaos of contrarieties at war ; 
 Where sharp and solid, phlegmatic and light, 
 Discordant atoms meet, tcrment and fight ;
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 537 
 
 Where obstinacy takes his sturdy stand, 
 To disconcert wiiat policy has plann'd; 
 • Where policy is busied all night long 
 In setting right what faction has set wrong ; 
 Where Hails of oratory thresh the floor. [more. 
 That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing 
 Thy rack'd inhabitants rci)ine. complain. 
 Tax'd till the brow ol' labor sweats m vain ; 
 War lays a burden on the reeling state. 
 And peace does nothing to relieve the weiglit ; 
 Successive loads succeeding broils impose, 
 And sighing millions prophesy the clo.se. 
 
 Is adverse Providence, wiien ponder'd well, 
 So dimly writ or dilli.-ult to sp-11. 
 Thou canst not read with readiness and ease 
 Providence adverse in events like these I 
 Know then that heavenly wisdom on,this ball 
 Creates, gives birth to. guides consummates all ; 
 That, while laborious and quick-thoughted man 
 Snuffs up the praise of what he seems to plan, 
 He first conceives, then perfect.s his design. 
 As a mere instrument in hands divine : 
 UVmd to the working of that secret power. 
 That balances the wings of every hour. 
 The busy trifler dreams himself alone, 
 Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. 
 States thrive or wither, as moons wax and wane, 
 E'en as his will and his decrees ordain ; 
 While honor, virtue, piety bear sway. 
 They flourish; and. as these decline, decay: 
 In just resentment of his injured laws, 
 lie pours contempt on them and on their cause ; 
 Strikes the rough thread of error right atliwart 
 The ^^eb of every scheme they have at heart; 
 Bids rottenness invade and bring to dust 
 The pillars of support in which they trust, 
 And do his errand of disgrace and shame 
 On the chief strength and glory of the frame. 
 None ever yet impeded what he wrought. 
 None bars him out froai his most secret thought ; 
 Darkness itself before his eye is light, 
 And hells close mischief naked in his sight. 
 Stand now and judge thyself— Hast thou in- 
 curred 
 His anger who can waste thee with a word, 
 W'ho poises antl proportions sea and land. 
 Weighing them in the hollow of his hand, 
 And in whose awful sight all nations seem 
 As <rrasshoppers, as dust, a drop a dream 1 
 Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors) 
 Claiai'd all the glory of t!iy prosperous wars 1 
 Proud of thy fleets and armies stolen the gem 
 Of his just praise to lavish it on them? 
 Hast tiiou not learn'd what thou art often told, 
 A truth still sacred, and believed of old. 
 That no success attends on spears and swords 
 Unblest. and that the battle is the Lord's 1 
 That courage is iiis creature ; and dismay 
 The post, that at his bidding speeds away. 
 Ghastly in feature, and his stammering tongue 
 Witli doleful rumor and sad presage hung. 
 To quell tlie valor of the stoutest heart. 
 And leach the combatant a woman's part ? 
 Thai he bids thousands fly when none pursue. 
 Save:- p.s he will by many or by few. 
 And claims forever, as his royal right. 
 The event and sure decision of the light 1 
 
 Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's 
 breast, 
 ExDorted slavery to the conquered Eastl 
 Pull'd down the" tyrants India served with dread, 
 4,nJ raLsed thyserf, a greater, in their stead 1 
 
 Gone thither, arm'd and hungry, return'd full, 
 
 Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, 
 
 A despot big with power, obtain'd by wealth, 
 
 And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth 1 
 
 With Asiatic vices stored thy mind, 
 
 But left tlieir virtues and thine own behind '? [fee, 
 
 And. having truck'd thy soul, brought home the 
 
 To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee 1 
 
 Hast thou by statute shoved from its design. 
 The Saviour's least, his own blest bread and wine, 
 And made the symbols of atoning grace 
 An office-key, a picklock to a place. 
 That infidels may prove their title good 
 By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood 1 
 A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
 Of all that grave apologists may write ; 
 And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain, 
 He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 
 And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
 Till perjuries are common as bad pence, 
 While thousands, careless of the damning sin, 
 Kiss the hook's outside, who ne'er look within 1 
 
 Hast thou, when Heaven has clothed thee with 
 disgrace. 
 And, long-provoked, repaid thee to thy face, 
 (For thou luist known eclipses, and endured 
 Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscured, 
 When sin has shed dishonor on thy brow ; 
 And never of a sabler hue than now,) [sear'd, 
 Hast thou, with heart perverse and conscience 
 Despising all rebuke, still persevered, 
 And having chosen evil, scorn'd the voice 
 That cried, llepent ! — and gloried in thy choice *? 
 Thy tastings, when calamity at last 
 Suggests tlie expedient of a yearly fast, [power 
 Wliat mean they ] Canst thou dream there is a 
 In lighter diet at a later hour, 
 To charm to sleep the threatening of the skies, 
 And hide past lolly from all-seeing eyes 1 
 The fast that wins deliverance, and suspends 
 The stroke^ that a vindictive God intends, 
 Is to renounce hypocrisy ; to draw 
 Thy hfc upon the pattern of the law; 
 To war with pleasure, idolized before ; 
 To v.inquisli lust, and wear its yoke no more. 
 All fasting else, wiiate'er be the pretence, 
 Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence. . 
 
 Hast thou within thee sin, that in old time 
 Brought lire from heaven the sex-abusing crime. 
 Whose horrid perpetration stamps disgrace. 
 Baboons are free Jro;n, upon luiaian race ] 
 Think on the fruitful and well-water'd spot 
 That fed tlie.flocks and herds of wealthy Lot, 
 Where Paradise seem'd still vouchsafed on earth, 
 Burning and scorch'd into perpelual dearth. 
 Or, in his words who damn'd the base desire. 
 Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire : 
 Then nature, injured, scandalized, defiled, 
 Unveil'd her blushing cheek, looked on, and 
 
 smileil ; 
 Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac'd, [waste. 
 And praised tlie wrath that laid her beauti(!i 
 
 Far be the thought from any verse of mine, 
 And fartliir still the form'd and fix'd design. 
 To thrust tlie charge of deeds tliat I detest 
 Against an innocent unconscious breast ; 
 The man that dares traduce, because he can 
 With safety to himself is not a man : 
 An individual is a sacred mark. 
 Not to be pierced in play, or in the dark ; 
 But public censure speaks a public foe. 
 Unless a zeal for virtue guide the blow.
 
 538 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, 
 Fiom mean self-interest, and ambition clear, 
 rheir hope in heaven, servility their scorn. 
 Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn. 
 Their wisdom pure, and given them from above, 
 Their usefulness ensured by zeal and love. 
 As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
 As bold as in Agrippa's presence Paul, 
 Should fly the world's contaminating touch, 
 Holy and unpolluted : — are thine such 1 
 Except a few with Eli's spirit blest, 
 Hophni and Phineas may describe the rest. 
 
 Where shall a teacher look, in days like these. 
 For ears and hearts that he can hope to please 1 
 Look to the poor, the simple and the plain 
 Will hear perhaps thy salutary strain : 
 Humility is gentle, apt to learn. 
 Speak but the word, will listen and return. 
 Alas, not so ! the poorest of the flock 
 Are proud, and set their faces as a rock ; 
 , Denied that earthly opulence they choose, 
 God's better gift they scoft' at and refuse. 
 The rich, the produce of a nobler stem, 
 Are more intelligent, at least — try them. 
 Oh vain inquiry ! they without remorse 
 Are altogether gone a devious course ; [stray ; 
 Where beckoning pleasure leads them, wildly 
 Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away. 
 
 Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime, 
 Review thy dim original and prime. 
 This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth, 
 The cradle that received thee at thy birth. 
 Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast, 
 And Danish bowlings scared thee as they pass'd ; 
 For thou wast born amid the din of arms. 
 And suck'd a breast that panted with alamis. 
 While yet thou wast a grovelling, puling chit. 
 Thy bones not fashion'd, and thy joints not knit. 
 The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow, 
 Though twice a Coesar could not bend thee now. 
 His victory was that of orient light. 
 When the sun's shatts disperse the gloom of night. 
 Thy language at this distant moment shows 
 How much the country to the conqueror owes ; 
 Expressive, energetic, and refined, 
 It sparkles with the gems he letl behind ; 
 He brought thy land a blessing when he came, 
 He tbund thee savage, and he letl thee tame ; 
 Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide. 
 And grac'd thy figure with a soldier's pride ; 
 He sow'd the seeds of order where he went, 
 Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent, 
 And, while he ruled thee by his sword alone. 
 Made thee at last a warrior like his own. 
 Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, 
 Needs only to be seen to be admired ; 
 But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night, 
 W^as tbrm'd to harden hearts and shock the sight ; 
 Thy druids struck the well-hung harps they bore 
 With fingers deeply dyed in human gore ; 
 And while the victim slowly bled to death. 
 Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. 
 Who brought the lamp that with awaking 
 beams 
 Dispell'd thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams, 
 Tradition, now decrepit and worn out, 
 Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt : 
 But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of 
 
 thine, 
 Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine, 
 Fell broken and defaced at their own door, 
 As Dagon in Philistia long before. 
 
 But Rome with sorceries and magic wand 
 Soon raised a cloud that darken'd every land ; 
 And thine was smother'd in the stench and tog 
 Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog. [crowns 
 Then priests with bulls and briefs, and shaven 
 And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns, 
 Legates and delegates with powers from hell, 
 Though heavenly in pretension, fleeced thee well ; 
 And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind, 
 Some twigs of that old scourge are letl behind.* 
 Thy soldiery, the pope's well managed pack. 
 Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the 
 
 smack, 
 And, when he laid them on the scent of blood, 
 Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood. 
 Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb, 
 That prov(^ a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, 
 They left their bones beneath untnendly skies, 
 His worthless absolution all the prize. 
 Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore 
 That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar; 
 Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust. 
 Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, 
 Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distress 
 Found thee a goodly spunge for power to press. 
 Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee. 
 Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued thee; 
 Call'd thee away from peaceable employ. 
 Domestic happiness and rural joy. 
 To waste thy life in arms or lay it down 
 In causeless feuds and bickerings of their own. 
 Thy parliaments adored, on bended knees. 
 The sovereignty they were convened to please ; 
 Whate'er was ask'd too timid to resist * 
 Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd ; 
 And if some Spartan soul a doubt express'd, 
 And blushing at the tameness of the rest. 
 Dared to suppose the subject had a choice. 
 He was a traitor by the general voice. 
 Oh slave ! with powers thou didst not dare exert, 
 Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert; 
 It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain. 
 Thou self-entitled ruler of the main, 
 To trace thee to the date, when yon fair sea, 
 That clips thy shores, had no such charms for 
 
 thee ; 
 When other nations flew from coast to coast, 
 And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast. 
 Kneel now. and lay thy forehead in the dust ; 
 Blush if thou canst; not petrified thou must; 
 Act but an honest r.nd a faithful part; [art; 
 
 Compare what then thou wast with what thoti 
 And God's disposing providence confess'd, 
 Obduracy itself must yield the rest. — 
 Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove, 
 Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love. 
 
 Has he not hid thee and thy t"avor'd land. 
 For ages, safe beneath his sheltering hand. 
 Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof 
 Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof. 
 And charged hostility and hate to roar 
 Where else they would, but not upon thy shore 1 
 His power secured thee, when presumptuous 
 
 Spain 
 Baptized her fleet invincible in vain ; 
 Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resiixn'd 
 To every pang that racks an anxious mind, 
 Ask'd of the waves that broke upon his coast. 
 What tidings 1 and the surge replied —All lost ! 
 And when the Stuart, leaning on the Scot, 
 Then too much fear'd, and now too much forgot 
 * Which may be foiuid at Doctors' Commons.
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 639 
 
 Pierced to the very centre of the reahn, 
 And hoped to seize his abdicated hehn, 
 'Twas hut to prove how quickly, with a trown, 
 He that iiad raised thee could have pluck'd thee 
 Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd, [down. 
 Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest; 
 Thy thunders travel over earth and seas, 
 And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 
 'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, 
 Thy Maker tills tlie nations with alarm, 
 While his own heaven surveys t!ie troubled scene, 
 And feels no change, unshaken and serene. 
 Freedom, in other lands searce known to shine. 
 Pours out a flood of splendor upon thine; 
 Thou hast as bright an interest in her rays 
 As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. 
 True freedom is where no restraint is known 
 That Scripture, justice, and good sense disown; 
 Where only vice and injury are tied, 
 And all from siiore to shore is free beside. 
 Such freedom is — and Windsor s hoary towers 
 Stood troiuhling at the bohlness of thy powers, 
 Tliat won a nymph on that immortal plain. 
 Like her the tabled Pliojbus wooed in vain: 
 He found the laurel only — happier you 
 The unfading laurel, and the virgin too!* 
 
 Now think, if pleasure have a thought to 
 spare ; 
 If God hhnself be not beneath her care ; 
 If business, constant as the wheels of time, 
 Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme; 
 If the new mail thy merchants now receive. 
 Or expectation of the next, give leave ; 
 Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrears 
 For such indulgence gilding all thy years, 
 How much, though long neglected, shining yet, 
 The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the 
 VV'hen persecuting zeal made royal sport [debt. 
 With tortured innocence in Mary's court, 
 And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, 
 Enjoyed the show, and danced about the stake. 
 The sacred boBk. its value understood, 
 Received the seal of martyrdom in blood. 
 Those holy men, so full of truth and grace. 
 Seem to reflection of a different race. 
 Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere, 
 In such a cause they could not dare to fear; 
 They could not purchase earth with such a prize, 
 Or spare a life too short to reach tlie skies. 
 From them to thee conveyed along the tide, 
 Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they 
 
 died ; 
 Those truths, which neither use nor years impair. 
 Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share. 
 What dotage will not vanity maintain 1 
 What web too weak to catch a modern brain"? 
 The moles and bats in full assembly find. 
 On special search, the kccn-cyed eagle blind. 
 An<l tlid they dream, and art thou wiser now 1 
 Prove it — if better, I submit and bow. 
 Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart 
 Must hold both sisters, never seen apart. 
 So then — as darkness overspread the deep. 
 Ere nature rose from her eternal sleep, 
 And this delightful earth, and that tliir sky, 
 Leap'd out of nothing call'd by the 3Iost High; 
 By such a change thy darkness is made light, 
 Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might; 
 
 * AUudini; to tho grant of Magna Charta, which was 
 extorted I'roiu ICiui; John by the barons at Runiiyinede 
 near Windsor. 
 
 And He, whose power mere nullity obeys. 
 Who tbund thee nothing, form'd thee for hii 
 
 praise. 
 To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil. 
 Doing and suffering, his unquestioned will; 
 'Tis to believe what men inspired of old. 
 Faithful, and faithfully informed, unfold; 
 Candid and just, with no false aim in view, 
 To take lor trutii what cannot but be true ; 
 To learn in God's own school the Christian part. 
 And bind the task assigned thee to thine heart : 
 Happy the man there seeking and there found ; 
 Happy the nation where such men abound ! 
 
 How shall a verse impress thee '? by what 
 name 
 Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame 1 
 By theirs whose bright example, unimpeached, 
 Directs thee to that eminence they reached. 
 Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires 1 
 Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow'd 
 
 fires ] 
 Their names, alas ! in vain reproach an age. 
 Whom all the vanities they scorn'd engage ; 
 And his, that seraphs tremble at, is huncr 
 Disgracefully on every trifler's tongue. 
 Or serves the champion in forensic war 
 To flourish and parade with at the bar. 
 Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea, 
 If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee ; 
 By every charm tiiat smiles upon her face. 
 By joys possess'd and joys still held in chase, 
 If dear society be worth a thought, 
 And if the feast of Ireedoin cloy thee not. 
 Reflect that these, and all that seems thine own, 
 Held by the tenure of his will alone, 
 Like angels in the service of their Lord, 
 Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word ; 
 That gratitude, and temperance in our use 
 Of what he gives, unsparing and profuse. 
 Secure the favor, and enhance the joy, 
 That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy. 
 But above all reflect, how cheap soe'er 
 Those rights, that millions envy thee, appear. 
 And though resolved to risk them, and swim 
 
 down 
 The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown. 
 That blessings truly sacred, and when given 
 Mark'd with the signature and stamp of Heaven, 
 The word of prophecy, those truths divine. 
 Which make that heaven if thou desire it, thine, 
 (Avvt'ul alternative ! believed, beloved. 
 Thy glory and thy shame if unimproved,) 
 Are never long vouchsafed, if push'd aside 
 With cold disgust or philosophic pride ; 
 And that, judicially withdrawn, disgrace, 
 Error and darkness, occupy their jilace. 
 
 A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot 
 Not quickly found, if negligently sought. 
 Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small, 
 Kndur'st the brunt, and'dar'st dety them all; 
 Antl wilt thou join to this bold enterprise 
 A bolder still, a contest with the skies 1 
 Remember, if He guard thee and secure. 
 Whoe'er assails thee, thy success is sure ; 
 But if He leave thee, though the skill and pow'r 
 Of nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour. 
 Were all collected in thy single arm. 
 And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm. 
 That strength would fail, opposed against the 
 And feeble onset of a pigmy rush. [push 
 
 Say not (and if the thought of such defence 
 Should sprijig within thy bosom, drive it thence)
 
 540 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 What nation amongst all my foes is free 
 From crimes as base as any charged on me 1 
 Their measure fiU'd, they too shall pay the debt, 
 Which God, though long forborne, will not for- 
 get. 
 But know that wrath divine, when most severe, 
 Makes justice still the guide of his career, 
 And will not punish, in one mingled crowd, 
 Them without light, and thee without a cloud. 
 Sluse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech, 
 Still murmuring with the solemn truths I teach ; 
 And, while at intervals a cold blast sings 
 Through the diy leaves, and pants upon the 
 strings. 
 
 My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament 
 A nation scourged, yet tardy to repent. 
 I know the warning song is sung in vain ; 
 That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain ; 
 But if a sweeter voice, and one desitrn'd 
 A blessing to my country and mankind. 
 Reclaim the wanderino- thousands, and brino 
 
 home 
 A flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam. 
 Then place it once again between my knees ; 
 The sound of truth will then be sure to please , 
 And truth alone, where'er my life be cast, 
 In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste. 
 Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last. 
 
 HOPE, 
 
 doceas iter, et sacra ostia pandas. 
 
 ViRG. JEn. 6. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Human Life — The charms of Nature remain the same 
 though they appear different in youth and age — Frivol- 
 ity of fashionable life — Value of life — The works of 
 the Creator evidences of his attributes — Nature the 
 handmaid to the purposes of grace — Character of 
 Hope^Man naturally stubborn and intractable — His 
 conduct in different stations — Death's lionors — Each 
 man's belief right in his own eyes — Simile of Ethel- 
 red's hospitality — Mankind quarrel with the Giver of 
 eternal life, on account of the terms on which it is of- 
 fered — Opinions on this subject — Spread of the Gos- 
 pel — The Greenland Missions— Contrast of the uncon- 
 verted and converted lieathen — Character of Leucono- 
 mus — The man of pleasure the blindest of bigqts — Any 
 hope preferred to that required by the Scripture — Hu- 
 man nature opposed to Truth — Apostrophe to Truth- 
 Picture of one conscience-smitten — The paidoned sin- 
 ner — Conclusion. 
 
 Ask what is human life — the sage replies. 
 With disappointment lowering in his eyes, 
 A painful passage o'er a restless flood, 
 A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, 
 A scene of fancied bliss and heartt'elt care, 
 Closing at last in darkness and despair. • 
 The poor, inured to drudgery and distress, 
 Act without aim. think little and feel less. 
 And nowhere, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes, 
 Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means. 
 Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand. 
 As fortune, vice, or folly may command ; 
 As in a dance the pair that take the lead 
 Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed. 
 So shilling and so various is the plan 
 By which Heaven rules the mix'd affairs of man; 
 Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd. 
 The rich grow poor, the poor become purse- 
 proud ; 
 Business is labor, and man's weakness such, 
 Pleasure is labor too, and tires as much ; 
 The very sense of it foregoes its use, 
 By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse. 
 Youth lost in dissipation, we deplore, [store ; 
 Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs re- 
 Our years, a fruitless race without a prize, 
 Too many, yet to few to make us wise. 
 
 DangUng his cane about, and taking snuff, 
 Lothario cries, What philosophic stuff — 
 O querulous and weak !— whose useless brain 
 Once thouixht of nothing, and now thinks in 
 
 vain : 
 
 Whose eye reverted weeps o'er all the past. 
 Whose prospect shows thee a disheartening 
 
 waste ; 
 Would age in thee resign his wint'ry reign, 
 And youth invigorate that frame again, 
 Renew'd desire would grace with other speech 
 Joys always prized, when placed within our reach . 
 For lift thy palsied head, shake^off the gloom 
 That overhangs the borders of thy tomb, 
 See nature gay, as when she first began 
 With smiles alluring her admirer man ; 
 She spreads the morning over eastern hills, 
 Earth glitters with the drops the night distils ; 
 The sun, obedient, at her call appears 
 To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears ; 
 Banks clothed with flowers, groves fiU'd with 
 sprightly sounds, [grounds. 
 
 The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising 
 Streams, edged with osiers, fattening every field 
 Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceai'd ; 
 From the blue rim, where skies and mountains 
 Down to the very turf beneath thy feet [meet, 
 Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise. 
 Or pride can look at with indifferent eyes. 
 All .speak one language, all with one sweet voice 
 Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice ! 
 Man feels the spur of passions and desires. 
 And she gives largely more than he requires; 
 Not that, his hours devoted all to care. 
 Hollow-eyed abstinence, and lean despair, [sight, 
 The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, 
 She holds a paradise of rich delight; 
 But gently to rebuke his awkward fear. 
 To prove that what she gives she gives sincere, 
 To banish hesitation, and proclaim 
 His happiness her dear, her only, aim. 
 'Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream, [seem , 
 That Heaven's intentions are nut what they
 
 HOPE. 
 
 64 1 
 
 That only shadows are dispensed below, 
 And eaith has no reality but woe. 
 
 Thus things terrestrial wear a difi'erent hue, 
 As youth or age persuades; and neither true. 
 So. Flora's wreath through color'd crystal seen, 
 The rose or lily appears blue or green, 
 But still tlie imputed tints are tiiose alone 
 The medium represents and not their own. 
 
 To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress'd, 
 To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best. 
 Till half the world comes rattling at his door. 
 To fill the dull vacuity till four; 
 And just when evening turns the blue vault gray. 
 To spend two hours in dressing for the day; 
 To make the sun a bauble without use, 
 Save for the fruits his heavenly beams produce ; 
 Quite to forget or deem it worth no thought, 
 Wiio liids him shine, or if he shine or not; 
 Through mere necessity to close his eyes 
 Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise ; 
 Is such a life, so tediously the same, 
 So void of all utility or aim. 
 That poor Jonquil, with almost every breath. 
 Sighs for his exit, vulgarly called death: 
 For he, with all his follies, has a mind 
 Not yet so blank, or f ishionablv blind, 
 Rut now and then perhaps a feeble ray 
 Of distant wisdom shoots across his way; 
 By which he reads that life without a plan, 
 As useless as the moment it becran. 
 Serves merely as a soil for discontent 
 To thrive in; an incuiiil)riince ere half spent. 
 Oh ! weariness beyond what asses feel, 
 That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel; 
 A dull rotation, never at a stay, 
 Yesterday's face twin image of to-day; 
 While conversation an exhausted stock, 
 Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock. 
 No need, he cries, of gravity stuflf'd out 
 With academic dignity devout. 
 To read wise lectures, vanity the text: 
 Proclaim the remedy, ye learned next ; 
 For truth self-evident, with pomp impress'd, 
 Is vanity surpassing all the rest. 
 
 That remedy, not hid in deeps profound. 
 Yet seldom sought where only to be found, 
 While passion turns aside from its due scope 
 The inquirer's aim, that remedy is Hope. 
 Life is his gift, from whom whate'er life needs, 
 With every good and perfect gift, proceeds ; 
 Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake, 
 Royally freely, for his bounty's sake; 
 Transient indeed, as is the flretinn; hour. 
 And yet the seed of an immortal (lower; 
 Desiffn'd in honor of his en<ll(ss love, 
 To fill with fragrance his aliode above ; 
 No trifle howsoever short it sr'em. 
 And, howsoever shadowy, no dream ; 
 Its value, what no thought can ascertain, 
 Nor all an angel's eloqurnce explain. 
 Me deal with life as children with their jday, 
 Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; 
 Live to no sober purpose, and contend 
 Tiiat their Creator had no serious end. 
 W"hen rJod and man stand opposite in view. 
 Man's (lis,i])pointmi'nt must of course, ensue. 
 The just Creator condescends to write, 
 In beams of inextinguishable light. 
 His names of wisdom goodness power, and love. 
 On all that blooms below, or shines above ; 
 To catch the wandering notice of mankind, 
 And teach the world, if not perversely blind. 
 
 His gracious attributes, and prove the share 
 His olTspring hold in his paternal care. 
 If. led from earthly things to things divine. 
 His creature thwart not his august design. 
 Then praise is heard instead of reasoning pride, 
 And captious cavil and complaint subside. 
 Nature, employ'd in her allotted place. 
 Is handmaid to the purposes of grace ; 
 By good vouchsafed makes known superior good, 
 And bliss not seen by blessings understood; 
 That bliss, reveal'd in scripture, with a glow 
 Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow, 
 Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn 
 Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is born. 
 
 Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all 
 That men have deem'd substantial since the 
 
 fall. 
 Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe 
 From emptiness itself a real use ; 
 And while she takes, as at a father's hand. 
 What health and sober appetite demand, 
 From lading good derives, with chemic art, 
 That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. 
 Hope, with uplilted foot, set free from earth, 
 Pants for the place of her ethereal birth. 
 On steady wings sails through the immense abyss, 
 Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss, 
 And crowns the soul while yet a mourner here. 
 With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. 
 Hope, as an anchor, firm and sure, holds fast 
 The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. 
 Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure 
 His new-born virtues and preserve him pure. 
 Hope! let the wretch once conscious of the joy, 
 Whom now despiiiring agonies destroy. 
 Speak, for he can. and none so well as he. 
 What treasures centre, what delights, in thee. 
 Had he the gems, the spices, and the land. 
 That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; 
 The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine. 
 Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of 
 thine. 
 
 Though clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's arma 
 He shines with all a cherub's artless charms, 
 Man is the genuine olTspring of revolt, 
 Stubborn and sturdy, a wild ass's colt ; 
 His passions like the watery stores that sleep 
 Beneath the smiling surface of the deep, 
 Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm. 
 To frown and roar, and shake his feeble form. 
 From_ infancy through childhood's giddy maze, 
 Froward at scliool and fretful in his plays, 
 The puny tyrant burns to subjugate 
 The I'ree rcpul)lic ot' the whip-gig state. 
 If one his eijual in athletic frame. 
 Or, more provoking still, of nobler name. 
 Dare step across his arbitrary views, 
 An Iliad, only not in verse, ensues: 
 The little Greeks look trembling at the scales, 
 Till the best tongue or heaviest hand prevails. 
 
 Now see him huinch'd into the world at large; 
 If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge. 
 Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl, 
 Though short, too lonir. the price he pays lor all 
 If lawyer, loud wliat(>ver cause he plead, 
 But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. 
 Perhaps a grave physican. gathering fees. 
 Punctually paid lor lengthening out disease ; 
 No Cotton whose humanity sTieds rays, 
 That make superior skill his second praise. 
 If arms engage him. he devotes to sport 
 His date of life so likely to be short;
 
 542 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 A soldier may be anything if brave, 
 
 So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. 
 
 Such stuff the world is made of; and mankind, 
 
 To passion, interest, pleasure, whim, resign'd. 
 
 Insist on, as if each were his own pope, 
 
 Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope ; 
 
 But conscience, in some t wful silent hour, 
 
 When captivating lusts have lost their power. 
 
 Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream, 
 
 Heminds him of religion, hated theme ! 
 
 Starts from the down, on which she lately slept. 
 
 And tells of laws despised, at least not kept; 
 
 Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, 
 
 A pale procession of past sinful joys, 
 
 All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd. 
 
 And life abused, and not to be suborn'd. 
 
 Mark these, she says ; these, summoned from afar. 
 
 Begin their march to meet thee at the bar; 
 
 There find a Judge inexorably just. 
 
 And perish there as all presumption must. 
 
 Peace be to those (such peace as earth can 
 give) 
 Who live in pleasure, dead e'en while they live ; 
 Born capable indeed of heavenly truth ; 
 But down to latest age, from earliest youth. 
 Their mind a wilderness through want of care. 
 The plough of wisdom never entering there. 
 Peace (if insensibility may claim 
 A right to the meek honors of her name) 
 To men of pedigree, their noble race. 
 Emulous always of the nearest place 
 To any throne, except the throna of grace. , 
 Let cottagers and unenlighten'd swains 
 Revere the laws they dream that Heaven ordains ; 
 Resort on Sundays to the house of prayer. 
 And ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. 
 Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat 
 To enjoy cool nature in a country seat. 
 To exchange the centre of a thousand trades. 
 For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cas- 
 cades. 
 May now and then their velvet cushions take, 
 And seem to pray for good example sake ; 
 Judging, in charity no doubt, the town 
 Pious enough, and having need of none. 
 Kind souls ! to teach their tenantry to prize 
 What they themselves, without remorse, despise : 
 Nor hope have they, nor fear, of aught to come. 
 As well for them had prophecy been dumb ; 
 They could have held the conduct they pursue, 
 Had Paul of Tarsus lived and died a Jew ; 
 And truth proposed to reasoners wise as they, 
 Is a pearl cast — completely cast away. 
 
 They die. — Death lends them, pleased, and as 
 in sport. 
 All the grim honors of his ghastly court. 
 Fir other paintings grace the chamber now, 
 W here late we saw the mimic landscape glow: 
 Ti e busy heralds hang the sable scene 
 With mournful 'scutcheons, and dim lamps be- 
 tween ; 
 Proclaim their titles to the crowd around. 
 But they that wore them move not at the sound ; 
 The coronet, placed idly at their head, 
 4.dds nothing now to the degraded dead. 
 And e'en the star, that glitters on the bier. 
 Can only say — Nobility lies here. 
 Peace to all such — 'twere pity to offend, 
 By useless censure, whom we cannot mend; 
 Life without hope can close but in despair, 
 "Twas there we found them, and must leave them 
 there 
 
 As when two pilgrims in a forest stray, 
 Both may be lost, yet each in his own way ; 
 So fares it with the multitudes beguiled 
 In vain opinion's waste and dangerous wild ; 
 Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, 
 Some eastward, and some westward, and all 
 But here, alas ! the fatal difference lies, [wrong 
 Each man's belief is right in his own eyes; 
 And he that blames what they have blindly chose 
 Incurs resentment for the love he shows. 
 
 Say, botanist, within whose province fall 
 The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, 
 Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowers. 
 What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and 
 
 flowers 1 
 Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined, 
 Distinguish every cultivated kind ; 
 The want of both denotes a meaner breed. 
 And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. 
 Thus hopes of every sort, whatever sect 
 Esteem them, sow them, rear them, and protect, 
 If wild in nature, and not duly found, 
 Gethsemane ! in thy dear hallow'd ground, 
 That cannot bear the blaze of Scripture light. 
 Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight, 
 Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds, [weeds. 
 (Oh cast them from thee !) are weeds, arrant 
 
 Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways. 
 Diverging each trom each, hke equal rays, 
 Himself as bountiful as April rains, 
 Lord paramount of the surrounding plains, 
 Would give relief of bed and board to none. 
 But guests that sought it in the appointed One ; 
 And they might enter at his open door. 
 E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more. 
 He sent a servant forth by every road, 
 To sound his horn and publish it abroad, 
 That all might mark — knight, menial, high and 
 
 low — 
 An ordnance it concern'd them much to know. 
 If after all, some headstrong hardy lout 
 Would disobey, though sure to be shut out. 
 Could he with reason murmur at his case. 
 Himself sole author of his own disgrace 1 
 No ! the decree was just and without flaw ; 
 And he that made had right to make the law ; 
 His sovereign power and pleasure unrestrain'd. 
 The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd. 
 
 Yet half mankind maintain a churlish strite 
 With hun the Donor of eternal life, 
 Because the deed, by which his love confirms 
 The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms. 
 Compliance with his will your lot ensures. 
 Accept it only, and the boon is yours. 
 And sure it is as kind to smile and give, 
 As with a frown to say. Do this, and live. 
 Love is not pedlar's trumpery, bought and sold ; 
 He will give freely, or he will withhold ; 
 His soul abhors a mercenary thought. 
 And him as deeply who abhors it not ; 
 He stipulates indeed, but merely this. 
 That man will freely take an unbought bliss. 
 Will trust him for a faithful generous part, 
 Nor set a price upon a willing heart. 
 Of all the ways that seem to promise fair, 
 To place you where his saints his presence share 
 This only can ; for this plain cause, express'd 
 In tenns as plain — himself has shut the rest. 
 But oh the strife, the bickering, and debate, 
 The tidings of unpurchased heaven create ! 
 The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss. 
 All speakers, yet all language at a loss. 
 
 Jl
 
 HOPE. 
 
 543 
 
 From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound ; 
 And beaus. adepts in everythinir profound, 
 Die of disdain, or whistle oil the ^ound. 
 Such is the clamor of rooks, daws, and kites, 
 The explosion of the levell'd tube excites, [glade, 
 Where mouldering abbey walls o'erhang the 
 And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade. 
 The scrcp.ming nations, hovering in mid air, 
 Loudly re-jcnt the stranger's freedom there, 
 An<l seem to warn him never to repeat 
 His hold intrusion on their dark retreat. 
 
 Adi u. Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips 
 The purple bumpor trembling at his lips, 
 Adieu to all morality ! if grace 
 Make works a vain ingreilient in the case. 
 The Christian hope is — Waiter, draw the cork — 
 If I mistake not — Blockhead ! with a fork! — 
 Without good works, whatever some may boast, 
 Mere folly and delusion — Sir, your toast. 
 My firm persuasion is. at least sometimes, 
 That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his 
 
 crimes 
 With nice attention in a righieuus scale, 
 And save or damn as these or those prevail. 
 I plant my foot upon this ground of trust, 
 And silence every tear with — God is just. 
 But if perchance, on some dull drizzling day, 
 A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say. 
 If thus the important cause is to be tried. 
 Suppose the beam should dip on tiie wrong side; 
 I soon recover from these needless frights, 
 And — God is merciful — sets all to rights. 
 Thus between justice, as my ])rime support, 
 And m(.'rcy, fled to as the last resort, 
 I glide and steal along with lieavcn in view 
 And, — pardon me, the bottle stands with you. 
 
 I never will beheve. the Colonel cries. 
 Tile sanguinary schemes that some devise. 
 Who make the good Creator, on their plan, 
 A being of less equity than man. 
 If appetite, or what divines call lust, 
 Which men comply with e'en because they must. 
 Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure 1 
 Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure. 
 If sentence of eternal pain belong 
 To cveiy sudden slip and transient wrong, 
 Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail 
 A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail. 
 My creed, (whatever some creed-makers mean 
 By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene ) 
 My creed is, he is safe that does his best, 
 And death's a doom sufficient for the rest. 
 
 Right, says an ensign ; and for aught I see, 
 Your faith and mine substantially agree ; 
 The best of every man's performance here 
 Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. 
 A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair, 
 Honesty shines with great advantage there. 
 Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest, 
 A decent caution and reserve at least. 
 A soldier's best is courage in the field. 
 With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd ; 
 Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay; 
 A hand as liberal as the light of day. 
 The soldier thus endow'd. who never shrinks. 
 Nor closets up his thoughts, whatc'er he thinks, 
 Who scorns to do an injury by stealth. 
 Must go to heaven — and I must drink his health. 
 Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at tlie board, 
 Just made fit\h chaplain of his patron lord, 
 His shoulders witnessing by many a shrug 
 How much his feelings euftered, sat Sir Smug,) 
 
 Your office is to winnow false from true ; [you 1 
 Come, prophet, drink, and tell us. What think 
 
 Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass, 
 Which they that woo preicrment, rarely pass. 
 Fallible man. the church-bred youth replies. 
 Is still found fallible, however wise ; 
 And diflering judgments serve but to declare, 
 That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where. 
 Of all it ever was my lot to read, 
 Of critics now alive or long since dead, 
 The book of all the world that charm'd me most 
 Was, — well-a-day, the title-page was lost ; 
 The writer well remarks, a heart that knows 
 To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows, 
 With prudence always ready at our call, 
 To guide our use of it, is all in all. 
 Doubtless it is. To which, of my own store, 
 I superadd a few essentials more ; 
 But these, excuse the liberty I take, 
 I waive just now. tor conversations sake. 
 Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim, [name. 
 And add Right Reverend to Smug's honor'd 
 
 And yet our lot is given us in a land 
 Where busy arts are never at a stand ; 
 Where science points her telescopic eye. 
 Familiar with the wonders of the sky ; 
 Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight. 
 Brings many a precious pearl of trutii to light ; 
 Where nought eludes the persevering quest, 
 That fashion, taste, or luxury suixgvist. 
 
 But above all in her own lirht array'd. 
 See Mercy's grand apocalypse display'd ! 
 The sacred book no longer sulfers wrong. 
 Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue: 
 But speaks with plainness art could never mend. 
 ^\"hat simplest minds can soonest comprehend. 
 God gives the word, the preachers throng around, 
 Live I'rom his lips, and spread the glorious sound ; 
 That sound bespeaks salvation on her way ; 
 The trumpet of a hfe-restoring day ; 
 'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines. 
 And in the gull's of her Cornubian mines. 
 And still it spreads. See Germany send tort' 
 Her sons* to pour it on the farthest north : 
 Fired with a zeal pecuhar, they dety 
 The rage and rigor of a polar sky. 
 And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose 
 On icy plains, and in eternal snows. 
 
 O blest within the inclosure of your rocks, 
 Not herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks ; 
 Nor fertilizing streams your fields divide. 
 That show, reversed, the villas on their side ; 
 No groves have ye ; no cheerl'ul sound of bird, 
 Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard ; 
 Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell 
 Of those that walk at evening where ye dwell ; 
 But W'inter, arm'd with terrors here unknown. 
 Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ; 
 Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, 
 And bids the mountains he has i)uilt stand fast : 
 Beckons the legions of his storms away 
 From happier scenes to make your land a prey 
 Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won. 
 And scorns to share it with the distant sun. 
 — Yet truth is yours, remote, uncnvicd isle ! 
 And peace the genuine olispring of her smile ; 
 The pride of letter'd ignorance that binds 
 In chains of error our accomplished minds. 
 That decks, with all the splendor of the true, 
 A false religion, is unknown to you. 
 
 * The Moravian nL'«sionaries in Greenland. 
 Kriintz. 
 
 -See
 
 644 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight 
 The sweet vicissitudes of day and night ; 
 Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer 
 Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here; 
 But brighter beams than his who fires the skies 
 Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, 
 That shoot into your darkest caves the day, 
 From which our nicer optics turn away. 
 
 Here see the encouragement grace gives to vice, 
 The dire effect of mercy without price ! [art, 
 
 What were they 1 what some fools are made by 
 They were by nature, atheists, head and heart. 
 The gross idolatry blind heathens teach 
 Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. 
 Not e'en the glorious sun, though men revere 
 The monarch most that seldom will appear, 
 And though his beams, that quicken where they 
 
 shine. 
 May claim some right to be esteem'd divine. 
 Not e'en the sun, desirable as rare. 
 Could bend one knee, engage one votary there ; 
 They were, what base credulity believes [thieves. 
 True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, 
 The full gorged savage, at his nauseous feast 
 Spent half the darkness, and snored out the rest, 
 Was one, whom justice, on an equal plan, 
 Denouncing death upon the sins of man. 
 Might almost have indulged with an escape, 
 Chargeable only with a human shape. 
 
 What are they now 1 — Morality may spare 
 Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there ; 
 The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced, and 
 
 laugh'd. 
 And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught. 
 Has wept a silent flood, reversed his ways, 
 Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays. 
 Feeds sparingly, communicates his store. 
 Abhors the crait he boasted of before. 
 And he that stole has learn'd to steal no more. 
 Well spake the prophet. Let the desert sing, 
 Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring, 
 And where unsightly and rank thistles grew, 
 Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. 
 
 Go now, and with important tone demand 
 On what foundation virtue is to stand, 
 If selt-exalting claims be turn'd adrift. 
 And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift ; 
 The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes 
 Glistening at once with pity and surprise. 
 Amazed that shadows should obscure the sight 
 Of one whose birth was in a land of light. 
 Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope, has set me free. 
 And made all pleasures else mere dross to me. 
 
 These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied 
 The common care that waits on all beside, 
 Wild as if nature there, void of all good, 
 Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, 
 (Yet charge not heavenly skill with having 
 
 plann'd 
 A plaything world, unworthy of his hand ;) 
 Can see his love, though secret evil lurks 
 In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works ; 
 Deem life a blessing with its numerous woes, 
 Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. 
 Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam 1 
 Is hope exotic 1 grows it not at home 1 
 Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn, 
 May press the eye too closely to be borne ; 
 A distant virtue we can all confess. 
 It hurts our pride, and moves our envy, less. 
 
 Leuconomus (beneath well-sounding Greek 
 I slur a name a poet must not speak) 
 
 Stood pilloried on infamy's high 9ta<re, 
 And bore the pelting scorn of half an acre ; 
 The very butt of slander, and the blot 
 For every dart that malice ever shot. 
 The man that mention'd him at once dismis?'d 
 All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd 
 His crimes were such as Sodom never knew. 
 And perjury stood up to swear all true ; 
 His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence. 
 His speech rebellion against common sense; 
 A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; 
 And when by that of reason, a mere fool ; 
 The world's best comfort was, his doom was pass'd ; 
 Die when he might, he must be damm'd at last. 
 
 Now, Truth, perform thine office ; waft aside 
 The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride, 
 Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes 
 This more than monster in his proper guise. 
 He lov'd the world that hated him ; the tear 
 That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere ; 
 Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, 
 His only answer was a blameless life ; 
 And he that forged, and he that threw the dart. 
 Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
 Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed. 
 Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. 
 He followed Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame. 
 His apostolic charity the same. 
 Like him cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, 
 Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease; 
 Like him he labor'd, and like him content 
 To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. 
 Blush, calumny ! and write upon his tomb. 
 If honest eulogy can spare thee room. 
 Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, [skies ; 
 Which, aim'd at him. have pierced the offended 
 And say. Blot out my sin, confess'd. deplored, 
 Against thine miage in thy saint, O Lord ! 
 
 No blinder bigot. I maintain it still, [will : 
 
 Than he who must have pleasure, come what 
 He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw, 
 And deems her sharp artillery mere straw ; 
 Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he 
 On scripture ground are sure to disagree ; 
 Some wiser rule must teach him how to live, 
 Than this his Maker has seen fit to give ; 
 Supple and flexible as Indian cane. 
 To take the bend his appetites ordain ; 
 Contrived to suit frail nature's crazy case. 
 And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. 
 By this, with nice precision ot design, 
 He draws upon life's map a zig-zag hne, 
 That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin. 
 And where his danger and God's wrath begin. 
 By this he forms, as pleased he sports along. 
 His well-poised estimate of right and wrong ; 
 And finds the modish manners of the day, 
 Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play. 
 
 Build by whatever plan caprice decrees, 
 With what materials, on what ground you please ; 
 Your hope shall stand unblamed, perhaps ad- 
 mired. 
 If not that hope the scripture has required. 
 The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild 
 
 dreams. 
 With which hypocrisy forever teems, 
 (Though other foUies strike the public eye. 
 And raise a laugh) pass unmolested by ; 
 But if, unblameable in word and thought, 
 A MAN arise, a man whom God has taught, 
 With all Elijah's dignity of tone. 
 And all the love of the beloved John,
 
 HOPE. 
 
 545 
 
 To storm the citadels they build in air, [spare ; 
 
 And smite the untemper'd wall 'tis death to 
 
 To sweep away all refuges of lies, 
 
 And place, instead of quirks themselves devise. 
 
 Lama sabacthavi before their eyes, 
 
 To prove that without Christ all gain is loss, 
 
 All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; 
 
 Except the lew his God may have impress'd, 
 
 A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest. [least, 
 
 Tlirouifhout mankind, the Christian kind at 
 There dwells a consciousness in every breast, 
 That lolly ends where genuine hope begins, 
 And he that finds his heaven must lose his sins. 
 Nature opposes with her utmost Ibrce, 
 This riviniT stroke this ultimate divorce: 
 And, while Religion seems to be her view. 
 Hates with a deep sincerity the true : 
 For this of all that ever influenced man. 
 Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began, 
 This only spares no lust, admits no plea. 
 But makes him, if at all, completely free; 
 Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car, 
 Of an eternal, universal war; 
 Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, 
 Scorns with the same indifference frowns and 
 
 smiles ; 
 Drives through the realms of sin, where riot reels, 
 And grinds his crown beneath her burning 
 
 wheels ! 
 Hence all that is in man. pride, passion, art. 
 Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart. 
 Insensible of truth's almighty charms. 
 Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms ! 
 While Bigotry, with well dissembled tears. 
 His eyes shut fast his fingers in his ears, 
 Mighty to parry and push by God's word 
 With sensLdess noise, his argument the sword, 
 Pretends a zeal tor godliness and grace, 
 And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. 
 
 Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known 
 Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine 
 
 own : 
 The silent progress of thy power is such, 
 Thy means so feeble, and despised so much, 
 That few believe the wonders tliou hast wrought. 
 And none can teach them but who;n thou hast 
 
 taught. 
 Oh see me sworn to serve thee, and command 
 A painter's skill into a poet's hand ! 
 That, while 1 tremiding trace a work divine, 
 Fancy may stand aloof tVom the design, 
 And Ught and shade, and every stroke, be thine. 
 
 If ever thou hast felt another's pain, 
 If ever when he sighed hast sighed again, 
 If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear 
 That pity had engender'd, drop one here. 
 This man was happy — had the world's good word, 
 And with it every joy it can afford ; 
 Friendship and love scem'd tenderly at strife. 
 Which most should sweeten his untroubled life ; 
 Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race. 
 Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, 
 And whether at the toilette of the fair 
 He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there, 
 Or, if in masculine debate he shared, 
 Ensured hiia umte attention and regard. 
 Alas, how changed ! Expressive of his min<l, 
 His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head re dined ; 
 Those awful syllaldcs, hell, death, and sin. [in ; 
 Though vvhis[):r"d plainly tell what works with- 
 That conscience there performs her proper part. 
 And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart ! 
 
 Forsaking and forsaken of all friends, 
 He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends ; 
 Hard task I for one who lately knew no care, 
 And harder still as learnt beneath despair ! 
 His hours no longer pass unmarked awav, 
 A dark importance saddens every day ; 
 He hears the notice of the clock, psrplex'd 
 And cries Periuips eternity strikes next ! 
 Sweet music is no longer music here. 
 And laughter sounds like madness in his ear: 
 His grief the world of all her power disarms; 
 Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms: 
 God's holy word, once trivial in his view. 
 Now by the voice of his experience true, 
 Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone 
 Must spring that hope he pants to make his 
 
 own. 
 Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; 
 Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God. 
 As when a felon, whom his country's laws 
 Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause, 
 Expects, in darkness and heart-chilling fears, 
 The shameful close of all his misspent years; 
 If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, 
 A tempest usher in the dreaded morn, 
 Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play. 
 The thunder seems to summon him away ; 
 The warder at the door his key applies. 
 Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies: 
 If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost. 
 When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the 
 
 ghost. 
 The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear. 
 He drops at once his fetters and his fear ; 
 A transport glows in all he looks and speaks. 
 And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. 
 Joy, tar superior joy, that much outweighs 
 The comfort of a few poor added days, 
 Invades, possesses, and o'erwhclms the soul 
 Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made 
 
 whole. 
 'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings 
 Of the glad legions of the King of kings; 
 'Tis more — 'tis God diffused through every part,- 
 'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. 
 O welcome now the sun's once hated light, 
 His noonday beams were never half so bright. 
 Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ 
 Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy ; 
 Unconscious nature, all that he surveys. 
 Rocks, groves, and streams must join hhn in his 
 
 praise. 
 These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, 
 The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth; 
 These move the censure and illiberal grin 
 Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin: 
 But these shall last when night has quench'd the 
 
 pole. 
 And heav'n is all departed as a scroll. 
 And when, as justice has long since decreed, 
 This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, 
 Then these thy glorious works, and they who 
 
 share 
 That hope which can alone exclude despair, 
 .Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, 
 The brightest vvonilers of an endless day. 
 
 Happy ll»e bard (if that fair name belong 
 To him that blinds no fable with his song) 
 Whose lines uniting, by an honest art. 
 The faith !ul monitor's and poet's part, 
 Seek to delight that they may mend mankind, 
 And, while they captivate inform the mind : 
 
 35
 
 546 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Still happier, if he till a thankful soil. 
 
 And fruit reward his honorable toil : 
 
 But happier far, who comfort those that wait 
 
 To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate : 
 
 Their language simple, as their manners meek, 
 
 No shining ornaments have they to seek ; 
 
 Nor labor they, nor time, nor talents, waste, 
 In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste ; 
 But, while they speak the wisdom of the skies, 
 Which art can only darken and disffuise. 
 The abundant harvest, recompense divine. 
 Repays their work — the gleaning only mine. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Qua nihil majus meliusve terris 
 Fata donavfire, bonique divi ; 
 Nee dabuiit, quam\is redeant in aurum 
 Tempora priscum. 
 
 HoR. lib. iv. Ode 2. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 [nvocation to Charity— Social ties— Tribute to the hu- 
 manity of Captain Cook — His cliaracter contrasted with 
 that of Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico — Degradation 
 of Spain — Purpose of commerce — Gifts of ai-t— The 
 slave-trade and slavery— Slavery unnatural and un- 
 chi-istian — Tlie duty of abating the woes of that state, 
 and of enlightening the mind of the slave, enfoi'ced- 
 Apostrophe to Liberty— Charity of Howard— Pursuits 
 of philosophy— Reason learns nothing aright without 
 the lamp of Revelation— True cliarity the offspring of 
 divine truth— Supposed case of a blind nation and an 
 optician- Portrait of Charity— Beauty of the Apostle's 
 definition of It— Alms as tlie means of lulling con- 
 science—Pride and ostentation motives of charity — 
 Character of satire— True charity inculcated— Chris- 
 tian charity should be universal— Happy effects that 
 would result from universal charity. 
 
 Fairest and foremost of the train that wait 
 On man's most dignified and happiest state, 
 Whether we name thee Charity or Love, 
 Chief grace below, and all in all above. 
 Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea) 
 A task I venture on, impell'd by thee : 
 Oh never seen but in thy blest eflects, 
 Or felt but in the soul that heaven selects ; 
 Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known 
 To other hearts, must have thee in his own. 
 Come, prompt me with benevolent desires. 
 Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires. 
 And, though disgraced and slighted, to redeem 
 A poet's name, by making thee the theme. 
 
 God, working ever on a social plan, 
 By various ties attaches man to man : 
 He made at first, though free and unconfined, 
 One man the common father of the kind ; 
 That every tribe, though placed as he sees best, 
 Where seas or deserts part them from the rest. 
 Differing in language, manners, or in face, 
 Might feel themselves allied to all the race. 
 When Cook— lamented, and with tears as just 
 As ever mingled with heroic dust — 
 Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown, 
 And in his country's glory sought his own. 
 Wherever he found man to nature ttue. 
 The rights of man were sacred in his view : 
 He soothed with gifts, and greeted with a smile. 
 The simple native of the new-ibund isle ; 
 He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood 
 The tender argument of kindred blood ; 
 
 Nor would endure that any should control 
 His freeborn brethren of the southern pole. 
 But though some nobler minds a law respect, 
 That none shall with impunity neglect, 
 In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet, 
 To thwart its influence, and its end defeat. 
 While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved, 
 See Cortez odious for a world enslaved ! [then, 
 Where wast thou then, sweet Charity 1 where 
 Thou tutelary friend of helpless men 1 
 Wast thou in monkish cells and nunneries found, 
 Or building hospitals on English ground 1 
 No. — Mammon makes the world his legatee 
 Through fear, not love ; and Heaven abhors 
 
 the fee. 
 Wherever found, (and all men need thy care,) 
 Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. 
 The hand that slew till it could slay no more 
 Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore. 
 Their prince, as justly seated on his throne 
 As vain imperial Philip on his own, 
 Trick'd out of all his royalty by art, 
 That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest 
 
 heart, 
 Died, by the sentence of a shaven priest. 
 For scorning what they taught him to detest. 
 How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze 
 Of Heaven's mysterious purposes and ways! 
 God stood not, though he seeiai'd to stand, aloof; 
 And at this hour the conqueror feels the proof; 
 The wreath he won drew down an instant curse. 
 The fretting plague is in the public purse, 
 The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state. 
 Starved by that indolence their mines create. 
 
 Oh could their ancient Incas rise again, 
 How would they take up Israel's taunting strain ! 
 Art thou too fallen, Iberia 1 Do we see 
 The robber and the murderer weak as we 1 
 Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dared despise 
 Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies. 
 Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid 
 : Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
 1 We come with joy from our eternal rest 
 To see the oppressor in his turn oppress'd. 
 Art thou the god, the thunder of whose hand 
 RoU'd over all our desolated land. 
 Shook principalities and kingdoms down, 
 And made the mountains tremble at his frown 1
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 547 
 
 The sword shall light upon thy boasted powers, 
 And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 
 'Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils, 
 And vengeance executes what justice wills. 
 
 Again — the iiand ol' coinincrce was designed 
 To associate all the branches ot' mankind ; 
 And if a boundless plenty be the robe, 
 Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. 
 Wise to promote whatever end he means, 
 God opens fruitful Nature's various scenes : 
 Each climate needs what other climes produce, 
 And offers something to the general use ; 
 No land but listens to the common call, 
 And in return receives supply from all. 
 This genial intercourse, and mutual aid, 
 Cheers what were else a universal shade, 
 Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den. 
 And sotlens human rock-work into men. 
 Ingenious Art, with her expressive face, 
 Steps Ibrth to fashion and refine the race ; 
 Not only fills necessity's deir.and, 
 But overcharges her ca])acious hand : 
 Capricious taste itself can crave no more 
 Than she supplies from her abounding store : 
 She strikes out all that luxury can ask, 
 And gains new vigor at her endless task. 
 Hers is the spacious arch, the shapely spire, 
 The painter's pencil, and the poet's lyre ; 
 From her the canvas borrows light and shade, 
 And verse, more lasting, hues that never fade. 
 She guides the finger o er the dancing keys, 
 Gives difficulty all the grace of ease. 
 And pours a torrent of sweet notes around 
 Fast as the thirsting ear can drink the sound. * 
 
 These are the gifts of art; and art thrives most 
 Where Commerce has enrich'd the busy coast ; 
 He catches all improvements in his flight. 
 Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight, 
 Imports what others have invented well. 
 And stirs his own to match them, or excel.* 
 'Tis thus, reciprocating each with each. 
 Alternately the nations learn and teach; 
 While Providence enjoins to every soul 
 A union with the vast terraqueous whole. 
 
 Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd 
 To furnish and ace unmodatc a worltl. 
 To give the pole the produce of the sun, 
 And knit the unsocial climates into one. 
 Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave 
 Impel the fleet whose errand is to save. 
 To succor wa.sted regions, and replace 
 Tile smile of opulence in sorrow's face. 
 Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, 
 Liipede the bark that ploughs the deep serene, 
 Charged with a freigiit transcending in its worth 
 The gems of India, Nature's rarest l)irth, 
 That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, 
 A herald of God's love to pagan lands ! 
 But ah! what wish can prosper, or what prayer. 
 For merchants rich in cargoes of despair 
 Who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge, and span. 
 And buy the muscles and the boms of man • 
 The tender ties of father, husband, friend. 
 All bonds of nature in that moment end ; 
 And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, 
 A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. 
 Tin; sable warrior, frantic with regret 
 Of her he loves, and never can forget, 
 Loses in tears the far-receding shore, [more ; 
 But not the thought tliat tiiey nuist meet no 
 Deprived of her and fre(>'Jom at a blow. 
 What has he left that he can yet forego 1 
 
 Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd. 
 He feels his body's bondage in his mind ; 
 Puts off his generous nature, and, to suit 
 His manners with his fate, puts on the brute. 
 
 Oh most degrading of all ills that wait 
 On man, a mourner in his best estate ! 
 All other sorrows virtue may endure, 
 And find submission more than half a cure ; 
 Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow'd 
 To improve the fortitude that bears the load ; 
 To teach the wanderer, as his woes increase. 
 The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace 
 But slavery — -Virtue dreads it as her grave : 
 Patience itself is meanness in a slave ; 
 Or, if the will and sovereignty of God 
 Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, 
 Wait tor the dawning of a brighter day. 
 And snap the chain the moment when you may 
 Nature imprints upon whate'er we see. 
 That has a heart and life in it. Be free ! 
 The beasts are charter'd — neither age nor force 
 Can quell the love of freedom in a horse : 
 He breaks the cord that held him at the rack ; 
 And. conscious of an unincumber'd back. 
 Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein ; 
 Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane; 
 Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs ; 
 Nor stops, till, overldaping all delays, 
 He finds the pasture where his fellows graze. 
 
 Canst thou, and honor'd with a Christian 
 name. 
 Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 1 
 Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead ^ 
 Expedience as a warrant for the deed ? 
 So may the wolt", whom famine has made bold 
 To quit the forest and invade the fold : 
 So may the rutfian, who with ghostly glide, 
 Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 
 Not he, but his emergence forced the door. 
 He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
 Has God then given its sweetness to the cane, 
 Unless his laws be trampled on — in vain '] 
 Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist, 
 Unless his right to rule it be disuiiss'd "? 
 laipudent blaspliemy ! So folly pleads, 
 And, avarice being judge, with ease succeeds. 
 
 But grant the plea, and let it stand lor just, 
 That man make man his prey, because he must; 
 Still there is room tor pity to abate 
 And soothe the sorrows of so sad a state. 
 A Briton knows, or if ho knows it not. 
 The scripture placed within his reach, he ourrht, 
 That souls have no discriminating hue, 
 .Vlike important in their Maker's view; 
 That none are free from blemish since the fall, 
 And love divine has paid one price for all. 
 The wretch that works and weeps without relief 
 Has One that notices his silent grief 
 He, from whose hand alone all power proceeds, 
 Ranks its alnise among the foulest deeds. 
 Considers al! injustice with a t'rown, 
 But marks the man that treads his fellow dowri 
 Begone ! — the whip and bell in that hard band 
 Are hateful ensigns of usurped comaiand. 
 Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim 
 To scourge him, weariness his only blame. 
 Remember, Heaven has an avenging rod. 
 To smite tiie poor is treason against God ! 
 
 Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd. 
 While life's sublimest joys are overlook'd: 
 ^Vc wander o'er a sun-burnt thirsty soil, 
 Murmuring and weary of t ur daily toil,
 
 548 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Forget to enjoy the palm-tree's ofFered shade, 
 Or taste the Ibuntain in the ncii^hborinir glade ; 
 Else who would lose, tliat had the power to im- 
 The occasion of transmuting fear to love 1 [prove 
 Oh 'tis a godlike privilege to save ! 
 And he that scorns it is himself a slave. 
 Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
 Would heal his heart and melt his chains away. 
 " Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, 
 And slaves by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 
 Then would he say submissive at thy feet, 
 While gratitude and love made service sweet, 
 My dear deliverer out of hopeless night. 
 Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 
 I was a bondaum on my native plain. 
 Sin forged and ignorance made fast, the chain ; 
 Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew. 
 Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue ; 
 Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 
 For Africa's once loved, benighted shore : 
 Serving a benefactor, I am free ; 
 At my best home, if not exiled from thee, [ceeds 
 
 Some men make gain a fountain whence pro- 
 A stream of liberal and heroic deeds ; 
 The swell of pity not to be confined 
 Within the scanty limits of the mind. 
 Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 
 A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : 
 These have an ear for his paternal call, 
 Who makes some rich for the supply of all ; 
 God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ ; 
 And Thornton is lamiliar witli the joy. 
 
 Oh could I worship aught beneath the skies 
 That earth has seen, or fancy can devise, 
 Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
 Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, 
 With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair 
 As ever dress'd a bank or scented summer air. 
 Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
 The peep of morning shed a dawning light, 
 Again, when evening in her sober vest 
 Drew the grey curtain of the fading west, [praise 
 My soul should yield thee willing thanks and 
 For the chief blessings of my fairest days : 
 But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine. 
 But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 
 Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly 
 A captive bird into the boundless sky. 
 This triple realm adores thee — thou art come 
 From Sparta hither, and art here at home. 
 We feel thy force still active, at this hour 
 Enjoy immunity from priestly power. 
 While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
 Owns no superior but the God she fears. 
 Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
 Thy rights have sufTer'd, and our land, too long. 
 Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
 The fears and hopes of a commercial care. 
 Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
 To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt; 
 But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
 Are mighty mischiefs not to be withstood ; 
 fVnd honest merit stands on shppery ground, 
 Where covert guile and artifice abound. 
 Let just restraint, for public peace design'd, 
 Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; 
 The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, 
 But let insolvent innocence go free. 
 
 Patron of else the most despised of men, 
 Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; 
 Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed. 
 Should be the guerdon of a noble deed ; 
 
 I I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame 
 (Charity chosen as my theme and aim) 
 I must incur forgetting Howakd's name. 
 Blest with all wealth can give thee, to resign 
 Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine. 
 To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow, 
 To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe, [home, 
 To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and bring 
 Not the proud monuments of Greece or Roaie. 
 But knowledge such as only dungeons teach. 
 And only sympathy like thine could reach; 
 That grief sequester'd from the public stage, 
 Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage : 
 Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal. 
 The boldest patriot might be proud to feel. 
 Oh that the voice of clamor and debate, 
 That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state, 
 Were hush'd in t'avor of thy generous plea, 
 The poor thy clients and Heaven's smile thy fee ! 
 
 Philosophy, that does not dream or stray. 
 Walks arm in arm with nature all his way; 
 Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends 
 Whateve". steep inquiry recommends, 
 Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll 
 Round other systems under her control, 
 Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light, 
 That cheers the silent journey of the night. 
 And brings at his return a bosom charged 
 With rich instruction and a soul enlarged. 
 The treasured sweets of the capacious plan, 
 That Heaven spreads wide before the view ot 
 
 man. 
 All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursue 
 Still prompt him, with a pleasure always new; 
 He too has a connecting power, and draws 
 Man to the centre of the common cause, 
 Aidinif a dubious and deficient sight 
 With a new medium and a purer light. 
 All truth is precious, if not all divine ; 
 AniWwhat dilates the powers must needs refine. 
 He reads the skies, and, watching every change, 
 Provides the faculties an ampler range ; 
 And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, 
 A prouder station on the general scale. 
 But reason still, unless divinely taught, 
 Whate'er she learns learns nothing as she ought ; 
 The lamp of revelation only shows, 
 What human wisdom cannot but oppose. 
 That man, in nature's richest mantle clad. 
 And graced with all philosophy can add. 
 Though fair without, and luminous within. 
 Is still the progeny and heir of sin. 
 Thus taught, down falls the plumage of his pride; 
 He feels his need of an unerring guide. 
 And knows that tailing he shall rise no more, 
 Unless the power that bade him stand restore. 
 This is indeed philosophy ; this known 
 Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own ; 
 And without this, whatever he discuss ; 
 Whether the space between the stars and us; 
 Whether he measure earth, compute the sea. 
 Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea ; 
 The solemn trifler with his boasted skill 
 Toils much and is a solemn trifler still : 
 Blind was he born, and his misguided eyes 
 Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dit^s. 
 Self-knowledge truly learned of course impliei 
 The rich possession of a nobler prize ; 
 For self to self, and God to man, reveal'd, 
 (Two themes to nature's eye forever seal'd,) 
 Are taught by n ys, that fly with equal pace 
 From the same < autre of enlightening grace.
 
 Here stay thy foot ; how copious and how clear, 
 The o'erriowing well of Charity springs here ! 
 Hark ! 'tis the music of a thousand rills, 
 Some through the groves, some down the sloping 
 
 hills, 
 Winding a secret or an open course. 
 And all supplied fro.n an eternal source. 
 The tics of nature do but feehly bind. 
 And co!n:aerce partially reclaiai? mankind; 
 Phil >sophy witliout his heavenly guide, 
 May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride; 
 But, while his province is the reasoning part, 
 Has still a veil of midnight on his heart: 
 'Tis truth divine exhibited on earth. 
 Gives Charity her being anil her birth. [flows, 
 
 Suppose (when thought is warm, and I'ancy 
 What will not argument sometimes suj)pose I) 
 An isle possessed by creatures of our kind, 
 En<lued with reason yet by nature blind. 
 Let supposition lend her aid once more. 
 And hinil some grave optician on the shore : 
 He claps his lens, if haply they may see. 
 Close to the part where vision ought to be ; 
 But finds that, though his tubes assist the sight, 
 They cannot give it, or make darkness light. 
 He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud 
 A sense they know not to the wondering crowd; 
 He talks of light and the prismatic hues. 
 As men of de[)th in erudition use ; 
 
 But all he gains for his harangue is — Well, 
 
 What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ! 
 
 The soul whose sight all-quickening grace 
 renews, 
 Takes the resemblance of the good she views, 
 As diamonds, stripp'd of their opaque disguise, 
 Reflect the noon-day glory of the skies. 
 She speaks of Him, her author, guardian, friend. 
 Whose love knew no boffinniniT knows no end. 
 In language 'warm as all that love inspires ; 
 And, in the glow of her intense desires, 
 Pants to coaimunicate her nobk' fires. 
 She sees a world stark blind to what employs 
 Her eager thought and feeds her flowing joys; 
 Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call. 
 Plies to save soaie, and feels a pang for all: 
 Herself as weak as her support is strong, 
 She feels that frailty she denied so long; 
 And. from a knowledge of her own disease, 
 Learns to coaipassionate the sick she sees. 
 Here see, acquittid of all vain pretence. 
 The reign of genuine Charity commence. 
 Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears, 
 She still is kind, and still she perseveres; 
 The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 
 'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream ! 
 The danger they discern not tliey deny; 
 Laugh at their only remedy, and die. 
 But still a soul riius touch'd can never cease, 
 Whoever threatens war. to speak of peace. 
 Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, 
 Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child: 
 She makes excuses where she might condemn. 
 Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them; 
 Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast. 
 The worst suggested, she believes the best; 
 Not sooft provoked, however stung and teased, 
 And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased ; 
 She rather waives than will dispute her right; 
 .ind, injured makes forgiveness her delight. 
 
 Such was the portrait an apostle drew, 
 The bright original was one he knew ; 
 Heaven held h's hand, the likeness must be true. 
 
 When one, that holds communion with the 
 skies. 
 Has fiU'd his urn where these pure waters rise, 
 And once more mingles with us meaner thmn-s, 
 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; 
 Lnmortal fragrance fills the circuit wide. 
 That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 
 So when a ship, well freighted with the stores 
 The sun matures on India's spicy shores. 
 Has dropp'd her anchor, and her canvas furl'd, 
 In some safe haven of our western world, 
 'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, 
 The gale inlbrms us, laden witli the scent. 
 
 Some seek, when queasy conscience has ita 
 qualms. 
 To lull the painful malady with alms ; 
 But charity not feign'd intends alone 
 Another s good — theirs centres in their own ; 
 And, too short-lived to reach the realms of peace, 
 Must cease forever when the poor shall cease. 
 Flavia. most tender of her own good name. 
 Is rather careless of her sister's fame : 
 Her superfluity the poor supplies. 
 But, if she touch a character, it dies. 
 The seeming virtue weigli'd against the vice, 
 She deems all safe, ibr she has paid the price: 
 No charity but alms aught values she. 
 Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree 
 How many deeds, with whicli the world has 
 
 rung, 
 From pride, in league with ignorance, have 
 
 sprung ! 
 But God o'errules all human follies still. 
 And bends the tough materials to his will 
 A conflagration, or a wintry flood, 
 Has left some hundreds without home or food : 
 Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe. 
 While tame and selt'-complacence are the bribe. 
 The brief proclaim'd, it visits every pew. 
 But first the squire's, a compliment but due • 
 With slow deliberation he unties 
 His glittering purse, that envy of all eyes J 
 xVnd, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm, 
 Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm; 
 Till finilmg, what he might have Ibund before, 
 A smaller piece amidst the precious store, 
 Pineh'd close between his finger and his thumb. 
 He half exhibits, and then drops the sum. 
 Gold, to be sure ! — Throughout the town 'tis told 
 How the good squire gives never less than gold. 
 From motives such as his, though not the best. 
 Springs in due time supply lor the distress'd; 
 Not less effectual than wiiat love bestows. 
 Except that office clips it as it goes. 
 
 But lest I seem to sin against a friend. 
 And wound the grace I mean to recommend. 
 (Tlinugh vice derided with a just design 
 Implies no trespass against love divine,) 
 Once more I would adopt the graver style, 
 A teacher should be sparing of his smile. 
 Unless a love of virtue light the flame. 
 Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame : 
 He hides behind a magisterial air 
 His own offences, and strips others bare; 
 All'ects indeed a most human(^ concern. 
 That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn; 
 That mulish lolly, not to be reelaim'd 
 By soltiT methods, must be made ashamed; 
 But (1 might instance in St. Patrick's dean) 
 Too ollen rails to gratity his spleen. 
 Most satirists are indeed a ])ublic scourge. 
 Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge ;
 
 550 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, 
 The milk of their good purpose all to curd. 
 Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 
 By lean despair upon an empty purse, 
 The wild assassins start into the street, 
 Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. 
 No skill in swordmanship, however just. 
 Can be secure against a madman's thrust ; 
 And even virtue, so unfairly match'd, 
 Although hnmortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd. 
 When scandal has new minted an old lie, 
 Or taxed invention for a fresh supply, 
 'Tis called a satire, and the world appears 
 Gathering around it with erected ears ; 
 A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd : 
 Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, 
 Just as the sapience of an author's brain 
 Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. 
 Strange ! how the frequent interjected dash 
 Quickens a market, and helps off the trash ; 
 The important letters that include the rest 
 Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ; 
 Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw, 
 The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law. 
 So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail, 
 Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; 
 Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, 
 They meet with little pity, no redress ; 
 Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud, 
 Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood. 
 
 All zeal for a reform, that gives offence 
 To peace and charity, is mere pretence : 
 A bold remark; but which, if well applied. 
 Would humble many a towering poet's pride. 
 Perhaps the inan was in a sportive fit. 
 And had no other play-place for his wit ; 
 Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, 
 He sought the jewel in his neighbor's shame ; 
 Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue. 
 The cause of virtue could not be his view. 
 At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes, 
 The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise, 
 But shine with cruel and tremendous charms. 
 That, while they please, possess us with alarms ; 
 So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sio-ht 
 On all the wings of holiday delight,) 
 Where stands that monument of ancient power. 
 Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, [small. 
 Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and 
 In starry forms disposed upon the wall: 
 We wonder, as we gazing stand below. 
 That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; 
 But, though we praise the exact designer's skill. 
 Account them implements of mischief still. 
 
 No works shall find acceptance in that day. 
 When all disguises shall be rent away, 
 That square not truly with the scripture plan. 
 Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. 
 As he ordains things sordid in their birth 
 To be resolved into their parent earth ; 
 And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs, 
 Whate'er this world jiroduces, it absorbs; 
 So self starts nothing, but whai tends apace 
 Home to the goal, where it began the race. 
 Such as our motive is our aim must be ; 
 If this be servile, that can ne'er be free : 
 If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, 
 We glorify that self, not Him we ought ; 
 
 Such virtues had need prove t>eir own reward, 
 
 The Judge of all men owes thbm no regard. 
 
 True Charity, a plant divinely nursed. 
 
 Fed by the love from which it rose at first, 
 
 Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene, 
 
 Storms but enliven its unfading green; 
 
 Exuberant is the shadow it supplies. 
 
 Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies. 
 
 To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd. 
 
 So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd ; 
 
 To see a God stretch forth his human hand, 
 
 To uphold the boundless scenes of his command ; 
 
 To recollect that, in a form like ours. 
 
 He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers, 
 
 Captivity led captive, rose to claim 
 
 The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; 
 
 That, throned above all height, he condescends 
 
 To call the few that trust in him his friends ; 
 
 That, in the heaven of heavens, that space he 
 
 deems 
 Too scanty for the exertion of his beams. 
 And shines, as if impatient to bestow 
 Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; 
 That sight imparts a never-dying flame. 
 Though feeble in degree, in kind the same. 
 Like him the soul, thus kindled from above 
 Spreads wide her arms of universal love; 
 And, still enlarged as she receives the grace. 
 Includes creation in her close embrace. 
 Behold a Christian ! — and without the fires 
 The Founder of that name alone inspires. 
 Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet, 
 To make the shining prodigy complete. 
 Whoever boasts that name — behold a cheat ! 
 Were love, in these the world's last doting years. 
 As frequent as the want of it appears, 
 The churches warm'd, they would no longei 
 
 hold _ , 
 
 Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold ; 
 Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease ; 
 And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled hve in peace : 
 Each heart would quit its prison in the breast. 
 And flow in free communion with the rest. 
 The .statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep, 
 Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep : 
 His budget, often fill'd. yet always poor. 
 Might swing at ease behind his study door. 
 No longer prey upon our annual rents. 
 Or scare the nation with its big contents : 
 Disbanded legions freely might depart, 
 And slaying man would cease to be an art. 
 No learned disputants would take the field. 
 Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield ; 
 Both sides deceived, if rightly understood. 
 Pelting each other for the public good. 
 Did Charity prevail, the press would prove 
 A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love ; 
 And I might spare myself the pains to show 
 What few can learn, and all suppose they know 
 
 Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay 
 With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray. 
 In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost. 
 The attention pleasure has so much engross'd. 
 But if unhappily deceived I dream, 
 And prove too weak for so divine a then^, 
 Let Charity forgive me a mistake. 
 That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, 
 And spare the poet for his subject's sake.
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 Nam neqvie me tantum venientis sibilus auS;ri, 
 Nfc percussa juvimt lluctu tarn litora, nee quae 
 f>axosas inter deciuiuut flumina valles. 
 
 ViRO. Eel. 5. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 ji conversation nuieh depends on culture — Its results 
 frequently insif,'niticant — Indecent languaife and oaths 
 reprobated— The aiitlior's dislike of the clash of ari^'U- 
 ments — The noisy wrangler — Uubius an example of in- 
 decision—The positive pronounce without hesitation — 
 The point of honor condemned — Duelling with fists in- 
 stead of W(!apons proposed— Ettect of long tales — The 
 retailer of prodigies and lies— Qualities of a judicious 
 tale— J^moking condenined— The emphatic speaker— 
 The perfumed beau — The grave coxcomb — Sickness 
 made a topic of conversation— Picture of a fretful tem- 
 per—The baslifid speaker — An English company — The 
 sportsman — Intluence of fashion on conversation — Con- 
 verse of the two disciples going to Emnuius — Delights 
 of religious conversation — Age mellows tlie speech — 
 True piety often branded as fanatic frenzy — Pleasure of 
 comnumion with the goo<l — Conversation should be un- 
 constrained—Persons who make the Bible their com- 
 panion, charged with hypocrisy by the world- Tlie 
 charge repelled— The poet sarcastically surmises that 
 his censure of the world may proceed from ignorance 
 of its reformed manners — An apology for digression — 
 Religion purilies and enriches conversation. 
 
 Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense 
 To every man his modicum of sense, 
 And Conversation in its better part 
 May be estecm'd a gift, and not an art. 
 Yet iiiuch depends, as in the tiller's toil, 
 On culture, and the sowing of the soil. 
 Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, 
 But talking is not always to converse ; 
 Not more distinct from harmony divine. 
 The constant creaking of a country sign. 
 As alphabets in ivory employ, 
 Hour after hour, the yet unletter'd boy, 
 Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee 
 Those seeds of science call'd his ,v n c ; 
 So language in the mouths of the adult. 
 Witness its insicnificant result. 
 Too often proves an implement of play, 
 A toy to sport with, and pass time away. 
 Collect at evening what the day brought forth. 
 Compress the sum into its solid worth. 
 And if it weigh the importance of a fly, 
 The scales arc false, or algebra a lie. 
 Sacred interpreter of human thought, 
 How few respect or use tiice as they ought ! 
 But all shall give account of every wrong. 
 Who dare dishonor or dclWc the tongue ; 
 Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, 
 Or sell their glory at a market-price ; 
 Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon, 
 The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buf- 
 foon. 
 There is a jirurience in the speech of some, 
 Wrath stays bun, or else God would strike them 
 dumb: 
 
 His wise forbearance has their end in view, 
 They fill their measure, and receive their due. 
 The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, 
 Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, 
 Would drive them tbrth from the resort of men, 
 And shut up every satyr in his den. 
 Oh come not ye near innocence and truth, 
 Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ! 
 Infectious as impure, your blighting power 
 Taints in its rudunents the promised flower ; 
 Its odor perish'd and its charming hue. 
 Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for its smells of you. 
 Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage 
 Of adolescence, or a firmer age, 
 AlTords a plea allowable or just 
 For making speech the pamperer of lust; 
 But wheii the breath of age commits the fault 
 'Tis nauseous as the vapor of a vault. 
 So wither'd stumps disgrace the sylvan scene, 
 No longer fruitful, and no longer green ; 
 The sapless wood, divested of the bark, 
 Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. 
 
 Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife- 
 Some men have surely then a peaceful life ! 
 Whatever subject occupy discourse. 
 The feats of Vestris, or the naval ibrce. 
 Asseveration blustering in your face 
 Makes contradiction such a hopeless case : 
 In every tale they tell, or false or true. 
 Well known, or such as no man ever knew. 
 They fi.x; attention, heedless of your pain. 
 With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ; 
 And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, 
 They swear it, till allirmance breeds a doubt. 
 A Persian, humble servant of the sun. 
 Who, tiiough devout, yet bigotry had none, 
 Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, 
 With adjurations every word impress. 
 Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, 
 God's name so much upon his hps, a priest ; 
 Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs. 
 And begg'd an interest in his frequent prayers. 
 
 Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferr'd, 
 Hencelbrth associate in one common herd; 
 Religion, virtue, reason, common sense. 
 Pronounce your human form a false pretence • 
 A mere disguise in which a devil lurks. 
 Who yet betrays his secret by his works. 
 
 Yc powers who rule the tongue, if such there 
 are, 
 And m.ike colloquial happiness your care. 
 Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
 A duel in the form of a debate. 
 The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
 Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swoi ds,
 
 552 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Decide no question with their tedious length. 
 For opposition gives opinion strength. 
 Divert the champions prodigal of breath, 
 And put the peaceably disposed to death. 
 
 thwart me not, Sir Soph at every turn, 
 Nor carp at every flaw you may discern ; 
 Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 
 
 1 am not surely always in the wrong ; 
 'Tis hard il' all is false that I advance, 
 
 A fool must now and then be right by chance. 
 
 Not that all t'reedom of dissent I blame ; 
 
 No — there I grant the privilege I claim. 
 
 A disputable point is no man's ground ; 
 
 Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 
 
 Discourse may want an animated — No, 
 
 To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 
 
 But still remember, if you mean to please, 
 
 To press your point with modesty and ease. 
 
 The mark, at which my juster aim I take, 
 
 Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 
 
 Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 
 
 Knots and impediments make something hitch ; 
 
 Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain. 
 
 Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 
 
 The wrangler, rather than accord with you, 
 
 Will judge himself deceived and prove it too. 
 
 Vociferated logic kills me quite, 
 
 A noisy man is always in the right, 
 
 I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair. 
 
 Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare. 
 
 And, when I hope his blunders are all out, 
 
 Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! 
 
 DuBius is such a scrupulous good Aan — 
 Yes — you may catch him tripping if you can. 
 He would not, with a peremptory tone, 
 Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 
 With hesitation admirably slow. 
 He humbly hopes — presumes — it may be so. 
 His evidence, if he were call'd by law 
 To swear to some enormity he saw, 
 For want of prominence and just relief, 
 Would hang an honest man and save a thief. 
 Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 
 He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 
 Knows what he knows as if he knew it not ; 
 What he remembers seems to have forgot ; 
 His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, 
 Centring at last in having none at all. 
 Yet, though he tease, and balk your listening ear, 
 He makes one useful point exceeding clear ; 
 Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme 
 A sceptic in philosophy may seem, 
 Reduced to practice, his beloved rule 
 Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 
 Useless in him alike both brain and speech. 
 Fate having placed all truth above his reach, 
 His ambiguities his total sum. 
 He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb. 
 
 Where men of judgment creep and feel their 
 The posilive pronounce without dismay ; [way. 
 Their want of light and intellect supplied 
 By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. 
 Without the means of knowing right from wronir. 
 They always are decisive, clear, and strong. 
 Where others toil with philosophic force. 
 Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course ; 
 Flings at your head conviction in the lump, 
 And gains remote conclusions at a jump: 
 Their own defect invisible to them. 
 Seen in another, they at once condemn ; 
 And, though self-idolised in every case. 
 Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. 
 
 The cause is plain, and not to be denied. 
 The proud are always most provoked by pride. 
 Few competitions but engender spite ; 
 Antl those the most where neither has a ricrht 
 
 The point of honor has been deem'd of use. 
 To teach good manners and to curb abuse : 
 Admit it true, the consequence is clear. 
 Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear. 
 And at the bottom barbarous still and rude ; 
 We are restrain'd indeed, but not subdued. 
 The very remedy, however sure. 
 Springs from the mischief it intends to cure, 
 And savage in its principle appears. 
 Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. 
 'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend 
 Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end ; 
 That now and then a hero must decease. 
 That the surviving world may live in peace. 
 Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show 
 The practice dastardly, and mean, and low ; 
 That men engage in it compell'd by force; 
 And fear, not courage, is its proper source. 
 The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear 
 Lest fops should censure us and fools should sneei 
 At least to trample on our Maker's laws, 
 And hazard life for any or no cause, 
 To rush into a fix'd eternal state 
 Out of the very flames of rage and hate, 
 Or send another shivering to the bar 
 With all the guilt of such unnatural war, 
 Whatever use may urge, or honor plead, 
 Oir reason's verdict is a madman's deed. 
 Am I to set my life upon a throw. 
 Because a bear is rude and surly 1 No — 
 A moral sensible, and well-bred man 
 Will not affront me and no other can. 
 Were I empower'd to regulate the lists. 
 They should encounter with well loaded fists; 
 A Trojan combat would be something new. 
 Let D.4RKS beat ExTKLLUS black and blue; 
 Then each might show to his admiring I'riends, 
 In honorable bumps his rich amends, 
 And carry in contusions of his skull, 
 A satisfactory receipt in full. 
 
 A story, in which native humor reigns, 
 Is ollen useful always entertains: 
 A graver fact enlisted on your side, 
 May furnish illustration, well applied; 
 But sedentary weavers of long tales 
 Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 
 'Tis the most asinine employ on earth. 
 To hear them tell of parentage and birth, 
 And echo conversations dull and dry, 
 Embellish'd with — He said. — and, So said 1. 
 At every interview their route the same. 
 The repetition makes attention lame : 
 We bustle up with unsuccessful speed. 
 And in the sadilest part cry — Droll indeed ! 
 The path of narrative with care pursue, 
 Still making probability your clue; 
 On all the vestiges of truth attend. 
 And let them guide you to a decent end. 
 Of all ambitions man may entertain 
 The worst that can invade a sickly brain, 
 Is that which angles hourly for surprise. 
 And baits its hook with prodigies and hes. 
 Credulous infancy, or age as weak, 
 Are fittest auditors for such to seek, 
 Who to please others will themselves disgrace, 
 Yet please not but affront you to your face. 
 A great retailer of this curious ware. 
 Having unloaded and made many stare,
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 553 
 
 Can this be true 1 — an arch observer cries ; 
 Yes (rather moved), I saw it with tliese eyes! 
 Sir! I beUeve it on that ground alone; 
 I could not, had I seen it with my own. 
 
 A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct; 
 The languaire plain tha incidents well hnk'd; 
 Tell not as new what everybody knows, 
 And, new or old still hasten to a close; 
 There, centring in a locus round and neat, 
 Let all your rays oi" inibrmation meet. 
 What neither yields us profit nor delight 
 Is like a nurse's lullaby at night; 
 Guy Earl of Warwick and t'air Eleanore, 
 Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more. 
 
 The pipe, with solemn interposing pufT, 
 Makes halt" a sentence at a time enough ; 
 The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, [again. 
 Then pause, and pull' — and speak, and pause 
 Such ol'len like the tube they so admire, 
 Important trillers ! have more smoke than fire. 
 Pernicious weed ! whose scent the lair annoys. 
 Unfriendly to society's chief joys, 
 Thy worst effect is banishing for hours 
 The sex whose presence civilizes ours ; 
 Thou art indeed the druif a uardener wants 
 To poison venmn that infest his plants ; 
 But are we so to wit and beauty blind, 
 As to despise tlie glory of our kind. 
 And show the softest minds and fairest forms 
 As little mercy as the grubs and worms 1 
 They dare not wait the riotous abuse 
 Tliy tliirst-creating steams at length produce, 
 When wine has given indecent language birth. 
 And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth ; 
 For seaborn "Venus her attachment shows 
 Still to that element from which she rose, 
 And, witli a ([uiet which no fumes disturb, 
 Sips meek iniusions of a milder herb. 
 
 The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, 
 In contact inconvenient, nose to nose. 
 As if the gnomon on his neighbor's phiz, 
 Touch'd witli the magnet, had attracted his. 
 His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, 
 Proves after all a wind-irun's airy chariTe, 
 An extract of his diary — no more, 
 A tasteless journal of the day before. 
 He walk'd abroad o'ertaken in tlie rain, 
 Call'd on a friend, drank tea,stepp'd home again, 
 Hesumed his purpose, had a world of talk, 
 With one he stumbled on. and lost his walk. 
 I interrupt him with a sudden bow. 
 Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now. 
 
 I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
 A fine pass gentleman that's all perfume; 
 The sight's enough — no need to saiell a beau — 
 Who tlirusts ills head into a raree-show 1 
 His odoriferous attempts to please 
 Perhaps migbt prosper with u swarm of bees; 
 Hut wo that make no honey, though we stinif. 
 Poets are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 
 'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort, 
 What makes some sick, and others d-la-mort, 
 All argum.;nt of cogence, we may say, 
 'Why sueh a one should keep hiaiself away. 
 
 A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, 
 Q,uite as absurd though not so light as he: 
 A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
 An oracle within an empty cask, 
 The soh-mn fop ; significant and budge ; 
 A tool with judges, amongst fools a judge. 
 He says but little, and tliat little said 
 Owes all its weiiiht, like loaded dice, to lead. 
 
 His wit invites you by his looks to come, 
 
 But when you knock it never is at home : 
 
 Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage. 
 
 Some handsoine present, as your hopes presage, 
 
 'Tis heavy bulky, and bids lair to prove 
 
 An absent friend's fidelity and love, 
 
 But when unpack'd your disappointment groans 
 
 To find it stuff'd with brickbats earth and stones. 
 
 Some m.;n employ their health, an ugly trick, 
 In making known how oft they have been sick, 
 And give us in recitals of disease, 
 A doctor's trouble, but without the fees ; 
 Relate how many weeks they kept their bed. 
 How an emetic or cathartic spsd ; 
 Nothing is slightly touch'd. much less forgot, 
 Nose, ears and eyes, seem present on the spot. 
 Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill. 
 Victorious seeiued. and now the doctor's skill; 
 And now — alas for unforeseen mishaps ! 
 They put on a damp nightcap and relapse ; 
 They thought they must have died, they were so 
 
 bad : 
 Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 
 
 Some f'retful tempers wince at every touch, 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, 
 Your elevated voice goes through the brain ; 
 You fall at once into a lower key. 
 That's worse — the drone-pipe of an humble bee. 
 The southern sash admits too strong a light, 
 You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. 
 He shakes vi'ith. cold — you stir the fire and strive 
 To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
 Serve him with venison, and he wishes fish ; 
 With sole — that's just the sort he would not 
 
 wish. 
 He takes what he at first professed to loathe, 
 And in due time feeds heartily on both ; 
 Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
 He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
 Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
 Himself should work that wonder if he can- 
 Alas ' his efforts double his distress, 
 He likes yours little, and his own still less. 
 Thus always teasing others always teased, 
 His only jiieasure is to be (lis])leaseJ. 
 
 1 pity bashful men, who feel the pain 
 Of fancied scorn and un;leserved disdain, 
 And bear the marks upon a blushing face 
 Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. 
 Our sensibilities are so acute, 
 The fear of being silent makes us mute. 
 We so.netimes think wc could a speech produce 
 Much to tile purpose, if our tongues were loose ; 
 Hut being tried, it dies u])on the lip. 
 Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip: 
 Our wasted oil unprofitably burns. 
 Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. 
 Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain d, 
 It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd, 
 Hy way of wholesome curb upon our pride. 
 To fear each other fearing none beside. 
 The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 
 Sclt-searching with an introverted eye, 
 Conceal'd within an unsuspected part 
 The vainest corner of our own vain heart: 
 Forever aiming at the world's esteem. 
 Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 
 In other eyes our talents rarely shown, 
 Become at length .so splendid in our own, 
 We dare not risk them into ]mblic view. 
 Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.
 
 True modesty is a discerning grace, 
 
 And only blushes in the proper place ; 
 
 But counterl'eit is blind, and skulks through fear, 
 
 Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear : 
 
 Humility the parent of the first, 
 
 The last by vanity produced and nursed. 
 
 The circle form'd. we sit in silent state, 
 
 Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate ; 
 
 Yes, ma'am, and No. ma'am, utter'd softly, show 
 
 Every five minutes how the minutes go ; 
 
 Each individual, suffering a constraint 
 
 Poetry may, but colors cannot, paint ; 
 
 And, if in close committee on the sky, 
 
 Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 
 
 And finds a changing clime a happy source 
 
 Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. 
 
 We next inquire, but softly and by stealth. 
 
 Like conservators of the public health, 
 
 Of epidemic throats, if such there are, [tarrh. 
 
 And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and ca- 
 
 That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, 
 
 Fill'd up at last with interesting news. 
 
 Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed. 
 
 And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed : 
 
 But fear to call a more important cause. 
 
 As if 'twere treason against English laws. 
 
 The visit paid, with ecstacy we come, 
 
 As from a seven years' transportation, home, 
 
 And there resume an umembarrass'd brow, 
 
 Recovering what we lost, we know not how, 
 
 The faculties that seem'd reduced to nought. 
 
 Expression and the privilege of thought. 
 
 The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, 
 1 give him over as a desperate case. 
 Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, 
 Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ; 
 And though the tbx he tbllows may be tamed, 
 A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd. 
 Some farrier should prescribe a proper course, 
 Whose only fit companion is his horse, 
 Or if, deserving of a better doom. 
 The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. 
 Yet e'en the rogue that serves him, though he 
 
 stand 
 To take his honor's orders, cap in hand. 
 Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense, 
 Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. 
 If neither horse nor groom aflect the 'aquire, 
 Where can at last his jockeyship retire ] 
 Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys, 
 The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; 
 There, in the sweet society of those 
 Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, 
 Let him improve his talent if he can. 
 Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. 
 
 Man's heart had been impenetrably seal'd. 
 Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field. 
 Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand 
 Given him a soul, and bade him understand ; 
 The reasoning power vouchsafed, of course in- 
 
 ferr'd 
 The power to clothe that reason with his word ; 
 For all is perfect that God works on earth, 
 And he that gives conception aids the birth. 
 If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood. 
 What uses of his boon the Giver would. 
 The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil, [soil ; 
 Should range where Providence has bless'd the 
 Visiting every flower with labor meet. 
 And gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet, 
 She should imbue the tongue with what she sips. 
 And shed the balmy blessing on the hps. 
 
 That good diffused may more abundant grow, 
 And speech may praise the power that bids it flow 
 Will the sweet warbler of the livelong nio-ht. 
 That fills the listening lover with delight, 
 Forget his harmony, with rapture heard. 
 To learn the twittering of a meaner bird 1 
 Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice. 
 That odious libel on a human voice 1 
 No — nature, unsophisticate by man, 
 Starts not aside from her Creator's plan ; 
 The melody, that was at first design'd 
 To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind. 
 Is note for note dehver'd in our ears, 
 In the last scene of her six thousand years. 
 Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train. 
 Whom man, for his own hurt, permits to reign, 
 Who shifts and changes all things but his shape 
 And would degrade her votary to an ape. 
 The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong. 
 Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ; 
 There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, 
 Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace, 
 And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school 
 Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 
 'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree. 
 That none could frame or ratify but she, 
 That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sm 
 Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, 
 God and his attributes, (a field of day 
 Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray.) 
 Fruits of his love, and wonders of his might, 
 Be never named in ears esteem'd polite ; 
 That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, 
 Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave, 
 A close designer not to be believed, 
 Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived. 
 Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap. 
 Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap ! 
 Is it incredible, or can it seem 
 A dream to any except those that dream, 
 That man should love his Maker, and that fire. 
 Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire 1 
 Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes. 
 And veil your daring crest that braves the skies: 
 That air of insolence ailrojits your God, 
 You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : 
 Now, in a posture that becomes you more 
 Than that heroic strut assumed before. 
 Know, your arrears with every hour accrue 
 For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. 
 The time is short, and there are souls on earth. 
 Though future pain may serve for present mirth, 
 Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame, 
 By fashion tauglit. forbade them once to name, 
 And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, 
 Have proved them truths too big to be express'd. 
 Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground. 
 Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; [mock, 
 Touched by that power that you have dared to 
 That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, 
 Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream. 
 That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. 
 
 It happen'd on a solemn eventide, 
 Soon after He that was our surety died. 
 Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, 
 The scene of all those sorrows left behind. 
 Sought their own village, busied as they went 
 In musings worthy of the great event : 
 They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, 
 Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, 
 Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, 
 A deep memorial graven on their hearts
 
 The recollection, like a vein of ore, 
 
 The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more ; 
 
 They thought him, and they justly thought him, 
 
 one 
 Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done ; 
 To exalt a people, and to place them high 
 Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. 
 Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, 
 A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, 
 And ask'd them, with a kind, engaging air, 
 What their affliction was, and begg d a share. 
 Inform'd, he gather'd up the broken thread, 
 And, truth and wisdom gnicing all he said, 
 Explain'd. illustrated, and soarcli'd so well 
 The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, 
 That, reaching home, the nigiit. they said, is near, 
 We must not now be parted, sojourn here — 
 The new acquaintance soon became a guest, 
 And made so welcome at their simple feast. 
 He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word, 
 And letl them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord ! 
 Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say. 
 Did they not burn within us by the way 1 
 
 Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves 
 Man to maintain, and such as God approves: 
 Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, 
 But yet successful, being aim'd at hiiu, 
 Christ and his character their only scope. 
 Their object, and their subject, and their hope, 
 They felt what it became them much to feel. 
 And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, 
 Found him as prompt as their desire was true, 
 To spread the new-born glories in their view. 
 Well — what are ages and the lapse of time 
 Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime 1 
 Can lengtii of years on God himself exact"? 
 Or make that fiction which was once a fact'? 
 No — marble and recording brass decay, 
 And, like the graver's memory, pass away; 
 The works of man inherit, as is just. 
 Their author's fraiky, and return to dust : 
 But truth divine forever stands secure. 
 Its head is guarded as its base is sure; 
 Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, 
 The pillar of the eternal plan appears, 
 The raving storm and dasiiing wave defies. 
 Built by that Architect who built the skies. 
 Hearts may be found, that harbor at this hour 
 That love of Christ, and all its quickening power ; 
 And lips unstained by folly or by strife, 
 Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of 
 
 life. 
 Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows 
 A Jordan for the ablution of our woes. 
 O days of heaven, and nights of equal praise. 
 Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days. 
 When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet 
 Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat. 
 Discourse, as if released and safe at home. 
 Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, 
 And sprc-ad the sacred treasures of the breast 
 Upon the lap of covenanted rest ! 
 
 What, always dr(\aining over heavenly things. 
 Like angid-heads in stone with pigeon-wings '! 
 Canting and whining out all day the word, 
 And ialf the night ? fanatic ami absurd ! 
 Mine be the friend less frrquent in his prayers, 
 Who makes no hustle with his souls allairs. 
 Whose W't can brighten up a wintry day. 
 And chase the splenetic dull hours away; 
 Content on earth in earthly things to shine, 
 VVho waits for heaven ere he becomes divme. 
 
 Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teacli, 
 And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach. 
 
 Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame. 
 Known by thy bleating. Ignorance thy name. 
 Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right 1 
 The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light 1 
 Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour, 
 That come to wall us out of sorrow's power, 
 Obscure or quench a faculty that finds 
 Its happiest soil in the serenest minds 1 
 Religion curbs indeed its wanton play. 
 And brings the trifler under rigorous sway. 
 But gives it usefulness unknown before, 
 And purifying, makes it shine the more. 
 A Christian's wit is inolfensive light, 
 A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; 
 Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth ; 
 'Tis always active on the side of truth ; 
 Temperance and peace ensure its healthful state, 
 And make it brightest at its latest date. 
 Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain. 
 Ere life go down, to see such sights again) 
 A veteran warrior in the Christian field, 
 Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; 
 Grave without dulness, learned without pride, 
 Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eye'd ; 
 A man that woukl have foil'd at their own play 
 A dozen would-i)e's of the modern day ; 
 Who, when occasion justified its use, 
 Had wit as bright as ready to produce, 
 Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 
 Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page, 
 His rich materials, and regale your ear 
 \Vith strains it was a privilege to hear : 
 Yet above all his luxur_y supreme, 
 And his chief glory, was the gospel theme ; 
 There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, 
 His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, 
 Ambitious not to shine or to excel. 
 But to treat justly what he loved so well. 
 
 It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, 
 When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, 
 Suppose themselves monopolists of sense. 
 And wiser men's ability pretence. 
 Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, 
 Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, 
 Their t'ragrant memory will outlast their tomb, 
 Embahn'd forever in its own perfume. 
 And to say truth, though in its early prime. 
 And when unstain'd with any grosser crhne. 
 Youth has a sprightliness anil fire to boast. 
 That in the valley of decline are lost, 
 And virtue with peculiar charms appears, 
 Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years; 
 Yet age, by long experience well inform'd. 
 Well read, well temper'd, with religion wann'd, 
 That fire abated which impels rash youth, 
 Prouil of his speed, to overshoot the truth, 
 As time improves the grape's authentic juice, 
 Mellows and makes the speech more fit lor use. 
 And claims a reverence in its shortening day. 
 That 'tis an honor and a joy to pay. 
 The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound, 
 Than those a brighter season pours around; 
 And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, 
 Through wintry rigors unimpair'd endu'e. 
 
 What is fanatic irenzy, seorn'd so much. 
 And dreaded more than a contagious touch 1 
 I grant it dangerous, and approve your tear. 
 That fire is catching, if you draw too near ; 
 But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 
 And give true piety that odious name.
 
 556 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 To tremble (as the creature of an hour 
 
 Ought at the view of an ahnighty power) * 
 
 Before his presence, at whose awful throne 
 
 All tremble in all worlds, except our own, 
 
 To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, 
 
 And pnze them above pleasure wealth, or praise, 
 
 Though coaimon sense, allow'd a casting voice, 
 
 And free from bias, must approve the choice, 
 
 Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, 
 
 And wild as madness in the world's esteem. 
 
 But that disease when soberly defined, 
 
 Is the false lire of an o'erheated mind ; 
 
 It views the truth with a distorted eye. 
 
 And either warps or lays it useless by ; 
 
 'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws 
 
 Its sordid nourishment t'roai man's applause ; 
 
 And, while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, 
 
 Presumes itself chief lavorite of the skies. 
 
 'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds 
 
 In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, 
 
 Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day, 
 
 The stench remains, the lustre dies away. 
 
 True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed 
 Of hearts in union mutually disclosed; 
 And, farewell else all hope of pure delight. 
 Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- 
 right. 
 Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name. 
 Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame. 
 A dark confederacy against the laws 
 Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause: 
 They build each other up with dreadful skill. 
 As bastions set point-blank against God's will; 
 Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt. 
 Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out; 
 Call legions up from hell to back the deed ; 
 And, cursed with conquest finally succeed. 
 But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 
 Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range. 
 And with a fearless confidence make known 
 The sorrows sympathy e_steems its own. 
 Daily derive increasing light and force 
 From such communion in their pleasant course. 
 Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, 
 Meet their opposers with united strength. 
 And, one in heart, in interest, and design, 
 Gird up each other to the race divine. 
 
 But Conversation, choose what theme we may. 
 And chiefly when Religion leads the way. 
 Should flow, like waters after summer showers. 
 Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. 
 The Christian, in whose soul, though now dis- 
 
 tress'd, 
 Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd. 
 When all his glowing language issued forth 
 With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, 
 Will speak without disguise, and must impart, 
 Sad as it is his undissembling heart. 
 Abhors constraint, and dares not feicrn a zeal, 
 Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel. 
 The song of Zion is a tasteless thincr. 
 Unless, when rising on a joyful wincr. 
 The soul can mix with the celestial bands. 
 And give the strain the compass it demands. 
 
 Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat 
 A*ll but their own experience as deceit ! 
 Will they believe, though credulous enough 
 To swallow much upon much weaker proof, 
 That there are blest inhabitants on earth, 
 Partakers of a new ethereal birth. 
 Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged 
 From things terrestrial, and divinely changed, 
 
 Their very language of a kind that speaks 
 
 The soul's sure interest in the good she seeks, 
 
 Who deal with scripture, its importance felt, 
 
 As TuUy with Philosophy once dealt. 
 
 And, in the silent watches of the night. 
 
 And through the scenes of toil-renewing litrht, 
 
 The social walk, or solitary ride, 
 
 Keep still the dear companion at their side 1 
 
 No — shame upon a self-disgracing age, 
 
 God's work ujay serve an ape upon a stage 
 
 With such a jest as fill'd with hellish glee 
 
 Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ; 
 
 But veneration or respect finds none. 
 
 Save from the subjects of that work alone. 
 
 The World grown old her deep discernment 
 
 Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, [shows, 
 
 Peruses closely the true Christian's face. 
 
 And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; 
 
 Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare, 
 
 And finds hypocrisy close lurking there; 
 
 And serving God herself through mere constraint. 
 
 Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. 
 
 And yet. God knows, look human nature through, 
 
 (And in due time the world shall know it too) 
 
 That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast. 
 
 That after man's defection laid all waste. 
 
 Sincerity towards the heart-searching God 
 
 Has made the new-born creature her abode, 
 
 Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls 
 
 Till the last fire burn all between the poles. 
 
 Sincerity ! why 'tis his only pride. 
 
 Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, 
 
 He knows that God demands his heart entire, 
 
 And gives him all his just demands require. 
 
 Without it, his pretensions were as vain 
 
 As, having it. he deems the world's disdain; 
 
 That great defect would cost him not alone 
 
 Man's favorable judgment but his own ; 
 
 His birthright shaken, and no longer clear 
 
 Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. 
 
 Retort the charge, and let the world be told 
 
 She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; 
 
 That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead 
 
 A cold misgiving and a killing dread : 
 
 That while in health the ground of her support 
 
 Is madly to forget that life is short ; 
 
 That sick she trembles, knowing she must die. 
 
 Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; 
 
 That while she dotes and dreanis that she believes, 
 
 She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives. 
 
 Her utmost reach historical assent. 
 
 The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant; 
 
 That truth itself is in her head as dull 
 
 And useless as a candle in a skull. 
 
 And all her love of God a groundless claim, 
 
 A trick upon the canvas, painted flame. 
 
 Tell her again, the sneer upon her face. 
 
 And all her censures of the work of grace. 
 
 Are insincere, meant only to conceal 
 
 A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel ; 
 
 That in her heart the Christian she reveres. 
 
 And, while she seems to scorn him, only fears. 
 
 A poet does not work by square or fine. 
 As smiths and joiners pertect a design ; 
 At least we moderns, our attention less. 
 Beyond the example of our sires digress, 
 And claim a right to scamper and run wide. 
 Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. 
 The world and I fortuitously met ; 
 I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt ; 
 She did me wrong. I recompensed the deed, 
 And, having struck the balance, now proceeti
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 557 
 
 Perhaps, however, as some years have pass'd 
 
 Since she and I conversed together last, 
 
 And I have hved recluse in rural shades, 
 
 Which seldom a distinct report pervades. 
 
 Great chanjrrs and new manners have occurr'd, 
 
 And blest reforms that I have never heard, 
 
 And she may now be as discreet and wise, 
 
 As once absurd in all discerning eyes. 
 
 Sobriety perhaps may now be found. 
 
 Where once intoxication press'd the ground ; 
 
 The subtle and injurious may be just. 
 
 And he grown chaste thatv^'as the slave of lust; 
 
 Arts once estcem'd may be with shame dismiss'd ; 
 
 Charity may relax the miser's fist ; 
 
 The gamester may have cast his cards away, 
 
 Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. 
 
 It has indeed been told me (witb what weight, 
 
 How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state,) 
 
 That fables old, that seem'd forever mute, 
 
 Revived, are hastening into fresh repute. 
 
 And gods and goddesses, discarded long. 
 
 Like useless lumber or a stroller's song, 
 
 Are bringing into vogue their heathen train, 
 
 And Jupiter bids fair to rule again ; 
 
 That certain feasts are instituted now, 
 
 Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow; 
 
 That all Olympus through the country roves, 
 
 To consecrate our few remaining groves, 
 
 And Echo learns politely to repeat 
 
 The praise of names tor ages obsolete ; 
 
 That having proved the weakness, it should seem. 
 
 Of revelation's ineffectual beam, 
 
 To bring the passions under sober sway. 
 
 And give the moral springs their proper play. 
 
 They mean to try what may at last be done, 
 
 By stout substantial gods of wood and stone. 
 
 And whether Roaian rites may not produce 
 
 The virtues of old Rome tor English use. 
 
 May such success attend the pious plan. 
 
 May Mercury once more embellish man, 
 
 Grace him ayain with long tbrgotten arts, 
 
 Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts, 
 
 Make him athletic, as in days of old. 
 
 Learned at the bar, in the palaestra bold, 
 
 Divest the rougher sex of female airs, 
 
 And teach the sotler not to copy theirs: 
 
 The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught, 
 
 Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 
 
 'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus, 
 
 For us plain tbiks, and all who side with us, 
 
 To build our altar conlideiit and bold. 
 
 And say, as stern Elijah said of old, 
 
 The strife now stands upon a fair award. 
 
 If Israel's L ird be God, then serve the Lord : 
 
 If he be silent, faith is all a whim, 
 
 Then Baal is the God, and worship him. 
 
 Digression is so much in modern use, 
 Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, 
 Some never seem so wide of their intent, 
 As when returning to the theme they meant ; 
 As mendicants whose business is to roam. 
 Make every parish but their own their home. 
 Though such continual zigzags in a book. 
 Such drunken reelings have an awkward look. 
 And I had rather creep to what is true. 
 Than rove and stagger with no mark in view ; 
 Yet to consult a little seem'd no crime. 
 The freakish humor of the present time : 
 But now to gather up what seems dispersed, 
 And touch tiie subject I design'd at first. 
 May prove, though much beside the rules of arl, 
 Best tor the public, and my wisest part. 
 And first, let no man charge me that I mean 
 To clothe in sable every social scene. 
 And give good company a face severe, 
 As if they met around a father's bier ; 
 For tell some men that, pleasure all their bent, 
 And laughter all their work is life misspent, 
 Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, 
 Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. 
 To find the medium asks some share of wit. 
 Ami therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. 
 But though life's valley be a vale of tears, 
 A brighter scene beyond that vale appears. 
 Whose glory with a light that never fades, [shades, 
 Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening 
 And while it shows the land the soul desires, 
 The language of the land she seeks inspires. 
 Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure 
 Of all that was absurd, profane, impure; 
 Held within modest bounds the tide of speech 
 Pursues the course that truth and nature teach , 
 No longer labors merely to produce 
 The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use : 
 Where'er it winds tlie salutary stream. 
 Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, 
 While all tlie happy man possess'd before, 
 The gifl of nature or the classic store. 
 Is made .subservient to the grand design, 
 For which Heaven foraicd the faculty divine. 
 So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, 
 Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays. 
 With rash and awkward force the chords ha 
 
 shakes 
 And grins with wonder at the jar he makes ; 
 But let the wise and well-instructed hand, 
 Once take the shell beneath his just command, 
 In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd 
 Of the ruile injuries it late sustain'd, 
 Till, tuned at length to some immortal song. 
 It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his prauM 
 along.
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 a udiis florens ignobilis oti. 
 
 ViRG. Georg. lib. iv. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 rhe busy universally desirous of retirement — Important 
 purpose for which this desire was given to man — Mus- 
 ing on the works of the creation, a happy employment 
 — The service of God not incompatible, however, with 
 a life of business— Human life ; its pursuits — Various 
 motives for seeking retirement — The poet's delight in 
 the study of nature — The lover's fondness for retire- 
 ment—The hypochondriac — Melancholy, a malady that 
 claims most compassion, receives the least — Suflerings 
 of the melancholy man — The statesman's retirement — 
 His new mode of life &nd company — Soon weary of re- 
 tirement, he returns to his former pursuits — Citizens' 
 viUas — Fashion of frequenting watering-places — The 
 ocean — The spendthrift in forced retirement — The 
 sportsman ostler — The management of leisure a ditH- 
 cult task — Man will be summoned to account for the 
 employment of life — Books and friends requisite for 
 the man of leism-e ; and divine communion to fill the 
 remaining void — Rehgion not adverse to innocent 
 pleasures — The poet concludes with reference to his 
 own pursuit. 
 
 Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar, 
 Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no 
 
 more, 
 But which, when hfe at ebb runs weak and low. 
 All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ; 
 The statesman, lawyer, man of trade. 
 Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, 
 Where, all his long anxieties forgot 
 Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, 
 Or recollected only to gild o'er. 
 And add a smile to what was sweet before, 
 He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, 
 Lay his old age upon thQ lap of ease. 
 Improve the remnant of his wasted span. 
 And, having lived a trifler, die a man. [breast, 
 Thus conscience pleads her cause within the 
 Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd. 
 And calls a creature form'd for God alone. 
 For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own, 
 Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, 
 From what debilitates and what inflames. 
 From cities humming with a restless crowd, 
 Sordid as active, ignorant as loud, 
 Whose highest praise is that they live in vair, 
 The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, 
 Wliere works of man are cluster'd close around, 
 And works of God are hardly to be found, 
 To regions where, in spite of sin and woe, 
 T'races of Eden are still seen below. 
 Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grave, 
 Remind him of his Maker's power and love. 
 'Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day. 
 In the last scene of such a senseless play, 
 True wisdom will attend his feeble call, 
 And grace his action ere the curtain fall, [birth. 
 Souls that have long despised their heavenly 
 Their wishes all impregnated with earth, 
 
 For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless 
 In catching smoke and feeding upon air, [care 
 Conversant only with the ways of men, 
 Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. 
 Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart. 
 Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part. 
 And, draining its nutritious powers to feed 
 Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. 
 
 Happy, if full of days — but happier far, 
 If, ere we yet discern life's evening star, 
 Sick of the service of a world, that feeds 
 Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, 
 We can escape from custom's idiot sway. 
 To serve th»e sovereign we were born to obey. 
 Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd 
 (Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! 
 To trace in nature's most minute design 
 The signature and stamp of power divine, 
 Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease, 
 Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, 
 The shapely limb and lubricated joint, 
 Within the small dimensions of a point. 
 Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, 
 His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, 
 The invisible in things scarce »een reveal'd, 
 To whom an atom is an ample li. 'd : 
 To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 
 These hatch'd. and those resuscitated worms, 
 New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share. 
 Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, 
 Whose shape would make them, had they bulk 
 
 and size, 
 More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; 
 "IVith helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn'd, 
 The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd. 
 Would mock the majesty of man's high birth. 
 Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth : 
 Then with a glance of fancy to survey, 
 Far as the faculty can stretch away. 
 Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command. 
 From urns that never fail, through every land ; 
 These like a deluge with impetuous force. 
 Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
 The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 
 Seas, on which every nation spreads her sails ; 
 The sun, a world whence other worlds drink 
 The crescent moon, the diadem of night; [light, 
 Stars countless, each in his appointed place, 
 Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space — « 
 At such a sight to catch the poet's flame. 
 And with a rapture like his own exclaim 
 These are thy glorious works, thou Source of 
 
 Good, 
 How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
 Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care, 
 This universal frame, thus wondrous fair ; 
 
 • mi
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 659 
 
 Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought, 
 Adored and praised in ail thattliou liast wrought. 
 Absorb 'd in that immensity I see, 
 I shrinlv al)ashed, and yet aspire to thee ; 
 Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly day 
 Thy words more clearly than thy works display, 
 That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine 
 I may rt s Mnble thee, and call thee mine. 
 
 O blest proficiency ! surpassing all 
 Tliat men erroneously their glory call, 
 The recompense that arts or arms can yield, 
 The bar, the senate, or the tented field. 
 Compared with this sublimest life below, 
 Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show 1 
 Thus studied, used, and consecrated thus, 
 On earth what is, seems Ibrm'd indeed ibr us ; 
 Not as the plaything of a frowarti child, 
 Freti'ul unless diverted and beguiled. 
 Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires, 
 Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, 
 But as a scale, by which the soul ascends 
 From mighty means to more important c/'.n.=. 
 Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, 
 Mounts from interior beings up to God, 
 And sec!S by no iVillucious liglit or dim, 
 Earth made lor man. and man himself for him. 
 
 Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce, 
 A superstitious and monastic course : 
 Truth is not local, God alike pervades 
 And fills tlie world of traffic and the shades, 
 And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes, 
 Or scorn 'd where business never intervenes. 
 But, 'tis not easy with a mind like ours. 
 Conscious cf weakness in its noblest powers, 
 And in a world where, other ills apart. 
 The roving eye misleads the careless heart 
 To limit thought, by nature prone to stray 
 Wherever freakish lancy points the way ; 
 To bid the pleadings of self-love bo still. 
 Resign our own and seek our Maker's will ; 
 To spread the page of scripture, and compare 
 Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; 
 To measure all that passes in the breast, 
 Faithfully, I'airly, by that sacred test; 
 To dive into the secret deeps within. 
 To spare no passion and no Ikvorite sin. 
 And search the themes, important above all, 
 Ourselves, and our recovery from oar fall. 
 But leisure, silence, and a mind released 
 From anxious thoughts how wealth may be in- 
 creased, 
 How to secure, in some propitious hour, 
 The point of interest or the post of power, 
 A soul serene, and equally retired 
 From objects too much dreaded or desired, 
 Safe from the clamors of perverse dispute, 
 At least are friendly to the great pursuit. 
 
 Opening llie map of God's extensive plan. 
 We find a little isle, this lite of man ; 
 Eternity's unknown expanse appears 
 Circling around and limiting his years. 
 The l)usy race examine and explore 
 Each cre(^k and cavern of tli'- dangerous shore. 
 With care collect what in their eyes excels, 
 Some shilling pebbles, and some weeds and 
 
 shells. 
 Thus laden, dream that they are rich and great. 
 And happiest he that groans beneath his weight. 
 The waves o'ertake them in their serious play. 
 And every liour sweeps nmltitudcs away; 
 They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep. 
 Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep. 
 
 A few forsake the throng ; with lifted eyes 
 Ask wealth of Heaven, and gaiji a real prize. 
 Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above, 
 Seal'd with his signet, whom they serve and 
 
 love ; 
 Scorn'd by the rest, with patient hope they wait 
 A kind release from their imperfect state, 
 And unregretted are soon snatch'd away 
 From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. 
 
 Nor these alone prefer a life recluse, 
 Who seek retirement for its proper use ; 
 The love of change that lives in every breast, 
 Genius, and temper, and desire of rest. 
 Discordant motives in one centre meet. 
 And each inclines its votary to retreat. 
 Some minds by nature are averse to noise, 
 And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, 
 The lure of avarice, or the pompous prize 
 That courts display before ambitious eyes ; 
 The fruits that iiang on pleasure's flowery stem, 
 W^hate'er enchants them, are no snares to them 
 To them th-; deep recess of dusky groves, 
 Or forest, where the deer securely roves. 
 The tall of waters, and the song of birds, 
 And hills that echo to the distant herds. 
 Are luxuries excelling all the glare [share 
 
 The world can boast and her chief favoritei 
 W^ith eager step, and carelessly array'd, 
 For such a cause the poet seeks the shade. 
 From all he sees he catches new delight. 
 Pleased Fancy claps her y)inious at the sight. 
 The rising or the srlting orb of day. 
 The clouds tliat flit, or slowly float away, 
 Nature in all the various shapes she wears. 
 Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs. 
 The snowy robe her wintry state assumes. 
 Her summer heats, her fruits, and her perfumef? 
 All. all alike transport the glowing bard, 
 Success in rhyme his glory and reward. 
 O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disc-lose 
 His bright perfections at whose word they r®se. 
 Next to that power who fbrm'd thee, and sustains, 
 Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. 
 Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand 
 Thy genuine charais. and guide an artless hand, 
 That I may catch a fire but rarely known. 
 Give useful light, though 1 should miss renown, 
 And, poring on thy page, whose every line 
 Bears proof of an intelligence divine, 
 May t'eel a heart enrich'd by what it pays, 
 That builds its glory on its Maker's praise. 
 Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use, 
 Glittering in vain, or only to seduce, 
 Who stu(hes nature with a wanton eye. 
 Admires the work, but slips the lesson by ; 
 His hours of leisure and recess employs 
 In drawing pictures of Ibrbiddcn joys^ 
 Retires to blazon his own worthless name, 
 Or shoot the careless with a surer aim. 
 
 The lover too sliuns business and alarms. 
 Tender idolater of absent charms. 
 Saints olTer nothing in their warmest prayers 
 That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 
 'Tis consecration of his heart soul, time. 
 And every thought that wanders is a crime. 
 In sighs he worships his supremely fiiir, 
 And weeps a sad libation in despair ; 
 Adores a creature, and. devout in vain, 
 Wins in return an answer of disdain. 
 As woodbine weds the plant within her reach, 
 Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or glossT 
 beech.
 
 560 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays 
 Her golden tassels on the lealy sprays, 
 But does a mischief while she lends a grace, 
 Straitening its growth h}' such a strict embrace ; 
 So love that clings around the noblest minds 
 Forliids the advancement of the soul he binds ; 
 The suitor's air indeed he soon improves. 
 And forms it to the taste of her he loves, 
 Teaches his eyes a language, and no less 
 Refines his speech and tashions his address; 
 But farewell promises of happier fruits. 
 Manly designs, and learnings grave pursuits; 
 Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break, 
 His only bliss is sorrow for her sake ; 
 Who will may pant tor glory and excel, 
 Her smile his aim. all higher aims farewell ! 
 Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name 
 May least offend against so pure a flame, 
 Though sage advice of friends the most sincere 
 Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear, 
 And lovers, of all creatures tame or wild. 
 Can least brook management, however mild. 
 Yet let a poet (pottry disarms 
 The fiercest animals with magic charms) 
 Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood, 
 And woo and win thee to thy proper good. 
 Pastoral images and still retreats. 
 Umbrageous walks and solitary seats, 
 Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams. 
 Soft airs nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams, 
 Are all enchantments in a case like thine. 
 Conspire against thy peace with one design. 
 Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey, 
 And feed the fire that wastes thy powers away. 
 Up — God has formed thee with a wiser view, 
 Not to be led in chains, but to subdue; 
 Calls thee to cope with enemies and first 
 Points out a conflict with thyself the worst. 
 Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow 
 When he design'd a Paradise below, 
 The richest earthly boon his hands aff'ord, 
 Deserves to be beloved but not adored. 
 Post away swiftly to more active scenes, 
 Collect the scatter'd truth that study gleans, 
 Mix with the world, but with its wiser part, 
 No longer give an image all thine heart; 
 Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 
 'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine. 
 
 Virtuous and faithful FIkbkrdkn, whose skill 
 Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil. 
 Gives melancholy up to nature's care, 
 And sends the patient into purer air. 
 Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove 
 Stand close conceal'd and see a statue move: 
 Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow. 
 Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below. 
 Interpret to the marking eye distress. 
 Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
 That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue 
 Could argue once, could je.st, or join the song, 
 Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
 Gr charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
 Renounced alike its office and its sport. 
 Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; 
 Both fail beneath a fever's secret Fway, 
 And like a summer-brook are past away. 
 This is a sight for pity to peruse, 
 Till she resemble faintly what she views, 
 Till sympathy contract a kindred pain. 
 Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. 
 This, of all maladies that man infest, 
 Claims most compassion, and receives the least : 
 
 Job felt it when he groan'd beneath the rod 
 
 And the barb'd arrows of a frowning God ; 
 
 And such emollients as his friends could spare, 
 
 Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. 
 
 Blest rather curst, with hearts that never feel. 
 
 Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel, 
 
 With mouths made only to grin wide and eat. 
 
 And minds that deem derided pain a treat. 
 
 With limbs of British oak and nerves of wire 
 
 And wit that puppet prompters might inspire, 
 
 Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke 
 
 On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke. 
 
 But, with a soul that ever felt t'le sting 
 
 Of sorrow sorrow is a sacred thing; 
 
 Not to molest, or irritate, or raise 
 
 A laugh at his expense, is slender praise ; 
 
 He that has not usurp'd the name of man 
 
 Does all, and deems too little all, he can, 
 
 To assuage the throb!)ings of the fester'd part, 
 
 And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart. 
 
 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose. 
 
 Forgery of fanc3^ and a dream of woes; 
 
 Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight. 
 
 Each yielding harmony disposed aright; 
 
 The screws reversed (a task which if he please 
 
 God in a moment executes with ease,) 
 
 Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, 
 
 Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 
 
 Then neither heathy wilds nor scenes as fair 
 
 As ever recompensed the peasant's care. 
 
 Nor soft declivities with tufted hills. 
 
 Nor view of waters turning busy mills. 
 
 Parks in which art preceptress nature weds. 
 
 Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds. 
 
 Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves, 
 
 And waft it to the mourner as he roves. 
 
 Can call up life into his faded eye, 
 
 That passes all he sees unheeded by ; 
 
 No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels. 
 
 No cure for such till God who makes them heaw. 
 
 And thou sad sufferer under nameless ill 
 
 That yields not to the touch of human skill. 
 
 Improve the kind occasion, understand 
 
 A Father's frown and kiss his chastening hand 
 
 To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon, 
 
 The purple evening and resplendent moon. 
 
 The stars that sprinkled o'er the vault oi night, 
 
 Seem drops descending in a shower of light, 
 
 Shine not or undesired and hated shine. 
 
 Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : 
 
 Yet seek him, in his favor life is found, 
 
 All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : 
 
 Then heaven eclipsed so long and this dull earth, 
 
 Shall seem to start into a second birth; 
 
 Nature, assuming a more lovely face. 
 
 Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 
 
 Shall be despised and overlook'd no more, 
 
 Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, 
 
 Impart to things inanimate a voice, 
 
 And bid her mountains and her hills rejoif-e ', 
 
 The sound shall run along the winding vales. 
 
 And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 
 
 Ye groves (the statesman at his desk exclaim^ 
 Sick of a thousand disappointed aims.) 
 My patrimonial treasure and my pride. 
 Beneath your shades your grey possessor hide, 
 Receive me languishing for that repose 
 The servant of the public never knows. 
 Ye saw me once (ah those regretted days. 
 When boyish innocence was all my praise !"> 
 Hour after hour delightfully allot, 
 To studies then familiar, since forgot,
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 561 
 
 And cultivate a taste for ancient song, 
 Catching its ardor as I mused along ; 
 Nor seldom as propitious Heaven might send, 
 What once I valued and could hoast a friend, 
 Were witnesses how cordially I press'd 
 His undissetnl)ling virtue to my breast: 
 Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then 
 Nor guiltless of corrupting other men, 
 But versed in arts that, while they seem to stay 
 A falling empire, hasten its decay. 
 To the fair haven of my native home, 
 The wreck of what I was. fatigued. I come ; 
 For once I can approve the patriot's voice. 
 And make the course he recommends my choice: 
 We meet at last in one sincere desire, 
 His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. 
 'Tis done, he step.-; into the welcoure chaise. 
 Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays, 
 That whirl away from business and debate 
 The (lisencumber'd Atlas of the stale. 
 Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn 
 First shakos the glittering drops from every thorn, 
 Unlblds his (lock, then under bank or bush 
 Sits linking cherry-stones, or platting rush. 
 How fair is treedom 'I — he was always free: 
 To carve his ru.stic name upon a tree, 
 To snare the mole, or with ill-fishion'd hook 
 To draw the incautious minnow from the brook, 
 Are life's prime pkasures in his simple view, 
 His fiock the chief concern he ever knew ; 
 She shines but little in his heedless eyes, 
 The good we never miss we rarely prize : 
 But ask the noble drudge in state affairs. 
 Escaped from oilice. and its constant cares, 
 Whatcharms he sees in Freedom'ssmile express'd. 
 In freedom lost so long, now repossess'd ; [mands, 
 The tongue whose strains were cogent as coin- 
 Revered at hoMic, and felt in Ibreign lands, 
 Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause, 
 Or plead its silence as its best applause. 
 He knows indeed that, whether dress'd or rude. 
 Wild without art, or artfully subdued, 
 Nature in every form inspires delight, 
 But never mark'd her with so just a sight. 
 Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store. 
 With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er. 
 Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that 
 Its cooling vapor o'er the dewy meads, [spreads 
 Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye, 
 That melt and fade into the distant sky, 
 Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd, 
 Seem all created since he travell'd last. 
 Master of all the enjoyments he design'd. 
 No rough annoyance rankling in his mind. 
 What (tarly philosophic hours he keeps. 
 How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps . 
 Not sounder he that on the mainmast head, 
 While uiorning kindles with a windy red, 
 Begins a long look-out for distant land. 
 Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand, 
 Then, swill descending with a seaman's haste, 
 Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast. 
 He chooses company, but not the squire's, 
 Wiiose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires ; 
 Nor yet the parson's, who would gladly co:ne, 
 Obsequious when abroad, though jiroud at home; 
 Nor can he much alTect the neighboring peer, 
 Whose toe of emulation treads too near ; 
 But wisely seeks a more convenient friend. 
 With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend. 
 A maxi, wtiom mariis of condescending grace, 
 Teach, while they Hatter him, his proper place ; 
 
 Who comes when cali'd, and at a word withdraws, 
 
 Speak* with reserve, and listens with applause : 
 
 Some plain mechanic, who, without pretence, 
 
 To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; 
 
 On whom he rests well pleased his weary powers^ 
 
 And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. 
 
 The tide of life, switl always in its course, 
 
 May run in cities with a brisker force, 
 
 But nowhere with a current so serene, 
 
 Or half so clear, as in the rural scene. 
 
 Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss. 
 
 What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss-, 
 
 Some pleasures live a month, and some a year. 
 
 But short the date of all we gather here ; 
 
 No happiness is felt, except tlie true. 
 
 That does not charm thee more for being new. 
 
 This observation, as it chanced, not made. 
 
 Or, if the thought occurr'd, not duly weigh'd, 
 
 He sighs — for atler all by slow degrees 
 
 The spot he loved has lost the power to please; 
 
 To cross his ambling pony day by day 
 
 Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; 
 
 The prospect, such as might enchant despair. 
 
 He views it not, or sees no beauty there ; 
 
 With aching heart, and discontented looks, 
 
 Returns at noon to billiards or to books. 
 
 But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, 
 
 A secret thirst of his renounced employs. 
 
 He chides the tardiness of every post. 
 
 Pants to be told of battles won or lost, 
 
 Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, 
 
 'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state. 
 
 Flies to the levee, and, received with grace. 
 
 Kneels kisses hands, and shines again in place. 
 
 Suburban villas highway-side retreats [streets. 
 That dread the encroachment of our growing 
 Tight boxes, neatly sash'd, and in a blaze 
 With all a July sun's collected rays, 
 Delight the citizen, who, gasping there, 
 Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. 
 O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought 
 That could afford retirement, or could not 1 
 'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight, 
 The second milestone fronts the garden gate ; 
 A step if fair, and, if a shower approach. 
 You find sate shelter in the next stage-coach. 
 There, prison'd in a parlor snug and small, 
 Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall, 
 The man of business, and his friends compress'd 
 Forget their labors, and yet find no rest ; 
 But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen 
 From every window, and the fields are green; 
 Ducks paddle in the pond before the door, 
 .A,nd what could a remoter scene show morel 
 A sense of elegance we rarely find 
 The portion of a mean or vulgar mind, 
 .Vnd ignorance of better things makes man, 
 Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can; 
 And he, that deems his leisure well bestow'd 
 In contemplation of a turnpike-road. 
 Is occupied as well, employs his hours 
 As wisely, and as much improves his powers, 
 As he that slumbers in pavilions graced 
 With all the charms of an accoinplish'd taste. 
 Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies ; and hence 
 The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense. 
 From ail his wearisome engagements freed, 
 Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed 
 
 Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, 
 Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, 
 When health required it, would consi^nt to roam, 
 Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home ; 
 
 3fi
 
 662 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, 
 Ingenious to diversify dull life. 
 In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys, 
 Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys, 
 And all, impatient of dry land, agree 
 With one consent to rush into the sea. 
 Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad. 
 Much of the power and majesty of God. 
 He swathes about the swelling of the deep. 
 That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleej ; 
 Vast as it is, it answers as it flows 
 The breathings of the lightest air that blows ; 
 Curling and whitening over all the waste, 
 The rising waves obey the increasing blast, 
 Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars, 
 Tliunder and flash upon the steadfast shores. 
 Till he that rides the whirlwind checks the rein, 
 Then all the world of waters sleeps again. 
 Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads, 
 Now in the floods, now panting in the meads, 
 Votaries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells, 
 Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells, 
 
 grant a poet leave to recommend 
 
 (A poet fond of nature, and your friend) 
 Her slighted works to your admiring view ; 
 Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you. 
 Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride. 
 With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side. 
 Condemn the prattler for his idle pains, 
 To waste unheard, the music of his strains, 
 And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue, 
 That, while it courts, aflronts and does you wrong, 
 Mark well the flnish'd plan without a fault. 
 The seas globose and huge, the o'erarching vault, 
 Earth's millions daily fed, a vs'orld employ'd 
 In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy'd. 
 Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise 
 Of God, beneficent in all his ways ; [shine ! 
 
 Graced with such wisdom how would beauty 
 Ye want but that to seem, indeed divine. 
 
 Anticipated rents and bills unpaid. 
 Force many a shining youth into the shade. 
 Not to redeem his time, but his estate, 
 And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. 
 There, hid in loathed obscuritv, removed 
 From pleasures letl, but never more beloved, 
 He just endures, and with a sickly spleen 
 Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. 
 Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme ; 
 Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime : 
 The warbiings of the blackbird, clear and strong. 
 Are musical enough in Thomson's song ; 
 And Cobham's groves, and Windsor's green re- 
 treats, 
 When Pope describes them, have a thousand 
 
 sweets ; 
 He likes the country, but in truth must own, 
 Most likes it when he studies it in town. 
 
 Poor Jack — no matter who — for when I blame, 
 
 1 pity, and must therefore sink the name, 
 Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, 
 And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. 
 The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years. 
 Was quickly distanced, match'd against a peer's. 
 Jack vanish'd, was regretted, and forgot; 
 
 'Tis wil<l good-nature's never failing lot. 
 
 At length, when all had long supposed him dead. 
 
 By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead, 
 
 My lord, alighting at his usual place, 
 
 The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. 
 
 Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise 
 
 He might escape the most observing eyes. 
 
 And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay, 
 Curried his nag and look'd another way ; 
 Convinced at last, upon a nearer view, 
 'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, 
 O'erwhelni'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy 
 He press'd him much to quit his base employ ; 
 His countenance, his purse, his hea :t, his hand, 
 Influence and power, were all at his command ; 
 Peers are not always generous as well bred. 
 But Granby was, meant truly what he said. 
 Jack bow'd, and was obliged — confess'd 'twa* 
 
 strange, 
 That so retired he should not wish a change. 
 But knew no medium between guzzling beer,. 
 And his old stint — three thousand pounds a-yeat 
 
 Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe ; 
 Some seeking happiness not found below; 
 Some to comply with humor, and a mind 
 To social scenes by nature disinclined ; 
 Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust; 
 Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must; 
 But few, that court Retirement, are aware 
 Of half the toils they must encounter there. 
 
 Lucrative offices are seldom lost 
 For want of powers proportion'd to the post: 
 Give e'en a dunce the employment he desires 
 And he soon finds the talents it requires; 
 A business with an income at its heels 
 Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. 
 But in his arduous enterprise to close 
 His active years with indolent repose, 
 He finds the labors of that state exceed 
 His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 
 'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, 
 But not to manage leisure with a grace ; 
 Absence of occupation is not rest, 
 A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd. 
 The veteran steed, excused his task at length, 
 In kind compassion of his failing strength. 
 And turn'd into the park or mead to graze, 
 Exempt from future service all his days, 
 There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind. 
 Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind : 
 But when his lord would quit the busy road, 
 To taste a joy like that he has bestow'd. 
 He proves, less happy than his favor'd brute, 
 A lite of ease a dilticult pursuit. [seem 
 
 Thought, to the man that never thinks, may 
 As natural as when asleep to dream; 
 But reveries (tor human minds will act) 
 Specious in snow, impossible in fact, 
 Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought. 
 Attain not to the dignity of thought: 
 Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain. 
 Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure 
 
 reign ; 
 Nor such as useless conversation breeds. 
 Or lust engenders, and indulgence I'eeds. [dain'dl 
 Whence, and what are we 1 to what end or- 
 What means the drama by the world sustain'd 1 
 Business or vain amusement, care or mirth, 
 Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. 
 Is duty a mere sport, or an employ 1 
 Life an entrusted talent, or a toy 1 
 Is there, as reason, conscience. Scripture say, 
 Cause to provide for a great future day. 
 When, earth's assign'd "duration at an end, 
 Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend 1 
 The trumpet — will it sound 1 the curtain rise 1 
 And show the august tribunal of the skies, 
 Where no prevarication shall avail, 
 Where eloquence and artifice shall fail,
 
 i7. SxLber£, fecit . 
 
 TTI 
 
 2P HIE C IS.
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 563 
 
 The pride of arrogant distinctions fall, 
 And conscience and our conduct judge us alii 
 Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil 
 To learned cares or philosopliic toil, 
 Though I revere your honorahle names, 
 Your useful labors, and iinjiortJint aims, 
 And hold the world indebted to your aid. 
 Enrich'd with the discoveries ye have made ; 
 Yet let me stand excused, if I esteem 
 A mind employ'd on so subUme a theme. 
 Pushing her bold inquiry to the date 
 And outline ot" the ))rescnt transient state. 
 And. atler poising her adventurous wings. 
 Settling at last upon eternal things, 
 Far more intelligent, and better taught 
 The strenuous use of profitable thought. 
 Than ye, when happiest, and enlighten'd most. 
 And highest in renown, can justly boast. 
 A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear 
 The weight of subjects worthiest of her care. 
 Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires. 
 Must change her nature, or in vain retires. 
 An idler is a watch that wants botli hands; 
 As useless if it goes as when it stands 
 Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves. 
 In which lewd sensualists print out themselves; 
 Nor those, in which the stage gives vice a blow. 
 With what success let modern manners show ; 
 Nor his who, for the bane of thousands born. 
 Built God a church, and laugh'd his words to 
 Skilful alike to seem devout and just. [scorn, 
 And stab religion with a sly side-thrust; 
 Nor those of learn'd philologi.sts, who chase 
 A panting syllable through time and space 
 Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark. 
 To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark ; 
 But such as learning, without false pretence. 
 The friend of truth, the associate of sound sense, 
 And such as. in the zeal of good design. 
 Strong judgment laboring in the scrijjture mine. 
 All such as manly and great souls produce, 
 Worthy to live, and of eternal use : 
 Behold in these what leisure hours demand. 
 Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand. 
 Luxury gives the mind a childish cast. 
 And, while she polishes, perverts the taste; 
 Habits of close attention, thinking heads, 
 Become more rhre as dissipation spreads. 
 Till authors hear at length one giaieral cry. 
 Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 
 The loud demand, from year to year the same, 
 Begirars invention, and makes fancy lame; 
 Till t'arce itself most mournfully jejune. 
 Calls for the kind assistance of a tune ; 
 And novels (witness every month's review) 
 Belie their name, and ofl'er nothing new. 
 The mind, relaxing into neciiful sport, 
 Should turn to writers of an abler sort. 
 Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style. 
 Give truth a lustre and make wisdoai smile. 
 Friends, (for I cannot stint, as soinc^ have done. 
 Too rigid in my view, tliat name to one; 
 Though one. 1 grant it, in the g(Mierous breast 
 Will stand advanced a step above the rest ; 
 Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, 
 But one, the rose, the regent of them all.) — 
 Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste. 
 But chosen with a nice discerning taste. 
 Well born, well disciplined, who, placed apart 
 From vulgar minds, liave honor much at heart, 
 Ard. though the world may think the ingredients 
 TLa love of virtue, and the fear of God ! [odd, 
 
 Such friends prevent what else would soon 
 A temper rustic as the life we lead, [succeed, 
 And keep the polish of the manners clean. 
 As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene ; 
 For solitude, however some may rave, 
 Seeaiing a sanctuary, proves a grave, 
 A sepulchre, in which the living lie. 
 Where all good qualities grow sick and die. 
 I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd. 
 How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude ! 
 But grant me still a friend in my retreat. 
 Whom I may whisper — Solitude is sweet. 
 Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside, 
 That appetite can ask, or wealth provide. 
 Can save us always from a tedious day. 
 Or shine the dulness of still lite away; 
 Divine communion, caretully enjoy'd. 
 Or sought with energy, must fill the void. 
 Oh sacred art ! to which alone life owes 
 Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close, 
 Scorn'd in a world indebted to that scorn 
 For evils daily ii'lt and hardly borne. 
 Not knowing thee, we reap, with bleeding hands, 
 Flowers of rank odor upon thorny lands. 
 And, while experience cautions us in vain. 
 Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain. 
 Despondence, sell-deserted in her grief. 
 Lost by abandoning her own relict' 
 Murmuring and ungrateful discontent. 
 That scorns afllictions mercifully meant. 
 Those humors, tart as wines upon the fret. 
 Which idleness and weariness beget ; [breast, 
 These, and a thousand plagues that haunt the 
 Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest. 
 Divine communion chases, as the day 
 Drives to their dens the obedient beasts of prey 
 See Judah's promised king, bereft of all. 
 Driven out an exile from the face of Saul, 
 To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies. 
 To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. 
 Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, 
 Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice; 
 No womanish or wailing grief has part, 
 No, not a moment, in his royal heart ; 
 'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make, 
 Sullering with gladness for a Saviour's sake. 
 His soul exults, hope animates his lays. 
 The sense of mercy kindles into praise. 
 And wilds, familiar with the lion's roar. 
 Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard betbre : 
 'Tis love like his that can alone defeat 
 The toes of man, or make a desert sweet. 
 
 Religion does not censure or exclude 
 Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued; 
 To study culture and with artful toil 
 To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; 
 To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands 
 The grain, or herb, or plant that each demands; 
 To cherish virtue in an humble state. 
 And share the joys your bounty may create ; 
 To mark the matchless Avorkings of the power 
 That shuts within its seed the future llower. 
 Bids these in elegance of form excel. 
 In color these, and those delight the smell. 
 Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies. 
 To dance on earth, and charm all huaian eycij 
 To teach the canvas innocent deceit. 
 Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet — 
 These, these are arts pursued witliout a crime, 
 That leave no stain upon the wing of time. 
 
 * Bruy^re. 
 
 J
 
 664 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim 
 Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) 
 Employs, shut out from more important views, 
 Fast by the banks ot' the slow-winding Ouse ; 
 
 Content if, thus sequester'd, I rray raise 
 A monit)r's, thouirh not a poet's praise, 
 And, while I teach an art too little known, 
 To close life wisely, may not waste my own. 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The history of the following production is 
 briefly this : A lady, fond of blank verse, 
 demanded a poem of that kind from the au- 
 thor, and gave him the Sofa for a subject. 
 He obeyed; and having much leisure, con- 
 nected another subject with it ; and, pursuing 
 the train of thought to which his situation 
 and turn of mind led him, brought forth at 
 length, instead of the trifle which he at first 
 intended, a serious afRiir — a volume. 
 
 In the poem on the subject of Education 
 he would be very sorry to stand suspected of 
 having aimed his censure at any particular 
 school. His objections are such as naturally 
 apply themselves to schools in general. If 
 there were not, as for the most part there is, 
 wilful neglect in those who manage them, 
 and an omission even of such discipline as 
 they are susceptible of, the objects are yet 
 too numerous for minute attention ; and the 
 acliing hearts of ten thousand parents, mourn- 
 ing under the bitterest of all disappointments, 
 attest the truth of the allegation. His quar- 
 rel therefore is with the mischief at large, and 
 not with any particular instance of it. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE SOFA. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Historical deduction of seats, from the stool to tiie sofa — 
 A sclioolboy's ramble— A walk in the country — The 
 scene described — llural sounds as well as sights 
 delightful — Another walk — Mistake concerning the 
 charms of solitude corrected — Colonnades commendwl 
 — Alcove, and the view from it — The wilderness — The 
 Grove— The Thresher— The necessity and the benefits 
 of exercise — The works of nature superior to, and in 
 Bome instances inimitable by, art — The wearisomeness 
 of what is commonly called a life of pleasure — Change 
 of scene sometimes expedient — A common described, 
 and the character of crazy Kate introduced — Gipsies — 
 The blessings of civilized life— That state most favor- 
 able to virtue— The South Sea islanders compassion- 
 ated, but chiefly Omai— His present state of mind sup- 
 posed—Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great 
 cities — Great cities; and London in particidar, allowed 
 their due praise, but censured— F6te chainpetrt — The 
 book concludes with a reflection on the effects of dis- 
 Bipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. 
 
 I SING the Sofa. I who lately sang 
 
 Truth, Hope, and Charity,* and touch'd with awe 
 
 * See Poems. 
 
 The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand. 
 Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight, 
 Now seek repose upon an humbler theme ; 
 The theme though humble, yet august and proud 
 The occasion — lor the fair commands the song. 
 
 Time was when clothing sumptuous or for use, 
 Save their own painted s-kins our sires had none. 
 As yet black breeches were not ; satin smooth, 
 Or velvet soft or plush with shaggy pile : 
 The hardy chief upon the rugged rock, 
 VVash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bank 
 Thrown up by v/intry torrents roaring loud, 
 Fearless of wrong reposed his weary strength. 
 Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next 
 The birthday of Invention ; weak at first. 
 Dull in design, and clumsy to perform, 
 .loint-stools were then created ; on three legs 
 Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm 
 A massy slab in tashion square or round. 
 Oza such a stool immortal Alfred sat, 
 And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms : 
 And such in ancient halls and mansions drear 
 May still be seen ; but perforated sore, 
 And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found, 
 By worms voracious eating through and through 
 
 At length a generation more refined 
 Improved the simple plan ; made three legs four, 
 Gave them a twisted tbrm vermicular. 
 And o'er the seats with plenteous wadding stufTd, 
 Induced a splendid cover, green and blue. 
 Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought 
 And woven close, or needlework sublime. 
 There might ye see the piony spread wide, 
 The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, 
 Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes, 
 And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. 
 
 Now came the cane from India, smooth and 
 With Nature's varnish, sever'd into stripes [bright 
 That interlaced each other, these supplied 
 Of texture firm a lattice work, that braced 
 The new machine, and it became a chair. 
 But restless was the chair ; the back erect 
 Distress'd the weary loins that felt no ease ; 
 The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part 
 That press'd it, and the ieethung dangling down, 
 Anxious in vain to find the distant floor, [placed 
 These lor the rich ; the rest, whom Fate had 
 In modest mediocrity, content 
 With base materials, sat on well tann'd hides. 
 Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, 
 With here and there a tutl of crimson yarn. 
 Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd. 
 If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd 
 Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd. 
 No want of timber then was felt or fear'd 
 In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood 
 Ponderous and fis'd by its own massy weight. 
 But elbows still were wanting ; these, some say
 
 THE TASK.— THE SOFA. 
 
 565 
 
 An alderman of Cripplegate contrived ; 
 
 And some inscribe the invention to a priest, 
 
 Burly and hUr and studious ot' his ease. 
 
 But, rude at first, and not with easy slope 
 
 RecediniT wide, they press'd against the ribs, 
 
 And bruised the side. and. elevated high, 
 
 Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. 
 
 Long time elapsed or e'er our rugtred sires 
 
 Comphiin'd thouirh incomaiodiously pent in, 
 
 And ill at ease l)ehind. The ladies first 
 
 'Gan murmur, as became the soiler sex. 
 
 Ingenious Fancy, never better pleased 
 
 Than when employed to accommodate the fair, 
 
 Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised 
 
 The soft settee ; one elbow at each end, 
 
 And in the midst an elbow it received. 
 
 United yet divided twain at once. 
 
 So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne ; 
 
 And so two citizens, who take the air. 
 
 Close pack'd and smiling, in a chaise and one. 
 
 But relaxation of the languid fraine. 
 
 By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs. 
 
 Was bliss reserved for happier days. So alow 
 
 The growth of what is excellent ; so hard 
 
 To attain perfection in this nether world. 
 
 Thus first necessity invented stools. 
 
 Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs. 
 
 And Luxury the accomplish'd Soiw last, [sick, 
 
 The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the 
 Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he 
 Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour. 
 To sleep within the carriage more secure. 
 His legs depending at the open door. 
 Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk. 
 The tedious rector drawling o'er his head ; 
 And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep 
 Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, 
 Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour. 
 To slumber in the carriage more secure, 
 Nor sleep enjoyed by cur&ce in his desk. 
 Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet 
 Compared "vvitli the repose the Sota yields. 
 
 Oh may I live exempted (while I live 
 Guiltles? of pampered appetite obscene) 
 From prongs arthritic, that in lest the toe 
 Of libeitine Excess ! The Sol'a suits 
 The gouty limb, 'tis true ; but gouty limb, 
 Though on a Sofa, may I never feel; 
 For I have loved the rural walk through lanes 
 Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by iiibljling sheep, 
 And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
 Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk 
 O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, 
 E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds 
 To enjoy a ramble on tile banks ot' Thames ; 
 And still reMnemb r, nor without ngret 
 Of hours that sorrow since has much endear'd, 
 How oil. my slice of pocket ston; consumed. 
 Still hungering pennyless and tar I'rom home, 
 I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, 
 Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss 
 The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. 
 Hard fare ! but such as boyish appetite 
 Disdains not ; nor the palate, undepraved 
 By culinary arts, unsavory deems. 
 No Sofa then awaited my return ; 
 No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs 
 His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil 
 Incurring short fatigue ; and though our years, 
 As life declines speed rapidly away. 
 And not a year but pilfers as he goes 
 Some youtht'ul grace, that age would gladly keep ; 
 
 A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees 
 Their length and color from the locks they spars • 
 The elastic spring of an unwearied foot. 
 That mounts the stile with ease or leaps the fenou 
 That play of lungs, inhaling and acain 
 Respiring t'reely the fresh air. that makes 
 Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, 
 Mine have not pilter'd yet ; nor yet impair'd 
 My relish of fair prospect ; SL-enes that soothed 
 Or charm'd me young, no longer young. I find 
 Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. 
 And witness, dear companion of my walks. 
 Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
 Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, 
 Confirra'd by long experience of thy worth. 
 And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire — 
 Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 
 Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 
 And that my raptures are not c onjured up 
 To serve occasions of poetic pomp. 
 But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
 How ott upon yon eminence our pace 
 Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
 The rullling wind, scarce conscious that it blew. 
 While ,A.dmiration, feeding at the eye. 
 And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. 
 Thence witli what ])Ieasure have we just discern'd 
 The distant plough slow moving, and beside 
 His laboring team that swerved not fromthe track, 
 The sturdy swain diininish'd to a boy ! 
 Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
 Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
 Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
 Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
 Stand, never overlook'ti, our tVivorite elms, 
 That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; 
 While far beyond and overthwart the stream, 
 That as with molten glass, inlays the vale. 
 The sloping land recedes into tlie clouds ; 
 Displaying on its varied side the grace 
 Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, 
 Tall spire, t'rom which the sound of cheerful belk 
 Just undulates upon the listening ear, 
 Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 
 Scenes must be beaulit'ul wliich, daily view'd, 
 Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
 Long knowledge, and the scrutiny of years — 
 Praise justly due to those that I describe. 
 
 Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds. 
 Exhilarate tlie spirit, and restore 
 The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds 
 That sweep the skirt of soaie I'ar-spreading wood 
 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
 The dash of ocean on his winding shore, 
 And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
 Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast. 
 And all their leaves t'ast fluttering, all at once. 
 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods, or on the sorter voice 
 Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
 Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
 In matted grass^ that with a livelier green 
 Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate employs swfct sounds, 
 But animated nature sweeter still. 
 To soothe and satist'y the huaian ear. 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
 The livelong night : nor these alone, whose notea 
 Nice-finger d Art must emulate in vain. 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
 In still-repcatcd circles, screaming loud.
 
 666 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The jay. the pie. and e'en the boding owl, 
 That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh. 
 Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns. 
 And only there, please highly for their sake. 
 
 Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought 
 Devised the weather-house, that useful toy ! 
 Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, 
 Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself! 
 More dehcate his timorous mate retires. 
 When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, 
 Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, 
 Or ford th% rivulets, are best at home. 
 The task of new discoveries falls on me. 
 At such a season, and with such a charge, 
 Once went I tbrth ; and found, till then unknown, 
 A cottage, whither oft we since repair ; 
 'Tis perched upon the green hill top, but close 
 Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, 
 That overhang the thatch, itself unseen 
 Peeps at the vale below ; so thick beset 
 With foliage of such dark redundant growth, 
 I call'd the low-roof 'd lodge the peasant's nest. 
 And, hidden as it is. and far remote 
 From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear 
 In village or in town, the bay of curs 
 Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, 
 And infants clamorous whether pleased or pain'd, 
 Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. 
 Here, I have said, at least I should possess 
 The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge 
 The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. 
 Vain thought ! the dweller in that still retreat 
 Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. 
 Its elevated site forbids the wretch 
 To drink sweet waters of the crystal well ; 
 He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch. 
 And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home, 
 Far fetch'd and little worth ; nor seldom waits, 
 Dependent on the baker's punctual call, 
 To hear his creaking panniers at the door, 
 Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed. 
 So farewell envy to the peasant's nest ! 
 If solitude make scant the means of life, 
 Society for me ! — thou seeming sweet, 
 Be still a pleasing object in my view; 
 My visit still, but never mine abode. 
 
 Not distant far, a length of colonnade 
 Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, 
 Now scorn'd. but worthy of a better fate. 
 Our fathers knew the value of a screen 
 From sultry suns ; and, in their shaded walks 
 And long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon 
 The gloom and coolness of decUning day. 
 We bear our shades about us ; self-deprived 
 Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, ■ 
 And range an Indian waste without a tree. 
 Thanks to Benevolus,* he spares me yet 
 These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; 
 And, though himself so polished, still reprieves 
 The obsolete prohxity of shade. 
 
 Descending now,— but cautious, lest too fast, — 
 A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge. 
 We pass a gulf in which the willows dip 
 Their pendent boit^hs, stooping as if to drink. 
 Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, 
 We mount again, and feel at every step 
 Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 
 Raised by the mole, ihe miner of the soil. 
 
 * John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq., of Weston Un- 
 derwood. 
 
 He. not unlike the great ones of mankind, 
 Disfigures earth : and plotting in the dark, 
 Toils much to earn a monumental pile. 
 That may record the mischiefs he has done. 
 
 The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcov 
 That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures 
 The grand retreat from injuries impress'd 
 By rural carvers, who with knives deface 
 The panels leaving an obscure, rude name, 
 In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
 So strong the zeal to immortalize himself 
 Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few. 
 Few transient years, won from the abyss ah- 
 Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, [horr'd 
 And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; 
 And, posted on this speculative height. 
 Exults in its command. The sheepfold here 
 Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
 At first, progressive as a stream, they seek 
 The middle field ; but. scatter'd by degrees. 
 Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
 There from the sun-burnt hay-field homev?ard 
 
 creeps 
 The loaded wain ; while, lighten'd of its charge, 
 The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; 
 The boorish driver leaning o'er his team 
 Vociferous and impatient of delay. 
 Nor less attractive is the woodland scene. 
 Diversified with trees of every growth, 
 Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks 
 Of ash. or lime, or beech, distinctl}^ shine, 
 Within the twilight of their distant shades ; 
 There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood 
 Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. 
 No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 
 Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, 
 And of a wannish grey ; the willow such. 
 And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf. 
 And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm; 
 Of deeper green the ehn ; and deeper still. 
 Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak. 
 Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, 
 The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 
 Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve 
 Diffusing odors : nor unnoted pass 
 The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
 Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
 Have changed the woods, in scarlet honors 
 
 bright. 
 O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map 
 Of hill and valley interposed between.) 
 The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land, 
 Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, 
 As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. 
 
 Hence the declivity is sharp and short. 
 And such the re-ascent : between them weeps 
 A little naiad her impoverish'd urn 
 All summer long, which winter fills again. 
 The folded gates would bar my progress now. 
 But that the lord* of this enclosed demesne, 
 Communicative of the good he owns. 
 Admits me to a share : the guiltless eye 
 Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. 
 Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun ? 
 By short transition we have lost his glare. 
 And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. 
 Ye fallen avenues ! once more I mourn 
 Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice 
 That yet a remnant of your race survives. 
 How airy and how light the graceful arch, 
 
 * Ibid.
 
 THE TASK.— THE SOFA. 
 
 567 
 
 Yet awful as the consecrated roof 
 Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath 
 The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood 
 Brushed by ihe wind. So sportive is the light 
 Shot through the boughs, it dances as they 
 
 dance, 
 Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick. 
 And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves 
 Play wanton, every moment, every spot. 
 
 And nov, with nerves new braced and spirits 
 cheer'd, 
 We tread the wilderness, whose well roU'd walks, 
 With curvature of slow and easy sweep — 
 Deception innocent — give ample space 
 To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; 
 Between the upright shalls of whose tall elms 
 We may discern the thresher at his task. 
 Thump alter thump resound.-? the constant flail, 
 That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls 
 Full on the destined car. Wide flies the chaff; 
 The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 
 Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. 
 Couie hither, ye that press your heds of down 
 And sleep not ; see him sweating o'er his bread 
 Before he eats it. — 'Tis the primal curse, 
 But soften'd into mercy ; made the pledge 
 Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. 
 
 By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
 Constant rotation of tlie unwearied wheel 
 That Nature rides upon maintains her health. 
 Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads [moves. 
 An instants pause, and lives but while she 
 Its own rcvolvency upholds the world. 
 Winds from all quarters agitate the air. 
 And fit the limped element for use, 
 Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, 
 All feel the i'reshening impulse, and are cleansed 
 By restless undulation : e'en the oak 
 Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : 
 He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
 The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 
 Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
 He held the thunder : but the monarch owes 
 His firm stability to what he scorns — 
 More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 
 The law. by which all creatures else are bound, 
 Binds man. the lord of all. Himself derives 
 No mean advantage from a kindred cause. 
 From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 
 The sedentary stretch their lazy length 
 When custom bids, but no retreshinent find. 
 For none they need : the languid eye, the check 
 Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk. 
 And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul. 
 Reproach their owner with that love of rest 
 To which he Ibrfeits e'en tiie rest he loves. 
 Not such the alert and active. Measure life 
 By its true worth, the comforts it affords, 
 And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 
 Good health, and, its associate in tlie most, 
 Good temper: spirits prosnpt to undertake. 
 And not soon spent, though in an arduous task ; 
 The powers of fancy and strong thought are 
 E'en age itself seems privileged in them, [theirs; 
 With clear exemption trom its own defects. 
 A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
 The veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beard 
 With youtiiful smiles, descends toward the grave 
 Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 
 
 Like a coy maiden. Ease, when courted most. 
 Farthest retires — an idol, at wliosi' shrine 
 Who ottenest sacrifice are favor'd least. 
 
 Strange ! there siiould ba 
 
 The love of Nature and the scenes she draws 
 Is Nature's dictate. 
 
 found. 
 
 Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, 
 Renounce the odors of the open field 
 For the unscented fictions of the loom: 
 Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes, 
 Prefer to the performance of a God 
 The inferior wonders of an artist's hand ! 
 Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art ; 
 But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire. 
 None more admires, the painter's magic skill, 
 Who shows me thtit which I shall never see, 
 Conveys a distant country into mine, 
 .A.nd throws Italian light on English walls. 
 But imitative strokes can do no more 
 Than please the eye — sweet Nature every sensa 
 Tlie air salubrious of her lofty hills. 
 The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales. 
 And music of her woods — no works of man 
 May rival these ; these all bespeak a power 
 Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 
 Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast ; 
 'Tis free to all — 'tis every day renew'd ; 
 Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. 
 He does not scorn it, who imprison'd long 
 In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey 
 To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank 
 And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, 
 Escapes at last to liberty and light ; 
 His cheek recovers soon its hcalthtul hue ; 
 His eye relumines its cxtinguish'd fires; 
 He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with joy, 
 And riots in the sweets of every breeze. 
 He does not scorn it, who has long endured 
 A lever's agonies, and fed on drugs. 
 Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed 
 With acrid salts : his very heart athirst 
 To gaze at Nature in her green array. 
 Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 
 With visions prompted by intense desire : 
 Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
 Far distant, such as he would die to find — 
 He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more 
 
 The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns, 
 The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown. 
 And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort. 
 And mar the face of beauty, when no cause 
 For such immeasurable woe appears. 
 These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Town. 
 Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than hel 
 It is the constant revolution, stale 
 And tasteless, of the same repeated joys. 
 That palls and satiates, and makes languid life 
 A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. 
 Health sufl'ers, and the spirits ebb; the heart 
 Recoils from its own choice — at the full feast 
 Is famish'd — finds no nuisic in the song. 
 No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. 
 Yet thousands still desire to journey on, 
 Thougli iuilt. and weary of the path they tread 
 The paralytic, who can hold her cards, 
 But cannot ])lay them, borrows a friend's hand 
 To deal and shuIHe, to divide and sort 
 Her minghd suits and sequences ; and sits, 
 .Spectatress botii and spectacle, a sad 
 And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. 
 Others are dragg'd into the crowded room, 
 Between supporters ; and, once seated, sit. 
 Through downright inability to rise. 
 Till the stout bearers lill tlie corpse again. 
 These speak a loud memento. Y'et e'en these
 
 568 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he 
 That overhangs a torrent to a twig. 
 They love it, and yet loathe it ; fear to die, 
 Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. 
 Then wherefore not renounce them ? No — the 
 The slavish dread of solitude that breeds [dread, 
 Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, 
 And their inveterate habits, all tbrbid. [long 
 
 Whom call we gay 1 That honor has been 
 The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
 The innocent are gay — the lark is gay. 
 That dries his feathers saturate with dew, 
 Beneath the rosy clouds, while yet the beams 
 Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest. 
 The peasant too, a witness of his song, 
 Himself a songster, is as gay as he. 
 But save me from the gayety of those 
 Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed ; 
 And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes 
 Flash desperation, and betray their pangs 
 For property stripp'd off by cruel chance ; 
 From gayety that fills the bones with pain, 
 The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. 
 
 The earth was made so various that the mind 
 Of desultory man studious of change. 
 And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. 
 Prospects, however lovely, may be seen 
 Till half their beauties fade ; the weary sight, 
 Too well acquainted with their smiles slides off 
 Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. 
 Then snug inclosures in the shelter'd vale. 
 Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, 
 Delight us ; happy to renounce awhile, 
 Not senseless of its charms what still we love, 
 That such short absence may endear it more. 
 Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, 
 That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts 
 Above the reach of man. His hoary head. 
 Conspicuous may a league, the mariner. 
 Bound homeward, and in hope already there, 
 Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist 
 A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows. 
 And at his feet the baffled billows die. 
 The common, overgrown with fern, and roucrh 
 With prickly gorse. that shapeless and deform'd, 
 And dangerous to the touch has yet its bloom, 
 And decks itself with ornaments of gold, 
 Yields no unpleasing ramble ; there the turf 
 Smells fresh, and. rich in odoriferous herbs 
 And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense 
 With luxury of unexpected sweets. 
 
 There often wanders one, whom better days 
 Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm d 
 With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. 
 A serving maid was she, and fell in love 
 With one who left her, went to sea, and died. 
 Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves 
 To distant shores ; and she would sit and weep 
 At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too. 
 Delusive most where warmest wishes are, 
 Would oft anticipate his glad return, 
 And dream of transports she was not to know. 
 She heard the doleful tidings of his death — 
 And never smiled again ! and now she roams 
 The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day, 
 And there, unless when charity ibrbids. 
 The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides. 
 Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 
 More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 
 A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. 
 She begs an idle pin of all she meets. 
 And hoards them in her sleeve : but needful food, 
 
 Though pressed with hunger ■aft, or comelier 
 
 clothes. [crazed ' 
 
 Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is 
 
 I see a column of slow-rising smokt, 
 O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. 
 A vagabond and useless tribe there eat 
 Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 
 Between two poles upon a stick transverse, 
 Receives the morsel — flesh obscene of dog. 
 Or vermin or at best of cock purloin'd 
 From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race ! 
 They pick their fuel out of every hedge. 
 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un- 
 
 quench'd 
 The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide 
 Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, 
 The vellum of the pedigree they claim. 
 Great skill have they in palmistry, and more 
 To conjure clean away the gold they touch, 
 Conveying worthless dross into its place ; 
 Loud when they beg dumb only when they steal. 
 Strange ! that a creafure rational and cast 
 In human mould, should brutalize by choice 
 His nature ; and though capable of arts. 
 By which the world might profit, and himself, 
 Self-banish'd from society, prefer 
 Such squalid sloth to honorable toil ! 
 Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft. 
 They swatiie the forehead, drag the limping limb, 
 And vex their flesh with artificial sores. 
 Can change their whine into a mirthful note 
 When safe occasion offers ; and with dance. 
 And music of the bladder and the bag. 
 Beguile their woes and make the woods resound. 
 Such health and gayety of heart enjoy 
 The houseless rovers of the sylvan world [much. 
 And, breathing wholesome air. and wandering 
 Need other physic none to heal the effects 
 Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 
 
 Blest he. though undistinguish'd from the crowd 
 By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, 
 Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside 
 His fierceness having learnt, thoutrh slow to learn, 
 The manners and the arts of civil life. 
 His wants indeed are many ; but supply 
 Is obvious placed within the easy reach 
 Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. 
 Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil ; 
 Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns. 
 And terrible to sight, as when she springs 
 (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote 
 And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, 
 And strength is lord of all ; but gentle, kind, 
 By culture tam'd by liberty refresh'd. 
 And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. 
 War and the chase engross the savage whole. 
 War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant 
 The envied tenants of some happier spot: 
 The chase for sustenance, precarious trust 1 
 His hard condition with severe constraint 
 Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth 
 Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns 
 Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, 
 Mean selt-attachment, and scarce tiught beside. 
 Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, 
 And thus the rangers of the western world, 
 Where it advances far into the deep, 
 Towards the antarctic. E'en the favor'd isles, 
 So lately found, although the constant sun 
 Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile. 
 Can boast but little virtue ; and. inert 
 Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain
 
 In manners — victims of luxurious ease. 
 Theae tlierolbre I can pity, placed remote 
 Froiii all that science traces, art invents, 
 Or inspiration teaches ; ,and enclosed 
 In boundless oceans, never to be pass'd 
 By navigators uninlbrm'd as they. 
 Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again : 
 But tar beyond the rest, and with most cause, 
 Thee, gentle savage !* whom no love of thee 
 Or thine, but curiosity, perhaps. 
 Or else vain-glory prompted us to draw 
 Forth trom thy native bowers to show thee here 
 With what superior skill we can a!)use 
 The gif(s of Providence, and squander life. 
 The dream is past ; and thou hast found again 
 Thy cocoas and bananas palms and yams, 
 And hojnestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast 
 thou found [state. 
 
 Their I'onner charms 1 And, having seen our 
 Our palaces our ladies, and our pomp 
 Of e([uipage, our gardens, and ovir sports. 
 And hoard our music ; are thy si;npl» tViends, 
 Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights 
 As dear to thee as once l .Vnd have thy joys 
 Lost nothing by comparison with ours 1 
 Rude as thou art, (for we returned thee rude 
 And ignorant, except of outward show), 
 I cannot think thee )'et so dull of heart. 
 And spiritless as never to regret 
 Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. 
 Metliinks I see thee straying on the beach. 
 And asking of the surge that bathes tiiy foot. 
 If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. 
 I see thee weep and thine are honest tears, 
 A patriot's for his country : thou art sad 
 At thought of her forlorn and abject state, 
 From which no power of thine can raise her up. 
 Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err, 
 Perhaps errs little when slie paints thee thus. 
 She tells me. too, that duly every morn 
 Thou climh'st liie mountain top with eager eye 
 Exploring fir and wide the watery waste 
 For sight of ship from England. Every speck 
 Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale 
 With conflict of contending hop'^s and fears. 
 But comes at last the dull and dusky eve. 
 And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared 
 To dream all niglit of what the day denied. 
 Alas ! expect it not. We I'ounil no bait 
 To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, 
 Disinterested good, is not our trade. 
 We travel tar, 'tis true, hut not for nought ; 
 And must be bribed to com|)ass earth again 
 By other hopes and richer Iruits than yours. 
 
 But though true worth and virtue in tlie mild 
 And genial soil of cultivated life. 
 Thrive most and may perhaps thrive only there, 
 Yet not in cities olt ; in proud, and gay, 
 And gain-devoted cities. Thither (low. 
 As to a common and most noisome sewer. 
 The dregs and ticulence of every land. 
 In cities Ibul example on most minds 
 Begets its likenesss. Rank abundance breeds 
 In gross and pamper'd cities sloth, and lust. 
 And wantonness and gluttonous excess. 
 In cities vice is hidden with most ease. 
 Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 
 Cy frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 
 Beyond the achievement of succi'ssful lliglit. 
 I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 
 
 * Omai. 
 
 In which they flourish most: where, in the beams 
 
 Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 
 
 Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 
 
 ■Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 
 
 The fairest capital of all the world : 
 
 By riot and incontinence the worst. 
 
 There toucliYl by Reynolds a dull blank becomes 
 
 A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
 
 All her reflected features. Bacon there. 
 
 Gives more than t'emale beauty to a stone, 
 
 And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 
 
 Nor does the chisel occupy alone 
 
 The power of sculpture, but the style as much; 
 
 Each province of her art her equal care. 
 
 With nice incision of her guided steel 
 
 She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 
 
 So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, 
 
 The richest scenery and the loveliest Ibrms. 
 
 Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 
 
 VVith which she gazes at yon burning disk 
 
 Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots "? 
 
 In London : where her implements exact, 
 
 With which she calculates, computes, and scans 
 
 AH distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
 
 Measures an atom, and now girds a world 1 
 
 In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 
 
 So rich, so throng'd so drain'd, and so supplied, 
 
 As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 
 
 Increasing London ] Babylon of old 
 
 Not more the glory of the earth than she, 
 
 A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. 
 
 She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two. 
 That so much beauty would do well to purge; 
 And show this queen of cities that so lair 
 May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise. 
 It is not seemly, nor of good report. 
 That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt 
 To avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
 That she is rigid in denouncing death 
 On petty robbers, and indulges life 
 And liberty, and ofttimcs honor too, 
 To peculators of the puljlic gold : [puts 
 
 That tliicves at home nmst hang ; but he, that 
 Into his over-gorged and bloated purse 
 The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
 Nor is it well, nor can it come to good. 
 That through ])rofanc and infidel contempt 
 Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul 
 And abrogate, as roundly as she may. 
 The total ordinance and will of God; 
 Advancing Fasliion to the post of Truth, 
 And centring all authority in modes 
 And customs of her own. till sabbath rites 
 Have dwindled into unrcspectcd forms. 
 And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. 
 
 God made the country, and man made the 
 town. 
 NVhat wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
 That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
 That life holds out to all should most abound 
 .\nd least be threaten'd in the fields and groves 1 
 Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about 
 In chariots and sedans, know no latigue 
 But that of idleness and taste no scenes 
 But such as art contrives, possess yc still 
 Your clement; there only can ye shine; 
 There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
 Our groves were planted to console at noon 
 The pensive vyandercr in their shades. At eve 
 The moonbeam, sliding softly in between 
 The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, 
 Birds warbhng all the music. We can spare
 
 670 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
 Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
 Our more harmonious notes ; the thrush departs 
 Scared, and the oflended niirhtingale is mute. 
 There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
 It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, 
 Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan. 
 Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, 
 Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
 A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 THE TIME-PIECE. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former 
 book — Peace among the nations recommended on the 
 ground of tlieir common fellowship in sorrow — Prodi- 
 gies enumerated— Sicilian earthquake — Man rendered 
 obnoxious to these calamities by sin — God the agent 
 In them — The philosophy that stops at secondary causes 
 reproved — Our own late miscarriages accounted for — 
 Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau — 
 But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reforma- 
 tion — The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons — 
 Petit-maitre p:u-son — The good preacher— Picture of a 
 theatrical clerical coxcomb— Story-tellers and jesters in 
 the pulpit reproved — Apostrophe to popular applause 
 — Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with — 
 Sum of the whole matter— Etfects of sacerdotal mis- 
 management on the laity — Their folly and extrava- 
 gance—The mischiefs of profusion— Profusion itself, 
 with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its princi- 
 pal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities. 
 
 Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
 
 Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war. 
 
 Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 
 
 My soul is sick, with every day's report 
 
 Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fiU'd. 
 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 
 
 It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
 
 Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 
 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 
 He finds his tellow guilty of a skin 
 
 Not color'd like his own ; and, having power 
 
 To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
 
 Make enemies of nations, who had else 
 
 Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
 
 Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
 
 And, worse than all, and most to be deplored. 
 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
 
 With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 
 
 Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
 
 Then what is man 1 And what man, seeing this, 
 
 And having human feelings, does not blush. 
 
 And hang his head, to think himself a man 1 
 
 I would not have a slave to till my ground. 
 
 To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 
 That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 
 Just estimation prized above all price, 
 
 I had much rather be myself the slave, 
 
 And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him 
 
 We have no slaves at home : — then why abroad 1 
 And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in Enjrland; if their lunn-s 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles falJ 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
 And jealous of tlie blessing. Spread it then, 
 And let it circulate through every vein 
 Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power 
 Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 
 
 Sure there is need of social intercourse, 
 Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid. 
 Between the nations in a world that seems 
 To toll the death-bell of its own decease. 
 And by the voice of all its elements [winds 
 
 To preach the general doom.* When were thf» 
 Let slip with such a warrant to destroy 1 
 When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap 
 Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry 1 
 Fires from beneath, and meteors f from above, 
 Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, 
 Have kindled beacons in the skies ; and the old 
 And crazy earth has had her shaking fits 
 More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. 
 Is it a time to wrangle, when the props 
 And pillars of our planet seem to fail. 
 And Nature | with a dim and sickly eye 
 To wait the close of all 1 But grant her end 
 More distant, and that prophecy demands 
 A longer respite, unaccomplished yet ; 
 Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak 
 Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth 
 Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. 
 And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve 
 And stand exposed by common peccancy 
 To what no few have felt, there should be peace 
 And brethren in calamity should love. 
 
 Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 
 Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood 
 Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
 The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
 Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show 
 Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; 
 While God performs upon the trembhng stage 
 Of his own works the dreadful part alone. 
 How does the earth receive him 1 — with what 
 Of gratulation and delight her King 7 [signs 
 Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad. 
 Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums. 
 Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads 1 
 She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb 
 Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps 
 And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. 
 The hills move liglitly. and the mountains smoke. 
 For he has touch'd them. From the extremest 
 Of elevation down into the abyss [point 
 
 His wrath is l)usy, and his frown is felt. 
 The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, 
 The rivers die into offensive pools, 
 And. charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross 
 And mortal nuisance into all the air. 
 What solid was, by transformation strange. 
 Grows fluid ; and the fix'd and rooted earth, 
 Tormented into billows, heaves and swells. 
 Or with a vertiginous and hideous whirl 
 Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense 
 The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs 
 
 * Alluding to the calamities in Jamaica. 
 t August 18, 1783. 
 
 j Alluding to the fog that covered both Em-ope an4 
 Asia during the whole summer of 1783.
 
 THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE. 
 
 571 
 
 And aoronies of human and of brute 
 Multitudes, fucritivc on every side, 
 And fujritivc in vain. The sylvan scene 
 Miairates uplifted ; and with all its soil 
 Aliifhting in far distant fields, finds out 
 A new possessor, and survives the change. 
 Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought 
 To an enormous and o'erbearing height, 
 Not by a mighty wind, but by that Voice 
 Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore 
 Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 
 Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, 
 Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the 
 
 throng 
 That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, 
 Look'd to t!ie sea for safety 1 They are gone, 
 Gone whh the relluent wave into the deep — 
 A prince with half his people ! Ancient towers, 
 And roofs embattled high, the gloo)ny scenes 
 Where beauty oil and Fetter'd worth consume 
 Lrile in the unproductive shades oii death, 
 Fall prone : tlie pale inhabitants come forth, 
 And, happy in their unforeseen release 
 From all the rigors of restraint, enjoy 
 The terrors of the day that sets them free, [fast, 
 AVho then, that has thee, would not hold thee 
 Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret, 
 That e'en a judgment, making way for thee, 
 Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. 
 
 Such evil sin hath wrought; and such aflame 
 Kin.;ied in heaven, that it burns down to earth. 
 And, in the furious inquest that it makes 
 On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. 
 The very elements, though each be meant 
 The minister of man, to serve his wants. 
 Conspire against him. With his breath he draws 
 A plague into his blood ; and cannot use 
 Life's necessary means, but he must die. 
 Storms rise to overwhelm hiin : or if stormy winds 
 Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, 
 And, needing none assistance of the storm. 
 Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. 
 The earth shall shake him out of all his holds. 
 Or make his house his grave : nor so content. 
 Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, 
 And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. 
 What then ! — were they the wicked above all, 
 And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle 
 Moved not, while theirs was rock'd like a light 
 
 skiff. 
 The sport of every wave 1 No: none are clear. 
 And none than we more guilty. Hut, where all 
 Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts 
 Of wrath obnoxious. God may choose his mark: 
 May punish, if he please, the less, to warn 
 The more malignant. If he spared not them, 
 Tremble and hi' amazed at thine escape. 
 Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! 
 
 Happy the man who sees a God cmploy'd 
 In all tiie good and ill tliat chequer life ! 
 Resolving all events, with their effects 
 And manil'old results, into the will 
 And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
 Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
 The least of our concerns (since from the least 
 The greatest olt originate ,) could chance 
 Fia<l place in his dominion, or <lispose 
 Om; lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
 Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
 Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
 The smooth an(l equal course of his afl'airs. 
 This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 
 
 In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 
 And having found his instrument, forgets, 
 Or disregards, or more presumptuous still. 
 Denies the power that wields it, God proclaimi 
 His hot displeasure against foolish men, 
 That live an atheist life : involves the heaven 
 In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds. 
 And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
 Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin. 
 And putrify the breath of blooming Health. 
 He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 
 Blows mildew from between his siirivell'd lips. 
 And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, 
 And desolates a nation at a blast. 
 Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 
 Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
 And principles ; of causes, how they work 
 By necessary laws their sure effects ; 
 Of action and re-action. He has found 
 The source of the disease that nature feels. 
 And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 
 Thou fool ! will thy discovery of the cause 
 Suspend the effect, or heal itl Has not God 
 Still wrought by means since first he made ths 
 And did he not of old employ his means [world 1 
 To drown it l What is his creation less 
 Than a capacious reservoir oil" means 
 Form'd for his use, and ready at his will 1 
 Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him 
 Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still — ■ 
 My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
 Where English minds and manners may be 
 found, [clime 
 
 Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy 
 Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 
 'With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
 And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
 With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
 To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime 
 Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
 Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; 
 But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
 Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart 
 As any thunderer tliere. And I can feel 
 Thy lollies too, and with a just disdain 
 Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
 Reflect dishonor on the land I love. 
 How, in the name of soldiership and sense, 
 Should England prosper, when such things, as 
 And tender as a girl, all essene'd o'er, [smooth 
 With odors, and as profligate as sweet ; 
 Who sell their laurel lor a myrtle wreath, [these 
 And love when they should light ; when such as 
 Presume to lay their hand U[)on the ark 
 Of her magnificent and awt'ul cause 1 
 Time was when it was praise and boast enough 
 In every clime, and travel where we might, 
 That we were born her children. Praise enough 
 To fill the ambition of a private man, 
 That Chatham's language was his mother tongue. 
 And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. 
 Farewell those honors, and farewell with them 
 The hope of such hereafter ! They have fallen 
 Each in the field of glory ; one in arms, 
 .\nd one in council — Wolfe upon the lap 
 Of smiling victory that moment won, 
 And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame; 
 They made us many soldiers. Chatham still
 
 573 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Consulting England's happiness at home, 
 
 Secured it by an unlbrgiving frown, 
 
 If any vvrong'd her. VVolfe, where'er he fought, 
 
 Put so much of his lieart into his act, 
 
 That his example had a magnet's force, 
 
 And all were swift to follow whom all loved. 
 
 Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such 1 
 
 Or all that we have left is empty talk 
 
 Of old achievements, and de.«pair of new. 
 
 Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float 
 Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck 
 With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, 
 That no rude savor maritime invade 
 The nose of nice nobility ! Breathe soft. 
 Ye clarionets ; and softer still, ye flutes ; 
 That winds and waters, luU'd by magic sounds, 
 May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore ! 
 True, we have lost an empire, let it pass. 
 True ; we may thank the perfidy of France, 
 That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown. 
 With all the cunnin<r of an envious shrew. 
 And let that pass — 'twas but a trick of state ! 
 A brave man knows no malice but at once 
 Forgets in peace the injuries of war. 
 And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 
 And, shamed as we have been, to the very beard 
 Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved 
 Too weak for those decisive blows that once 
 Ensured our mastery there, we yet retain 
 Some small pre-eminence ; we justly boast 
 At least superior joekeyship, and claim 
 The honors of tlie turf as all our own ! 
 Go then well worthy of the praise ye seek, 
 And show the shame ye might conceal at home 
 In Ibreign eyes !— be grooms and win the plate. 
 Where once your nobler fathers won a crown ! — 
 'Tis generous to communicate your skill 
 To those that need it ! Folly is soon learn'd : 
 And under such preceptors who can fail! 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 Which only poets know. The shifts and turns. 
 The expedients and inventions multiform. 
 To which the mind resorts in chase of terms 
 Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win — 
 To arrest the fleeting images that fdl 
 The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast 
 And force them sit till he has pencil'd off 
 A faithful likeness of the forms he views: 
 Then to dispose his copies with such art. 
 That each may find its most propitious light. 
 And shine t)y situation, hardly less 
 Than by tlie labor and the skill it cost; 
 Are occupations of the poet's mind 
 So pleasing, and that steal away the thought 
 With such address from themes of sad import, 
 That, lost in his own musinijs. happy man ! 
 He feels the anxieties of lil'e. denied 
 Their wonted entertainment, all retire. 
 Such joys has he that sings. But ah ! not such, 
 Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. 
 Fastidious or else listless, or perhaps 
 Aware of nothing arduous in the task 
 They never undertook, they little note 
 His dangers or escapes and haply find 
 Their least amusement where he found the most. 
 But is amusement all 1 Studious of song, 
 And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, 
 I would not trifle merely, though the world 
 Be loudest in their praise wlio do no more. 
 Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay 1 
 It may correct a foible, may chastise 
 The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, 
 
 Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; 
 But where are its sublimer trophies found ? 
 What vice has it subdued 7 whose heart reclaimed 
 By rigor 1 or whom laugh'd into reform 1 
 Alas ! Leviathan is not so tamed : 
 Laugh'd at, he laughs again ; and, stricken hard, 
 Turns t^ the stroke his adamantine scales, 
 Tliat fear no discipline of human hands. 
 
 The pulpit therefore (and I name it fill'd 
 With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
 With what intent I touch that holy thing) — 
 The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, 
 Strutting and vaporing in an empty school. 
 Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) — 
 I say the pulpit (in the sober use 
 Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) [stand. 
 
 Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall 
 The most important and effectual guard. 
 Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. 
 There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
 The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine. 
 His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
 By him the violated law speaks out 
 Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet 
 As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. 
 He 'stablisiies the strong, restores the weak, 
 Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, 
 And, arm'd himself in panoply complete 
 Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
 Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule 
 Of holy discipline, to glorious war. 
 The sacramental host of God's elect ! [were ! 
 Are all such teachers "? — would to heaven all 
 But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- 
 tween 
 Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks 
 Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
 Than all invective is his bold harangue. 
 While through that public organ of report 
 He hails the clergy ; and, defying shame, 
 Announces to the world his own and theirs! 
 He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd, 
 And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone. 
 And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer 
 The adagio find andante it demands. 
 He grinds divLnity of other days 
 Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
 To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
 Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. 
 Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware 1 
 Oh, name it not in Gath ! — it cannot be, [aid. 
 That grave and learned clerks should need such 
 He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll. 
 Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 
 Grand caterer and drynurse of the church! 
 
 I venerate the man whose heart is warm. 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and 
 
 whose life. 
 Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
 That he is honest in the sacred cause. 
 To such I render more than mere respect. 
 Whose actions say that they respect themselves, 
 But loose in morals, and in manners vain. 
 In conversation frivolous, in dress 
 Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse; 
 Frequent in park with lady at his side, 
 Ambling ancl prattling scandal as he goes; 
 But rare at home, and never at his books, 
 Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; 
 Constant at routs, famiUar with a round 
 Of ladyships — a stranger to the poor; 
 Ambitious of preferment for its gold.
 
 THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE. 
 
 573 
 
 And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth, 
 
 By infidelity and love of world, 
 
 To make God s work a sinecure; a slave 
 
 To his own pleasures and l^s patron's pride : 
 
 From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, 
 
 Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 
 
 On skulls tiiat cannot teach, and will not learn. 
 
 Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, 
 Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and 
 
 own — 
 Paul should himself direct me. I would trace 
 His master strokes iind draw I'rom his design. 
 I would express him simple, grave, sincere; 
 In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain. 
 And plain in manner; decent solemn, chaste. 
 And natural in gesture ; much impress'd 
 Himself, as conscious of his awlul charge, 
 And anxious mainly that the flock he ieeds 
 May feel it too; alfectionate in look 
 And tender in address as well becomes 
 A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
 Behold the picture ! Is it like ] — Like whom 1 
 The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
 And then skip down again; pronounce a text; 
 Cry — hem ; and reading wliat they never wrote. 
 Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work. 
 And with a well-bred wliisper close the scene ! 
 
 In man or woman, but tar most in man. 
 And most of all in man that ministers 
 And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe 
 All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn ; 
 Object of my implacable disgust, 
 what ! will a man play tricks 1 will he indulge 
 A silly fond conceit of iiis ttiir form, 
 And just proportion, fashionable mien, 
 And pretty face, in presence of his God 1 
 Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes. 
 As with the diamoml on his lily hand. 
 And play his brilliant parts be tore my eyes. 
 When 1 am hungry tor the bread of life 1 
 He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames 
 His noble office and instead of truth, 
 Displaying his own beauty starves his flock ! 
 Thereibre avaunt all attitude, and stare. 
 And start theatric practised at the glass ! 
 I seek ilivine simplicity in him 
 Who handles things divine ; and all besides, 
 Though learn'd with labor, and though much 
 
 admired 
 By curious eyes and judgments ill inform'd, 
 To mi! is odious as the nasal twang 
 Heard at conventicle, wliere worthy men, 
 Misled by custom strain celestial lliemes 
 Through the press'd nostril, spectacle bestrid. 
 Some decent in demeanor wliile they preach, 
 That task pcrform'd relapse into themselves; 
 And having spoken wisely, at the close 
 Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye. 
 Whoe'er was edified themselves were not ! 
 Forth comes the pocket-mirror. — First we stroke 
 An eyebrow ; m-xt compose a straggling lock; 
 Tiien with an air most graceluily perlbnn'd 
 Fall back into our seat, exteiul an arm. 
 And lay it at its ease with gentle care. 
 With handkerchief in hand depending low: 
 The better hand more busy gives the nose 
 Its bergamot. or aids the indebted eye, 
 With opera glass to watcli the moving scene, 
 And recognize the slow-retiring fair. — 
 Now this is tulsome ; and offends me more 
 Than in a churchman slovenly neglect 
 6.nd rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind 
 
 May be indifferent to her house of clay, 
 
 And slight the hovel as beneath her care ; 
 
 But how a body so fantastic, trim, 
 
 Anil quaint, in its deportment and attire. 
 
 Can lodge a heavenly mind — demands a doubt 
 
 He that negotiates between God and man, 
 As God's aiiibassatlor, the grand concerns 
 Of judgment arrd of mercy, should beware 
 Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitilul 
 To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; 
 To break a jest when pity would inspire 
 Pathetic exhortation ; and to address 
 The skittish t'ancy with facetious tales, 
 When sent with God's commission to the heart ' 
 So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip 
 Or merry turn in all he ever wrote. 
 And I consent you take it for your text. 
 Your only one, till sides and benches fail. 
 No : he was serious in a serious cause. 
 And understood too well the weighty terms [stoop 
 That he had taken in charge. He would not 
 To conquer those by jocular exploits 
 Whom truth and soberness assaU'd in vain. 
 
 O popular applause ! What heart of man 
 Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? 
 The wisest and the best feel urgent need 
 Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; 
 But. swelld into a gust — who then, alas ! 
 With all his canvas set, and inexpert. 
 And theretbre heedless, can withstand thy powerl 
 Praise, from the rivell'd lips of toothless, bald 
 Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean 
 And craving Poverty, and in the bow 
 Respectful of the smutch'd artificer, 
 Is otl too welcome, and may much disturb 
 The bias of t!ie purpose. How much more, 
 Pour'd Ibrth l)y beauty splendid and polite, 
 In language soft as adoration breathes 1 
 Ah. spare your idol ! tiiink him human still. 
 Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! 
 Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. 
 
 All truth is trom the sempiternal source 
 Of light divine. But F,gy])t, Greece, and Rome 
 Drew Iroai tlie stream below. More lavor'd, wa 
 Drink, when we choose it. at the Ibuntain-head. 
 To them it flow'd much mingled and defiled 
 With hurtt'ul error prejudice, and dreams 
 Illusive of philosophy, so call'd. 
 But talsely. Sages aller sages strove 
 In vain to filter off a crystal draught 
 Pure from the lees, whicli ollen more enhanced 
 The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred 
 Intoxication anil delirium wild. 
 In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth [manl 
 And spring-time of the world ; ask'd. Whence is 
 Why tbrm d at all ? and wherctbre as he is ? 
 Where must he find his Maker"? with what riteb 
 Adore him 1 Will he hear, accept, and bless 1 
 Or does he sit regardless of his works 1 
 Has man within him an immortal seed 1 
 Or docs the toaib take all ? If he survive 
 His aphcs where'? and in what weal or woe 1 
 Knots worthy of solution, which alone 
 A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague 
 And all at random, tabulous and dark, 
 Letl them as dark themselves. Their rules of life 
 Detective and unsanction'd, proved too weak 
 To bind the roving appetite, and lead 
 Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd. 
 'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts. 
 Explains all mysteries, except her own. 
 And so illuminates the path of fife
 
 674 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 That fools discover it, and stray no more. 
 Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, 
 ]My man of morals, nurtured in the shades 
 Of Academus — is this false or true 1 
 Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? 
 If Christ, then why resort at every turn 
 To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short 
 Of man's occasions, when in him reside 
 Grace, knowledge, comfort— an unfathom'd store 1 
 How oft, when Paul has served us with a text, 
 Has Epictetus, Plato, TuUy preach'd ! 
 Men that, if now alive, would sit content 
 And humble learners of a Saviour's worth. 
 Preach it who might. Such was their love of 
 
 truth. 
 Their thirst of knowledge, and their candor too ! 
 
 And thus it is. — The pastor, either vain 
 By nature, or by flattery made so, taught 
 To gaze at his own splendor, and to exalt 
 Absurdly, not his office, but himself; 
 Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn ; 
 Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach ; 
 Perverting often, by the stress of lewd 
 And loose example, whom he should instract ; 
 Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace 
 The noblest function, and discredits much 
 The brightest truths that man has ever seen. 
 For ghostly counsel — if it either fall 
 Below the exigence, or be not back'd 
 With show of love, at least with hopeful proof 
 Of some sincerity on the giver's part ; 
 Or be dishonor'd in the exterior form 
 And mode of its conveyance by such tricks, 
 As move derision, or by foppish airs 
 And histrionic mummery, that let down 
 The pulpit to the level of the stage — 
 Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. 
 The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, 
 While prejudice in men of stronger minds 
 Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. 
 A relaxation of religion's hold 
 Upon the roving and untutor'd heart 
 Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd, 
 The laity run wild. — But do they now 1 
 Note their extravagance, and be convinced. 
 
 As nations, ignorant of God, contrive 
 A wooden one, so we, no longer taught 
 By monitors that mother church supplies, 
 Now make our own. Posterity will ask 
 (If e'er posterity see verse of mine) 
 Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, 
 What was a monitor in George's days 1 
 My very gentle reader, yet unborn. 
 Of whom I needs must augur better things, 
 Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world 
 Productive only of a race like ours, 
 A monitor is wood — plank shaven thin. 
 We wear it at our backs. There closely braced 
 And neatly fitted, it compresses hard 
 The prominent and most unsightly bones. 
 And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use 
 Sovereign and most effectual to secure 
 A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, 
 From rickets and distortion, else our lot. 
 But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect — 
 Ono proof at least of manhood ! while the friend 
 Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. 
 Our habits, costlier than Luculus wore, 
 And by caprice as multiplied as his, 
 Just please us while the fashion is at full. 
 But change with every moon. The sycophant 
 Who waits to dress us arbitrates their date ; 
 
 Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye ; 
 
 Finds one ill made, another obsolete. 
 
 This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; 
 
 And, making prize of all that he condemns, 
 
 With our expenditure defrays his own. 
 
 Variety's the very spice of life. 
 
 That gives it all its flavor. We have run 
 
 Through every change that Fancy, at the loom 
 
 Exhausted, has had genius to supply ; 
 
 And, studious of mutation still, discard 
 
 A real elegance, a little used, 
 
 For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. 
 
 W'e sacrifice to dress, till household joys 
 
 And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry 
 
 And keeps our larder lean ; puts out our fires ; 
 
 And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, 
 
 Where peace and hospitality might reign. 
 
 What man that lives, and that knows how to live, 
 
 W'ould fail to exhibit at the public shows 
 
 A form as splendid as the proudest there, 
 
 Though appetite raise outcries at the cost 1 
 
 A man of the town dines late, but soon enough, 
 
 With reasonable forecast and despatch. 
 
 To ensure a side-box station at half price. 
 
 You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress. 
 
 His daily fare as delicate. Alas ! 
 
 He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems 
 
 With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet ! 
 
 The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws 
 
 With magic wand. So potent is the spell, 
 
 That none decoy'd into that fatal ring, 
 
 Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. 
 
 There we grow early grey, but never wise ; 
 
 There form connexions, but acquire no friend ; 
 
 Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success ; 
 
 Waste youth in occupations only fit 
 
 For second childhood, and devote old age 
 
 To sports which only childhood could excuse. 
 
 There they are happiest who dissemble best 
 
 Their weariness ; and they the most polite 
 
 WHio squander time and treasure with a smile. 
 
 Though at their own destruction. She that asks 
 
 Her dear five hundred friends contemns them all. 
 
 And hates their coming. They (what can they 
 
 less?) 
 Make just reprisals ; and, with cringe and shrug, 
 And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. 
 All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, 
 W^hose flambeaux flash against the morning skies. 
 And gild our chamber ceihngs as they pass, 
 To her, who, frugal only that her thrift 
 May feed excesses she can ill afford, 
 Is hackney'd home unlackey'd ; who, in haste 
 Alighting, turns the key in her own door. 
 And, a tthe watchman's lantern borrowing light, 
 Finds a cold bed her only comfort lefl. [wives. 
 Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their 
 On Fortune's velvet altar offering up 
 Their last poor pittance — Fortune, most severe 
 Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far 
 Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven. — 
 So fare we in this prison-house, the world ; 
 And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see 
 So many maniacs dancing in their chains. 
 They gaze upon the hnks that hold them fast 
 With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, 
 Then shake them in despair, and dance again I 
 
 Now basket up the family of plagues 
 That waste our vitals; peculation, sale 
 Of honor, perjury, corruption, frauds 
 By forgery, by subterfuge of law. 
 By tricks and lies as numerous and as keea
 
 As the necessities their authors feel ; 
 Then cast them, closely buadlccl. every brat 
 At the right door. Prolusion is the sire. 
 Profusion unrestrained with all that's base 
 In character, has litter'd all the land, 
 And bred, within the memory of no few, 
 A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, 
 A people such as never was till now. 
 It is a hungry vice : — it eats up all 
 That gives society its beauty, strength, 
 Convenience, and security, and use; 
 Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd 
 And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws 
 Can s^'ize the slippery prey ; unties the knot 
 Of union, and converts the sacred band, 
 That holds mankind together, to a scourge 
 Profusion, deluging a state with lusts 
 Of grossest nature and of worst eflVcts, 
 Prepares it for its ruin : hardens, blinds, 
 And warps the consciences of public men, , 
 Till theu can laugh at Virtue; mock the tools 
 That t M t!iem ; and in the end disclose u face 
 That Would have shock'd Credulity herseii, 
 Unaiask'd. vouchsaling this their sole excuse — 
 Since all alike are selfish, why not they 1 
 This does Profusion, and the accursed cause 
 Of sucli deep mischief has itself a cause. 
 In colleges and halls, in ancient days. 
 When learning, virtue, piety, and truth 
 Were precious and inculcated with care. 
 There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, 
 Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er. 
 Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, 
 But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. 
 His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile 
 Play'd on his lips ; and in his speech was heard 
 Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. 
 The oecui)ation dearest to his heart 
 Was to encourage goodness. He would' stroke 
 The head of modest and ingenuous worth, 
 Th.'it blush'd at its own praise ; and press the 
 
 youth 
 Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew 
 Beneath his care a thriving vigorous plant ; 
 The mind was well-inlbrm'd, tlie passions held 
 Subordinate, and diligence was choice. 
 If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, 
 That one among so many overleap'd 
 The limits of control, his gentle eye 
 Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: 
 His frown was t'uU of terror, and his voice 
 Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe 
 As Ictl him not till penitence had won 
 Lost favor l)ack again, and closed the breach. 
 But disciplini\ a faithlul servant long. 
 Declined at h'ngth into the vale of years: 
 A palsy struck his arm ; his sparkling eye 
 Was quencli'd in rheums of age ; his voice, un- 
 strung. 
 Grew tremulous, and moved derision more 
 Than reverence in perverse rebellious youth. 
 So colleges and halls neglected much 
 Their good old friend ; and Discipline at length, 
 O'erlook'd and unemploy'd fell sick and died. 
 Then Study languish'd. Emulation slept, 
 .And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene 
 Of sohmn farce, where ignorance in stilts, 
 His cap well lined with logic not his own, 
 With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part. 
 Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. 
 Then Compromise had place, and Scrutiny 
 Became stone blind ; Precedence went in truck, 
 
 And he was competent wliose purse was sa 
 A dissolution of all bonds ensued ; 
 The curbs invented lor the mulish mouth 
 Of headstrong youth were broken ; bars and bolta 
 Grew rusty by disuse ; and massy gates 
 Forgot their olfice, opening with a touch; 
 Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade, 
 The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, 
 A mockery of the world ! What need oi" these 
 For gamsters, jockeys, brothellers impure. 
 Spendthrifts, and booted sportsaien oilener seen 
 With belted waist and pointers at their heels 
 Than in the bounds of duty 1 What was learn'd 
 If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot; 
 And such expense as pinches parents blue. 
 And niortilies the liberal hand of love, 
 Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports 
 And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name 
 That sits a stigma on his fathers house, 
 And cleaves through life inseparably close 
 To him that wears it. What can at'ter-games 
 Of riper joys, and commerce with the world. 
 The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon 
 Add to such erudition, thus acquired, 
 Where science and where virtue are profess'd '2 
 They may confirai his habits, rivet fast 
 His foll}^ but to spoil him is a task 
 That bids defiance to the united powers 
 Of fashion, dissipation, tavi-rns, stews. 
 Now blame we most the nurslings or the nurse 1 
 The children, crook'd and twisted, and det'orm'd. 
 Through want of care ; or her whose winking 
 And slu:iibering oscitancy mars the brood I [eye 
 The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge. 
 She needs herself correction ; needs to learn 
 That it is dangerous sporting with the world, 
 With things so sacred as a nation's trust. 
 The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. 
 All are not such. I had a brother once — 
 Peace to the memory of a man of worth, 
 A man of letters and of manners too I 
 Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears. 
 When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. 
 He graced a college,* in which order yet 
 Was sacred; and was honor'd, loved, and wepi 
 By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 
 Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd 
 With such ingredients of good sense and taste 
 Of what is excellent in man, they thirst 
 With such a z'al to be what they approve, 
 That no restraints can circumscribe them more 
 Than they themselves by choice, for wisdoai'a 
 
 sake. 
 Nor can example hurt them : what they see 
 Of vice in others but enhancing more 
 The charms of virtue in their just esteem. 
 If such escape contagion, and emerge 
 Punt froai so foul a pool to shine abroad. 
 And give the world their talents and themselves. 
 Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth 
 Exposed their inexperience to the snare, 
 And letl them to an undirected choice. 
 
 See then the quiver broken and dccay'd. 
 In which are kept our arrows ! Rusting there 
 In wild disorder, and unfit I'or use, 
 What wonder, if discharged into the world. 
 They shame their shooters with a random flight. 
 Their points obtuse, ana leathers drunk with 
 
 wine ! 
 Well may the church wage unsucceessful war, 
 
 * Beuc't College, Cambridgo.
 
 576 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 With such artillery arm'd. Vice parries wide 
 The undreadcd volley with a sword of straw, 
 And stands an impudent and tearless mark. 
 
 Have we not track'd the felon home, and found 
 His birthplace and his dam? The country 
 
 mourns, 
 Mourns because ever)'' plague that can infest 
 Society, and that saps and worms the base 
 Of the edifice that Policy has raised, 
 Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, 
 And suffocates tlie breath at every turn. 
 Profusior breeds them; and the cause itself 
 Of that calamitous mischief has been found: 
 Found too where most ofTensive. in the skirts 
 Of the robed pedagogue ! Else let the arraign'd 
 Stand up unconscious, and ret'ute the charge. 
 So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm. 
 And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, 
 Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, 
 Polluting Egypt: gardens fields, and plains 
 Were cover'd with the pest ; the streets were fill'd ; 
 The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook, 
 Nor palaces nor even chambers, 'scaped ; 
 And the land stank — so numerous was the fry. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Self-recollection and reproof— Address to domestic hap- 
 piness — Some account of myself— The vanity of many 
 of ihe'.i pursuits who are reputed wise — Justification 
 of my censures — Divine illumination necessary to the 
 most expert philosopher — The question, What is 
 truth? answered by other questions — Domestic happi- 
 ness addressed again — Few lovers of the country— My 
 tame liare — Occupations of a retired gentleman in his 
 garden —Pruning — Framing — Greenhouse — Sowing of 
 flower seeds— The country preferable to the town even 
 in the winter — Reasons why it is deserted at that season 
 — Ruinous effects of gaming, and of expensive im- 
 provement — Book concludes with an apostrophe to the 
 metropolis. 
 
 As one who, long in thickets and in brakes 
 
 Entangled, winds now this way and now that 
 
 His devious course uncertain, seeking home; 
 
 Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd. 
 
 And sore discomfited, from slough to slough 
 
 Plunging, and half despairing of escape ; 
 
 If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth 
 
 And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, 
 
 He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed. 
 
 And winds his way with pleasure and with ease ; 
 
 So I, designing other themes, and call'd 
 
 To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, • 
 
 To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, 
 
 Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat 
 
 Of academic fame (howe'er deserved,) 
 
 Long held and scarcely disengaged at last. 
 
 But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road 
 
 I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, 
 
 Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil. 
 
 If toil awaits me or if dangers new. 
 
 Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect 
 Most part an empty ineffectual sound. 
 What chance that I, to fame so little known. 
 Nor conversant with men or manners much, 
 Should speak to purpose, or with better hope 
 Crack the satiric thong 1 'Twere wiser far 
 
 For mc. enamour'd of sequester'd scenes. 
 And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, [vint, 
 Wiiere chance may throw me, beneath elm oi 
 My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains 
 Or when rough winter rages, on the soft 
 And shelter'd Sof'i. while the nitrous air 
 Feeds a blue flame, and makes a chcerfui hearth 
 There, undisturbed by Folly, and apprised 
 How great the danger of disturbing her. 
 To muse in silence, or at least confine 
 Remarks that gall so many to the tew. 
 My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal'd 
 If ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault 
 Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. 
 
 Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss 
 Of Paradise that has survived the fall ! 
 Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, 
 Or tasting long enjoy thee ! too infirm. 
 Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets 
 linmix'd v/ith drops of bitter, which neglect 
 Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup : 
 Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms 
 She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is. 
 Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. 
 Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, 
 That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist 
 And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm 
 Of Novelty, her fickle, trail support; 
 For tiiou art meek and constant hating change, 
 And finding in the calm of truth-tried love 
 Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. 
 Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made 
 Of honor, dignity and fair renov4'n! 
 Till prostitution elbows us aside, 
 In all our crowded streets ; and senates seem 
 Convened lor purposes of empire less 
 Than to release the adultress from her bond. 
 The adultress ! what a theme for angry verse ! 
 What ffrovocation to the indignant heart, 
 Tiiat tijels tor injur'd love! but I disdain 
 The nauseous task to paint her as she is, 
 Cruel abandoned glorying in her shame! 
 No: — let her pass and, charioted along 
 In guilty splendor, shake the public ways ; 
 The frequency of crimes has washed them white ; 
 And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, 
 Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch'd. 
 And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. 
 Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time, 
 Not to be pass'd : and she, that had renounced 
 Her sex's honor, was renounced herself 
 By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, 
 But dignity's, resentful of the wrong, 
 'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, 
 Desirous to return, and not received; 
 But was a wholesome rigor in the main. 
 And taught the unblemish'd to preserve with care 
 That purity, whose loss was loss of all. 
 jMen too were nice in honor in those days, 
 And judged offenders well. Then he that 
 
 sharp'd, 
 And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd. 
 Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that 
 
 sold 
 His country or was slack when she required 
 His every nerve in action and at stretch, 
 Paid, with the blood that he had basely spared, 
 The price of his default. But now---yes, now 
 We are become so candid and so fair, 
 So liberal in construction, and so rich 
 In Christian charity, (good-natured age !) 
 That they are safe, siniiers of either sex,
 
 THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 
 
 577 
 
 Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, 
 
 well bred, 
 Well equipaged. is ticket good enough 
 To pass us readily through every door. 
 Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, 
 (And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet.) 
 May claim this merit still — that she admits 
 The worth of what she mimics with such care, 
 And thus gives virtue indirect applause; 
 But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, 
 Where Vice has such allowance, that her shifts 
 And specious seml)!ances have 'ost their use. 
 
 I was a stricken deer, ihat left the herd 
 Long since with many an arrow deep infix'd 
 My panting '■'id'j was charged, when I withdrew, 
 To seek atraa^uil death in distant shades. 
 There v?as I found liy One who had himself 
 Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, 
 And in Kis hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
 With gentle tbrce soliciting the darts, [live. 
 
 He drew tliem forth, and heal'd, and bade me 
 Since then with few associates, in remote 
 Ari:.' silent woods 1 wander, far from those 
 My fjriner partners of the peopled scene; 
 With tew associates, and not wishing more. 
 Here mueh I ruminate, as much I may, 
 With other views of men and manners now 
 Tlian once, and others of a hfe to come. 
 I see that all are wanderers, gone astray 
 Each in- his own delusions; they are lost 
 In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 
 And never won. Dream at'ter dream ensues; 
 And still they dream tliattliey shall stillsucceed; 
 And still an- disappointed. Rings the world 
 VVith tiie vain stir. I sum up half mankind, 
 And add two-ttiirds of the remaining half 
 And hnd the total of their hopes and fears 
 Dreams empty dreams. The million flit as gay 
 As if created only like the fly, [noon, 
 
 That spreads his motley wings in the eye of 
 To sport their season, and be seen no inure. 
 The rest are sober dreamers, grave and vvi:-e, 
 And f regnant with discoveries new and rare. 
 Some write a narrative of wars, and feats 
 Of heroi's little known; and call tiie rant 
 A history: describe the man. of whom 
 His own coevals took but little note ; 
 And paint his person, character, and views. 
 As they had known him from liis mother's womb. 
 They disentangle trom the pu/zled skein, 
 In which ol)scurity has wrapp'd them up, 
 I'he threads ot' politic and shrewd design. 
 That ran through all his purposes, and cliarge 
 His mind with meanings that he never had, 
 Or having, kept conceal'd. Soaie drill and bore 
 The solid earth and trom the strata there 
 Extract a register, by which we learn. 
 That he who made it, and reveal'd its date 
 To Moses was mistaken in its age. 
 Some more acute, and more industrious still, 
 Contrive cri-ation : travel nature up 
 To th<' shar]) peak of her sublimest height, 
 And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix'd, 
 And ])lanetary some; what gave them first 
 Rotation, trom what Ibuntain flow'd their light. 
 Great contest iiiliovvs. and much learned dust 
 Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth, 
 And truth disclaiming both. And thus they 
 
 spend 
 The little wi(;k of life's poor shallow lamp 
 In playinir tricks with nature, giving laws 
 To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. 
 
 Is't not a pity, now, that tickling rheums 
 Should ever tease the lungs ancl blear the sight 
 Of oracles like these 1 Great pity too, 
 That, ha\ ing wielded the elements, and built 
 A thousa;i(l systems, each in his own way, 
 They shouiJ go out in fume, and be Ibrgotl 
 Ah ! what is life thus spent 1 and what are they 
 But frantic who thus spend it ] all tor smoke- 
 Eternity tor bubbles proves at last 
 A senseless bargain. Whsn I see such crames 
 Play'd by the creatures of a Power who sv/ears 
 That he will judge the earth, and call the t'ooi 
 To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain • 
 And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, 
 And prove it in the infallible result 
 So iioUow and so t'uise — I feel my heart 
 Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd. 
 If this be learning, most of all deceived. 
 Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleej i 
 While thoughttul man is plausibly amused. 
 Det'end me therefore, common sense, say I, 
 From reveries so airy, trom the toil 
 Of dropping buckets into empty wells, 
 And growing old in drawing nothing up 1 
 
 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, 
 Terril)ly arch'd and aquihne his nose. 
 And overbuilt with most impending brows, — 
 'Twere well, could you permit the world to live 
 As the world pleases : what's the world to you 'I 
 Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk 
 As sweet as charity trom human breasts. 
 I think, artitmlate, I laugli and weep. 
 And exercise all functions of a man. 
 How then should 1 and any man that lives 
 Be strangers to each other I Pierce my vein, 
 Take of the crimson stream meandering there, 
 And catechise it well : apply thy glass. 
 Search it. and prove now if it be not blood 
 Congenial with thine own : and if it be, 
 What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose 
 Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, 
 To cut the link of brotherhood, by wiiich 
 One coQimon Maker bound me to the kind 1 
 True ; I am no proficient, I cont'ess, 
 In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift 
 And perilous lightnings trom the angry clouds, 
 And bid them liide themselves in earth beneath : 
 I cannot analyze the air, nor catch 
 The parallax of yonder luminous point. 
 That seems half queneh'd in the immense abyss: 
 Such powers 1 boast not — neither can I rest 
 A silent witness of tlie headlong rage. 
 Or heedless tolly by which thousands die, 
 Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. 
 
 God never meant that man should scale the 
 heavens 
 By strides of human wisdom. In his works. 
 Though wondrous, he commands us in his word, 
 To seek him ratlier where his mercy shines. 
 The mind indeed enlightcn'd from above. 
 Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
 The grand etlVct; acknowledges with joy 
 His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
 But never yet did philosopiiic tube, 
 Tliat biings the planets home into the eye 
 Ot" Observation, and discovers, else 
 Not visible, his family of worlds. 
 Discover him that rules them ; such a veil 
 Hangs over Niortal eyes, blind from the birth. 
 And iiuik in tilings divine. Full otlen too 
 Our wayward intellect, the more we learn 
 Of nal'ire, overlooks her Author more; 
 37
 
 57b 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Fron_ instrumental causes proud to draw 
 
 Conclusions retrograde and mad mistake. 
 
 But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray 
 
 Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 
 
 Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, 
 
 Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized 
 
 In the pure fountain of eternal love, 
 
 Has eyes indeed ; and, viewing all she sees 
 
 As meant to indicate a God to man, 
 
 Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 
 
 Learning has borne such fruit in other days 
 
 On all her branches : piety has found 
 
 Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 
 
 Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. 
 
 Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage ! 
 
 Sagacious reader of the works of God. 
 
 And his word sagacious. Such. too. thine, 
 
 Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, 
 
 And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom 
 
 Our British Themis gloried with just cause, 
 
 Immortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised, 
 
 And sound integrity, not more than famed 
 
 For sanctity of manners undefiled. 
 
 All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 
 Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind ; 
 Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 
 The man we celebrate must find a tomb, 
 And we that worship him ignoble graves. 
 Nothing is proof against the genera! curse 
 Of vanity, that seizes all below. 
 The only amaranthine flower on cartli 
 Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. 
 But what is truth ? 'Twas Pilate's question put 
 To truth itself that deign'd him no reply. 
 And wherefore 1 will not God impart his light 
 To them that ask it 1 — Freely — 'tis his joy, 
 His glory, and his nature to impart. 
 But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 
 Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 
 What's that which brings contempt upon a book. 
 And him who writes it, though the st^'le be neat. 
 The method clear, and argument exact 1 
 That makes a minister in holy things 
 The joy of many and the dread of more, 
 His name a theme for praise and for reproach 7 — 
 That, while it gives us worth in God's account, 
 Depreciates and undoes us in our own 1 
 What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, 
 That learning is too proud to gather up ; 
 But which the poor, and the despised of all, 
 Seek and obtain, and often find unsought 1 
 Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. 
 
 O friendly to the best pursuits of man. 
 Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
 Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd ! 
 Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets 
 Though many boast thy favors, and affect 
 Tc understand and choose thee for their own. 
 But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, 
 K'en as his first progenitor, and quits. 
 Though placed in Paradise (lor earth has still 
 Some traces of her youthful beauty left,) 
 Substantial happiness for transient joy. 
 Scenes fonn'd for contemplation, and to nurse 
 The growing seeds of wisdom ; that suggest, 
 By every pleasing image they present, 
 Reflections such as meliorate the heart, 
 Compose the passions, and exak the mind ; 
 Sce:.-s such as these 'tis his L;i,pr: a,.- delight 
 To fill with riot, and defile with blood. 
 Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes 
 We persecute, annihilate the tribes 
 
 That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, 
 Fearless and rapt away from all his cares ; 
 Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, 
 Nor baited hoo'i deceive the fish's eye ; 
 Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, 
 Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreat ; 
 How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, 
 Who dream they have a taste for fields and 
 
 groves. 
 Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen. 
 And crowd the roads, impatient for the town ! 
 They love the country, and none else, who seek 
 For their own sake its silence and its shade. 
 Delights which who would leave, that has a heart 
 Susceptible of pity, or a mind 
 Cultured and capable of sober thought, 
 For all the savage din of the swift pack. 
 And clamors of the field 1 — Detested sport, 
 That owes its pleasures to another's pain ; 
 That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks 
 Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued 
 With eloquence, that agonies inspire 
 Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs 1 
 Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that never find 
 A corresponding tone in jovial souls ! 
 Well — one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare 
 Has never heard the sanguinary yell 
 Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. 
 Innocent partner of my peaceful home, 
 Whom ten long years' experience of my care 
 Has made at last familiar ; she has lost 
 Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, 
 Not needful here, beneath a roof Hke mine. 
 Yes — thou mayest eat thy bread, and lick the 
 
 hand 
 That feeds thee ; thou mayest frolic on the floor 
 At evening, and at night retire secure 
 To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; 
 For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged 
 All that is human in me to protect 
 Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. 
 If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave ; 
 And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, 
 " I knew at least one hare that had a friend.'' 
 
 How various his employments whom the world 
 Calls idle ; and who justly in return 
 Esteems that busy world an idler too ! 
 Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, 
 DeUghtful industry enjoy'd at home, 
 And Nature, in her cultivated trim 
 Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad — 
 Can he want occupation who has these 1 
 Will he be idle who has much to enjoy 1 
 Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, 
 Not slothful, happy to deceive the time. 
 Not waste it, and aware that human life 
 Is but a loan to be repaid with use. 
 When He shall call his debtors to account. 
 From whom are all our blessings, business finds 
 E'en here : while sedulous I seek to improve. 
 At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd. 
 The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack 
 Too oft, and much mipeded in its work. 
 By causes not to be divulged in vain. 
 To its just point — the service of mankind. 
 He, that attends to his interior self, 
 That has a heart, and keeps it: has a mind 
 That hungers, and supplies it ; and who seeks 
 A social, not a dissipated life. 
 Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve 
 No unimportant, though a silent, task. 
 A life all turbulence and noise may seem
 
 THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 
 
 579 
 
 To him that leads it wise, and to be praised ; 
 But wisdom is a pearl with most success 
 Sought in still wator and beneath clear skies. 
 He that is ever occupied in stoniis, 
 Or dives not for it. or brings up instead, 
 Vainly industrious, a disgracetul prize. 
 
 The morning finds the selt-sequestored man 
 Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. 
 Whether inclement seasons recommend 
 H'S warm but simple home, where he enjoys, 
 With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, 
 Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph 
 Which neatly she prepares ; then to his book 
 Well chosen, and not sullenly perused 
 In selfish silence, but imparted oft. 
 As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear, 
 Or turn to nourishment, digested well. 
 Or if the garden with its many cares. 
 All well repaid, demand him. he attends 
 The welcome call, conscious how much the hand 
 Of lubbard Labor needs his walchful eye. 
 Oft loitering lazily, if not o'erseen, 
 Or misapplying his unskilful strength. 
 Nor does he govern only or direct. 
 But much pertbrms himself No works, indeed, 
 That ask robust, tough sinews, bred to toil. 
 Servile employ ; but such as may amuse. 
 Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. 
 Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees. 
 That meet, no barren interval between. 
 With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford; 
 Which, save himself wlio trains them, none can 
 
 feel. 
 These therefore arc his own peculiar charge; 
 No meaner hand may discipline the shoots. 
 None but his steel approach them. What is weak, 
 Distcmper'd, or has lost prolific powers, 
 Impair'd by age. his unrelenting hand 
 Dooms to the knite : nor does he spare the soft 
 .\nd succulent, that feeds its giant growth, 
 But barren, at the expense of neighboring twigs 
 Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick 
 Willi hopeful gems. The rest no portion left 
 riuit may disgrace his art, or disappoint 
 Largft expectation, he disposes neat 
 At measured distances, that air and sun, 
 Adautted freely, may atl'ord their aid, 
 And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. 
 Hence Suinnier iias her riches. Autumn hcnco. 
 And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand 
 With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.* 
 Fair recompense of labor well bestow'd. 
 And wise precaution ; which a clime so rude 
 Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the 
 
 child 
 Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods 
 Discovering much the temper of her sire. 
 For oft, as if in her the stream of mild 
 Maternal nature had reversed its course, 
 She brings her infants forth with many smiles ; 
 But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. 
 He therefore, timely warn'd, himself supplies 
 Her want of care, screening and keeping warm 
 The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may 
 
 sweep 
 His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft 
 As the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild. 
 The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam 
 And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. 
 
 To raise the prickly and grecn-coatod gourd. 
 So grateful to the palate, and when rare 
 
 * Miraturque novos fructus et non sua Doma. — yirg. 
 
 So coveted, else base and disesteem'd — 
 Food for the vulgar merely — is an art 
 That toiling ages have but just matured, 
 And at this moment unassay'd in song, [since 
 Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice, long 
 Their eulogy ; those sang the Mantuan bard ; 
 And these the Grecian, in ennobling strains; 
 And in thy numbers, Phillip;, shines for aye, 
 The solitary shilling. Pardon then, 
 Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame. 
 The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers, 
 Presinning an attempt not less sublime, 
 Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste 
 Of critic appetite no sordid fare, 
 A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. 
 The stable yields a stercoraceous heap. 
 Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, 
 And potent to resist the freezing blast : 
 For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf 
 Deciduous, when now November dark 
 Checks vegetation in the torpid plant 
 Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. 
 Warily therefore, and with prudent heed, 
 He seeks a tavor'd spot; that where he builds 
 The agglomerated pile his frame may front 
 The sun's meridian disk, and at the back 
 Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge 
 Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread 
 Dry fern or litter'd hay, that may imbibe 
 The ascending damps ; then leisurely impose, 
 And lightly, shaking it with agile hand 
 From the full Ibrk, the saturated straw. 
 What longest binds the closest forms secure 
 The shapely side, that as it rises takes. 
 By just degrees, an overhanging breadth. 
 Sheltering the base with it.« projected eaves ; 
 The uplifled frame, ccmpact at every joint, 
 And overlaid with clear translucent glass. 
 He settles next upon the sloping mount. 
 Whose sharp declivity shoots otf secure 
 From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. 
 He shuts it close, and the first labor ends. 
 Thrice must the voluble and restless earth 
 Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, 
 Slow gathering in the midst, through the square 
 
 mass 
 Diffused, attains the surface ; when, behold I 
 A pestilent and most corrosive steam, 
 Like a gross fog Dtcotian, rising fast, 
 And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, 
 Asks egress ; which obtain 'd, the overcharged 
 And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad. 
 In volumes wheeling slow, the vapor dank ; 
 And, purified, rejoices to have lost 
 Its foul inhabitant. Cut to assuage 
 The impatient fervor, which at first conceives 
 Within its reeking bosom, threatening death 
 To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. 
 Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft 
 The way to glory by miscarriage foul. 
 Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch 
 The auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat 
 Friendly to vital motion, may afford ^ 
 
 Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. 
 The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, 
 And glossy, he commits to pots of size 
 Diminutive, well fiU'd with well prepared 
 And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long. 
 And drunk no moi,~ture from the dripping clouds 
 These on the warm and gonial earth, that 
 
 hides 
 The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, 
 Ue places lightly, and, as time subdue*
 
 580 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The rajre of" fermentation, pluntrcs deep 
 
 In tlie sol't medium, till they stand immersed. 
 
 Then rise the tender germs uptitartino- quick, 
 
 And spreading wide their spongy lolies; at first 
 
 Pale, wan and hvid ; but assuming soon, 
 
 II" fann'd by bahiiy and nutritious air. 
 
 Strain'd through the triendly mats, a vivid green. 
 
 Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, 
 
 Cautious he pinches from the second stalk 
 
 A pimple, that portends a future sprout, 
 
 And interdicts its growth. Thence straight 
 
 succeed 
 The branches sturdy to his utmost wish ; 
 Prolific all, and harbingers of more 
 The crowded roots demand enlargement now. 
 And transplantation in an ampler space. 
 Indulged in what they wish, tliey soon supply 
 Larire foliase, overshadowino- ijolden flowers-. 
 Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. 
 These have their sexes ; and when summer 
 The bee transports the fertilizing meal [shines, 
 From flower toiiower, and e'en the breathing air 
 Walts the rich prize to its appointed use. 
 Not so when winter scowls. Assistant Art 
 Then acts in Nature's office, brings to pass 
 The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. 
 
 Grudge not ye rich, (since Luxury must have 
 His dainties and the World's more numcror.s 
 Lives by contriving delicates for you.) [half 
 
 Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the car^s, 
 The vigilance the labor, and the skill, 
 That day and night are exercised, and hang 
 Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, 
 That ye may garnish your profuse regales 
 With summer fruits brouglit ibrth by wintry suns. 
 Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart 
 Tlie process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and 
 steam, [ing flies, 
 
 Moisture, and drought mice, worms, and swarm- 
 Minute as dust and liumberless oft work 
 Dire disappointment, that admits no cure. 
 And which no care can obviate. It were long. 
 Too long, to tell the expedients and the shifts 
 Which he that tights a season so severe 
 Devises, while he guards hi.i tender trust ; 
 And oil at last in vain. The l;-arn'd and wise 
 Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song 
 Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit 
 Of too much labor, worthless when produced. 
 
 Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. 
 Unconscious of a less propitious clime. 
 There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, 
 While the winds whistle, and the snows descend. 
 The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf 
 Shines there, and flourishes. I'he golden boast 
 Of Portugal and western India there, 
 The ruddier orange, and the paler lime. 
 Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, 
 And seem to smile at what they need not fear. 
 The amomuui there with intermingling flowers 
 And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts 
 Her crimson honors; and the spangled beau, 
 *Ficoidcs glitters bright the winter loner. 
 All plants, of every leaf that can endure [bite, 
 The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd 
 Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, 
 Levantine regions these ; the Azores send 
 Their jessamine, her jessamine remote 
 CafTraria; foreigners from niEvny lands. 
 They form one social shade, as if convened 
 By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. 
 Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass 
 
 But by a master's hand, disyjosing well 
 The gay diversities of leaf and flower. 
 Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms. 
 And dress the regular yet various scene. 
 Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van 
 The dwarfish in the rear retired, but still 
 Sublime above the rest the statelier stand. 
 So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome 
 A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ; 
 And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he, 
 The sons of Albion ; fearing each to lose 
 Some note of Nature's music from his lips, 
 And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen 
 In every flash of his t'ar beaming eye. 
 Nor taste alone and well contrived display 
 Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace 
 Of their complete efl'ect. Much yet remains 
 Unsung, and many cares are yet behind, 
 And more laborious; cares on which depends 
 Their vigor, injured soon, not soon restored. 
 The soil must be renewd which often wash'd 
 Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, 
 And disappoints the roots ; the slender roots 
 Close interwoven, where they meet the vase, 
 Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch 
 Must fly bet'()re the knife; the wither'd leaf 
 Must be detacli'd, and where it strews the flooi 
 Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else 
 Contagion, and disseminating death. 
 Discharge but these kind offices (and who 
 Would spare, that loves them offices like these!) 
 Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased. 
 The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf. 
 Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad 
 Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. 
 
 So manilbld. all pleasing in their kind. 
 All healtht'ul, are the employs of rural life, 
 Reiterated as the wheel of time 
 Runs round ; still ending and beginning still. 
 Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll. 
 That soflly swell'd and gaily dress'd appears 
 A flowery island, from the dark green lawn 
 Emerging, must be dcem'd a labor due 
 To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. 
 Here also grateful mixture of well match'd 
 And sorted hues, (each piving each relief, 
 And by contrasted beauty shining more,; 
 Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous 
 
 spade. 
 May turn the clod and wheel the compost home • 
 But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, 
 And most attractive, is the fair result 
 Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. 
 Without it all is gothic as the scene 
 To which the insipid citizen resorts 
 Near yonder heath ; vyhere Industry misspent. 
 But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, 
 Has made a heaven on earth ; with suns and 
 
 moons 
 Of close ramm'd stones has charged the enoumber'd 
 
 soil, 
 And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. 
 He therefore who would see his flowers disposed 
 Sightly and in just order, ere he gives 
 The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds. 
 Forecasts the future whole ; that when the 
 
 scene 
 Shall break into its preconceired display, 
 Each for itself, and all as with one voice 
 Conspiring, may attest his bright design. 
 Nor even then, dismissing as perform'd 
 His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. 
 Few self-supported flowers endure the wind
 
 (Jninjured. liut expect the upholding aid 
 Of the smooth shaven prop and, neatly tied, 
 Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, 
 For interest sake, the living to the dead. 
 Some clothe the soil that leeds them, lar diffused 
 And lowly creeping modest and yet fair, 
 Like virtue, thnvint) most where little seen; 
 Some, more, aspiring catch the neighbor shrub 
 With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, 
 Else anatiorn'd, witii many a gay testoon 
 And fragrant chaplet recompensing well [lend. 
 The strength they borrow with the grace they 
 All hate the rank society of weeds. 
 Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust 
 Theimpoverish'd earth; an overbearing race, 
 Tliat like the multitude made faction-mad, 
 Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. 
 
 O blest seclusion from a jarring world, 
 Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat 
 Cannot indeed to guUty man restore 
 Lost innocence, or cancel Ibllitss past; 
 But it has peace, an<l much secures 'he mind 
 Fro))i all assaults of evil; proving slil 
 A faithful barrier, not o'erleap'd with ease 
 By vici.iijs (Justom. raging uncontroll'd 
 Abroad, anil dcfoUiting public life. 
 When fierce teiaplation. seconded within 
 By traitor .'ppt'tite, and arm'd v.'ith darts 
 Temper'd in Hell, invades the throbbing breast, 
 To c^mbu may be glorious, and success 
 Perhaps may crown us ; but to fly is safe. 
 Had I ii)-^ choice of sublunary good, 
 Wh.tt could I wish, that I possess not here 1 
 Health, leisure, means to unprove it, friendship, 
 
 TKjace. 
 No Ioo.sc or wanton, though a wandering, muse, 
 And constant occu[)ation witluiut care. 
 Thus bir.st I draw a picture of that bliss; 
 Hopeless intleed. that dissipated minds, 
 And profligate aliusers of a world 
 Created tair so much in vain for them. 
 Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, 
 Allured by my report: but sure no less 
 That sclf-condemn'd they must neglect the prize, 
 And what they will not taste must yet approve. 
 What we admire we praise ; ami. when we praise, 
 Advance it into notice, that, its worth 
 Acknowledged, others may ai.-imire it too. 
 1 iherel'ore recoaimend. though at the rir.k 
 Of popular disgust, yet bolilly still. 
 The cause of p:ety and sacred truth. 
 And virtue and those scem^s which God ordain'd 
 Should iiest secure Iheai and proaiote thein most. 
 Scenes that 1 love, and with ngret perceive 
 Forsaken or through folly not en joy 'd. 
 I'ure is the nympli, tho\igh liberal of her smiles, 
 And chaste, though uneonfined whom I extol. 
 Not as the prince in Shusiian when hi; calld, 
 Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti tbrth. 
 To wrac-e the full pavilion. His design 
 Was but to boast his own peculiar good, 
 U hich all might view with envy none partake. 
 My charaier is not mine alone; my sweets. 
 And af;e that swe(?tens all my bitters too, 
 Nature, enchanting Nature in whose form 
 And lin, aments divine 1 trace a hand 
 That errs not, and finds rajitures still rcncw'd. 
 Is free to all men — universal prize. 
 Strange that so fair a creature should yet want 
 .\ilmirers and be destined to divide 
 Witii meaner objects e'en the lew she finds ! 
 Stripjj'd other ornaments, Lar leaves, t.ad llov.xix' 
 
 She loses all her influence. Cities then 
 Attract us, and neglected nature pines, 
 Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love. 
 J]ut are not wholesome airs though unperfumed 
 By roses; and clear suns though scarcely felt; 
 And groves if unharmonious yet secure 
 Froai clamor, and whose very silence charms ; 
 To be preurr'd to smoke, to the eclipse 
 That metropolitan volcanoes make, [lone; 
 
 Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day 
 And to the stir of Commerce, driving slow. 
 And thundrU'ing loud with his ten thousand 
 
 wheels ! 
 They would be, were not madness in the head, 
 And folly in the heart; were England now 
 What England was, plain, hospitable, kind. 
 And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell 
 To all the virtues of those better days, 
 And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once 
 Knew their own masters; and laborious hinds, 
 Who had survived the father, serv'd the son. 
 Now the legitimate and rightful lord 
 Is but a transient guest, newly arrived. 
 And soon to be supplanted. He that saw 
 His patrimonial timber cast its leaf 
 Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price 
 To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. 
 Estates are landscapes gazed upon awhile. 
 Then advertised, and auctioneer'd away. 
 The country starves, and they that feed the o'er- 
 
 charged 
 And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues. 
 By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. 
 The wings that waft our riches out of sight, 
 Grow on the gamester's elbows; and the alert 
 And nimble motion of those restless joints, 
 That never tire, soon tans tiiem all away. 
 Improvement too, the idol of the age. 
 Is led with many a victim. Lo, he comes I 
 The omnipotent magician. Brown appears 1 
 Down falls the venerable pile, the abode 
 Of our forefathers — a grave whisker'd rate. 
 But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead. 
 But in a distant spot ; where more exposed 
 It may enjoy the advantage of the north. 
 And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd 
 Those iKiked acres to a sheltering grove. 
 He spuaks. The lake in iront becomes a lawn ; 
 Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise ; 
 Antl streams, as if created for his use, 
 Puruue the track of his directing wand. 
 Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, 
 Now imirmuring soil, now roaring in cascades — 
 E'en as he bids! The enraptured owner smiles. 
 "['is firiislfd, and yet finish'd as it seea's. 
 Still wants a gnice. the loveliest it could show, 
 .\ mine to satisfy the enormous cost. 
 Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, 
 He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplish'd 
 
 plan, 
 That he has tonch'd, retouch'd, many a long day 
 Labor'd, and manj' a night pursued in dreams. 
 Just when it meets his hopes, and jiroves the 
 He wanted, lor a wealthier to enjoy! [heaven 
 And now perhaps the glorious hour is come 
 When, having no stake left, no pledge to endear 
 Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause 
 A moment's operation on his love, 
 He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal, 
 To serve his country. Ministerial grace 
 Deals him out money from the public chest; 
 i Or, if that mine be shut, some private par.io
 
 582 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Supplies his need with a usurious loan, 
 
 To be refunded duly, when his vote 
 
 Well managed shall have earn'd its worthy price. 
 
 O innocent, compared with arts like these, 
 
 Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball 
 
 Sent through the traveller's temples ! He that 
 
 finds 
 One drop of Heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, 
 Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content. 
 So he may wrap himself in honest rags 
 At his last gasp ; but could not for a world 
 Fish up his dirty and dependent bread 
 From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, 
 Sordid and sickening at his own success. 
 
 Ambition, avarice, penury incurr'd 
 By endless riot, vanity, the lust 
 Of pleasure and variety, despatch. 
 As duly as the swallows disappear, [town. 
 
 The world of wandering knights and squires to 
 London engulfs them all! The shark is there, 
 And the shark's prey ; the spendthrift, and the 
 
 leech 
 That sucks him ; there the sycophant, and he 
 Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bcws. 
 Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail 
 And groat per diem, if his patron frown. 
 The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp 
 Were character'd on every statesman's door, 
 "Batter'd and bankrupt fortunes mended 
 
 HERE." 
 
 These are the charms that sully and eclipse 
 The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe 
 That lean iiard-handed Poverty inflicts. 
 The hope of better things, the chance to win, 
 Tlie wish to shine, the thirst to be amused. 
 That at the sound of winter's hoary wincr 
 Unpeople all our counties of such herds 
 Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, beggincr. loose, 
 And wanton vagrants as make London, vast 
 And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. 
 
 O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, 
 Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, 
 And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
 Much that I love, and more that I admirt 
 And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, 
 That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I a^n laugh. 
 And I can weep, can hope, and cun despond, 
 Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee 1 
 Ten righteous would have saved a city once. 
 And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — 
 That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
 And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, 
 Than Sodom in her day had power to be. 
 For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT, 
 
 The post Comes in— The newspapor read— Tlie ■"orld 
 contemplated at a distance — Address to wlui.o- — The 
 rural amusements of a winter evening compaind with 
 the fashionable ones— Address to evening — A brown 
 study— Fall of snow in the evening— The wagoner— A 
 poor family piece— I'he rural thief— Public houses — 
 The multitude of them censured— The farmer's daugh- 
 ter: what she was; what she is— The simplicity of 
 countj'y manners almost lost — Causes of the change^ 
 Desertion of the comilry by !)■.■ rich — Neglect of magis- 
 
 trates—The militia principally in fault— Tlie new re- 
 cruit and his transformation— Reflection on bodies cor 
 porate— The love of rural objects natural to ail, and 
 never to be totally extinguished. 
 
 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, [locks ; 
 With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen 
 News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind. 
 Yet, careless what he brings, his one concern 
 Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
 And, having dropp'd the 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 indiflerent 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 O the important budget ! usher'd in 
 Witli such heart-shaking music who can say 
 What are its tidings 1 have our troops awaked 1 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd. 
 Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wevel 
 Is India free 1 and does she wear her plumed 
 And jeweird turban with a smile of peace, 
 Or do we grind her still 1 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 the imprison 'd wranglers free, 
 And give them voice and utterance once again. 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
 And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Tlnrows up a steamy column, and the cups, 
 ThyJ cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
 Not such his evening, who with shining face 
 Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
 And bored with elbow points through both Itia 
 
 sld3s, 
 Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
 Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb. 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
 Of patriots, burstimr with heroic rage, 
 Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
 This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
 Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds 
 Inquisitive attention, while I read, 
 Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, 
 Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; 
 What is it but a map of busy hfe. 
 Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns'? 
 Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 
 That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
 The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; [heels, 
 He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At hia 
 Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 
 And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down 
 And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
 Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 
 Oleanders, lubricate tlie course they take; 
 'iiie modest speaker is asliamed and grieved 
 To engross a ja?n,c;it's notice ; and yet begs,
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 683 
 
 Benifs a propilious ear for his poor thoughts, 
 However trivial all tliat he conceives. 
 Sweet baslifulness ! it claims at least this praise ; 
 The dearth of information and good sense, 
 That it foretells us, always cotnes to pass. 
 Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 
 There forests of no meaning spread the page, 
 In which all comprehension wanders lost ; 
 While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 
 With merry descants on a nation':; woes. 
 The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
 But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks 
 And lilies tor the brows of faded age, 
 Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald. 
 Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their 
 Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, [sweets. 
 Sermons, and city feastts, and favorite airs, 
 .lEthereal journeys, submarine exploits, 
 And Katerfclto, with his hair on end 
 At his own wonders, wondering lor his bread. 
 
 'Tis pleasant, through the loofiholes of retreat, 
 To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
 Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; 
 To hear the roar she sends throuixh all her gates 
 At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
 Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. 
 Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
 To some secure and more than mortal height. 
 That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
 It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
 Witii all its generations: I behold 
 The tumult and am still. The sound of war 
 Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
 Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
 And avarice that make man a wolf to man; 
 Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats 
 By which he speaks the language of his heart, 
 An'^ sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
 He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
 From flower to flower, so he from land to land ; 
 The manners, customs, policy of all 
 Pay contribution to the store he gleans; 
 He sucks intelligence in every clime. 
 And spreads the honey of his deep research 
 At his return — a rich repast for me. 
 He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
 Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 
 Discover countries, wit'.i a kindred heart 
 SufTcr his woes and share in his escapes; 
 Wiiile fancy, like the finger of a clock, 
 Runs the great circuit and is still at home. 
 
 O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
 Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, 
 Thv breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
 Fringed with a beard made white with other 
 
 snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding ear, inilei>ted to no wheels. 
 But urg'd by storms along its slippery way, 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
 And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'stthe sun 
 A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
 Shortenhig his journey betw(!en morn and noon. 
 Anil hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
 Down Id the ro.s^y west; but kindly still 
 C'».«rpenrtating his loss wuh added hours 
 'CV'' social converse ana instructive case, 
 And gathering at sliorl notice, in one group 
 Tile family dispersed, and fixing thouglit, 
 ^s'ot leas dispersed b.y daylight and its cares. 
 
 I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
 
 Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
 
 And all the comlbrts that the lowly roof 
 
 Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
 
 Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; 
 
 No powder'd pert proficient in the art 
 
 Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors 
 
 Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 
 
 Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the 
 
 sound. 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
 But here the needle plies its busy task, 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower. 
 Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
 Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs. 
 And curling tendrils, gracef'ully disposed, 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 
 A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
 With most success when all besides decay. 
 The poet's or historian's page by one 
 Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; 
 The sprightl}' lyre, v.'hose treasure of sweet sounda 
 The touch from many a trembling chord shakes 
 
 out; 
 And the clear voice, symphonious. yet distinct, 
 And in the chaiming strite triumphant still, 
 Beguile the nigLt, .ind set a keener edge 
 On female inditstry : the threaded steel 
 Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
 The volume closed, the customary rites 
 Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal, 
 Such as the mistress of the world once found 
 Delicious, when her patriots of high note, 
 Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, 
 And under an old oak's domestic shad<i, 
 Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an eo-nri 
 Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull. 
 Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 
 Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
 Nor do we madly, like an impious world, 
 Who deem rehgion frenzy, and the God 
 That made them an intruder on their joys. 
 Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 
 A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone. 
 Exciting oft our gratitude and love. 
 While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand 
 That calls the past to our exact review. 
 The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare. 
 The disappointed foe, deliverance found 
 Unlook'd for, life preserved and peace restored, 
 Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
 O evenings worthy of the gods ! cxclaim'd 
 The Sabine bard. O evenings, 1 reply, 
 INIore to be prized and coveted than j-ours, 
 .\s more illumined, and witii nobler truths. 
 That I. and mine, and those we love, enjoy. 
 
 Is Winter hideous in a garb hke this 1 
 Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, 
 The pent-up breath of an unsavory throng, 
 To thaw him into fbcling ; or the smart 
 And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits 
 Call comedy, to prompt him with a snrile 1 
 The self-complacent actor, when he views 
 (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) 
 The slope of iuccs from the floor to the roof 
 (As if one muster spring controU'd them all,) 
 Relax'd into a universal grin. 
 Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joj 
 Half so refined or so sincere as ours. 
 Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricte 
 That idleness has ever yet contrived
 
 684 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 To fill the void of an un furnish 'd brain, 
 To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. 
 Time, as he j)asses us. has a liove's wing. 
 Unsoil'd and swift and of a siiiien sound; 
 But the World's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
 Theirs, should I paint him has his pinions fledged 
 With motly plumes; and. where the peacock 
 
 shows 
 His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red 
 With spots quadrangular of diamond form, 
 Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, 
 And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. 
 What should be, and what was an hour-glass 
 
 once. 
 Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace 
 Well does the work of his destructive scythe. 
 Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion 
 
 blinds 
 To his true worth, most pleased when idle most ; 
 Whose only happy are their wasted hours. 
 E'en misses at whose age their mothers wore 
 The backstring and the bib assume the dress 
 Of womanhood, lit pupils in the school 
 Of card-devoted Time. and. night by night 
 Placed at some vacant corner oi' the board. 
 Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. 
 But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, 
 Where shall I find an end, or how proceed 1 
 As lie that travels far oft turns aside, 
 To view some ru^ircd rock or mouldering tnver. 
 Which seen delights him not; then, coming 
 
 home. 
 Describes and prints it. that the world may know 
 How far he went for what was nothing worth ; 
 So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread. 
 With colors mix'd for a far diflerent use. 
 Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing 
 That Fancy finds in her excursive flights. 
 
 Come, Evening, once again sea.-~on of peace; 
 Return, sweet Evening, and continue long ! 
 Methinks I see thee in the streaky west. 
 With matron step slow moving while the Night 
 Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand em- 
 In letting fall the curtain of repose [ploy'd 
 
 On bird and beast, the other charged for man 
 W'ith sv.eet oblivion of the cares of day: 
 Not sumptuously adorn'd. not needing aid, 
 Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems; 
 A star or two just twinkling on thy brow. 
 Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
 No less than hers, not worn indeed on high 
 With ostentatious pageantry but set 
 With modest grandeur in thy purple zone. 
 Resplendent less but of an ampler round. 
 Come then, and thou shall find thy votary calm, 
 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: 
 And. whether I devote thy gentle hours 
 To books to music, or the poet's toil; 
 To weaving njts for bird-.dluring fruit; 
 Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, 
 When they command whom man was born to 
 
 please ; 
 I slight thee not but make thee welcome still. 
 
 .Tust when o\ir drawing-rooms begm to blaze 
 With lights, by clear reflection multiplied 
 From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, 
 Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk 
 Whole without stooping towering crest and aVl, 
 My pleasures too begin. But me primps 
 The frjowing hearth may satisfy awhile 
 
 irli I'aint illumination, that uplitls 
 Tr^e shadow* to the ceiling, there by fits 
 
 Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. 
 
 Not unilelighti'ul is an hour to me 
 
 So spent in parlor twiliirlit: such a gloom 
 
 Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, 
 
 The mind contemplative, with some new theme 
 
 Pregnant or indisposed alike to all. [powers, 
 
 Laugh ye, who boast your more mercuriaJ 
 
 That never felt a stupor, know no pause, 
 
 Nor need one ; I am conscious and confess, 
 
 Fearless, a soul that does not always think. 
 
 Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild 
 
 Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, 
 
 Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd 
 
 In the red cinders, while with poring eye 
 
 I gazed, myself creating what I saw. 
 
 Nor less amused, have .1 quiescent watch'd 
 
 The sooty films that play upon the bars, 
 
 Pendulous and Ibreboding in the view 
 
 Of superstition, prophesying still, [preach. 
 
 Though still deceived, some stranger's near ap- 
 
 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose 
 
 In indolent vacuity of thought, 
 
 And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face 
 
 Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask 
 
 Of deep deliberation, as the man 
 
 Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. 
 
 Thus oft, reclined at ease. I lose an hour 
 
 At evening, till at length the ui.ezing blast. 
 
 That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home 
 
 The recollected powers; and. snapping short 
 
 The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves 
 
 Her brittle toils restores me to myself. 
 
 How calm is my recess ; and how the frost, 
 
 Raging abroad and the rough wind endear 
 
 The silence and the war.tith enjoy'd within ! 
 
 I saw the woods and fields at close of day 
 
 A variegated show ; the meadows green. 
 
 Though faded; and the lands where lately waved 
 
 The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 
 
 Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 
 
 I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 
 
 Will verdure not unprofitable, grazed 
 
 By 1','cks. last feeding, and selecting each 
 
 His favorite herb; while all the leafless groves, 
 
 That skiit the horizon, wore a sable hue, 
 
 Scarce noti'-id in the kindred dusk of eve. 
 
 To-morrow brings a change, a total change 1 
 
 W^hich even now. though silently perform'd, 
 
 And slowly, and by most unf )^, the face 
 
 Of universal nature undergoes. 
 
 Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes 
 
 Descending, and with never ceasing lapse, 
 
 Softly alighting upon all below, 
 
 Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
 
 Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green 
 
 .And tender blade, that tear VI the chilling blast, 
 
 Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil, 
 
 In such a world, so thorny, and where none 
 Finds happiness unblighted ; or. if found, 
 Without some thistly sorrow at its side ; 
 It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
 AL'ain.-t the law of love, to measure lots 
 With li'ss distinguished than ourselves; that thiit 
 We nuiv witli jiiitience bear our moderate ills, 
 And syijipafhize with others suffering more. 
 Ill fares the traveller now. and he that stalks 
 In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. 
 The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
 By congregated loads, adiiering close 
 To the clogg'd wdaeels ; and in its slutrgish pace 
 N isless appears a moving hill of snow. 
 The toifing steeds expand the nostril wide,
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENIN':. 
 
 585 
 
 While every breath by respiration strong 
 Forced downward, is consolidated soon 
 Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear 
 The peltinjr brunt of the tempestuous night, 
 With halt-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and 
 
 teeth 
 Presented hare against the storm plods on. 
 One iiand secures his hat. save wlien with both 
 He brandishes his pliant iengtli of whip, 
 Resounding oft and never heard in vain. 
 
 happy; and, in my account denied 
 That sen,sibility of pain with which 
 Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou ! 
 Thy frame, robust and hardy. t';'els indited 
 The piercing cold, but feels it uniinpair'd. 
 The learned finger never need explore 
 
 Thy vigorous pulse ; and the unhcaltht'ul east. 
 That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone 
 Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 
 Thy days roll on exempt from household care ; 
 Thy wagon is thy wife, and the poor beasts, 
 That drag the dull companion to and fro. 
 Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 
 Ah treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st, 
 Yet show that thou hast mercy ! which the great, 
 With needless hurry whirl'd Irom place to place. 
 Humane as they would seem, not always show. 
 
 Poor, yet industrious, modest quiet, neat, 
 Such claim compassion in a night like this. 
 And have a friend in every t'eeling heart. 
 Varm'd, while it lasts, by labor all day long 
 They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
 III clad, and ted but sparely, time to cool. 
 The Irugal housewite tn.'mbles when she lights 
 Her scanty stock of brushwood blazing clear. 
 But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. 
 The few small eml)ers left she nurses well; 
 And while herintant race, with outspread hands, 
 And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks. 
 Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd, 
 The man teels least, as more inured than she 
 To winter, and the current in his veins 
 More briskly moved by his severer toil; 
 Yet he too linds his own distress in theirs. 
 The taper soon e.xtinguish'd which I saw 
 Dangled along at the cold lingers end 
 .lust when the ilay declined ; and the brown loaf 
 Lodged on the shelf half eaten without sauce 
 Of savory cheese, or butter, costlier still; 
 Sleep seems their only rel'uge: lor. alas. 
 Where piMiury is felt the tiiought is chained. 
 And swei-t colloquial pleasures are but few I 
 With all tliis thrift tlu y thrive not. All the care. 
 Ingenious Parriiuiony takes but just 
 Saves the small inventory, lied, and stool, 
 Skillet, and old carved chest, trom pui)lic sale. 
 They live, and live without extorted alms 
 From grudging hands ; hut other boast have none 
 To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, 
 Nor comlf)rt else, but in their mutual love. 
 
 1 praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, 
 For ye are worthy ; choosing rather I'ar 
 
 A dry but independent crust, hard earnd, 
 
 And eaten with a sigh, than to endure 
 
 The rugged trowns ami insolent rebutfs 
 
 Of knaves in ollice. partial in the work 
 
 Of distribution; liberal of their aid 
 
 To clamorous importunity in rags. 
 
 But olUimcs deaf to sujiplianls. who would blush 
 
 To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, 
 
 Whoai famine cannot r(;concile to filth: 
 
 These ask with painlul shyness, and, refused 
 
 Because deservin.ir, silently retire ! 
 But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 
 Shall niuch betiriend you. Time shall give in- 
 crease ; 
 And all your numerous progeny, well train'd. 
 But helpless in few years shall find their hands, 
 And labor too. Meanwhile ye shall not want 
 What conscious of your virtues we can spare, 
 Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send, 
 I mean the man who, when the distant poor 
 Need help denies them nothing but his name. 
 
 But poverty with most, who whimper tbrth 
 Their long complaints, is selt-inflicted woe ; 
 The elTect of laziness or sottish waste. 
 Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad 
 For plunder; much solicitous how best 
 He may coaipensate for a day of sloth 
 By v/orks of darkness and nocturnal wroncr. 
 Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge, 
 Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stak'es 
 Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength, 
 Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame 
 To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, 
 An ass's burden and, when laden most 
 And heaviest light of fool .steals fast away. 
 Nor does the boirded hovel better guard 
 The well st.ick'd pile of riven logs and roots 
 From his pernicious force. Nor 'will he leave 
 Unwrench'd the door, however well secured, 
 Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps ' 
 In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the 
 
 perch, 
 He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, 
 To his voracious bag struggling in vain. 
 And louilly v. ondering at the sudden change, 
 Nor this to U-A his own. 'Twere .some excuse, 
 Did pity of their sufferings warp aside 
 His princii.le. and tempt him into sin 
 For their support so destitute. But they 
 Neglected pine at home ; themselves, as more 
 Exposed than others with less scruple made 
 His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. 
 Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst 
 Of ruinous ebriety that prompts 
 Hiscv. ry action and imbrutes the man. 
 O tor a law to noose tlie villain's neck 
 Who starves his own : vvlio persecutes the blood 
 lie gave them in his children's veins and hates 
 And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love ! 
 
 Pass where we may, through city or thromdi 
 Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, [town. 
 Though iean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace 
 Conducts the uuLniarded nose to such a whilf 
 Of stale debauch tbrth issuing from the styes 
 That law has licensed, as makes temperance 
 
 reel. 
 There sit. involved and lost in curling clouds 
 Of Indian fume and guzzling deep, the boor, 
 The lackey, and the groom: the cratlsman theic 
 Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil ; 
 Smith, cobbler joiner he that plies the shears 
 -And he that knrads the dough; all loud alike', 
 -All learned, and all ilrunk ! the fiddle screa-as 
 Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailea 
 Its wasted tones and haraiony unheard: [she 
 Fierce the dispute whate'er the theme; while 
 Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate. 
 Perch d on tlie sign-post, holds with even hand 
 Her undecisive scales. In this she lavs 
 .V weight of ignorance ; in that, of pride ; 
 And smiles dclightixl with the eternal poise. 
 Dire is the I'requeut curse, and its twin sound,
 
 The cheek Jistcnding oath, not to be praised 
 
 As ornamental, musical, polite, 
 
 Like those which modern senators employ, 
 
 Whose oath is rhetoric, and who sweat for fame I 
 
 Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, 
 
 Once simple, are initiated in arts, 
 
 Which some may practise with politer grace, 
 
 But none with readier skill ! — 'tis here they learn 
 
 The road that leads from competence and peace 
 
 To indigence and rapine; till at last 
 
 Society, grown weary of the load, 
 
 Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 
 
 But censure profits little : vain the attempt 
 
 To advertise in verse a public pest. 
 
 That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds 
 
 HLs hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. 
 
 The excise is fattened with the rich result 
 
 Of all this riot : and ten thousand casks, 
 
 Forever dribbling out their base contents, 
 
 Touch'd by the Midas finger of (be stat?, 
 
 Bl'ied gold for ministers to c^jort away. 
 
 Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! 
 
 Gloriously drunk, obey the important call ! 
 
 Her cause demands the assistance of your 
 
 throats ; — 
 Ye a 11 can swallow, and she asks no more. 
 
 Wc.uld I had fall'n upon those happier days, 
 That poets celebrate ; those golden times, 
 And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings. 
 And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. [hearts 
 Nymphs were Dianas theii, and swains had 
 That felt their virtues : Innocence, it seems, 
 From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the 
 The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd [groves ; 
 Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing) 
 Then were not all effaced : then speech profane 
 And manners profligate were rarely found. 
 Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. 
 Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams 
 Sat for the picture : and the poet's hand, 
 Imparting substance to an empty shade. 
 Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. 
 Grant it : — ^1 still must envy them an age 
 That favor'd such a dream; in days hke these 
 Impossible, when Virtue is so scarce, 
 That to suppose a scene where she presides. 
 Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief 
 No : we are polish'd now ! The rural lass, 
 Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, 
 Her artless manners, and her neat attire. 
 So dignified, that she was hardly less 
 Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, 
 Is seen no more. The character is lost ! 
 Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft. 
 And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised, 
 And magnified beyond all human size. 
 Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand 
 For more than half the tresses it sustains; 
 Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form 
 ]ii j'Topp'd upon French heels; she might be 
 
 deem'd 
 (But that the basket dangling on her arm 
 laterprets her more truly) of a rank 
 Ti'O ;iroud for dairy work, or sale of eggs. 
 F^xpect her soon with tbotboy at her heels, 
 Kii longer blushing for her awkward load, 
 Jicr train and her umbrella all her care! 
 
 The town has tinged the country : and the stain 
 Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe. 
 The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs 
 Down into scenes still rural ; but, alas ! 
 Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now ! 
 
 Tkne was when in the pastoral retreat 
 The ungarded door was safe ; men did not watch 
 To invade another's right, or guard their own. 
 Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscared 
 By drunken bowlings; and the chilling tale 
 Of midnight murder was a wonder heard 
 With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes, 
 But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, 
 And slumbers unalarin'd. Now, ere you sleep, 
 See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care, 
 And drop the night-bolt; — ruffians are abroad; 
 And the first 'larum of the cock's s'mii throat 
 May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear 
 To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. 
 E'en daylight has its dangers; and the walk 
 Through pathless wastes and woods, uncon- 
 scious once 
 Of other tenants than melodious birds. 
 Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. 
 Lamented change ! to which full many a cause 
 Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. 
 The course of human things from good to ill, 
 From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. 
 Increase of power begets increase of wealth ; 
 Wealth luxury, and* luxury excess : 
 Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague, 
 That seizes first the opulent, descends 
 To the next rank contagious, and in time 
 Taints downward all the graduated scale 
 Of order, from the chariot to the plough. 
 The rich, and they that have an arm to check 
 The license of the lowest in degree. 
 Desert their office ; and themselves, intent 
 On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus 
 To all the violence of lawless hands 
 Resign the scenes their presence might protect. 
 Authority herself not seldom sleeps. 
 Though resident, and witness of the wrong. 
 The plump convivial parson ollen bears 
 The magisterial sword in vain, and lays 
 His reverence and his worship both to rest 
 On the same cushion of habitual sloth. 
 Perhaps timidity restrains his arm ; 
 When he should strike he trembles, and sets free 
 Himself enslaved by terror of the band. 
 The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind 
 Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure. 
 He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove 
 Less dainty than becomes his grave outside 
 In lucrative concerns. Examine well 
 His milk-white hand ; the palm is hardly clean- 
 But here and there an ugly smutch appears. 
 Fob! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'd 
 Corruption ! whoso seeks an audit here 
 I'ropitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, 
 Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. 
 But faster far, and more than all the rest, 
 A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark 
 Of public virtue, ever wish'd removed, 
 Works the deploreo and mischievous effect. 
 'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd 
 The heart of merit in the meaner class. 
 Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage 
 Of those that bear them, in whatever cause. 
 Seem most at variance Vvith all moral gc »d. 
 And incompatible with serious thought. 
 The clown, the child of nature, without guile. 
 Blest with an infant's ignorance of all 
 But his own simple pleasures ; now and then 
 A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair; 
 Is ballotcd^and trembles at the news: 
 Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbhng swears
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 587 
 
 A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please, 
 
 To do he knows not what. The task perfomi'd, 
 
 That instant he becomes the sergeant's caie, 
 
 His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. 
 
 His awkward gait, his introverted toes, 
 
 Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, 
 
 Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, 
 
 Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff. 
 
 He yet by slow degrees puts off himseU' 
 
 Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well : 
 
 He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; 
 
 He steps right onward, martial in his air. 
 
 His form, and movement ; is as smart above 
 
 As meal and larded locks can make him ; wears 
 
 His hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace ; 
 
 And, his three yeais of herosiiip expired, 
 
 Returns indignant to the slighted plough. 
 
 He hates the Held, in which no life or drum 
 
 Attends him ; drives his cattle to a march ; 
 
 And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 
 
 'Twerc well if his exterior change were all — 
 
 But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost 
 
 His ignorance and harmless manners too. 
 
 To swear, to game, to drink ; to show at home, 
 
 By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach, 
 
 The great prolicieney he made abroad ; 
 
 To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends; 
 
 To break some maiden's and his mother's heart ; 
 
 To be a pest where he was useful once ; 
 
 Are his sole aim, and all his glory now. 
 
 Man in society is like a flower 
 Blown in its native bed : 'tis there alone 
 His faculties, expanded in full bloom, 
 Shine out ; there only reach their proper use. 
 But man, associated and leagued with man 
 By regal warrant, or self-join'd by bond 
 For interest sake, or swarming into clans 
 Beneath one head for purposes of war, 
 Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound 
 And bundled close to fill soaie crowded vase, 
 Fades rapidly, and, by compression rnarr'd, 
 Contracts defilement not to be endured. 
 Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues; 
 And burghers, men immaculate perhaps 
 In all tlicir private functions, once combined, 
 Become a loathsome body, only lit 
 For dissolution, hurtful to the main. 
 Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin 
 Against the charities of domestic lite, 
 Incorporated, seeui at once to lose 
 Their nature; and, disclaiming all regard 
 For mercy and tlie common rights of man. 
 Build factories with blood, conducting trade 
 At the sworsl's point, and dyeing the white robe 
 Of innocent commercial Justice red. 
 Hence too the field of glory, as the world 
 Misdeems it, dazzles W its bright array, 
 With all its majesty of thundering pomp. 
 Enchanting music and immortal wreaths. 
 Is but a scliool where thoughtlessness is taught 
 On jjrinciple, where foppi-ry atones 
 For folly, gallantry for every vice. 
 
 But slightcil as it is and by the great 
 Abandon'd. and, which still 1 more regret. 
 Infected with the manners and the modes 
 It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
 1 never tramed a wish, or form'd a plan. 
 That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
 But there I laid the scene. There early stray'J 
 My t'ancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
 Had Ibund me, or the hope of lieing free. 
 My very dreams were rural ; rural too 
 
 The firstborn of my youthful muse. 
 
 Sportive, and jingUng her poetic bells 
 
 Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. 
 
 No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 
 
 To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 
 
 Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe 
 
 Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, 
 
 The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. 
 
 Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: 
 
 New to my taste, his Paradise surjiass'd 
 
 The strugijling elTorts of my boyish tongue 
 
 To speak its excellence. I danced f«r joy. 
 
 I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age 
 
 As twice seven years, his beauties had then firsit 
 
 Engaged my wonder; and admiring still. 
 
 And still admiring, with regret supposed 
 
 The joy half lost because not sooner found. 
 
 There too, cnamour'd of the life I loved, 
 
 Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
 
 Determined, and possessing it at last. 
 
 With transports, such as favor'd lovers feel, 
 
 I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known 
 
 Ingenious Cowley ! and, though now reclaim'd 
 
 By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 
 
 I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 
 
 Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. 
 
 I still revere thee, courtly though retired ; 
 
 Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent 
 
 bowers. 
 Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends 
 For a lost world in solitude and verse. 
 'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works 
 Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
 Int'used at the creation of the kind. 
 And, though the Almighty ]Maker has throughout 
 Discriminated each I'rom each, by strokes 
 And touches of his hand, with so much art 
 Diversified, that two were never founil 
 Twins at all points— yet this obtains in all. 
 That all discern a beauty in his works, [form'd 
 And all can taste them : minds that have been 
 And tutor'd, with a relish more exact. 
 But none without some relish, none unmoved. 
 It is a flame that dies net even there 
 Where nothing t'eeds it : neither business, crowds, 
 Nor habits of luxurious city lite, 
 Whatever • l-.-ie they smother of true worth 
 In hum.'ai bosoms, quench it or abate. 
 The villi,-) with which London stands begirt 
 Like a svsMrth Intlian with his belt of beads 
 Prove it. .\ breath of unadulurate air, 
 The ghmp.-.'. of a green pasture, how they cheei 
 The citizen, and brace his languid! frame ! 
 E'en in the stilling bosom of the town 
 A garden, in which nothing thrive;;, has charms 
 That soothe the rich possessor ; mii.'h consoled, 
 That here and there some sprigs of mournfu' 
 
 mint, 
 Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wall 
 He cultivates. 'These serve him with a hint 
 That nature lives; that siirht-relreshing green 
 Is still the livery she delights to wear. 
 Though sickly samples ot' the exuberant whole 
 What are the caseuients lined with creeping 
 The prouder sashes fronted with a range [herbs, 
 Of orange, myrtle, or the tragrant weecl, [proofs 
 The Frenchman's darling]* are they not al 
 That man. immured in cities, still retains 
 His inborn inextinguishable thirst 
 Of rural sJenes, compensating his loss 
 
 * Mignonette.
 
 588 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 By supplemental shifts, the best he may 1 
 The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, 
 And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds, 
 To ran^e the fields and treat their lungs with air. 
 Yet leel the burning instinct: over head 
 Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, 
 And watered duly. There the pitcher stands, 
 A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there; 
 Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 
 The country, with what ardor he contrives 
 A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 
 
 Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, 
 And contemplation heart-consoling joys. 
 And harinlesss pleasures, in the throng'd abode 
 Of multitudes unknown ! hail, rural life ! 
 Address himself who will to tlie pursuit 
 Of honors or emolument, or fame ; 
 I shall not add myself to such a chase, 
 Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 
 Some must be great. Great offices will have 
 Great talents. And God gives to every man 
 The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, 
 That lifts him into lite, and lets him fall 
 Just in the niche he was onlain'd to fill. 
 To the deliverer of an injured land 
 He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart 
 To teel, and courage to redress her wrongs; 
 To monarchs dignity; to judges sense; 
 To artists ingenuity and skill; 
 To me an unambitious mind, content 
 In the low vale of life, that etirly felt 
 A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long 
 Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd. 
 
 BOOK y. 
 
 THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 A frosty morning— The foddjerin,? of cattle— The wood- 
 man and his dojj— The poultry— Whimsical effcH;ts of 
 frost at a waterfall- The empress of Russia's palace at 
 ice — Amusements of monarchs— War, one of them — 
 Wars, whence— And whence monarchy— The evils of 
 it— Eu^'lish and French loyalty contrasted—The Bas- 
 tile, and a prisoner there — Liberty the chief recom- 
 mendation of this country — Modern patriotism qiws- 
 tional)le, and why— The perishable nature of the best 
 himian institutions— Spiritual liberty not perishable— 
 The slavish state of man by nature— Deliver him, 
 Deist, if you can— Grace must do it— The respective 
 merits of patriots and martyrs stated— Their dlfTerent 
 treatment— Happy freedom of the man whom iri-ace 
 makes free— His relish of the works of God— Address 
 to the Creator. 
 
 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
 Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds. 
 That crowd away before the driving wind. 
 More ardent as the disk emerges more. 
 Resemble most some city in a blaze, [ray 
 
 Seen throuL'h the leafless wood. His slanting 
 Slides inelVi ctual down the snowy vale. 
 And, tingiiiL' all with his own rosy hue, 
 From every herb and every spiry blade 
 Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
 Wine, spindling into longitude immense. 
 In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
 That I myself am but a fleeting shacfe. 
 Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
 [ view the muscular proportion'd limb 
 
 Transfomi'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pah 
 As they designed to mock me, at my side 
 Take step lor step; and, as I near approach 
 The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, 
 Preposterous sight! the legs without the man. 
 The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
 Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents 
 And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest. 
 Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
 Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad. 
 And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
 The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
 Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
 In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
 Their wonted tbdder; not like hungering man, 
 Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek," 
 And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
 He from the stack carves out the accustom'd load, 
 Deep ])lunging. and again deep plunging oft. 
 His broad keen knife into the solid mass ; 
 Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
 With such undeviating and even force 
 He severs it away : no needless care. 
 Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
 Deciduous or its own unbalanced weight. 
 F'orth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd 
 The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe 
 And drive the wedge in yonder Ibrest drear, 
 From morn to eve his solitary task. 
 Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 
 And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur. 
 His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
 Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a 
 
 frisk 
 Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow 
 With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 
 Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks tor 
 
 joy- 
 Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
 Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops for 
 
 aught, 
 But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
 To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube. 
 That tumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloud 
 Streams far behind him. scenting all the air. 
 Now from the roost, or from the neiirhborins 
 
 pale. 
 Where, diligent to catch the first fair irleam 
 Of siniling day, they gossip'd side iiy side, [call 
 Gome trooping at the housewife's well-known 
 The feather'd tribes domestic. Half on vving. 
 And half on toot, they brush the fleecy flood. 
 Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
 The sparrows peep and quit the sheltering eaves, 
 To seize the fair occasion : well they eye 
 The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolved 
 To escape the impending t'amine. often scared 
 As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
 Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
 Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. 
 Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd 
 To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
 His wonted strut; and, wading at their head 
 With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent 
 His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd. 
 How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
 The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, 
 Due sustenance, or where subsist they now 1 
 Earth yields them nought: the imprison'd worm 
 
 is safe 
 Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs 
 Lie cover'd close ; and berry-bearing thorns,
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 58*» 
 
 That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,) 
 
 Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 
 
 Tho long protracted rigor of the year 
 
 Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and 
 
 holes 
 Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, 
 As instinct prompts ; self-buried ere they die. 
 The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, 
 AVhere neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, now 
 Repays their labor more ; and, perch'd aloft 
 By the way-side, or stalking in the path, 
 Lean pensioners upon the traveller'? track, 
 Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to 
 
 them. 
 Of voided pulse or half-digested grain. 
 Tlie streams are lost amid the splendid blank, 
 O'erwlielming all distinction. On the flood, 
 Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weight 
 Lies undissolved ; while silently beneath, 
 And unperceived, the current steals away. 
 Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps 
 The niilldam, dashes on the restless wheel. 
 And wantons in tlie pebbly gulf below ; 
 No frost can bind it there ; its utmost force 
 Can but arrest the light and smoky mist 
 That in its fall tho liquid sheet throws wide. 
 And see where it has hung the embroider'd banks 
 With forms so various that no powers of art. 
 The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene ! 
 Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high 
 (Fantastic raisarrangement !) on the roof 
 Large growth of what may seem the sparkling 
 
 trees 
 And shrubs of ftviry land. The crystal drops 
 That trickle down the branches, fivst congeal'd 
 Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, 
 And prop tho pile they but adorn'd before. 
 Here grotto within grotto safe defies 
 The sunbeam ; there, embossed and fretted wild. 
 The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes 
 Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain 
 Tlie likeness of some object seen before. 
 Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art, 
 And in defiance of her rival powers ; 
 By these fortuitous and random strokes 
 Performing such inimitable feats 
 As she with all her rules can never reach. 
 Less worthy of applause, though more admired. 
 Because a novelty, the work of man. 
 Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ ! 
 Tliy most magnificent and mighty freak. 
 The wonder of the North. No forest fell 
 ■\Vhen thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its 
 
 stores, 
 To enrich thy walls : but thou didst hew tho 
 
 floods. 
 And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 
 In such a palace Aristams found 
 Cyrenc, when he bore the plaintive tale 
 Of his lost bees to her maternal car : 
 In such a palace Poetry might place 
 The armory of Winter ; where his troops, 
 The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet. 
 Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail. 
 And snow, tliat often blinds the traveller's course, 
 And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 
 Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; 
 No sound of hammer or of saw was there. 
 Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 
 Were soon conjoined; nor other cement ask'd 
 Than water interfus'd to make them one. 
 Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues. 
 Illumined every side ; a watery light 
 Gleaui'd through the clear transparency, that 
 
 seem'd 
 Another moon now risen, or meteor fallen 
 
 From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene 
 So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth 
 And slippery the materials, yet t'rost-bound 
 Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, 
 That royal residence might well befit. 
 For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 
 Of flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 
 Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed none 
 Where all was vitreous ; but in order due 
 Convivial table and commodious seat [there : 
 (V\'hat seem'd at least commodious seat) were 
 Sola and couch, and high-built throne august. 
 The same lubricity was found in all, 
 And all was warm to the warm touch ; a tcene 
 <'H' evanescent glory, once a stream, 
 And soon to slide into a stream again. 
 Alas 'twas but a mortitying stroke 
 Of undesign'J severity, that glanced 
 (IMade by a monarch) on her own estate. 
 On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 
 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 
 'Twas durable ; as worthless, as it seem'd 
 Intrinsically precious ; to the foot 
 Treacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold. 
 
 Great princes have great playthings. Some 
 have play'd 
 At hewing mountains into men. and some 
 At building human wonders mountain high. 
 Some have amused the dull sad years of life 
 (Lite spent in imiolence, and therefore sad) 
 VVith schemes of monumental fame; and sought 
 By pyramids and mausolean pomp 
 Short-lived themselves to immortalize their bones. 
 Some seek diversion in the tented field, 
 And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. 
 But war's a ga:ne wliicli, were their subjects wise, 
 Kings would not play at. Nations would do well 
 To extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
 Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 
 Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, 
 Because men suffer it, their toy. the world. 
 
 When Babel was confounded, and the great 
 Confederacy ot' projectors wild and vain 
 Was split into diversity of tongues. 
 Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, 
 These to the upland, to the valley those, 
 God drave asunder, and assign'd their lot 
 To all the nations. Ample was the boon 
 He gave them, in its distribution fair 
 And equal ; and he bade them dwell in peace. 
 Peace was awhile their care: they plough'd, and 
 
 sow'd. 
 And rcap'd their plijnty without grudge or strife 
 But violence can never longer sleep 
 Than human passions jjlease. In every heart 
 Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war; 
 Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. 
 Cain had already shed a brother's blood ; 
 The deluge wash'd it out; but lell unqucnch'd 
 The seeds of murder in the breast of man. 
 Soon by a righteous judgment in the line 
 Of Lh dc'cending progeny was tbund 
 The firsi ailJirer ni' dwith ; the shrewd 
 Contriver, wou first sweated at the Ibrge, 
 And tbrced the blunt and yet unblooded steel 
 To a keen edge, and made it bright tor war. 
 Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, 
 The sword and falchion their inventor claim; 
 And the first smith was the first murderer's son 
 His art survived the waters; antl ere long, 
 Whi-n man was nmlliplied and spread abroad 
 In tribes and clans, and had begun to call
 
 590 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 These meadows and that range of hills his own, 
 
 The tasted sweets of property begat 
 
 Desire of more ; and industry in some, 
 
 To improve and cultivate their just demesne, 
 
 Made others covet what they saw so fair. 
 
 Thus war began on earth ; these fought for spoil, 
 
 And those in self-defence. Savage at first 
 
 The on?et, and irregular. At length 
 
 One emment above the rest for strength, 
 
 For straiiiv^em. or courage, or for all, 
 
 Was chosen leader; him they served in war. 
 
 And him in ••cace, for sake of warhkr deeds, 
 
 Reverenced n-. less. Who could with him com- 
 
 Or who so wo/tay to control themselves ] [pare '. 
 
 As he, whose prowess had subdued their focsl 
 
 Thus war affording field for the display 
 
 Of virtue, made one chief whom times of peaco, 
 
 Which have their exigencies too, and call 
 
 For skill in government, at length made king. 
 
 King was a name too proud for man to wear 
 
 With modesty and meekness ; and the crown, 
 
 So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, 
 
 Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. 
 
 It is the abject property of most. 
 
 That, being parcel of the common mass. 
 
 And destitute of means to raise themselves. 
 
 They sink, and settle lower than they need. 
 
 They know not what it is to feel within 
 
 A comprehensive feculty, that grasps 
 
 Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields 
 
 Almost without an effort, plans too vast 
 
 For their conception, which they cannot move. 
 
 Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunk 
 
 With gazing, when they see an able man 
 
 Step forth to notice ; and besotted thus, 
 
 Build him a pedestal, and say, " Stand there, 
 
 And be our admiration and our praise." 
 
 They roll themselves before him in the dust, 
 
 Then most deserving in their own account 
 
 When most extravagant in his applause, 
 
 At if exalting him they raised themselves. 
 
 Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound 
 
 And sober judgment, that he is but man, 
 
 They demi-deiiy and fume him so. 
 
 That in due season he forgets it too. 
 
 Inflated and astrut with self-conceit. 
 
 He gulps the windy diet ; and, ere long, 
 
 Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks 
 
 The world was made in vain, if not for him. 
 
 Thenceforth they are his cattle : drudges, born 
 
 To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, 
 
 A»d sweating in his service, his caprice 
 
 Becomes the soul that animates them all. 
 
 He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, 
 
 Spent in the purchase of renown for him. 
 
 An easy reckoning ; and they think the same. 
 
 Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings 
 
 Were burnish'd into heroes, and became 
 
 The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; [died. 
 
 Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and 
 
 Strange, that such iblly, as litis bloated man 
 
 To eminence, fit only for a god. 
 
 Should ever drivel out of human lips. 
 
 E'en in the cradled weakness of tiiC world ! 
 
 Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind 
 
 Had reaeh'd the sinewy firmness of their youth. 
 
 And could discriminate and argue well 
 
 On subjects more mysterious, they were yet ^ 
 
 Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear 
 
 And qua-ke before the gods themselves had made. 
 
 But above measure strange, that neither proof 
 
 Of sad experience, nor examples set 
 
 By some, whose patriot virtue has provail'd. 
 Can even now, when they are grown mature 
 In wisdom, and with philosophic deeds 
 Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest ! 
 Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone 
 To reverence what is ancient, and can plead 
 A course of long observance for its use, 
 That even servitude, the worst of ills, 
 Because delivered down from sire to son, 
 Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing ! 
 But is it fit, or can it bear the shock 
 Of rational discussion, that a man. 
 Compounded and made up like other men 
 Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust 
 And folly in as ample measure meet. 
 As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules. 
 Should be a despot absolute, and boast 
 Himself the only freeman of his land 1 
 Should when he" pleases, and on whom he will. 
 Wage war, with any or with no pretence 
 Of provocation given, or wrong sustain'd, 
 And force the beggarly last doit, by means 
 That his own humor dictates, from the clutch 
 Of poverty, that thus he may procure 
 His thousands, weary of penurious life, 
 A splendid opportunity to die 1 
 Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old 
 Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees 
 In politic convention) put your trust 
 In the shadow of a bramble, and, reclined 
 In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, 
 Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway. 
 Where find ye passive fortitude"? AVhence 
 
 springs 
 Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good 
 To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang 
 His thorns with streamers of continual praise 1 
 We too are friends to loyalty. We love 
 The king who loves the law, respects his 
 
 bounds, 
 And reigns content within them : him we servo 
 Freely, and with delight, who leaves us free : 
 But, recollecting still that he is man. 
 We trust him not too far. King though he be. 
 And king in England too, he may be weak, 
 And vain enough to be ambitious still ; 
 May exercise amiss his proper powers, 
 Or covet more than freemen choose to grant : 
 Beyond that mark is treason. He is omrs. 
 To administer, to guard, to adorn the state. 
 But not to warp or change it. We are his 
 To serve him nobly in the common cause. 
 True to the death, but not to be his slaves. 
 Mark now the difference, ye that boast your 
 
 love 
 Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. 
 We love the man, the paltry pageant you : 
 We the chief patron of the commonwealth. 
 You the regardless author of its woes : 
 We for the sake of liberty a king. 
 You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. 
 Our love is principle, and has its root 
 In reason, is judicious, manly, free ; 
 Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod. 
 And licks the foot that treads it in the dust 
 Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, 
 Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, 
 I would not be a king to be beloved 
 Causeless, and daub'd with undiscermng 
 
 praise. 
 Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 
 Not to the man who fills it as he ought. 
 
 Whoso freedom is by sufferance, and at wiD 
 Of a superior, he is never free. 
 Who lives, and is not weary of a life 
 Exposed to manacles, deserves them well.
 
 The state th,?t strives for liberty, though foil'd, 
 
 And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, 
 
 Deserves .".•; least applause for her attempt, 
 
 And pity for her loss. But that's a cause 
 
 Not often unsuccessful : power usurp'd 
 
 Is weakness when opposed ; conscious of wrong, 
 
 'Tis [)Usil!aniinous and prone to llight. 
 
 But slaves tliat once conceive tlie glowing thought 
 
 Of freedom, in that hope itself possess 
 
 All that the contest calls for; s[)irit. strcng<.h, 
 
 The scorn of danger, and unitetl heart-? ; 
 
 The surest presage of the good they seek.* 
 
 Then shame to manhood, and opprol-rious more 
 To France than all her losses and df-fcats, 
 Old or of later date by sea or land, 
 Her house of bondage, worse than that of old 
 Whicli God avenged on Pharaoh- -the Bastile. 
 Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts; 
 Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair. 
 That inonarchs have supplied ir(iui age to age 
 With music, such as suits their fjovereign ears, 
 The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
 There's not an English heart tliat would not leap 
 To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know 
 That e'en our enemies, so oft employ 'd 
 In forging chains for us. themselves were free. 
 For he who values Liberty confines 
 His zeal tor lier predominance within 
 No narrow bounds; her cause engages him 
 Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. 
 There dwell the most forlorn of human kind. 
 Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried, 
 Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape! 
 There, like the vi-sionar^^ emblem seen 
 By him of Babylon, life stands a stump. 
 And. filleted about with hoops of brass. 
 Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are 
 
 gone, 
 To count the hour-hcll, and expect no change ; 
 And ever, as the sullen sound is heard, 
 Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note 
 To him whose moments all have one dull pace, 
 Ten tiiousand rovers in the world at large 
 Account it nmsic : that it summons some 
 To theatre, or jocund t'east. or ball: 
 The wearied hireling finds it a release 
 From labor; and the lover, who has chid 
 Its long delay, feels every vvel.-ome stroke 
 Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight — 
 To fly for refuge from distracting thought 
 To such amusements as ingenious woe 
 Contrives, hard shilling, and without her tools — 
 To read engraven on tlie mouldy walls, 
 In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, 
 A sad memorial, and subjoin his own — 
 To turn purvej-or to an overgorgi d 
 And bloated sjjider, till the pamper'd pest 
 Is made familiar, watches his approach. 
 Comes at his call, and serves hiai tor a friend — 
 To wear out time in numbering to and fro 
 The studs that thick emboss his iron door; 
 Then downward and then upward, then aslant. 
 And then alternate ; with a sickly hope 
 By dint of change to give his tasteless task 
 Some ndish ; (ill the sum, exactly found 
 In all directions, he begins again. — 
 Oh comfortless existence ! hemm'd around 
 
 * ni<; author hopes th;it he shall not ho censured for 
 luinccert^.iry waimth npoii so intere.slinc; a subject. Ho 
 U aware that it is becomes almost I'ashioir.ihle to stiicniatize 
 Btirh si^nlinieuts as no better than empty declamation; 
 but it ia au ill symptcm, and peculiar to modern times. 
 
 With woes, which who that suffers would no* 
 
 kneel 
 And beg for exile, or the pangs of death 1 
 That man should thus encroach on fellow man, 
 Abridge him of his ju.st and native rights, 
 Eradicate him, tear hiai ffo:n his holcf 
 Upon the endearments of domestic life 
 And social, nip his fruitfulness and use. 
 And doom him for perhaps a heedless word 
 To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, 
 Moves indignation, makes the name of king 
 (Of kinrr whom such prerogative can please) 
 As dreadful as the Manichean god, 
 Adored tiirough fear, strong only to destroy. 
 
 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
 And we arc weeds without it. All constraint, 
 Except what ■vvisdi)m lays on evil men, 
 Is evil ; hurts the I'aculties, impedes 
 Their progress in the road of science ; blinds 
 The eyesight of Discovery ; and begets, 
 In those that suffer it, a sordid mind 
 Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
 To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
 Thee therefore still, blameworthy as tiiou art. 
 With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed 
 By pubhc exigence, till annual food 
 Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 
 Thee I account still happy, and the chief 
 Among the nations, seeing thou art tree. 
 
 My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude, 
 Replete with vapors, and disposes much 
 All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: 
 Thine unadulterate uuinners are less soil 
 Ai.d plausible than social life requires. 
 And thou hast need of discipline and art 
 To give thee what politer France receives, 
 From nature's bounty — that humane address * 
 And sweetness without which no pleasure is 
 In converse, either starved by cold reserve, 
 Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a serseless liawl. 
 Yet I'eing free I love thee : for the st ke 
 Of that one feature can be well content. 
 Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, 
 To seek no sublunary rest beside. 
 But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure 
 Ch-.iii.-i nowhere patiently; and chains at home, 
 Where I am free by birthright, not at all. 
 Then what were left of roughness in the grain 
 Of British natures, wanting its excu.se 
 That it belongs to freemen, would disgust 
 And shock me I should then with double pain 
 Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime ; 
 And. if I must bewail the blessing lost. 
 For which our Hampdcns and our Sidneys bled, 
 I would at lr;ast bewail it under skies 
 Milder, among a people less austere ; 
 In scenes which, having never known me free, 
 Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. 
 Do I forebode impossible events, [may ! 
 
 And tremble at vain dreams'] Heaven grant I 
 But the age of virtuous politics is past, 
 And we are deep in that of cold pretence. 
 Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 
 And we too wise to trust them. He that takes 
 Deep in his soil credulity the stamp 
 Desigii'd by loud declaimers on the part 
 Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, 
 Incurs derision tor his easy faith 
 And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough: 
 For when was public virtue to be found 
 Where private was not 1 Can he love the whole
 
 692 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Who loves no part 1 He be a nation's friend 
 Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there 1 
 Can he be strenuous in his country's cause 
 Who shghts the charities for whose dear sake 
 That country if at all. must be beloved 1 
 
 'Tis theretbre sober and good men are sad 
 For England's glory, seeing it wax pale [hearts 
 And aickly. while her champions wear their 
 So loose to private duty, that no brain. 
 Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, 
 Can dream them trusty to the general weal. 
 Such were not they of old. whose temper'd blades 
 Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd control, [sons 
 And hew'd them link from link; then Albion's 
 Were sons indeed ; they felt a filial heart 
 Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs ; 
 And shining eacii in his domestic sphere. 
 Shone brighter still once call'd to public view. 
 'Tis theretbre many, whose sequester'd lot 
 Forbids their interference, looking on, 
 Anticipate perforce some dire event; 
 And, seeing the old castle of the state, 
 That promised once more firmness, so assail'd 
 That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, 
 Stand motionless expectants of its fall. 
 All has its date below ; the fatal hour 
 Was register'd in heaven ere time began. 
 We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works 
 Die too: the deep foundations that we lay. 
 Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. 
 We build with what we deem eternal rock: 
 A distant age asks where the fabric stood ; 
 And in the dust, sifted and searchd in vain, 
 The undis'joverable secret sleeps. 
 
 But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
 By poets, and by senators unpraised. 
 Which monarchs cannot giant nor all the powers 
 Of earth and hell confederate take away : 
 A liberty which persecution, fraud, 
 Oppression prisons, have no power to bind: 
 Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 
 'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven, 
 Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind. 
 And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
 By charter, and that charter sanction'd sUre 
 By the unimpeachable and awful oath 
 And promise of a God. His other gifts 
 All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, 
 And are aue"jst; but this transcends them all. 
 His oUier w -rks, the visible display 
 Of all-creating energy and might, 
 Are grand no doubt, and worthy of the word 
 That, finding an interminable space 
 Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well. 
 And made so sparkling what was dark before. 
 But these are nut his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
 Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, 
 Mig. t well suppose the Artificer divine 
 Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
 Prcnounced it transient, glorious as it is, 
 And, still designing a more glorious far, 
 Doom'd it as insufiicient for his praise. 
 These, theretbre, are occasional and pass ; 
 Form'd for the confutation of the tool, 
 Whose lying heart disputes against a God ; 
 That office served, they must be swept away. 
 Not so the labors of his love : they shine 
 In other heavens than these that we behold. 
 And fade not. There is paradise that fears 
 No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends 
 Large prelibation oft to saints below. 
 Of these the first in order, and the pledge 
 
 And confident assurance of the re.st, 
 Is liberty : a flight into his arms, 
 Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, 
 A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, 
 And full immunity from penal woe. 
 
 Chains are the portion of revolted man, 
 Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves 
 The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul. 
 Opprobrious residence he finds them all 
 Propfnse his heart to idols he is held 
 In silly dotage on created things. 
 Careless of their Creator. And that low 
 And sordid gravitation of his powers 
 To 1 vile clod so draws him. with such force 
 Resistless from the centre he should seek. 
 That he at last forgets it, All his hopes 
 Tend downward ; his ambltivin is to sink, 
 To reach a depth profounder still, and still 
 Profounder in the fathomless abyss 
 Of tolly plunging in pursuit of death. 
 But, ere he gain the coaifbrtless repose 
 He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul. 
 In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures — 
 What does he not from lusts opposed in vain, 
 And self-reproaching conscience ! He foresees 
 The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace. 
 Fortune and tlignity ; the loss of all 
 That can ennoble him and make frail life, 
 Sliort as it is. supportaljie. Still worse, [sins 
 Far worbC than all the plagues, with which his 
 Infect his happiest moments he forebodes 
 Ages of hopeless misery. Future death. 
 And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, 
 Like that which sends him to the dusty grave ; 
 But unrepealable enduring death. 
 Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears : 
 ". ''h t none can prove a forgery may be true ; 
 V ■■)::.; iione but bad men wish exploded must. 
 That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud 
 Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst 
 Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; 
 And he abhors the jest by which he shines. 
 Remorse begets reform. His master-lust 
 Fa!';^ first before his resolute rebuke, [ensues, 
 A;iu o.^eais dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace 
 But spurious and short-lived ; the puny child 
 Of self-congratulating pride, begot 
 On fancied innocence. Again he falls. 
 And fights again ; but finds his best essay 
 A presage ominous, portending still 
 Its own dishonor by a worse relapse. 
 Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd 
 So oil, and wearied in the vain attemp;. 
 Scoff's at her own performance. Reason now 
 Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause 
 Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd ; 
 With shallow shills and old devices, worn 
 And tatter'U in the service of debauch, 
 Covering his shame f'roai his offended sight. 
 
 " Hath God indeed given appetites to man, 
 And stored the earth so plenteously with meantf 
 To gratify the hunger of his wish ; 
 And doth he reprobate, and will he damn 
 The use of his own bounty 1 making first 
 So frail a kind, raid then enacting laws 
 So strict, that less than perfect must despair "? 
 Falsehood ! which whoso but suspects of truth 
 Dishonors God and makes a slave of man. 
 Do tiicy themselves, who undertake for hire 
 The teacher's ollice, and dispense at large 
 Their weekly dole of edifying strains, 
 Attend to their own music 1 have they faith
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 693 
 
 In what, with such solemnity of tone 
 And lyesture, they propound to our belief? 
 Nay— conduct hath the loudest tongue. The 
 
 voice 
 Is but an instrument, on which the priest 
 May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, 
 The unequivocal, authentic dei.d, 
 We find sound argument, we read the heart." 
 
 Such reasonings (if that name must needs be- 
 To excuses in wliich reason h;us no part) [long 
 Serve to compose i spirit well inclined 
 To live on terms of amity with vice, 
 And sin without disturbance. Ollen urged, 
 (As ollen as lihiiliiious discourse 
 Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes 
 Ol' theological and grave import) 
 They gain at last his unreserved assent; 
 Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge 
 Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, [moves 
 
 He slights the strok'^s of conscience. Nothing 
 Or nothing mu' h his constancy in ill; 
 Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease; 
 'Tis despo-rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. 
 Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. 
 Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear 
 Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth 
 How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, 
 Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps 
 Directly to the first and only fair. 
 Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers 
 Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise : 
 Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, 
 And with poetic lrap[)ings grace thy prose, 
 Till it outmantle all the pride of verse. — 
 Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass, 
 Smitten in vain ! such music cannot charm 
 The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam. 
 And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul. 
 The STILL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must 
 
 speak. 
 Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect ; 
 Who calls for things that are not, and they come. 
 
 Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a 
 change 
 That turns to ridicule the turgid speech 
 And stately tone of moralists, who boast, 
 As if like him of fabulous renown. 
 They had indeed ability to smooth 
 The shag of savage nature, and were each 
 An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song. 
 But transformation of apostate man 
 From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, 
 Is work lor Him that made him. He alone, 
 And He by means in philosophic eyes 
 Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves 
 The wonder; humanizing what is brute 
 In the lost kind, extracting from the lips 
 Of asps their venom, overpowering strength 
 By weakness, and hostility by love. 
 
 Patriots have loil'd and in their country's cause 
 Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 
 Receive proud rccomprmse. \Vc give in charge 
 Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, 
 Proud of tile treasure, marches with it down 
 To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
 Gives bond in stone and everduring brass 
 To guard them and to immortalize her trust : 
 But lairer wreaths are due, though never paid, 
 To those who posted at the shrine of Truth, 
 Have fallen in iier dctcnce. A patriot's blood. 
 Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, 
 And for a time ensure to his loved land, 
 
 The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; 
 
 But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize. 
 
 And win it with more pain. Their blood is she 
 
 In confirmation of the noblest claim — 
 
 Our claim to feed upon immortal truth. 
 
 To walk with God, to be divinely free. 
 
 To soar, and to anticipate the skies. 
 
 Yet few remember them. They lived unknown 
 
 Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame, 
 
 And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew 
 
 — No marble tells us whither. With their nameu 
 
 No bard embalms and sanctifies his sono- : 
 
 And history, so warm on meaner themes. 
 
 Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 
 
 The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire. 
 
 But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.* 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
 And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
 That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
 Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
 With as much ease as .Samson his green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared 
 With those whose mansions glitter in his sio-ht, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all hLs own. 
 His are the mountains, and the valleys his. 
 And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
 With a propriety that none can feel. 
 But who, with filial confidence inspired. 
 Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
 And smiling say — "My Father made them all I" 
 Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
 And by an emphasis of interest his. 
 Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 
 Whose heart with praise, and whose e.vc.iied mind 
 With worthy thoughts of thai unwearied love 
 That plann'd. and built, and still upholds a world 
 So clothed with beauty for reiicllious man 1 
 Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
 The loaded soil, an;^ j-e may waste much g • <d 
 In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
 In feast or in the cha.se, in song or dance, 
 A liberty like his vvho, >inimpeach"d 
 Of usurpation, and to o man's wroi-j. 
 Appropriates nature as his Father o woiK, 
 And has a richer use of yours ihan you. 
 He is indeed a freeman, tree by birth 
 Of no mean city ; plann'd or e'er the hills 
 Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea 
 Vi'ith all his roaring multitude of waves. 
 His freed -.m is the same in every state ; 
 And no condition of this changetiil life. 
 So marii'oKl in carts, whose every day 
 Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : 
 For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, 
 Nor penury, can cripple or confine. 
 IVo nook so narrow but he spreads them there 
 With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holda 
 His body bound ; but knows not what a range 
 His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
 .Ind that to bind him is a vain attempt. 
 Whom God delights in. and in whom he dwells. 
 
 Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst 
 His works. Admitted once to his embrace, [taste 
 Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind betbre ; 
 Thine eye.^ shall be instructed ; and thine heart, 
 Made pure, sh.tll relish, whh divine delight 
 'Till then untell, whtct hands divine have wrought 
 Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone, 
 And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 
 
 * See ifume. 
 38
 
 594 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 It yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, 
 Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 
 Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 
 From inland regions to the distant main. 
 Man views it, and admires; but rests content 
 With what he views. The landscape has his 
 
 praise. 
 But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'd 
 The paradise he sees, he finds it such, 
 And, such well pleased to find it, asks no more. 
 Not so the mind that has been touch'd from 
 
 Heaven, 
 And in the school of sacred wisdom taught 
 To read his wonders in whose thought the world, 
 Fair as it is, existed ere it was. 
 Not for its own sake merely, but for his 
 Much more who fashion'd it. he gives it praise ; 
 Praise that, from earth resulting, as it ought. 
 To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once 
 Its only just proprietor in Him. 
 The soul that sees him or receives sublimed 
 New faculties, or learns at least to employ 
 More worthily the powers she own'd before. 
 Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze 
 Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, 
 A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms 
 Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; 
 The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 
 Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, 
 And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. 
 Much conversant with Heaven, she oilen holds 
 With those fair ministers of light to man, 
 That nightly fill the skies with silent pomp, 
 Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were 
 
 they • 
 With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste 
 To gratulate the new-created earth. 
 Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God 
 Shouted for joy. — " Tell me, ye shining hosts. 
 That navigate a sea that knows no storms. 
 Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud. 
 If from your elevation, whence ye view 
 Distinctly scenes invisible to man. 
 And systems of whose birth no tidings yet 
 Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race 
 Favor'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb. 
 And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 
 And to possess a brighter heaven than yours 1 
 As one who long detained on foreign shores 
 Pants to return, and when he sees afar 
 His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks 
 From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 
 Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; 
 So I with animated hopes behold. 
 And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 
 That show like beacons in the blue abyss, 
 Ordain'd to guide the embodied spirit home 
 From toilsome life to nevrr-ending rest. 
 Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires 
 That give assurance of theii own success. 
 And that, infused from Heaven, must thither 
 
 tend." 
 So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth 
 Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word ! 
 Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost. 
 With intellects bemazed in endless doubt. 
 But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built. 
 With means that were not till by thee employ 'd, 
 Worldsthat had never been hadst thou in strength 
 Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
 They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power 
 And goodness infinite, but speak in ears 
 That hear not, or receive not their report. 
 
 In vain thy creatures testify of thee. 
 Till thou proclaim thyself Theirs is indeed 
 A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine 
 That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn. 
 An:l with the boon gives talents ibr its use. 
 Till thou art heard, imaginations vain 
 Possess ♦he heart, and fables false as hell, 
 Yet, deem'd oracular, lure down to death 
 The uninform'd, and heedless souls of men. 
 We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as 
 The glory of thy work ; which yet appears [blind. 
 Perfect and unimpeachable of blame. 
 Challenging human scrutiny, and proved 
 Then skilful most when most severely judged. 
 But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign'st ; 
 Thy providence forbids that fickle power 
 (If power she be that works but to confound) 
 To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 
 Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can 
 Instruction, and inventing to ourselves [sleep, 
 Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that 
 Or disregard our follies, or that sit 
 Amused spectators of this bustling stage. 
 Thee we reject, unable to abide 
 Thy purity ; till pure as thou art pure ; 
 Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause. 
 For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. 
 Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, 
 Breaks on the soul, and by a flash irom heaven 
 Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 
 A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, [song, 
 Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of 
 A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works ; 
 Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 
 And adds his rapture to the general praise. 
 In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide 
 Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
 The author of her beauties, who, retired 
 Behind his own creation, works unseen 
 By the impure, and hears his power denied. 
 Thou art the source and centre of all minds. 
 Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
 From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
 At random without honor, hope, or peace. 
 From thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
 His high endeavor, and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
 But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
 Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
 Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; 
 And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 
 
 BOOK YI. 
 
 THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Bells at a distance — Their effect — A 13ne noon in winter 
 —A sheltered walk— Meditation better than books— 
 Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it ap- 
 pear less wonderful than it is — The transformation that 
 spring effects in a shrubbery described —A mistake con- 
 cerning the course of nature corrector -(JoJ maintaius 
 It by an unremitted act— The amusement* ta-tJiionable 
 at this hour of the day reproved— Auimals happy, a 
 delightful sight— Origin of cruelty to animals— That it 
 is a great crime proved from Scripture — That proof 
 illustrated by a tale— A line drawn between the lawful 
 and unlawful destruction of them — Their good and 
 useful properties insisted on — Apology for the enco-
 
 TMIE, WSHTEmS ^WAILK AT HOOH <,
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 595 
 
 miums bestowed by the author on animals — Instances 
 of mail's extravagant praise of man — Tlie groans ot 
 the creation sliall liave an end — A view taken of tlic 
 restoration of all IhiniJis — An invocation anil an invi- 
 tation of llini who shall Ijrin'^ it lo pass — Tiio retirfil 
 man vinilicaled from the charge of iiseiessiuiss — Uon- 
 clusiou. 
 
 There is in souls a sympathy with sounds; 
 
 And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased 
 
 With meltinir airs, or nuirtial. lirislv. or j^rave : 
 
 Some chord in unison with what wo hoar 
 
 Is touch'd within us, and the heart rcphes. 
 
 How sort the musio of those village hells, 
 
 Falling at intervals upon the ear 
 
 In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 
 
 Now fvealin'T ioud again, and louder still. 
 
 Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 
 
 With easy force it opens all the cells 
 
 Where JMemory sl>j)t. Wherever I have heard 
 
 A kindred melody, the scene recurs. 
 
 And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 
 
 Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 
 
 That in a few short moments 1 retrace 
 
 (As in a map the voyager his course) 
 
 The windings of my way through many years. 
 
 Short as in retrospect the jountey seems, 
 
 It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, 
 
 And prospect oil so dreary uiul forlorn, 
 
 Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 
 
 Yet, leeling present evil."! while the past 
 
 Faintly impress the mind, or not at all. 
 
 How readily we wish time spent revoked. 
 
 That we might try the ground again, where once 
 
 (Through inexperience, as we nov/ perceive) 
 
 We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 
 
 Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend. 
 
 A father, whose authority, in show 
 
 When most severe, and nmstering all its force. 
 
 Was but the graver countenance of love : [lower. 
 
 Whose favor, like the clouds of spring, might 
 
 And uttor now and then an awful voice, 
 
 Hut had a blessing in its darkest frown, 
 
 Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 
 
 We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand 
 
 That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured 
 
 By every gilded folly, we renounced 
 
 His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent 
 
 That converse, which we now in vain regret. 
 
 How gladly would the man rec;dl to life 
 
 The bov s neglected sire! a mother too. 
 
 That sorter friimd, ]iorliaps more gladly still, 
 
 Blight he demand them at the gates of death. 
 
 Sorrow has, since they went subdued and tamed 
 
 The jilayful humor; he could now endure 
 
 (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) 
 
 And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 
 
 But not to understand a treasure's worth 
 
 Till time has stolen away the slighted good. 
 
 Is cause of li-alf the pioverty we feel, 
 
 And makes the world t!ie wilderness it is. 
 
 The lew that pray ut all pray oft amiss, [hold. 
 
 And. seeking gra>'C to improve tlie prize they 
 
 Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 
 
 The night was winter in his roughest mood ; 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
 Upon the southern side of the slant iiills. 
 And where the woods fence of!' the nortt-ern blast. 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage. 
 And has the warmth of IMay. The vault is blue 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 The dazzling splindor of the scene below. 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
 
 And through the trees I view the embattled tower 
 Whence all the music. I aijain perceive 
 The soothing influence of tlie wafted strains, 
 And settle in sort musings as I tread 
 The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms. 
 Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
 The roof, though moveable through all its lenoth 
 As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed. 
 And, intercepting in their silent fall 
 The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
 I\'o noise is here, or none that hinders thoviriit. 
 The redbreast warbles still, but Ls content 
 With slender notes, and more that half sup- 
 press" d: 
 Pleased with his solitude, and flitting hght 
 From spray to s])ray. where'er he rests he shakes 
 From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
 That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so scft, 
 Charms more than sileaca. Meditation here 
 May think down hours to moments. Here the 
 JMay give a useful lesson to the head, [hear' 
 And Learning wiser crow without his bcoks. 
 Knowledge and Wisdom, lar from being one. 
 Have ort times no connexion. Knowledge d" '■■•is 
 In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
 Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
 Knowledge, a rude unprofital)le mass, 
 The mere materials with wliieh Wisdom builds. 
 Till smooth'd, and squareil, and fitted to its 
 
 place. 
 Does but encumber whom it seems to er -i' h. 
 Knowledge is proud that he has lean: d so 
 
 much ; 
 Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
 Books are not seldom talismans and spells, 
 By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
 Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. 
 Some to the fascination of a name [style 
 
 Surrender judgment hoodvvink'd. Some the 
 Infr.tuates, and tlirough labyrinth and wilds 
 Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. 
 Wliilc sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
 The insupportable fatigue of thought. 
 A nd swallowing therefore without pause or choice 
 The total grist unsifted, husks and all. 
 But trees, and rivulets whoso rapid course 
 Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, 
 And sheepwalks populous willi bleating lambs, 
 And lanes, in which the primrase ere her time 
 Peeps through the moss that clothes the haw- 
 thorn root, 
 Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, 
 Not shy. as in the world, and to be won 
 By slow s(ilicitation. seize at once 
 The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. 
 
 What prodigies can jjovver divine pertbrm 
 More grand than it produces year by year, 
 And all in sigiit of inattentive man "? 
 Familiar with the eflect. we slight the causi^. 
 And in the constancy of nature's course, 
 The regular return oi' genial months, 
 And renovation of a faded world. 
 See nouglit to wonder at. Should God again, 
 As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race 
 Of the undeviating and punctual sun, [lesi 
 
 How would the woi-ld admire ! but speaks u 
 An agency divine, to make him know 
 His moment when to sink and when to rise. 
 Age after age. than to arrest his course 7 
 All we behold is miracle ; hut seen 
 So duly, all is miracle m vain.
 
 596 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ■Where now the vital encriry that moved. 
 While summer was tlie pure and subtle lymph 
 Through tlie imperceptible meandering veins 
 Of leal' and flower "] It sleeps ; and the icy 
 Of unprolitic winter has impress'd [touch 
 
 A col(4 stagnation on the intestine tide. 
 But let the months go round, a few short months. 
 And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, 
 Barren as lances, among which the wind 
 Makes wintrv music, siffhinrr as it woes. 
 Shall put their graceful foliage on again, 
 And, more aspiring and with ampler spread, 
 Shall boast new charms, and more than they 
 
 have lost. 
 Then each, in its peculiar honors clad, 
 Shall puhlish. eveji to the distant eye, 
 Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich 
 In streaming gold ; .syringa ivoiy pure ; 
 The scentless and the scented rose ; this red, 
 And of an humbler growth the other* tall. 
 And throwing up into the darkest gloom 
 Of neighboring cypress, or more sable yew, 
 Her silver globes light as the foamy surf 
 That the wind severs from the broken wave ; 
 The dlac, various in array, now white. 
 Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set 
 With purple spikes pyramidal, as if, 
 Studious of ornament yet unresolved [all: 
 
 Which hue she most approved, she chose them 
 Copio^'d of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan. 
 But well compr^nsating her sickly looks 
 With n^ver-cloying odors early and late; 
 Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm 
 Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, 
 That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too. 
 T'jough leafless well attired and thick beset 
 With blushing wreaths, investing every spray ; 
 Altha;a with the purple eye; the hroom. 
 Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy'd 
 Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all 
 The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets. 
 The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd 
 
 leaf 
 Tilakes more conspicuous, and illumines more 
 The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars. — 
 These have been and these shall be in their day ; 
 And all this uniform, uncolor'd scene 
 Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, 
 And flush into variety again. 
 From dearth to ph^nty, and from death to life, 
 Is nature's progress, when she lectures man 
 In heavenly truth ; evincing, as she makes 
 The grand transition, that there lives and works 
 A soul in all things, and that soul is God. 
 The beauties of the wilderness are his. 
 That make so gay the solitary place, 
 Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, 
 That cultivation glories in, are his. 
 He sets the bright procession on its way, 
 And marshals all the order of the vear ; 
 He marks the bounds which Win.er may not pass, 
 And blunts his pointed fury ; in its case. 
 Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ. 
 Uninjured, with inimitable art; 
 And, ere one flowery season fades and di s 
 Designs the blooming wonders of the next 
 
 Some say, that in the origin of thino-g, 
 W'hen all creation started into birth, 
 The infant elements received a law, [force 
 
 From which they swerve not since ; that under 
 
 * Tlie Guelder Rose. 
 
 Of that controling ordinance they move, 
 
 And need not his immediate hand, who first 
 
 Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. 
 
 Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God 
 
 The incuDibxance of his own concerns, and spare 
 
 The great Artificer of all that moves 
 
 The stress of a continual act, the pain 
 
 Of unremitted vi^nlance and care, 
 
 As too laborious and severe a task. 
 
 So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, 
 
 To span omnipotence, and measure might, 
 
 That knows no measure, by the scanty rule 
 
 And standard of his own, that is to-day. 
 
 And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. 
 
 But how should matter occu})y a charge, 
 
 Dull as it is and satisfy a law 
 
 So vast in its demands, unless impell'd 
 
 To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force. 
 
 And under pressure of some conscious cause 
 
 The Lord of all. himself through all diffused, 
 
 Sustains and is the life of all that lives. 
 
 Nature is but a name for an effect, 
 
 W^hose cause is God. He feeds th<? secret fire, 
 
 By which the mighty process is nsaintain'd. 
 
 Who sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 
 
 Slow circling ages are his transient days; 
 
 Whose work is without habor; whose designs 
 
 No flaw deforms, no elii'ficulty thwarts ; 
 
 And whose beneficence no charge ex-hausts. 
 
 Him blind antiquity profa>ncd not served, 
 
 With self-taught rites, and under various nameSj 
 
 Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 
 
 And Flora, and Vertuisnus; peopling earth 
 
 With tutelary goddesses and gods 
 
 That were not ; and commending as they would 
 
 To each some province, garden field, or grove. 
 
 But all are under one. One spirit. His 
 
 VVho wore the platted thorns vi'ith bleeding brows, 
 
 Rules universal nature. Not a flower 
 
 But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 
 
 Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
 
 Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, 
 
 And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
 
 In grains as countless as the seaside sands, 
 
 The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 
 
 Happy who walks with him ! whom v\ hat he finds 
 
 Of flavor or of scent in fruit or flower. 
 
 Or what he views of beautiful or grand 
 
 In nature, from the broad majestic oak 
 
 To the green blade that twinkles in the sun. 
 
 Prompts with remembrance of a present God. 
 
 His presence, who made all so fair, perceived 
 
 Makes all still fairer. As wiih him no scene 
 
 Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. 
 
 Though winter had been none, had man beei 
 
 true, 
 And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake. 
 Yet not in vengeance ; as this smiling sky, 
 So soon succeeding such an an;py night, 
 And these dissolving snows, and this clear streanr 
 Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. [tuned 
 Who then, that has a mind well strung and 
 To contemplation, and withiii his reach 
 A scene so friendly to his favorite task, 
 Would waste attention at the chequer'd board. 
 His host of wooden warriors to and fro 
 Marching and countermarching, with an eye 
 As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridged 
 And furrow'd into stonns, and with a hand 
 TrembUng, as if eternity were hung 
 In balance on his conduct of a pin 1 
 Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 597 
 
 Who pant with applip9.<^ion misapplied 
 
 To trivial joys, and pislimg ivory balls 
 
 Across a velvet level, ibcl a joy 
 
 Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds 
 
 Its destined goal ot" diHicult access. 
 
 Nor deems he wiser him. who gives his noon 
 
 To miss, the mercer's plague. Ironi shop to shop 
 
 Wanderinif, and littering with unl'olded silks 
 
 The polisli d counter, and approving none, 
 
 Or promising witii smiles to call again. 
 
 Nor him who, by his vanity seduced. 
 
 And soothed into a dream that he discerns 
 
 The difi'erence ot a Guido from a daub, 
 
 Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there 
 
 As duly as the L.angfbrd of the show. 
 
 With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand. 
 
 And tongue accompiish'd in the fulsome cant 
 
 And pedantry that coxcoinlis le.nrn with ease: 
 
 Off as the i)rire-de,ciding haiiiiiier tails. 
 
 He notes it in his book, then raps his box. 
 
 Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard tlite 
 
 That he has let it pass — but never bids. 
 
 Here unmolested, through whatever sign 
 The sun proceeds J wander. Neither mist, 
 Nor I'reczing sky noi'. sultry, checking me, 
 Nor stranger intermeililling with my joy. 
 E'en in the sprint: and playtime ot" the year, 
 That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
 With all her little ones, a S|)ortive train, 
 To gather kingcups in the yellow mead. 
 And prink th<'ir hair with daisies, or to pick 
 A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, 
 These shades are all my own. The timorous 
 
 hai-e. 
 Grown so fomiliar with her trequent guest, 
 Scarce shuns m-e ; and the stockdove unalarm'd 
 Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
 His long love-ditty tor my near approach. 
 Drawn trom his refuge in some lonely elm, 
 That age or injury has hollow'd deep. 
 Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth 
 To iVisk awhile, and bask in ;he warm sun, 
 The squirrel, flippant pert, and t'ull of play: 
 He sees me. and at once, swill as a bird, 
 .Ascends the ncichborinir beech : there whisks 
 
 liH i)rush. 
 And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud. 
 With all the prel-tiness of feign'd alarm, 
 And ang«r iinsignificantly fierce. 
 
 The heart is hard in nature, and unfit 
 For human fellowship, as being void 
 Ol' .sympathy, and tluretbre dead alike 
 'i'o lovi! and frirndship l)ot'!i that is not pleased 
 With sight of animals cnjoyinif lite. 
 Nor feels their happiness aug'uent his own. 
 The bounding lawn, that darts across the glade 
 Where none pursues, through mere delight of 
 
 heart. 
 And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; 
 The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet. 
 That skims the spacious meadow at full speed. 
 Then stops and snorts, aJid, throwing high his 
 
 he(d9. 
 Starts to the volunfari,' race again; 
 The very kine that gajiibol at high noon. 
 The total lirrd receiving ti-/st t!rom one 
 That leads the dance a siariiAons to be gay, 
 Though wild their stran.ge vagaries, and uncouth 
 Their elTorts. yet resolved with one consent 
 To give such act and utterance as they may 
 ■^o ecstacy too bi^ to be suppress'd — 
 
 These, and a thousand images of bliss. 
 
 With which kind Nature graces every scene, 
 
 Where cruel man defeats not her design. 
 
 Impart to the benevolent who wish 
 
 All that are capable of pleasure pleased, 
 
 A far superior happiness to theirs. 
 
 The comfort of a reasonable joy. 
 
 Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call 
 Who ibrin'd him from the dust, his future grave. 
 When he was crown'd as never king was since. 
 God set the diadem upon his head. 
 And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood 
 The new-made monarch, while before hhn pass'd, 
 All happy, atid all perfect in their kind, [haunts 
 'l"he creatures, summoned from their various 
 To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. 
 Vast was his empire, absolute his power. 
 Or bounded only by a law, whose tbrce 
 'Twas his sublimest privilege to t'eel 
 And own. the law of universal love. 
 He ruled with meekness they obeyed with joy; 
 No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart. 
 And no distrust of his intent in theirs. 
 So Rden was a scene of harmless sport. 
 Where kindness on his part, who rules the whole, 
 Begat a tranquil confidence in all, 
 .A^nd tear as yet was not nor cause to fear. 
 But sin marr'd all ; and the revolt of man. 
 That source of evils not exhausted yet, 
 Was punish'd with revolt of his fro'.n him. 
 Garden of God, how terrible the chajije [heart 
 Thy groves and lawns then witness'd ! Every 
 Each animal, of every name, conceive<l 
 A jealousy and an instinctive fear, 
 And. conscious of some danger, either fled 
 l'reci|)itate the loathed abode of man. 
 Or grovvl'd defiance in such angry sort. 
 As taught him too to tremble in his turn. 
 Thus harmony and family accord 
 Were driven trom Paradise ; and in that hour 
 The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell d 
 To such gigant.il- and enormous growth. 
 Were sown in liaman nature's truittul soil. 
 Hence date liie persecution and the pain 
 That man jvdicts on all intijrior kinds, 
 ilovinili-is of their plaints. To make him sport. 
 To grarity the frenzy of his wrath. 
 Or his base gluttony, ore causes good 
 And just in his accnunt. why bird and beast 
 Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed 
 With blood of their inhabitants impaled. 
 Earth groans beneath the burden of a war 
 Waged with defenceless innocence, while he, 
 Not satistictl to prey on all around, 
 .\dds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs 
 Needless, and first torments ere he devours. 
 Now happiest they that occupy the scenes 
 The most remote from his al)horr'd resort. 
 Whom once, as delegate of God on earth, 
 They fear'd, and as his j)erfect image loved. 
 The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves, 
 Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains, 
 L'nvisited by man. Th<'re they are free, 
 .And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll'd ; 
 Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. 
 Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude 
 Within the confines of their wild domain ; 
 Tlie lion tells him — 1 am monarch here I 
 And. if he spare him. spares him on the terms 
 Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn 
 To rend a victim trembling at his tbot. 
 In measure, as by fbrce of instinct drawn.
 
 598 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Or by necessity constrain'd, they live 
 
 Dependent upon man ; those in his fields, 
 
 These at his crib, and some beneath his roof; 
 
 They prove too often at how dear a rate 
 
 He sells protection. Witness at his foot 
 
 The spaniel dying for some venial fault, 
 
 Under dissection of the knotted scourge ; 
 
 Witness the patient ox, vrith stripes and yells 
 
 Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs, 
 
 To madness ; while the savage at his heels 
 
 Laughs at the sufferer's fury, spent 
 
 Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. 
 
 He too is witness, noblest of the train 
 
 That wait on man, the flight performing horse : 
 
 With unsuspecting readiness he takes 
 
 His murderer on his back, and, push'd all day, 
 
 With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for 
 
 life, 
 To the far distant goal, arrives and dies. 
 So little mercy shows who needs so much ! 
 Does law, so jealous in the cause of man. 
 Denounce no doom on the delinquent 1 None. 
 He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts 
 (As if barbarity were high desert) 
 The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praise 
 Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose 
 The honors of his matchless horse his own. 
 But many a crime deem'd innocent on earth 
 Is register'd in heaven ; and these no doubt 
 Have each their record, with a curse annes'd. 
 Man may dismiss compassion from his heart. 
 But God will never. When he charged the Jew 
 To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise ; 
 And when the bush-exploi'ing boy that seized 
 The young, to let the parent bird go free ; 
 Proved he not plainly tbat his meaner works 
 Are yet his care, and have an interest all, 
 All, in the universal Fiither's love 1 
 On Noah, and in him on all mankind. 
 The charter was conferr'd, by which wo hold 
 The flesh of animals in fee, and claim 
 O'er all we feed on power of life and death. 
 But read the instrument, and nark it well ; 
 The oppression of a tyrannous control 
 Can find no warrant there. Peed tht-n. and yield 
 Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, ', hroui^h sin^ 
 Feed on the slain, but spare the living hnitc ! 
 
 The Governor of all, himself to all 
 So bountiful in whose attentive ear 
 The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp 
 Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs 
 Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed 
 Not. seldom, his avenging arm. to smite 
 The injurious trampler upon Nature's law, 
 That claims forbearance even for a brute. 
 He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart; 
 And, prophet as lie was, he might not strike 
 The blameless animal, without rebuke. 
 On wiiich he rode. Her opportune olTence 
 Saved him. or the unrelenting spcr had died. 
 He sees that human equity is slack 
 To interfere, though in so just a cause; 
 And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb 
 And helpless victims with a sense so keen 
 Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength. 
 And such sagacity to take revenge. 
 That ol't the beast has seem'd to judge the man. 
 An ancient, not a legendary tale. 
 By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, 
 (If such who plead for Providence may seem 
 In modern eyes.) shall make the doctrine clear. 
 Where England, stretch'd towards the setting 
 
 sun, 
 
 Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, 
 Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he 
 Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, 
 Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. 
 He journey'd ; and his chance was as he went 
 To join a traveller, of far different note, 
 Evander, famed for piety, for years 
 Deserving honor, but for wisdom more. 
 Fame had not left the venerable man 
 A stranger to the manners of Hie youth, 
 Whose face too was familiar to his view. 
 Their way was on the margin of the land, 
 O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base 
 Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so 
 
 high. 
 The charity that warm'd his heart was moved 
 At siffht of the man monster. With a smile 
 Gentle, and alTable, and full of grace, 
 As fearful of offending whom he wish'd 
 Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths 
 Not harshly thundcr'd forth, or rudely press'd, 
 But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. 
 "And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man 
 Exclaimed, " that me the lullabies of age. 
 And fantasies of dotards such as thou. 
 Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me 1 
 Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave 
 Need no such aids as superstition lends. 
 To steel their hearts against the dread of death." 
 He spoke, and to the precipice at hand 
 Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, 
 And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought 
 Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave. 
 But though the felon on his back could dare 
 The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed 
 Declined the death, and wheelirhg switlly round, 
 Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbli'iig verge, 
 BafHed his rider, saved against his wriJ. 
 The frenzy of the brain may be redrsss'd 
 By medicine well applied, but without grace 
 The heart's insanity admits no cure. 
 Enraged the more by what might Imve reform'd 
 His horrible intent again he sought 
 Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, 
 With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood. 
 But still in vain. The Provi-dence that meant 
 A longer date to the far noblej- bea-st, 
 Spared yet again the ignobler for his saJie. 
 And now, his prowess provc-d, and his sincere 
 Incurable obduracy evinced, [earn'd 
 
 His rage grew cool ; and pleased perhaps to have 
 So cheaply the renown of that attempt. 
 With looks of some complacence he resumed 
 His road, deriding much the blank amaze 
 Of good Evander, still where he was left 
 Fix'd motionless, and patrified with dread. 
 So on they fared. Discourse on other themes 
 Ensuing seem'd to obliterate the past; 
 And tamer far for so much fury shown, 
 (As is the course of rash and hery men.) 
 The rude companion smiled, as if transtbrm'd. 
 But 'twas a transient cakn. A storm was near, 
 An unsuspected storm. Hi<3 hour was oome. 
 The impious cliallenger of povi'er divine [wrath, 
 Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to 
 Is never with impunity defi-ed. 
 His horse, as he hiul cau^dit his master's mood, 
 Snorting, and startijig into sudden rage, 
 Unbidden, and not now to be controll'd, 
 Rush'd to the clilf, and, having reach'd it, stood 
 At once the shock unseated him : he flew 
 Sheer o'er the craggy barrier ; and, immersed
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 699 
 
 Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, 
 The death he had drservec', and died alone. 
 So God wroufjlit double justice ; made the fool 
 The victim of his own tremendous choice, 
 And taugiit a brute the way to safe revenge. 
 
 I would not enter on my list of friends [sense, 
 (Though graced with polish'd manners and line 
 Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
 An inadverlcnt step may crush the snail 
 That crawls at evening in the public path : 
 But he that lias luuniinity, forewarn'd, 
 Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 
 The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, 
 And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 
 A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
 Sacred to neatness, and repose, the alcove, 
 The chamber, or refectory, may die: 
 A necessary act incurs no blame. 
 Not so wlien, held within their proper bounds. 
 And guiltless of onen(;e, they range the air. 
 Or take their pastime in the spacious field : 
 There they are privileged ; and he that hunts 
 Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 
 Dis^rbs the economy of Nature's realm. 
 Who, vviien she form'd, design'd them an abode. 
 The sum is this. If man's convenience, health, 
 Or safety interfere, his righis and claims 
 Are ]}aramouiU. and must extinguish theirs. 
 Else they are all — the meanest things that are. 
 As free to live, and to enjoy that life. 
 As God was free to form them at the first, 
 Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. 
 Ye tliercforc, who love mercy, teach your sons 
 To love it too. The spring-time of our years 
 Is soon dishonor'd and defiled in most, 
 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
 To deck tliem. But, alas ! none sooner shoots, 
 If unrestraind, into luxuriant growth. 
 Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. 
 Mercy to him that shows it is the rule 
 And righteous limitation of its act, 
 By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man ; 
 And he that shows none, being ripe i.-i years, 
 And conscious of the outrage h^ c^.j:amits, 
 Shall seek it. and not lind it in his turn. 
 
 Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more 
 By our capacity of grace viivine. 
 From creatures that exist but for our sake. 
 Which, having servetl us, perish, we are held 
 Accountable; and Grd, some future day, 
 V/ill reckon with us roundly for the abuse 
 Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust. 
 Superior as we are, they yet depend 
 Not more on human help tlian wc on theirs. 
 Their strength or speed, or viiiilancc, were given 
 In aid of our defects. In some are found 
 Such teachable and n|)]ireli<:nsive jwrts. • 
 That man's attainments in his own • uic^.rns, 
 Match'd with the expertness of th brutes in 
 
 theirs, 
 Are otltimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind. 
 Some show that nice sagacity of smell. 
 And read with such discernment, in the port 
 And figure of the man. his secret aim. 
 That oft we owe our sulity to a skill 
 We could not teach, and mast dispair to leara 
 But learn we migiit if not too proud to stoop 
 To quadruped instructors, many a good 
 And useful (pKility, and virtue too. 
 Rarely exeaiplilied among ourselves — 
 Attachment never to be wean'd or changed 
 
 By any change of fortune ; proof alike 
 Against unkindness, absence, and neglect ; 
 Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat 
 Can move or warp ; and gratitude for small. 
 And trivial favors, lasting as the life 
 And glistening even in the dying eye. 
 
 Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms 
 Wins pubhc honor ; and ten thousand sit 
 Patiently present at a sacred song. 
 Commemoration-mad ; content to hear 
 (O wonderful effect of music's power !) 
 Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake. 
 But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve — 
 (F'or was it less, what heathen would have dared 
 To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath. 
 And hang it up in honor of a man 1) 
 Much less might serve, when all that we design 
 It but to gratify an itching ear. 
 And give the day to a musician's praise. 
 Remember Handel ? Who, that was not born 
 Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets. 
 Or can, the more than Homer of his agel 
 Yes — we remember him ; and while we praise 
 A talent so divine, remember too 
 That His most holy book, from whom it came, 
 Was never meant, was never used before, 
 To bu< Urani out the memory of a man. 
 But i;nsh ! — the muse perhaps is too severe ; 
 And, with a gravity beyond the size 
 Am' Uieasure of the offence rebukes a deed' 
 Le! ■. impious than absurd, and owing more 
 To want of judgment than to wrong design. 
 Sf> in the chapel of old Ely House, [third. 
 
 When wandering Charles, who meant to be the 
 Had fled from William, and the new.? was fresh, 
 The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce. 
 And eke did rear right merrily, two staves. 
 Sung to the praise and glory of King George ! 
 — Man praises man ; and Garrick's memory next, 
 When time hath somewhat meli :)w'd it, and made 
 The idol of our worship while he lived 
 The god of our idolatry once more, 
 Shall have its altar ; and the world shall go 
 In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. 
 The theatre, too small, shall sulTo^a'e 
 ita squeezed contents, and more th^'i it admits 
 .■■ihall .sigh at their exclusion, and return 
 Uii'iratided : for there some noble lord [bunch. 
 Shall stulT his shoulders with king Richard's 
 Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, [stare, 
 And strut. ar>d a' Tm, and straddle, stamp, and 
 To show the world how Garrick did not act — 
 For Garrick was a worshipper himself; 
 He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites 
 And solemn ceremonial of the day, 
 And call'd the world to worship on the banks 
 Of Avon, famed in song. Ah, pleasant proof 
 That piety had still in human hearts 
 Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. 
 The mulberrv-tree was hung with blooming 
 
 wreaths ; 
 The muUierry-tree stood centre of the dance; 
 The mulberry-tree was bymn'd with dulcet airs; 
 And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-trea 
 Supiiliod such relics as devotion holds 
 Still sacred, and preserves with jiious care. 
 So 'twas a hallow'd time : decorum reign'd, 
 And mirth without offence. No few return'd, 
 Doubtless much edified, and all refrcsh'd. 
 — ;\Ian praises man. The rabble all alive. 
 From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, 
 Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the ilay
 
 600 
 
 LOV-'f^R'S ^VORKiJ. 
 
 A porrnous and slov-rr -'''■•■ '■.g' pageant, comes. 
 Some Jiout hiir , and some hang upon his car, 
 To gaze in his eye', and bless hiin. Maitlens 
 
 wa^'e 
 Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy ; 
 While others, not so satisfied, unlwrse 
 The oiidcd equipage, and turning loose 
 His steeds, usurp a j)lace they well deserve. 
 Whyl what has charnvd them ? Hutli lie saved 
 
 the state 1 
 No. Doth he purpose its salvation 1 No. 
 Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, 
 Tina* finds out every crevice of the head 
 That is not sound and perfect hath in theirs 
 Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near 
 And his own cattle must suffice him soon. 
 Thus idly do we waste tlie brtath of praise, 
 And dedicate a tribute in its use 
 And Just direction sacred, to a thing 
 Doom'd to the dust, or lodged already there. 
 Encomium in ( Id time was poet's work ; 
 f But poets, having lavishly lung since 
 Exhausted all materials of the art, 
 The task now falls into the public hand ; 
 And I, contented with an humble theme, 
 Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down 
 The vale of J^ature, where it creeps and winds 
 Among her lovelj' works with a secure 
 And unambitious course, reflecting clear. 
 If not the virtues, yet the worth of brutes. 
 And I am recompensed, and deem the toils 
 Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine 
 May stand between an animal and woe. 
 And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. 
 
 The groans of Nature in this nether world. 
 Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end. 
 Foretold by prophets, and by puets sung. 
 Whose lire was kindled at the prophets' lamp. 
 The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes. 
 Six thousand years of sorrow have well uigh 
 Fulfill'd their tardy and disastnms course 
 Over a sinful world ; and what remains 
 Of this tempestuous state of human things 
 Is merely as the working of a sea 
 Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest ; 
 For He, whose car the winds are, and the 
 
 clouds 
 The dust that waits upon his sultry march. 
 When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot, 
 Bhall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend 
 Propitious in his chariot paved with love ; 
 And what his storms have blasted and defaced 
 For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. 
 
 Sweet is the harp of prophecy ; too sweet 
 Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch : 
 Nor can the wonders it records be sung 
 To meaner music, and not suffer loss. 
 But when a poet, or when one like me, 
 Happy to rove among poetic flowers. 
 Though poor in skill to rear thejn lights at last 
 On some fair theme, some theme divaiely fair. 
 Such is the impulse and the spur he feels, 
 To give it praise proportion'd to its wortii, 
 That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems 
 The labor, were a task more aniuous still. 
 
 O scenes surpassing fable and yet true, 
 Scenes of accom})lislr'd bliss ! which vi^ho can see, 
 Though hut in distant prospect, and not leel 
 His soul re.'reslrd with Ibretaste ol' the joy 1 
 R.ivers of gladness water all the earth. 
 And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach 
 Of I arrenness is past. The fruitful field [lean 
 
 ► nghs with abundance ; and the land, once 
 
 Or fertile only in its own disgrace. 
 
 Exults to see its thistly curse repeal'd. 
 
 The various seasons woven into one, 
 
 And that one season an eternal spring. 
 
 The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence. 
 
 For there is none to covet, all are full. 
 
 The lion, and the libbard, and the bear 
 
 Graze with the fearless flocks ; all bask at noon 
 
 Together, or all gambol in the shade 
 
 Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. 
 
 Antipathies are none. No foe to man 
 
 Lurks in the serpent now : the mother sees, 
 
 And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand 
 
 Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm. 
 
 To stroke his azure neck, or to receive 
 
 The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. 
 
 All creatures worship man, and all mankind 
 
 One Lord, one Father. Error has no place ; 
 
 That creeping pestilence is driven away ; 
 
 The breath of heaven has chased it. In the 
 
 heart 
 No passion touches a discordant siring. 
 But all is harmony and hive. Disease 
 Is not : the pure uncontaminate blood 
 Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. 
 One song employs all nations : and all cry, « 
 " Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us ! " 
 The dwellers in the vales and on the rooks 
 Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
 From distant mountains catch the flying joy ; 
 Till, nation after nation taught the strain. 
 Earth rolls tlie rapturous Hosanna round. 
 Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; 
 See Salem built, the labor of a (iod ; 
 Bright as a sun, the sacred city shines ; 
 All kingdoms and all iirinces of the earth 
 Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 
 Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy. 
 And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, 
 Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ;* 
 The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, 
 And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. 
 Praise is in all her gates : upon her walls, 
 And in her streets, and in her spacious courts. 
 Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
 Kneels with the native of the farthest west ; 
 And ^Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand. 
 And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 
 Into all lands. From every clime they come 
 To see thy beauty, and to share thy joys, 
 Sion ! an assembly such as earth 
 Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. 
 Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were 
 once 
 Perfect, and all must be at length restored. 
 So God has greatly purposed ; who would else 
 In his dishonor'd works himself endure 
 Dishonor, and be wrong'd without redress. 
 Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world. 
 Ye sliiw-revolving seasons I we would see 
 (A sigl^t to which our eyes are strangers yet) 
 A world that does not dread and hate his law 
 And suifer for its crime ; would learn how fair 
 The creature is that God pronounces good. 
 How pleasant in itself what pleases him. 
 Here every drop of honey hides a sting ; 
 Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow- 
 ers ; 
 And e'en the joy that haply some poor heart 
 Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is. 
 Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint 
 
 * Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and pro- 
 genitors of the Ar:ibs, -in the prophetic scripture here 
 alluded to, may be reasonably considered as representa 
 lives of the Geutiles at large.
 
 THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 601 
 
 From touch of human hps. at best impure. 
 for a world in principle as chaste 
 As this is gross and scllisli ! over which 
 Custom and preju .lice shall bear no sway, 
 That govern nil things here, shouldering aside 
 The meek and modest Truth and forcing her 
 To seek a refuje from the tongue of .Strii'e 
 In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men : 
 Wlierc Violence shall never lirt the sw^i-d. 
 Nor Cunning justify the proud man's wrong, 
 Leaving the poor no remedy but tears: 
 Where he tnat rill ■ .in otlice shall esteem 
 The occasion it presents of doing good [speak 
 More than the perquisite: where Law shall 
 Seldom, and never but as Wisdom prompts 
 And Equity; not jealous more to guard 
 A worthless form, than to decide aright; — 
 Where Fashion shall not sanctify abuse, 
 Nor smooth Good-lireeding (supplemental grace) 
 With lean penbrmance ape the work of Love: 
 Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, 
 Receive yet one. the crown of all the earth, 
 Thou who alone art worthy ! It was thine 
 By ancient covenant ere Nature's birth ; 
 And tiiou hast made it thine by purchase since, 
 And overpaid its value with thy blood, [hearts 
 Thy saints procl.iMP. ♦.hoc king; and in their 
 Thy title h <;iigriven wi:.h ci pen 
 Dipp'd in the lountain of eternal love. 
 Tliy saints proclaim thee kin-^': and thy delay 
 Gives courage to their Iocs, who could they see 
 The dawn of thy last advent, long desired. 
 Would creep into the bowels of the hills, 
 And flee tor safety to the falling rocks. 
 The very spirit of the world is tin 1 
 Of its own taunting question, u. k'd so long, 
 " Where is the promise of your L. rd.'s apj)roach 1" 
 The infidel has shot hi.; b'^lts av.'ay, 
 Till, his exhausted i; ;;ver yielding none. 
 He gleans the l)lunled ..hatts that have recoird, 
 And aims them at the siiield of Truth ntrain. 
 The veil is rent, rent too by prie-stly ht.nas, 
 lliat hides divinity from mortal eyes ; 
 And all the mysteries to t'aith proposed, 
 Insulted and traduced are cast aside, 
 As useless, to the moles and to the bats, [praised; 
 They now are deem'd the faithful, and are 
 Who, constant only in rejecting thee. 
 Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeul. 
 And quit their office for their error's sai>e. 
 Blind, and in love with darkness! yet e'en these 
 W'orthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel 
 Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man ! 
 So fares thy church. But how tliy church may 
 fare [preach. 
 
 The world takes little thought. Who will may 
 And what th. y will. All pastors are alike 
 To vrandering s^liecp. resolved to follow none. 
 Two godi divfi'? them all — Pleasure and Gain: 
 For these tin y live they sacrifice to these, 
 .■\.nd in their service »» age perpetual war [hearts. 
 With Conscience an(f with th(!e. [>ust in their 
 And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth 
 To prey Ufon each aiher: stubborn, fierce, 
 High-minded, Ibaimng out their own disgrace. 
 Thy prophets speak of such ; and, noting down 
 The features of the last degenerate times. 
 Exhibit every lineament of these. 
 Come then. and. added to thy m;nw crowns, 
 Receive yet one, as radiant as (1-" rt~<. 
 Due to thy last and most effectual work. 
 Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world ! 
 
 He is the happy man whose life e'en now 
 Shiiws somewhat of that happier life to come ; 
 Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, 
 Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, 
 Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, 
 
 the fruit 
 Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, 
 Prepaie tor Happiness; bespeak hiin one 
 Content indeed to sojourn while he must 
 Below the skies, but having there his home. 
 The World o'erUioks him in her busy search 
 Of objects, more illustricms in her view : 
 And, occupied as earnestly as she, 
 Though more sublimely, ho o'erlooks the world. 
 She scorns his plea.sures, for she knows them 
 
 not ; 
 He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. 
 He cannot skim the ground like summer birds 
 Pursuing gilded fiies ; and such he deems 
 Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. 
 Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss, 
 Whose power is such, that whom she lifts froi» 
 
 earth ^ 
 
 She makes familiar with a heaven unseen. 
 And shows him glories yet to be revealed. 
 Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, 
 And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams 
 Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 
 That flutters least is hmgcst on the wing. 
 Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised. 
 Or what achievements of immortal fame 
 He purposes, and he shall answer — None 
 His warfare is within. There unfatigued 
 His fervent spirit labors. There he tights, 
 And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, 
 And never-withering wreaths, compared with 
 
 ■which 
 The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. 
 Perhaps the self-approving haughty world. 
 That as she sweeps him with her whistling 
 
 silks 
 Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see. 
 Deems him a cypher in the works of God, 
 Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, 
 Of which she little drcanis Perhaps she owes 
 Her sunshine and her rain, her bh.oming spring 
 And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he 
 
 makes, 
 When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint 
 Walks forth to meditate at even-tide, 
 And thinks on her, who thinks not for herself 
 Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns 
 Of little worth, an idler in the best. 
 If, author of no mifchief and some good. 
 He seek his proper happiness by means 
 That may advance, but cannot hinder, 
 
 thine. 
 Nor, though he thread the secret path of life, 
 Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease. 
 Account him an encumbrance on the state. 
 Receiving benefits, and rendering none. 
 His sphere, though humble, if that humble 
 
 sphere 
 Shine with his fair example, and though small 
 His influence, if that influence all be spent 
 In soothing sorrow and in (pienching strife, 
 In aiding helpless indigence, in works 
 From which at least a grateful few derive 
 Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, 
 Then let the supercilious great confess 
 Ho serves his country, recompenses well 
 The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine 
 He sits secure, and in the scale of life 
 Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. 
 The man, whose virtues are more felt than 
 seen
 
 ^ 
 
 Must drop indeed the hope of pubHc praise ; 
 But he may boast, what few that win it can, 
 That, if liis country stand not by his skill, 
 At least his follies have not wrought her fall. 
 Polite Refinement offers him in vain 
 Her golden tube, through which a sensual world 
 Draws gross impurity, and hkes it well. 
 The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. 
 Not that he peevishly rejects a mode 
 Because that world adopts it. If it bear 
 The stamp and clear impression of good sense, 
 And be not costly more than of true worth, 
 He puts it on, and, for decorum sake, 
 Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. 
 She judges of refinement by the eye, 
 He by the test of conscience, and a heart 
 Not ^oon deceived ; aware that what is base 
 No polish can make sterling; and that vice, 
 Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd. 
 Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowers 
 Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far 
 9 For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. 
 S"i life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
 Mo'.c i^elden than that age of fabled gold 
 Renown 'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care 
 Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved 
 Of Co J and man, and peaceful in its end. 
 
 So glide my life away ! and so, at last. 
 
 My share of duties decently fulfiU'd, 
 
 May some disease, not tardy to perform 
 
 Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke. 
 
 Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat. 
 
 Beneath the turf that I have often trod. 
 
 It shall not grieve me then that once, wlicn call'd 
 
 To dre.== n Sofa with the flowers of verse, 
 
 I play'd awhde, obedient to the fair. 
 
 With that light task; but soon, to please her 
 
 more, 
 Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, 
 Let fall the unfinish'd vrn ath, and rovud foi 
 fruit : [true. 
 
 Roved far, and gather'd much : some harsh, 'tis 
 Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof, 
 But wholesome, well-digested ; grateful some 
 To palates that can taste immortal truth; 
 Insipid else, and sure to be despised. 
 But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek. 
 In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, 
 If he regard not, though divine the theme. 
 'Tis not in artful measures, in thechime 
 And idle tinckling of a minstrel's lyre. 
 To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart ; 
 Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, 
 Whose approbation — prtisper even mine. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Dear Joseph — fivp,-and-twenty years ago — 
 Aiai, how time cscifx^-. '—'tis even so — 
 With trequcnt intercou:.-!e, and always sweet, 
 And always friendly, we ivere wont to cheat 
 A tedious hour — and now we never meet ! 
 As some grave gentleman in Terence says, 
 ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient df. 7s,) 
 Good lack, we know not w hat to-morrow brings— 
 Strange fluctuation of all human things ! 
 True. Changes will bcf.tll, and friends may part, 
 But distance only cannoi change the heart : 
 And were I call'd to prove the assertion true. 
 One proof should serve — a reference to you. 
 
 Whence comes it then, th;it, in the wane of life, 
 Thou',jh nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife. 
 We find the frioxls we fancied we had won, 
 Though numerous onoe, reduced to few or none 1 
 Can gold grow worthless that has s* >od the 
 
 touch 1 
 No ; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. 
 
 Horatio's servant once, with bow and crincre, 
 Swinging the parlor door upon its hincre. 
 Dreading a negative, and overuv/ed 
 Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
 Go, fellow ! — whithe? ': — turning short about — 
 Nay — stay at home — you're always going out. 
 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. — 
 For what 1 — An please you, sir, to see a friend. — 
 A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start — 
 Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. 
 And fetch my cloak ; for though the night be raw, 
 f'Jl see him too — the first I ever saw. 
 
 1 knew the man, and .knew his nature mild, 
 And was his playil ing often when a child ; 
 But so:iiewhat at thai ..MUi'mt pinch'd him close, 
 Else he was seldoin bitter or morose. 
 Perhaps his confidence, just then betray'd, [made, 
 His grief might prompt him with the speech he 
 Perhaps 'twas mere good humor gave it birth. 
 The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth, 
 Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind. 
 Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 
 
 I'ut not to moralize too much, and strain 
 To prove an evil of which all complain ; 
 (1 hate long arguments verbosely spun;) 
 One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
 Once on a time an emperor, a wise man, 
 No matter where, in China or Japan, 
 Decreed that whosoever should ofl'end 
 Against the well-known duties of a friend. 
 Convicted once, should ever atler wear 
 But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
 The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
 That all was naught withm, and all ibund out. 
 
 Oh, happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
 Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
 Else, could a law like that which I relate 
 Once have the sanction of our triple ^ate, 
 Some few, that I have known in days of old, 
 Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold 
 While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow 
 Might traverse England safely to and fro. 
 An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, 
 Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within.
 
 TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 
 
 Kc(pa\aiov fn TtaiSctai opBn rpoipr]. — Plato. 
 
 Kpv-q rroXireta; anaarii veijiv rpotpa. — DiOG. Lakrt. 
 
 To the Ruv. Willium Oawthonie Unwiti, Rector of Stock 
 ill Essex, tho tutor of his two sous, the following; iiooin, 
 recommending private tuition in |)rcfercnce to an edu- 
 cation at school, is inscribed by liis aQeclionale friend, 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 Olney, J^Tnv. G, 1784. 
 
 It is not from his form, in which we trace 
 Stren;,nh join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, 
 That man, the muster of this globe, derives 
 His right of empire over all that lives. 
 That form, indeed, the associate of a mind 
 Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, 
 That form, the labor of Almighty skill, 
 Framed lor the service of a freeliorn will, 
 Asserts [jrecedence, and bespeaks control, 
 But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. 
 Hers is the state, the splendor, and the throne, 
 An intellectual kingdom all her own. 
 For her the memory fills her ample page 
 With truths pour'd down from every distant age; 
 For her amasses an unbounded store, 
 The wisdom of great nations, now no more ; 
 Though laden not encumber'd with her spoil; 
 Laborious, yet uneonscious of her toil ; 
 When copiously sup[)lied, then mo.st enlarged ; 
 Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged. 
 For her the Fancy, roving unconlined, 
 The present muse of every pensive mind, 
 Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue 
 To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. 
 At her coiuuiand winds rise and waters roar, 
 Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; 
 With llviwer and fruit tlie wilderness supplies, 
 Or liids tiie rocks in ruiler pomp arise. 
 For her the Judgment. umi)ire in the strife [life. 
 That Grace and Nature have to wage through 
 Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, 
 Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, 
 Condemns, wpprovcs. and with a laithful voice 
 Guides I'iie decision of a doubtful choice. 
 
 Wiiy did the fiat of a God give birth 
 To yon fair Sun. and his attendant Earth 1 
 And, when (h'scending he resigns the skies, 
 Wiiy takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, 
 Wliiim Ocean fcelstiirough all hiscountlcsswaves, 
 And own^her power on every shore he Lives'? 
 Why do tne seasons still enrich the year, 
 Fruitful and young as in their first career 1 
 Spring hangs her inl'ant blossoms on the trees, 
 Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; 
 Summer in haste the thriving charge receives 
 Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, 
 Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews 
 Dye them at last in all their glowing hues. — 
 
 'Twcre wild profusion all, and bootless waste, 
 Power niisemploy'd, munificence misplaced 
 Had not its Author dignified the plan, 
 And crown'd it with the majesty of man. 
 Thus form'd.thus j laced, intelligent, and taupl. t_ 
 Look where he will, the wonders God has 
 
 wrought. 
 The wildest scorncr of his Maker's laws, 
 Finds in a sober moment time to pause. 
 To press the important question on his heart, 
 " Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou arti'' 
 If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, 
 The next mere dust and ashes in the grave ; 
 Endued with reason only to descry 
 His crimes and follies with an aching eye ; 
 With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, 
 The force he s])ends against their fury vain ; 
 And if, soon aflnr having burnt, by turns, 
 With every lust with which frail Nature burns, 
 His being end where death tUssolves the bond, 
 The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond ; 
 Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, 
 Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, 
 And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, 
 Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. 
 TrTiths that the learn'd pursue with eager 
 thought 
 Are not important always as dear-bought, 
 Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, 
 A childish waste of philosophic pains ; 
 But truths on which depend our main concern. 
 That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn 
 Shine by the side of every path we tread 
 With such a lustre, he that runs may read 
 'Tis true that, if to trille life away 
 Down to the sunset of their latest day, 
 Then perish on futurity's wide shore 
 Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, 
 Were all that Heaven required of human kind, 
 And all the plan their destiny design'd. [blame, 
 What none could reverence all might justly 
 And man woiild breathe but for his Maker's 
 
 shame. 
 But reason heard, and nature well perused, 
 At once the dreaming mind is disabused. 
 If all we find possessing earth, sea. air, 
 Rellect His attributes who placed them there, 
 Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd 
 Proofs of the wisdoni of the all-seeing mind, 
 'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to inves 
 With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, 
 Received his nobler nature, and was made 
 Fit for the power in which he stands arrayed; 
 That first, or last, herearter, if not here, 
 He too night make his author's wisdom clear,
 
 604 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, 
 Suffer his justice in a world to come. 
 This once beheved, 'twere logic misapplied 
 To prove a consequence by none denied, 
 That we are bound to cast the minds of youth 
 Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, 
 That taught of God they may indeed be wise, 
 Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies. 
 
 In early days the conscience has in most 
 A quickness, which in later life is lost : 
 Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, 
 Or guilty soon relenting into tears. 
 Too careless oi'ten, as our years proceed, [read. 
 What friends we sort with, or what books we 
 Our parents yet exert a prudent care 
 To feed our infant minds with proper fare; 
 And wisely store the nursery by degrees [ease. 
 With wholesome learning, yet acquired with 
 Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn 
 Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, 
 A book (to please us at a tender age 
 Tis call'd a book, though but a single page) 
 Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach. 
 Which children use, and parsons — when they 
 Lisping our syllables, we scramble next [preach. 
 Through moral narrative, or sacred text; 
 And learn with wonder how this world began, 
 Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd 
 
 man : [plain, 
 
 Points which, unless the Scripture made them 
 The wisest heads might agitate in vain. 
 Oh thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
 Back to the season of life's happy spring, 
 I jjleased remember, and, while memory yet 
 Holds fast her otfice here, can ne'er forget ; 
 Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-toM tale 
 Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 
 Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple 
 
 style, 
 May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
 Witty, and well employed, and, like thy Lord, 
 Speaking in parables his slighted word ; 
 I name thee not. lest so despised a name 
 Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame ; 
 Yet e'en in transitory life's late day. 
 That mingles all my brown with sober grey. 
 Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
 And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 
 'Twere well with most, if books that could engage 
 Their childhood pleased them at a riper age ; 
 The man approving what had charm'd the boy. 
 Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy. 
 And not with curses on his heart, who stole 
 The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 
 The stamp of artless piety impress'd 
 By kind tuition on his yielding breast. 
 The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw. 
 Regards with scorn, though once received with 
 And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, [awe ; 
 That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise. 
 Blasphemes his crewl, as founded on a plan 
 Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. 
 Touch but his nature in its ailing part, 
 Assert the native evil of his heart. 
 His pride resents the charge, although the proof* 
 Rise in his forthead, and seem rank enough 
 Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross 
 As God's expedient to retrieve his loss. 
 The young apostate sickens at the view, 
 And hates it with the maUcc of a Jew. 
 
 * See 2 Chron. xxvi. 19. 
 
 How weak the barrier of mere nature proves, 
 Opposed against the pleasures nature loves ! 
 V\ hile self-betray'd, and wilfully undone. 
 She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. 
 Try now the merits of this blest exchanire 
 Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. 
 Time was, he closed as he began the day, 
 W'ith decent duty, not ashamed to p.'uy ; 
 The practice was a bond upon his heait, 
 A pledge he gave for a consistent part ; 
 Nor could he dare presumptuously displease 
 A power confess'd so lately on his knees. 
 But now farewell all legendary tales, 
 The shadows fly, philosophy prevails ; 
 Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves ; 
 Religion makes the free by nature slaves. 
 Priests have invented, and the world admired 
 What knavish priests promulgate as inspired ; 
 Till Reason, now no longer overawed, [fraud ; 
 Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy 
 And, common sense diffusing real day, 
 The meteor of the Gospel dies away. 
 Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth 
 Learn from expert inquirers after truth ; 
 Whose only care, might truth presume to speak, 
 Is not to find what they profess to seek. 
 And thus, well tutor'd only while v/e share 
 A mother's lectures and a nurse's care ; 
 And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,* 
 But sound religion sparingly enough ; 
 Our early notices of truth disgraced. 
 Soon lose their credit, and are all eff'aced. 
 Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, 
 Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once ; 
 That in good lime the stripling's finish'd taste 
 For loose expense and fashionable waste 
 Should prove your ruin, and his own at last; 
 Train him in public with a mob of boys. 
 Childish in mischief only and in noise. 
 Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten. 
 In infidelity and lewdness men. 
 There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, 
 That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold ; 
 That pedantry is all that schools impart. 
 But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; 
 There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays. 
 Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise. 
 His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove, 
 And some street-pacing harlot his first love. 
 Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong. 
 Detain their adolescent charge too long ; 
 The management of tiros of eighteen 
 Is difficult, their punishment obscene. 
 The stout tall captain, whose superior size 
 The minor heroes view with envious eyes. 
 Becomes their pattern upon whom they fix 
 Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. 
 His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit. 
 With them is courage ; his etTrontery wit. 
 His wild excursions, window-breaking feats. 
 Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets. 
 His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring 
 schemes, [themes. 
 
 Transport them, and are made their favorite 
 In little bosoms such achievements strike 
 A kindred spark : they burn to do the like. 
 
 * The author begs leave to explain.— Sensible that, 
 without such knowledge, neither the ancient poets nor 
 historians can be tasted, or indeed understood, he does 
 not mean to censure thg pains that are taken to instruct 
 a schoulbo)' in the religion of the heathen, but merely 
 that neglect of Christian culture which leaves him shame- 
 fully ignorant of his own.
 
 Thus, half accomplish'J ere he yet begin 
 
 To show the peeping down upon his chin , 
 
 And, as inaturiiy of years comes on, 
 
 Made just the a''cpt that you design'd you: son ; 
 
 To ensure the perseverance of his course, 
 
 And give yoftr monstrous project all its fores, 
 
 Send him to college. If he there be tamed, 
 
 Or in one article of vice reclaim'd, 
 
 Where no regard of ordinance is shown 
 
 Or look'u for now, the fault must be his own. 
 
 Some sneaking virtue lurks in him no doubt, 
 
 Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking 
 
 bout. 
 Nor gambling practices can find it out. 
 Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too. 
 Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you : 
 Though from ourselves the mischief more pro 
 
 coeds. 
 For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. 
 The slaves of custom and establish'd mode. 
 With packhorso constancy we keep the road. 
 Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells. 
 True to the jingling of our leader's bells. 
 To follow foolish precedents, and wink 
 With both our eyes, is easier than to think : 
 And such an ago as ours balks no expense. 
 Except of caution and of common sense ; 
 Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain, 
 AVould turn our steps into a wiser train. 
 I blame not those who, with what care they can, 
 O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan ; 
 Or, if I bhune, 'tis only that they dare 
 Promise a work of which they must despair 
 Have ye, yc sage intendants of the whole, 
 A ubiquarian presence and control, 
 Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd, 
 AVent with him, and saw all the game he play'd ? 
 Yes — ye are conscious ; and on all the shelves 
 Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. 
 Or if, by nature sober, ye had then. 
 Boys as yo wore, the gravity of men. 
 Ye knew at least, by ronstant proofs aJJress'd 
 To rar.s and eyes, llic vices of the rest. 
 But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, 
 And evils not to he endured endure, 
 Lest power exerted, but without success, 
 Slmuld make the little ye retain still less. 
 Ye once were justly fametl for bringing forth 
 Undoulited scholarship and genuine worth ; 
 And in the iinnament of fanu' still shines 
 A glory bri>:lit as that of all the signs, 
 Of i)o('ts raised by you and statrsmcn andilivines 
 Peace to tlic--m all ! those brilliant times are fled, 
 And no such lights are kindling in their stead. 
 Our striplings siiiiic indeed, but with such rays 
 As set the midnight riot in a blaze ; 
 And seem, if judged by their expressive looks. 
 Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. 
 
 Say. muse, (for education made the song, 
 No muse can liesilale. or linger long.) 
 What causes move us knowing, as we must, 
 That these meiurjerU:^ all fail their trust. 
 To send our sons to scout and scamper there. 
 While colts and pujipiis cost us so much care ? 
 
 Be it a weakness, it <leservcs some praise. 
 We love the ])lay-place of our early days ; 
 The scene is touching, and the heart is stone 
 That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 
 The wall on which we tried our graving skill, 
 The very name we carved subsisting still ; 
 The bench on which we sat while deep em|)loy'd, 
 Though mangled, huck'd, and hew'd, not yet 
 destroy d ; 
 
 The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot. 
 Playing our games, and on the very spot ; 
 As happy as we once, to kneel anii dtiiw 
 The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw j 
 To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 
 Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat; 
 The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
 Such recollection of our own delicrhts, 
 That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain 
 Our in;ioc(;nt sweet simple years again. 
 
 'This lond attachment to tiie Well-known place, 
 Whence first we started into life's long race, 
 Maintains its hold with such un (ailing sway, 
 We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. 
 Hark ! how the sire of chits, whose future share 
 Of classic tbod begins to be his care. 
 With his own likeness placed on either knee, 
 Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee ; 
 And tells them as he strokes their silver locks, 
 That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; 
 Then turning he regales his listening wife 
 With all tiie adventures of his early life ; 
 His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, 
 In bilkinir tavern-bills, and spouting plays; 
 What shiils he used, detected in a scrape. 
 How he was flogg'd. or had the luck to escape; 
 What sums he lost at play, anti how he sold 
 Watch, seals, and all — till all his pranks are told. 
 Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name 
 That palliates dee'ds of folly and of shame,) 
 He gives the local bias all its sway ; 
 Resolves that where he play d his sons shall play 
 And destines their bright genius to be shown 
 Just in the scene where he display 'd his own. 
 The meek and basht'ul boy will soon be taught 
 To be as bold and ibrward as he ought ; 
 The rude will scullle tlirough with ease enough, 
 Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. 
 Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, 
 The event is sure ; expect it, and rejoice ! 
 Soon sse your wish tulliU'd in either child, 
 The pert made perter, and the tame made wild. 
 
 The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, 
 Excased the incumbrance of more solid worth, 
 Arc best disposed of where with most success 
 Thiv may acquire that conliilent address, 
 T.K^se haliils oi' prol'use anil lewd expense. 
 That scorn of all tielighls l)ut those of sense, 
 Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn, 
 With so much reason, all expect from them. 
 But tarailies of less illustrious fame. 
 Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, 
 Whose heirs, their honors none, their income 
 Must shine by true desert, or not at all, [small, 
 \Vhat dream they of that, with so little care 
 They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure 
 
 there ? 
 They dream of little Charles or William graced 
 With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist ; 
 They see the attentive crowds his talents draw. 
 They hear him speak — the oracle of law. 
 The father, who designs his babe a priest. 
 Dreams him episcopally such at least ; 
 
 j And, while the playful jockey scours the room 
 
 I Briskly, astride upon the parlor broom, 
 
 . In fancy sees him more superbly ride 
 In coach with purple lined, and mitres on its 
 
 .side. 
 Events improbable and strange as these, 
 AVhieh only a parental eye forsces, 
 A public school shall bring to pass with case. 
 But how 1 resides such virtue in that air. 
 As must create an appetite for prayer '
 
 606 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 And will it breathe into him all the zeal 
 That candidates for such a prize should feel, 
 To take the lead and be the foremost still 
 In all true worth and literary skill 1 
 " Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught 
 The knowledge of the World, and dull ofthought ! 
 Chui'ch ladders are not always mounted best 
 By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. 
 The exalted prize demands an upward look. 
 Not to be found by poring on a book. 
 Small skill in Latin, and still less in' Greek, 
 Is more than adequate to all I seek. 
 Let erudition grace him, or not grace, 
 I give the bauble but the second place ; 
 His wealth, fame, honors, all tliat I intend. 
 Subsist and centre in one point — a friend. 
 A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects. 
 Shall give him consequence, heal all defects 
 His intercourse with peers and sons of peers — 
 There dawns the splendor of his future years : 
 In that bright quarter his propitious skies 
 Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. 
 Your Lordship, and Your Grace ! what school 
 
 can teach 
 A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech 1 
 What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, 
 Sweet interjections ! if he learn but those "? 
 Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke. 
 Who starve upon a dog's card Pentateuch, 
 The parson knows enough who knows a duke." 
 Egregious purpose ! worthily begun 
 In barbarous prostitution of your son ; 
 Press'd on his part by means that would dis- 
 grace 
 A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place. 
 And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, 
 In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. 
 It may succeed : and if his sins should call 
 For more than common punishment, it shall ; 
 The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on 
 
 earth 
 Least qualified in honor, learning, worth, 
 To occupy a sacred, awful post, 
 In which the best and worthiest tremble most. 
 The royal letters are a thing of course, 
 A king, that would, might recommend his horse ; 
 And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one 
 
 voice, 
 As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. 
 Behold your bishop ! well he plays his part. 
 Christian in name, and infidel in heart. 
 Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, 
 A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. 
 Dumb as a senator, and as a priest 
 A piece of mere church furniture at best ; 
 To live estranged from God his total scope. 
 And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. 
 But, fair although and feasible it seem, 
 Depend not much upon your golden dream ; 
 For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt 
 The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt. 
 In spite of all the wrigglers into place. 
 Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace ; 
 And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be 
 
 rare. 
 We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. 
 Besides, school friendships are not always found, 
 Though fair in promise, permanent and sound ; 
 The most disinterested and virtuous minds. 
 In early years connected, time unbinds ; 
 New situations give a ditierent cast 
 Of habit, inclination, temper, taste ; » 
 
 And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first. 
 Boon shows the strong similitude reversed. 
 
 Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are 
 
 warm. 
 And make mistakes for manhood to reform. 
 _Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, 
 Whose scent and hues are rather gue&s'd than 
 
 known; 
 Each dreams that each is just what he appears, 
 But learns his error in maturer years. 
 When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd. 
 Shows all its rents and patches to the world. 
 If therefore, e'en when honest in design, 
 A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 
 'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart 
 With just abhorrence of so mean a part, 
 Than set your son to work at a vile trade 
 For wages so unlikely to be paid. 
 
 Our public hives of puerile resort. 
 That are of chief and most approved report, 
 To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul. 
 Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. 
 A principle, whose proud pretensions pass 
 Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass — 
 That with a world, not often over-nice, 
 Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice ; 
 Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, 
 Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride — 
 Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their 
 
 fame ; 
 And emulation is its specious name. 
 Boys, onee on fire with that contentious zeal, 
 Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; 
 The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes 
 Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. 
 The spirit of that competition burns 
 W^ith all varieties of ill by turns ; 
 Each vainly magnifies his own success. 
 Resents his lellow's, wishes it were less. 
 Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, 
 Deems his reward too great if he prevail. 
 And labors to surpass him day and night. 
 Less for improvement than to tickle spite. 
 The spur is powerful, and I grant its force ; 
 It pricks the genius forward in its course, 
 Allows short time for play, and none for sloth ; 
 And, felt alike by each, advances both : 
 But judge, where so much evil intervenes, 
 The end, though plausible, not worth the means. 
 Weigh, for a moment, classical desert 
 Against a heart depraved and temper hurt : 
 Hurt too perhaps tor life; tor early wrong 
 Done to the nobler part, alfects it long; 
 And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause, 
 If you can crown a discipline, that draws 
 Such mischiefs after it, with much applause. 
 
 Connexion tbrm'd lor interest, and endear'd 
 By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd ; 
 And emulation, as engendering hate, 
 Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate ; 
 The props of such proud seminaries fall. 
 The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. 
 Great schools rejected then as those that swell 
 Beyond a size that can be managed well, 
 Shall royal institutions miss the bays, 
 And small academies win all the praise "? 
 Force not my drift beyond its just intent, 
 I praise a school as Pope a government ; 
 So take my judgment in his language dress'd, 
 " Whate'er is best administer'd is best." 
 Few boys tire born with talents that excel. 
 But all are capable of living well. 
 Then ask not, whether limited or large "? 
 But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge 1
 
 TiKOCINlUM, 
 
 607 
 
 If anxious only that their lioys may learr 
 While rno'-al.s languish, a despised concern, 
 The great and small deserve one commnn blame, 
 Different i"-. size, but in effect the same. 
 Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, 
 'riiougli motives of mere lucre sway the most; 
 Therefore in towns and cities they abound. 
 For there the game they seek is easiest Ibund ; 
 Though thi-rc, in spite of all that care can do, 
 Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. 
 [f slircwd, and if a well-constructed brain. 
 Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain. 
 Your son come forth a prodigy of skill; 
 As wheresoever taught, .so Ibrm'd, he will; 
 The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, 
 Claims more tban half tlie praise as his due share. 
 But if wifii all his genius, liD betray. 
 Not more intelligent tluin loose and gay, 
 Such vicious liui)its us disgrace his name. 
 Threaten his health, ills tbrtune, and his fame; 
 Though want of due restraint alone have bred 
 The symptoms that you see with so much dread ; 
 Unenvied there, he may sustain alone 
 The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a sigiit to be witli joy peruseil, 
 By all whoui sentiment has not abused ; 
 New-fangled sentiment the boasted grace 
 Of those wlio never feel in the right place; 
 A sight surpass'd by none that we can show. 
 Though Vestris on one leg still shine below ; 
 A I'atber blest with an ingenuous son, 
 Fatlier, ami friend, and tutor, all in one. 
 How ! — turn again to tales long since forgot, 
 ^sop and Phfcdrus, and the rest1 — Why not? 
 He will not blush, that has a father's heart, 
 To take in childish plays a childish part; 
 But b'lids his stunly back to any toy 
 Tliat yc.iuh takes pleasure in. to please his boy : 
 Then why resign into a stranger's hand 
 A task as much within your own command, 
 Tliiit God and nature, and your interest too, 
 Seem with one voice to delegate to you 1 
 Why hire a lodging in a house unknown 
 For one whose tendcrcst thoughts all hover round 
 
 your own ! 
 Tlii.s seeond weaning, needless as it is, 
 How does it lacerate both j-our heart and his ! 
 The indented stick, tliiit loses day by day. 
 Notch alter notch, till all are smooth'd aw.ay. 
 Bears witness long ere his dismission come. 
 With what intense desire he wants his homo. 
 But, though the joys he hopes beneath your 
 
 roof 
 Bid fair enough to answer in the proof. 
 Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, 
 A disapponitment waits bun even there : 
 Arrived, h<", feels an unexpected change ; 
 He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, 
 No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease, 
 His favorite stand between his father's knees. 
 But seeks the corner of some distant seat, 
 And eyes the door, and watches a retreat, 
 And, least lamiliar wlu^rc he should be most, 
 Feels all his happiest privileges lost. 
 Alas poor boy ! — the natural effect 
 Of love by absence chill d into respect. 
 Say, what accomidishments, at school acquired, 
 Brings he, to sweeten fruits so undcsired I 
 Thou well deserv'st an alienated son. 
 Unless thy conscious lieart acknowledge — none; 
 None that, in thy domestic snus: recess. 
 He had not made his own with more address, 
 
 Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling 
 And better never learn'd. cr left behind, [mind, 
 Add too. that, thus estranged, thou cansi btain 
 By no kind arts his confidence again ; 
 That here begins with most that long complaint 
 Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint, 
 Which, oil neglected, in life's waning years 
 A parent pours into regardless ears. 
 
 Like caterpillars daniriing under trees 
 By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, 
 Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace 
 The boughs in which are bred the unseemly race , 
 While every worm industriously weaves 
 And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves ; 
 So numerous are the follies that annoy 
 The mind and heart of every sprightly boy ; 
 Imaginations noxious and perverse. 
 Which admonition can alone disperse. 
 The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand. 
 Patient, affectionate, of high command, 
 To check the procreation of a breed 
 Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed, 
 'Tis not enough that Greek ■ r Roman pa;?e, 
 At staled, hours, his freakisli thoughts engage; 
 E'en in his paHtii!;e3 he requires a iViend 
 To warn and teach hhu sat'ely to unbend; 
 O'er all his pleasures gently to preside, 
 Watch his caioiions, and control their tide; 
 And levying thus, and with an easy sway, 
 A tax of profit troin his very play, 
 To impress a value, not to he erased [waste. 
 On moments sqander'd else, and running all to 
 And seems it nothing in a father's eye 
 That unimproved those many moments fly 1 
 And is he well content his son should find 
 No nourishment to teed his growing mind, 
 But conjugated verbs and nouns declined 1 
 For such is all the mental tbod purvey'd 
 By pubhc hackneys in the schooling trade; 
 Who teed a pupil's intellect with store 
 Of .syntax, truly, but with little more ; 
 Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock, 
 Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock. 
 Perhaps a father, blest with any brains. 
 Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains, 
 To improve this diet, at no great expense. 
 With savory truth and wholesome common 
 
 sense ; 
 To lead his son, for prospects of delight. 
 To some not steep, though philosophic, heiffht, 
 Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes 
 Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size 
 The moons of .love, and Saturn's belted ball, 
 .And the harmonious order of them all ; 
 To show him in an insect or a (lower 
 Such microscopic proof of skill and power. 
 As, hid from ages past, God now displays 
 To combat atheists with in modern days; 
 To spread the earth before him and commend, 
 With designation of the finger's end. 
 Its various parts to his attentive note. 
 Thus briniring home to him the most remote ; 
 To te.ich his heart to glow with generous flame. 
 Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; 
 And, more than all, with commendation due. 
 To set some living worthy in his view. 
 Whose fair example may at once inspire 
 A wish to copy what he must admire. [pears. 
 Such knowledge, gtiin'd betimes, and which ap- 
 Though solid, not too weightv for his years, 
 Sweet in itself and not Ibrbidding sport, 
 When health demands it, of athletic sort,
 
 608 
 
 CO\'r ^^ R'S WORKS. 
 
 Would make him — wliat some lovely boys have 
 
 been, 
 And more than one perhaps that I have seen — 
 An evidence and reprehension botia 
 Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. 
 
 Art thou a man professionally tied, 
 With all thy faculties elsewhere applied. 
 Too busy to intend a meaner care 
 Than how to enrich thyself, and next thine heir ; 
 Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art) 
 But poor in knowledge, having none to impart : — 
 Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad ; 
 His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad ; 
 Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then 
 Heard to articulate like other men ; 
 No jester, and yet lively in discourse, 
 His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force ; 
 And his address, if not quite French in ease. 
 Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to 
 
 please ; 
 Low in the world, because he scorns its arts ; 
 A man of letters, manners, morals, parts ; 
 Unpatronized, and therefore little known ; 
 Wise for himself and his few friends alone — 
 In him thy well-appointed proxy see, 
 Arm'd fur a work too ditRcult for thee ; 
 Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth, 
 To form thy son, to strike his genius forth ; 
 Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove 
 The force of discipline when back'd by love; 
 To double all thy pleasure in thy child. 
 His mind informal, liis morals undefiled. 
 Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show 
 No spots contracttci among grooms below, 
 Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd 
 By footman Tom lor witty and refined. 
 Tliere, in his couimerce. with the Uveried herd, 
 Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fcar'd ; 
 For since (so fashion dictates) all wlio claim 
 A higher than a mere plebeian fame. 
 Find it expedient, come what mischief may, 
 To entertain a thief or two in pay, 
 (And they that can afford the expense of more, 
 Some half a dozen, and some half a score.) 
 Great cause occurs to save him from a band 
 So sure to spoil him, and so near at hand; 
 A point secured, if once he be supplied 
 With some such Mentor always at his side. 
 Are such men rarel perhaps tliey would abound 
 Were occupation easier to be found, 
 Were education else so sure to fail, 
 Conducted on a manageable scale. 
 And schools, tliat have outlived all just esteem, 
 Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme. — 
 But, having found him, be thou duke or earl. 
 Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl. 
 And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine 
 In all good ft\cultics bcncatii his care, [heir 
 
 Respect, as is but rational and just, 
 A man deem'd worthy of so dear a trust. 
 Despised by thee, what more can he expect 
 From youthful folly than the same neglect"? 
 A flat and fatal negative obtains 
 That instant upon all his future pains ; 
 His lessons tire his mild rebukes offend, 
 And all the instructions of thy son's best friend 
 Are a stream choked, or trickling to no end. 
 Doom him not then to solitary meals; 
 But recollect that he has sense, and feels ; 
 And that, possessor of a soul refined, 
 An upright heart, and cultivated mind, 
 His post not mean, his talents not unknown, 
 He deems it hard to vegetate alone. 
 
 And, if admitted at thy board he ait, 
 Account him no just mark for idle wit ; 
 OfTend not him whom modesty restrains 
 From rpparte. with jokes that he disdains ; 
 Much less transfix his feelings with an oath ; 
 Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth. — 
 And, trust me, his utiUty may reach 
 To more than he is hired, or bound to teach ; 
 Much trash unutter'd. and some ills undone, 
 Through reverence of the censor of thy son. 
 
 But, if thy table be indeed .inclean, 
 Foul with exces.5. and with discourse obscene, 
 And thou a wretch, whom ibllowing her old plan, 
 The world accounts an honorable man, 
 Because forsooth thy lourage has been tried. 
 And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side ; 
 Though tliou hadst never grace enough to prove 
 That anything but vice could win thy love ; — 
 Or hast thou a p^ilite. card-playing wife, 
 Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life ; 
 Who, just when industry begins to snore, [door ; 
 Flies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowded 
 And thrice in every winter throngs thine own 
 With half the chariots and sedans in town, 
 Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst; 
 Not very sober though, nor very chaste ; 
 Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank, 
 If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank. 
 And tliou at best, and in thy soberest mood, 
 A trifler vain, and empty of all good ; — 
 Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none. 
 Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. 
 Saved from his home, where every day brings 
 
 forth 
 Some mischief fatal to his future worth, 
 Find him a better in a distant spot. 
 Within some pious pastor's humble cot. 
 Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean, 
 The most seducing, and the oftenest s^'cn) 
 May never more be statnp'd upon his breast, 
 Not yet perhaps incurably impres.i'd : 
 Where early rest makes early rising sure, 
 Disease or comes not or finds easy cure, 
 Prevented much by diet ner.t and jilain; 
 Or. if it enter, soon .:tarved out again : 
 Where all the attention of his faithful host, 
 Discreetly limiteii to two at most. 
 May raise such fruits as shall reward his care, 
 And not at last evaporate in air: 
 Where, stillness aiding study, and his mind 
 Serene, and to his duties much inclined, 
 Not occupied in day dreams, as at home, 
 Of pleasures past, or folli-:s yet to come, 
 His virtuous toil may terminnte at last 
 In settled habit and decided ta3te. — 
 But whom do I advise 1 the fashion-led. 
 The incorrigibly wrong the deaf the dead ! 
 Whom care and cool deliberation suit 
 Not better much than spectacles a brute; 
 Who. if their sons some slight tuition share, 
 Deem it of no great moment whose, or where; 
 Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one un- 
 known, 
 And much too gay to have any of their own. 
 But courage man ! methought the Muse replied 
 Mankind are various, and the world is wide: 
 The ostrich, silliest i)f the feather'd kind, 
 And tbrm'd of God without a parent's mind, 
 Commits her eggs incautious to the dust. 
 Forgetful that the toot may crush the trust; 
 And, while on public nurseries they rely. 
 Not knowing, and too ofl not caring, why, 
 
 v_
 
 TIROCINIUM. 
 
 609 
 
 Irrational in what they thus prefer, 
 No few, that would seem wise, resemble her. 
 But till are not alike. Thy warning voice 
 May here and there prevent erroneous choice ; 
 And some pirhaps. who. busy as they are, 
 Yet m-i',e thiir proircny their dearest care, 
 (Whose hearts will ache, once told what ill 
 
 u.ay reach 
 Their offspring, h.fl upon so wild a beach,) 
 Will need no stress of argument to enforce 
 The esi;> dience of a less adventurous course: 
 The re-', will slight thy counsel, or condemn ; 
 But they have human feelings— turn to them. 
 To you then, tenants of life's middle state, 
 Securely placed between the small and CTeal. 
 Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains 
 Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains, 
 Who, wise yourselves, desirt your sc--> should 
 
 learn 
 Your wisdom and your ways — to you I turn. 
 Look round you on a world perversely Mind ; 
 See what contcmiu is fallen on huma . kind ; 
 See wealth abus^-d. and dignities misplaced, 
 Great titles olH-cs and trusts disgraced, 
 Long lines of anr(;-;try, renown'd of old. 
 Their noble qualities all <)uench'd and cold; 
 See B( diam's closeted and handcuff'd charge 
 Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large ; 
 See great commanders making war a trade. 
 Great lawyers lawyers without study made; 
 Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ 
 Is odious, and their wages all their joy. 
 Who. i'ar enougli from furnishing their shelves 
 With Gosp;l lore, turn inlidels themselves; 
 See womanhood despised, and maidinod shamed 
 With infamy too nauseous to he ii.tiiied, 
 Fops at all corners ladylike h> reien, 
 Civited t'ellows smelt ere they are seen, 
 Else coarse and rude in manners, and their 
 
 tongue 
 On fire with curses, and with nonsense hun;r 
 Now fluslvil with drunkenness, now with \\i!)ic- 
 
 dom pale. 
 Their breath a sample of last ni^jlit's rsgals . 
 See volunteers in all the vilest arts, 
 Men well endow'd, of honorable parts. 
 Design d by Nature wise, but sell-made fools; 
 All these and more like these, were bred at 
 
 schools. 
 And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, 
 That though school-bred the boy be virtuous 
 
 still; 
 Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark. 
 Prove ratiier tban impeach, the just remark; 
 As hirr and there a twinkling star descried 
 Serves but to show how black is all beside. 
 Now lo«)k on hiai whose very voice in tone 
 Just echoes thine whose features are thine own, 
 Anil stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red, 
 Ami lay thine Imnd upon his flaxen head, 
 And say. My boy the unwelcome hour is come, 
 When thou, transplanted from thy genial home, 
 Must find a colder soil and Ideaker air. 
 And trust lor saiety to a stranger's care; 
 What character, what turn thou wilt a-'itJume 
 From constant converse with I know not wlutm; 
 Who there will court thy friendship, with what 
 
 views, 
 Ana, artless us thou art, whom thou wilt choose ; 
 
 Though much depends on what thy choioe 
 
 shall be. 
 Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me. 
 Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy 
 
 lids, 
 And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids ; 
 Free too, and under no constraining force. 
 Unless the sway of custom warp thy course ; 
 Lay such a stake upon the losing side. 
 Merely to gratify so blind a guide 1 
 Thou canst not ! Nature, pulling at thine heart, 
 Condemns the unfatherl v, the imprudent part. 
 Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest 
 
 plea. 
 Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea. 
 Nor say, (Jo thither, conscious that there lay 
 A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way ; 
 Then, only govern "d by the self-same rule 
 Of natural pity, send him not to school. 
 No — guard him better. Is he not thine own. 
 Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone '] 
 And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,) 
 That, since thy strength must with thy years 
 
 elope. 
 And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage 
 Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age. 
 That then, in recompense of all thy cares. 
 Thy child shall show re.-jpect to thy gray hairs. 
 Befriend tliee, of all other friends bereft, 
 And give thy life its only cordra,! left "? 
 Aware then how much danger intervenes, 
 To compass that good end, forecast the means. 
 His heart, now passive, yields to thy command ; 
 Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand ; 
 If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide. 
 Nor heed what guests there enter and abide, 
 Complain not if attachments lewd and base 
 Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place. 
 But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure. 
 From vicious inmates, and delights impure. 
 Either his gratitude shall hold him fast. 
 And keep him warm and filial to the last ; 
 Or, if ho prove unkind, (as who can say 
 But, being man, and therefore frail, he may 1) 
 One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, 
 Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. 
 Oh, barbarous ! wouldst thou with a Gothic 
 
 hand 
 Pull down the schools — what ! — all the schools 
 
 i' th' land ; 
 Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms. 
 Or turn them into shofis and auction-rooms 1 
 A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) 
 Deserves an answer similar, or none. 
 Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ 
 (Apprised that he is such) a careless boy. 
 And feed him well, and give him handsome 
 
 Merely to sleep, and lot them run astray 1 
 
 Survey our schools and colleges, and see 
 
 A sight not much unlike my simile. 
 
 From education, as the leading cause. 
 
 The public character its color draws ; 
 
 Thence the ])revailing manners take their cast, 
 
 E.\:travagaiit or sober, loose or chaste. 
 
 And though I would not advertise them yet. 
 
 Nor write on each — 'J'kin Building; to be Let, 
 
 Unless the world wore all prepared to embrace 
 
 A plan well worthy to supply their place ; 
 
 Yet, backward as thoy are, and long hare been. 
 
 To cultivate and keep the Morals clean, 
 
 (Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess. 
 
 Or better managed, or encouraged less. 
 
 39
 
 610 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING- 
 TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX. 
 
 Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining 
 of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed 
 tor receiving the Dues at the Parsonage. 
 
 Cojra, ponder well, for 'tis no jest. 
 
 To laugh it would be wrong, 
 The troubles of a worthyipriest, 
 
 The burden of my song. 
 
 The priest he merry is and blithe 
 
 Three quarters of a year ; 
 But oh ! it cuts hiiu like a scythe. 
 
 When tithing time draws near. 
 
 He then is full of fright and fears. 
 
 As one at point to die. 
 And long before the day appears. 
 
 He heaves up many a sigh. 
 
 For then the farmers come jog, jog, 
 
 Along the miry road. 
 Each heart as heavy as a log. 
 
 To make their payments good. 
 
 In sooth the sorrow of such days 
 
 Is not to be express'd. 
 When he thaWtakes and he that pays 
 
 Are both alike distress'd. 
 
 Now all unwelcome at his gates 
 
 The clumsy swains alight, 
 With rueful faces and bald patea— 
 
 He trembles at the sight. • 
 
 And well he may, for well he knows 
 
 Each bumpkin of the clan, 
 Instead of paying what he owes. 
 
 Will cheat him if he can. 
 
 So in they come — each makes his leg, 
 
 And flings his head before, 
 And looks as if he came to beg, 
 
 And not to quit a score. 
 
 " And how does miss and madam do. 
 
 The little boy and all 1 " 
 " All tight and well. And how do you, 
 
 Good Mr. What-d'ye-call 1 " 
 
 The dinner comes, and down they sit. 
 
 Were e'er such hungry folk ? 
 There's little talking, and no wit ; 
 
 It is no time to joke. 
 
 One wipes his nose upon his sleeve. 
 
 One spits upon the floor. 
 Yet not to give offence or grieve. 
 
 Holds up the cloth before. 
 
 The punch goes round, and they are dull 
 
 And lumpish still as ever ; 
 Like barrels with their bellies full. 
 
 They only weigh the heavier. 
 
 At length the busy time begins. 
 
 " Come, neighbors, wo must wag "— 
 The money chinks, down drop their ohins. 
 
 Each lugging out his bag. 
 
 One talks of mildew and of frost. 
 
 And one of storms of hail. 
 And one of pigs that he has lost * 
 
 By maggots at the tail. 
 
 Q,uoth one, " A rarer man than \ou 
 
 In pulpit none shall hear: 
 But yet, niethinks, to tell you true, 
 
 You sell it plaguy dear." 
 
 O why are farmers made so coarse, 
 
 Or clergy made so fine 1 
 A kick, that scarce would move a horse, 
 
 May kill a sound divine. 
 
 Then let the boobies stay at home ; 
 
 'Twould cost him, I dare say, 
 Less trouble taking twice the sum 
 
 Without the clowns that pay. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 J^DDRESSED TO HENRY COWPEB, ESft. 
 
 On his cmphatical and Interesting Delivery of the De- 
 fence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords. 
 
 Co'wPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes 
 hard, 
 Legends prolix delivers in the ears [peers, 
 (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's 
 
 Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 
 
 Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, 
 Expending late on all that length of plea 
 Thy generous powers, but silence honor'd thee, 
 
 Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. 
 
 Thou art nvit voice alone, but hast beside [sweet 
 Both heart and head ; anif couldst with music 
 Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
 Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide 
 Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet 
 Of others' speech, but magic of thi/ own. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, 
 
 .SUTHOR OP "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." 
 
 Two Poets,* (poets, by report. 
 
 Not ort so well agree,) 
 Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! 
 
 Conspire to honor thee. 
 
 They best can judge a poet's worth, 
 Who oft themselves have known 
 
 The pangs of a poetic birtli 
 By labors of their own. 
 
 We therefore pleased extol thy song, 
 
 Though various, j et complete, 
 Rich in embellishment as strong, 
 
 And learned as 'tis sweet. 
 
 No envy mingles with our praise 
 
 ■ Though could orr hearts repine 
 At any poet's happier lays. 
 They would — they must at thine. 
 
 But we, in mutual bondage knit 
 
 Of fiendship's closest tic, 
 Can gc.7,e on even Darwin's wit 
 
 Witr. .n unjaur. diced eye ; 
 
 * Alluding t' t' « poem, by Mr. Hayluy, -ffhich accom- 
 
 paulcd these lines.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 611 
 
 And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, 
 
 And howsoever known, 
 Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 
 
 Unworthy of his own. 
 
 ON 
 
 MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS. 
 
 The birds put off their every hue 
 To dress a room for Monta^^u. 
 
 The peacock sends iiis licavenly dyes. 
 His rainbows and liis starry eyes, 
 The pheasant plumes, wliich round enfold 
 His mantling neck with downy gold, 
 The cock his arch'd tail's azure show; 
 And, river-blanch'd, the swan his §now. 
 All tribes beside of Indian name, 
 That glossy sliine, or vivid Hame, 
 Where rises, and where sets tlic day, 
 Whate'er they boast of rich and gay, 
 Contribute to the gorgious plan. 
 Proud to advance it all they can. 
 This plumage neither dashing shower, 
 Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower, 
 Shall drench again or discompose, 
 But, screened from every storm that blows. 
 It boasts a splendor ever new 
 Safe with protecting Montagu. 
 
 To the same patroness resort. 
 Secure of favor at her court. 
 Strong Genius, from wimse forge of thought 
 P'orms rise, to quick perfection wrought, 
 Which, though new-born, with vigor move, 
 Like Pallas springing arm'd I'roni Jove — 
 Imagination scattering round 
 Wild roses over furrow'd ground, 
 Which Labor of his trown beguile. 
 And teach Philosophy a smile — 
 Wit flashing on Religion's side, 
 Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied. 
 The gem, though luminous belbre, $ 
 Obtrude on human notice more. 
 Like sunbeams on the golden height 
 Of some tall temple playi'iLr bright — 
 Well tutor'd Learning, ironi his books 
 Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, lucks, 
 Their order on his shelves exact, 
 Not more liarnionious or compact 
 Than that to which he keeps confined 
 The various treasures of his mind — 
 All these to iMontagu's repair, 
 Ambitious of a shelter there. 
 There Gpnius,«Learnini!;, I'ancy, Wit, 
 Their rulHed plumage calm refit, 
 (For stormy troubles loudest roar 
 Around their flight who highest soar.) 
 And in her eye, and by her aid. 
 Shine sate without a tear to fade. 
 
 She thus maintains divided sway 
 With yon briglit regent of the day ; 
 The Plume and Poet both we know 
 Their lustre to his influence owe ; 
 And she the works of Phoebus aiding, 
 Both Poet saves and Plume from fudmg. 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 Supposed to be wriUcn by Alexander Selkirk, during 
 his solitary abode in the islaiul ol" Juiui Fernandez. 
 
 I AM monarch of all I survey, 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 
 From the centre all round tc the sea 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brut . 
 
 Solitude I where are the charms 
 That sages have seen in thy face 1 
 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 1 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 indiiference see ; 
 They are Sv) unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their lameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love. 
 
 Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
 O, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would 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 sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 Mor-; precious than silver anil gold, 
 
 O:- .-^11 that this earth can afford. 
 Bu': t,hc sound of the church-going bell 
 
 These valleys and rocks never heard, 
 Nevt:r :-igh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Or .smiled when a sabbath appear'd. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 SomT cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wl- h or a thought alter me 1 
 O teli iW': 1 yet have a friend, 
 
 Thot'.ijii a friend I aui never to see. 
 
 How^ fleet is the glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight, 
 The teiu}^est itself lags behind. 
 
 And the switl-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. 
 
 r>ut the sea-iliwl is gone to her riest. 
 
 The beast is laid .(.iwri in his lair; 
 Even Iiere is u .'■easoii of rest. 
 
 And I to rijy cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought! 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 o.\ 
 
 OBSERVING SOME N.VMES OF LITTLE 
 
 NOTE 
 
 RECORDKD IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA. 
 
 Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
 
 To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
 
 In vain recorded in historic page. 
 
 They coutt the notice of a future age: 
 
 Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
 
 Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand j
 
 612 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 jethsean gulfs receive them as they fall, 
 And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
 
 So when a child, as playful children use, 
 Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, 
 The flame extinct, he views the roving fire— - 
 There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
 There goes the parson, oh illustrious sparii ! 
 4.nd there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! 
 
 REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, 
 
 NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY Or THK BOOKS. 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
 The spectacles set them unhappily wrong-, 
 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the 
 "cause [learning; 
 
 With a great deal of skill and a wig full of 
 While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
 
 So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
 And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly 
 find, [wear 
 
 That the Nose has had spectacles always in 
 Which amounts to possession timeout of mind. 
 
 Then holding the spectacles up to the court — 
 Your lordship observes they are made with a 
 straddle. 
 
 As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
 Design'd to sit close to it, just like a F.-jdle. 
 
 Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
 ('Tis a case that has happen d, and may be 
 again) 
 Tnat the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles 
 then 1 
 
 On the whole it appears, and my argument 
 shows, [demn. 
 
 With a reasoning the court will never con- 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the 
 Nose, [them. 
 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for 
 
 Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 
 
 But what were his arguments few people know, 
 For the court did not think they were equally 
 wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone. 
 Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 
 
 That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on. 
 By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be 
 shut ! 
 
 ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD 
 THURLOW, ESQ,., 
 
 rOTHE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLIND. 
 
 Round Thurlow's head in early youth, 
 
 And in his sportive days, 
 Fair Science pour'd the light of truth, 
 
 And Genius shed his rays. 
 
 See! with united wonder cried 
 The experienced and the sage, 
 
 Ambition in a boy supplied 
 With all the skill of age ! 
 
 Discernment, eloquence, and grace, 
 
 Proclaim him born to sway 
 The balance in the highest place, 
 
 And bear the palm away. 
 
 The praise bestow'd was just and wise ; 
 
 He sprang impetuous forth. 
 Secure of conquest, where the prize 
 
 Attends superior worth. 
 
 So the best courser on the plain 
 
 Ere yet he starts is known, 
 And does but at the goal oblain 
 
 What all had deem'd his own. 
 
 ODE TO PEACE, 
 
 Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! 
 Return, and make thy tiowny nest 
 
 Once more in this .sad heart : 
 Nor riches I nor powtr pursue, 
 Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 
 
 We therefore need not part. 
 
 Where wilt thou dwell if not with me. 
 From avarice and ambition free, 
 
 And pleasures fatal wiles 1 
 For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
 The sweets that I was wont to share, 
 
 The banquet of thy smiles 1 
 
 The great, the iray, shall they partake 
 The heaven that thou ahcu. canst make? 
 
 And wilt thou quit the strc;im 
 That murmurs through th(> dewy mead, 
 The grove and tlic sfquester'd shed, 
 
 To be a guest with them ? 
 
 For thee I panted, tl p.e I prized. 
 For thee I gladly f.:;c.rficed 
 
 Whate'er I lovr d i>crore ; 
 And shall I see ih'.'c start away, 
 And helpless, liopclcss, hear ihee say — 
 
 Farewell ! we meet no more "? 
 
 HUMAN FRAIJliTY. 
 
 Weak and irresolute is man ; 
 
 The purpose of to-day, 
 Woven with pains into his plan. 
 
 To-morrow rends away. 
 
 The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 
 
 Vice seems already slain ; 
 But Passion rudely snaps the string, 
 
 And it revives again. 
 
 Some foe to his upright intent 
 
 Finds out his weaker part; 
 Virtue engages his assent. 
 
 But Pleasure wins his heart. 
 
 'Tis here the folly of the wise 
 Through all his art we view ; 
 
 And. whTle his tongue the charge denies, 
 His conscience owns it true. 
 
 -1
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 61d 
 
 Bound on a voj'ajie of awful length 
 
 And (lan^^ers little known, 
 A stranger to superior strength, 
 
 Man vainly trusts his own. 
 
 But oars alone can ne'er, prevail 
 
 To reach the distant coast; 
 The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, 
 
 Or all the toil is lost. 
 
 THE MODERN PATRIOT. 
 
 RKBF.r.LioN is my theme all day; 
 
 I only wish 'twould come 
 (As who knows but periiaps it may?) 
 
 A little nearer home. 
 
 Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight 
 
 On t'other side the Atlantic, 
 I alwaj's held ilicm in the right, 
 
 But most so when most frantic. 
 
 When lawless mobs insult the court, 
 That man shall be my toast, 
 
 If breaking windows be the sport, 
 Who bravely breaks the most. 
 
 But O ! for him my fancy culls 
 The choicest (lowers she bears, 
 
 Who constitutionally pulls 
 Your house about your ears. 
 
 Such civil broils are my deliglit. 
 
 Though some iblks can't endure them, 
 
 'Who say the mob are mail outri<rht, 
 And that a rope amsl cure them. 
 
 A rope ! I wish we patriots had 
 
 Such strings for all who need 'em — ■ 
 
 What ! hang a man for going mad ! 
 Then farewell British freedom. 
 
 OS Tin: 
 
 BURNING OP LORD MANSFIELD'S 
 LIBRARY, 
 
 rOGETHER WITH HIS MSS., BY THE MOB, IN THE 
 MO.NTH OE JUNK, 1780. 
 
 So then — the Vandals of our isle, 
 
 Sworn foes to sense and law, 
 Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 
 
 Than ever Roman saw ! 
 
 And IMurray sighs o'er Pope and Swifl, 
 
 And many a treasure more. 
 The well-judged purchase, and the gift 
 
 That graced his lettered store. 
 
 Their pages mangled, burnt, and ten, 
 
 The loss was his alone ; 
 But ages yet to come shall mourn 
 
 The burninji of his own. 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 When wit and genius meet their doom 
 
 In all devouring flame. 
 They tell us of the fate of Rome, 
 
 And bid us fear the same. 
 
 O'er Murray's loss the muses wept. 
 
 They felt the rude alarm. 
 Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept 
 
 His sacred head from harm. 
 
 There Memory, hke the bee that's fed 
 
 From Flora's balmy store, 
 The quintessence of all he read 
 
 Had treasured up before. 
 
 The lawless herd, with fury blind, 
 Have done him cruel wrong; 
 
 The flowers are gone — but still we find 
 The honey on liis tongue. 
 
 THE LOVE OF THE WOIILP REPROVED; 
 
 OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.* 
 
 Tuus says the ])rophet of the Turk, 
 Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; 
 There is a part in every swins 
 No t'riend or follower of mine 
 IMay taste, whate'er his inclination, 
 On pain of excommunication. 
 Such Mahomet's mysterious charge. 
 And thus he left the point at large. 
 Had he the sinful part express'd, 
 They might with safety eat the rest; 
 Rut for one piece they thought it hard 
 From the whole hog to be debarr'd; 
 And set their wit at work to find 
 What joir.t the prophet had in mind. 
 Much controversy straigiit arose. 
 These choose the back, the belly those; 
 By some 'tis confidently said 
 He meant not to (brbid the head ; 
 While others at that doctrine rail, 
 And piously prefer the tail. 
 Thus, conscience I'recd trom every clog, 
 Mahometans eat up the hog. 
 
 You laugh — -'tis well — the tale applied 
 May make you laugh on t'other side. 
 Renounce the world — the preacher cries. 
 We do — a multitude replies. 
 While one as innocent regards 
 A snug and Iriendly game at cards; 
 And one. whatever you may say, 
 Can sec no evil in u play ; 
 Some love a concert, or a race ; 
 And others sho^itiiig, and the chase. 
 Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd, 
 Thus, bit by bit the world is swallow'd; 
 Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, 
 Yet likes a slice as well as he : 
 With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
 Till quite from tail to snout "tis eaten. 
 
 ON THE DEATFI OF MRS. (NOW LADY) 
 THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. 
 
 Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red 
 With tears o'er hapless favorites shed, 
 O share Maria's grief! 
 
 * It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piecs 
 has already appeared in print, havini; found its way, 
 thonifh with stune unnecessary additions l)y an unknown 
 hand, into tho Leeds Journal, without the author'i 
 privity.
 
 S14 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Her favorite, even in his cage, 
 (What will not hunger's cruel rage 1) 
 Assassin'd by a thief. 
 
 Where Rhenus strays his vines among, 
 The egg was laid from which he sprung ; 
 
 And. though by nature mute, 
 Or only with a whistb blest, 
 Well taught he all tli ■ .onnds express'd 
 
 Of flageolet or liuiC 
 
 The honors of his ebon poll 
 
 Were briirhirr than the sleekest mole, 
 
 Hfs IcJ/m of the hue 
 With which Aurora, decks the skies, 
 When piplii.; "v^lrc.e sliall soon arise, 
 
 To sweep away the dew. 
 
 Above, below, in all ihe house, 
 Dire foe alike of bird and mouse 
 
 No cat ha'] leave to dwell ; 
 And Bully's cage supported stood 
 On props of smoothest shaven wood, 
 
 Large built, and latticed well. 
 
 Well latticed — but the grate, alas ! 
 Not rough with wire of steel or brass. 
 
 For Bully's plumage sake. 
 But smooth with wands from Ouse's side. 
 With which, when neatly peel'd and dried. 
 
 The swains their baskets make. 
 
 Night veil'd the pole : all seem'd secure : 
 When, led by instinct sharp and sure. 
 
 Subsistence to provide, 
 A beast forth sallied on the scout, 
 Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, 
 
 And badger-color'd hide. 
 
 He, entering at the study door. 
 Its ample area 'gan explore ; 
 
 And something in the wind 
 Conjectured, sniffing round and round, 
 Better than all the books he found, 
 
 Food chiefly for tlie mind. 
 
 Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, 
 A dream disturb'd poor Bully rest, 
 
 In sleep he seem'd to view 
 A rat fast chnging to the cage, 
 And, screaming at tL*"- pad presage, 
 
 Awoke and found it true. 
 
 For, aided both by ear and scent, 
 Rio-ht to his mark the monster went — 
 
 Ah, muse ! forbear to speak 
 Minute the horrors that ensued ; 
 His teeth were strong, the cag; was wood — 
 
 He left poor Bully's beak. 
 
 O had he made that too his prey ; 
 That beak, whence issued many a lay 
 
 Of such mellifluous tone, 
 Might have repaid him well I, wote, 
 For silencing so sweet a thioat, 
 
 Fast stuck within his own. 
 
 Maria weeps— the Muses mourn — 
 So when, by Bacchanalians torn, 
 
 On Thracian Hebrus' side 
 The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell. 
 His head alone remain'd to tell 
 
 The cruel death he died. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 The rose had been wash'd, just washed in a 
 shower. 
 
 Which Mary to Anna convcy'd ; 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 
 
 And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 
 
 The cup was all fiU'd, and the leaves were all 
 wet, 
 
 And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, 
 To weep for the buds it had left, with regret. 
 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was. 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! 
 I snapp'U it, it fell to the ground. 
 
 And such, I cxclaim'd, is the pitiless part 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind, 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 
 Already to sorrow resign'd. 
 
 This elegant rose, had I .shaken it less, 
 
 Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; 
 
 And The tear, that is wip'd with a little address^ 
 May be followed perhaps by a smile. 
 
 THE DOVES. 
 
 Rkasoning at every step he treads, 
 
 Man yet mistakes his way 
 While meaner things, whom instinct leads. 
 
 Are rarely known to stray. 
 
 One silent eve I wander'd late. 
 
 And heard the voice of love ; 
 The turtle thus address'd her mate, 
 
 And soothed the listening dove : 
 
 Our mutual bond of faith and truth 
 
 No time shall disengage, 
 Those blessings of our early youth 
 Shall cheer our latest age : 
 
 While innocence without disguise, 
 
 And constancy sincere. 
 Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 
 
 And mine can read them there; 
 
 Those ills, that wait on all below. 
 
 Shall ne'er be felt by me, 
 Or gently felt, and only so. 
 
 As being shared with thee. 
 
 When lightnings flash among the trees, 
 
 Or kites are hovering near, 
 I fear lest thee alone they seize. 
 
 And know no other fear. 
 
 'Tis then I feel myself a wife. 
 
 And press thy wedded side, 
 Resolveil a union form'd for life 
 
 Death never shall divide. 
 
 But oh ! if, fickle and unchaste, 
 (Forgive a transient thought,) 
 
 Thou couldst become unkind at last, 
 And scorn thy present lot. 
 
 No need of lightnings from on high, 
 Or kites with cruel beak ; 
 
 1
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 515 
 
 Denied the endearments of thine eye, 
 This widow'd heart would break. 
 
 Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird 
 
 Soft as the passing wind, 
 And I recorded what I heard, 
 
 A lesson for manlcind. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A P4VEN, while with glossy breast 
 
 Hei new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, 
 
 And, on her wicker-work high mounted, 
 
 Her chickens prematurely counted, 
 
 (A fault philosoj)hcrs might blame. 
 
 If quite exempted from tiie same,) 
 
 Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 
 
 'Twas April, as the bumpkins say. 
 
 The legislature call'd it May. 
 
 But suddenly a wind, as high 
 
 As ever swept a winter sky. 
 
 Shook the young leaves about her ears. 
 
 And fiU'd her with a thousand fears, 
 
 Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, 
 
 And spread her golden hopes below. 
 
 Rut just at eve the blowing weather 
 
 And all her fears were hush'd together: 
 
 And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 
 
 'Tis over, and the brood is safe ; 
 
 (For ravens, though, as birds of omen. 
 
 They teach both conjurors and old women 
 
 To tell us what is to befall, 
 
 Can't prophesy themselves at all.) 
 
 The morning came, when neighbor Hodge, 
 
 Who long had mark'd her airy lodge. 
 
 And destined all the treasure there 
 
 A gill to his expecting fair, 
 
 Cli.iib'd like a squirrel to his dray. 
 
 And bore the worthless prize away. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Tis Providence alone secures 
 In every change both mine and yours : 
 Safety consists not in escape 
 From dangers of a frightful shape; 
 An earthquake may be bid to spare 
 The man that s strangled by a hair. 
 Fate steals along with silent tread. 
 Found otl'nest in what least we dread, 
 Frowns in the storm with angry brow. 
 But in the sunohine strikes the blow. 
 
 ODE TO APOLLO 
 
 DN AN IXKGL.ASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. 
 
 Patron of all those luckless brains. 
 That, to the wrong side leaning, 
 
 Indite much metre with much pains, 
 And little or no meaning ; 
 
 Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 
 
 That water all the nations, 
 Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, 
 
 By constant exiiulations; 
 
 Why, stooping from tlie noon of day, 
 
 Too covetous of drink, 
 Apollo, hast thou stolen away 
 
 A poet's drop of ink "? 
 
 Upborne into the viewless air, 
 
 It floats a va^ or now, 
 Impell'd through regions dense and rare 
 
 By all the winds thit blow. 
 
 Ordain'd perl, is, ere summer flies, 
 Combined with millions more, 
 
 To form an iris in the slues. 
 Though black and foul before. 
 
 Illustrious drop ! and happy then 
 
 Beyond the happiest lot. 
 Of all that ever pass'd my pen, 
 
 So soon to be forgot ! 
 
 Phoebus, if such lie thy design, 
 
 To place it in thy bow. 
 Give wit, that what is left may shine 
 
 With equal grace below. 
 
 A COMPARISON. 
 
 The lapse of time and rivers is the same, 
 Both speed their journey with a restless s^'cam, 
 The silent pace, with which they steal I'.-v, 
 No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade :o stay; 
 Ahke irrevocable both when past. 
 And a wide ocean swallows both at last. 
 Tb.iiigh each resemble each in every part, 
 diiference strikes at length the musing heart ; 
 
 Siroams never flow in vain ; where streams 
 abound, [crown'd ! 
 
 l?nw laughs the land with vnrious plenty 
 But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, 
 Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 ADDnE.SSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, 
 
 Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 
 
 Silent and chaste she steals along, 
 
 Far from the world's gay busy thron^' ; 
 
 With gentle yet prevailing force. 
 
 Intent upon her dcHtuiod course; 
 
 Graceful and useful all slie does. 
 
 Blessing and blest where'er she J^oes. 
 
 Purc-bosom'd as that watery gi ^-s. 
 
 And heaven reflected in her face. 
 
 THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 TO MRS. (now lady) THROCKMOUTON, 
 
 Maria ! I have every good 
 
 For thee wish'd many a time. 
 Both sad, and in a cheerful mood, 
 
 But never yet in rhyme. 
 
 To wish thee fairer is no need, 
 I\Iore prudent, or more sprightly, 
 
 Or more ingenious, or more freed 
 From temper-flaws unsiglitly. 
 
 What favor then not yet possess'd 
 
 Can I tor thee require, 
 In wedded love already blest. 
 
 To thy whole heart's desire 1
 
 • S16 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 None here is happy hut in part ; 
 
 Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
 There dwells some wish in every heart. 
 
 And doubtless one in thiue. 
 
 That wish on some fiiir future day, 
 Which fate shall brightly gild, 
 
 ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 
 I wish it all fulfiU'd. 
 
 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau* 
 
 If birds confabulate or no ; 
 
 'Tis clear, that they were always able 
 
 To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 
 
 And e'en the child who knows no better 
 
 Than to interpret, by the letter, 
 
 A story of a cock and bull. 
 
 Must have a most uncommon skull. 
 
 It chanced then on a winter's day. 
 But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 
 The birds, conceiving a a design 
 To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
 In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
 Assembled on atfairs of love, 
 And with much twitter and much chatter 
 Began to agitate the matter. 
 At length a bullQnch, who could boast 
 More years and wisdom than the most. 
 Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
 A moment's liberty to speak ; 
 And, silence publicly enjoin'd, 
 Deliver'd briefly thus his mind : 
 
 My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
 The subject upon which we meet ; 
 I fear we shall have winter yet. 
 
 A finch, whose tongue knew no control. 
 With golden wing and satin poll, 
 A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
 What marriage means, thus pert replied : 
 
 Methinks the gentleman, quoth she. 
 Opposite in the apple tree. 
 By his good will would keep us single 
 Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 
 Or (which is likely to befall) 
 Till death exterminate us all. 
 I marry without more ado. 
 My dear Dick Redcap, what say you "? 
 
 Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, 
 Turning short round, strutting and sideling. 
 Attested, glad, his approbation 
 Of an immediate conjugation. 
 Their sentiments so well e.xpress'd 
 Influenced mightily the rest, 
 All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. 
 
 But, though the birds were thus in haste. 
 The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
 And destiny, that sometimes bears 
 An aspect stern on man's aifairs. 
 Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
 The wind, of late breathed gently forth. 
 Now shifted east, and cast by north ; 
 
 * It was one of the whimsical speculations of this phi 
 losopher, that all failles which ascribe reason and speech 
 to animals should be withheld from children, as being 
 only vehicles of deception. But wha*. child was ever 
 deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his 
 senses? 
 
 Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, 
 
 Could shiller them from rain or snow. 
 
 Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 
 
 Themselves werethiird, the* ep:gswere addled' 
 
 Soon every father bird and mother 
 
 Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, 
 
 Parted without the least regret, 
 
 Except that they had ever met, 
 
 And learn'd in future to be wiser, 
 
 Than to neglect a good adviser. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Misses ! the tale that I relate 
 This lesson seems to carry — 
 
 Choose not alone a proper mate. 
 But proper time to marry. 
 
 THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY, 
 
 NO FABLE. 
 
 The noon was shady, and soft airs 
 
 Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
 When, 'scaped from literary cares, 
 
 I wander'd on his side. 
 
 My spaniel, prettiest of his race. 
 
 And high in pedigree, 
 fTvvo nymphs* adorn 'd with every grace 
 
 That spaniel found for me,) 
 
 Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, 
 
 Now st.-Trtjng into sight, 
 PursiiC'.i the swallow o'er the meads 
 
 With ;<carce a slower flight. 
 
 It was the time when Ouse display'd 
 
 His lilies newly blown ; 
 Their beauties I intent survey 'd, 
 
 And one I wish'd my own. 
 
 With cane extended far I sought 
 
 To steer it close to land ; 
 But still the prize, though nearly cauga 
 
 Escaped my eager hand. 
 
 Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 
 
 With fix'd considerate face. 
 And puzzling set his puppy brains 
 
 To comprehend the case. 
 
 But with a cherup clear and strong 
 
 Dispersing all his dream, 
 I tliince withdrew, and foliow'd long 
 
 The windings of the stream. 
 
 My ramble ended, I return'd; 
 
 Beau trotting far before, 
 The floating wreath again disceru'd. 
 
 And plunging, left the shore. 
 
 I saw him with that lily cropp'd 
 
 Impatient swim to meet 
 My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 
 
 The treausure at my feet. 
 
 Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cied, 
 
 Shall hear of this thy deed : 
 My dog shall mortify the pride 
 
 Of man"s superior breed : 
 
 * Sir Robert Gunning's daughters. 
 
 i 
 
 A
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 617 
 
 But chief myself I will enjoin, 
 
 Awake at duty's call 
 To shovv a love as pro:upt as thine, 
 
 To Him who gives me all. 
 
 THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 
 
 What Nature, alas ! has denied 
 
 To the delicate growth of our isle, 
 Art has in a measure supplied. 
 
 And winter is deck'd with a smile. 
 See, Mary, what beauties I bring 
 
 From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
 Where the flowers have the chanii.s of the spring, 
 
 Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 
 
 'Tis a bower of .Orcadian sweets, 
 
 Where Flora is still in her prime, 
 A fortress to which she retreats, 
 
 From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
 While earth wears a mantle of snow. 
 
 These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
 As the fairest and sweetest that blow 
 
 On the beautiful bosoui of May. 
 
 fee how they have safely survived 
 
 The frowns of a sky so severe ; 
 Such Mary's true love, that has lived 
 
 Through many a turbulent year. 
 The charms of the late-blowing rose 
 
 Seem graced with a livelier hue, 
 And the winter of sorrow best shows 
 
 The truth of a friend such as you. 
 
 THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSI- 
 SITIVE PLANT. 
 
 An' Oyster, cast upon the shore. 
 Was heard though never heard before. 
 Complaining in a speech well worded, 
 And worthy thus to be reconled : — 
 
 Ah. hapless wretch ! condemn'd to dwell 
 Forever in my native shell ; 
 Ordain'd to move when others please, 
 Not for my own content or ease ; 
 But tossVl and buffeted about, 
 Now in the water and now out. 
 'Twere better to be liorn a stone. 
 Of ru<lrr shape, and leeling none, 
 Than with a tenderness like mine, 
 And sensiiiilities so tine ! 
 I envy that untVeling shrub, 
 Fast rooted against every rub. 
 The plant he meant grew not far utT, 
 And felt the sneer with scorri enough: 
 Was hurt disgusted, mortified. 
 And with asperity replied : 
 
 (When cry tlie botanists, and stare, 
 Did plants call'd sensitive grow there 1 
 No matter when — a poet's muse is 
 To make them grow just whcr.- she chooses) 
 
 You shapeless nothing in a dish. 
 You that are liut almost a fish, 
 I scorn your coarse insinuation. 
 And have most plentiful occasion 
 To wisli myself the rock I view. 
 Or such another dolt as you : 
 For many a grave, anrl learned clerk 
 And many a gay unletter'd spark. 
 
 With curious touch examines me, 
 
 IC I can feel as well as he ; 
 
 And when I bend, retire and shrink. 
 
 Says — Well tis more than one would think! 
 
 Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't) 
 
 In being toucfi d. and crying — Don't! 
 
 A poet, in his evening w Jk, 
 O'erheard and check'd this idle talk. 
 And your fine sense he said, and yours. 
 Whatever evil it endures, 
 Deserves not if so soon olTended, 
 Much to be pitied or commended. 
 Disputes, though short, are far too long, 
 Where both alike are in the wrong; 
 Your feelings in their tiill amount 
 Are all upon your own account. 
 
 You, in your grotto-work enclosed, 
 Complain of being thus exposed ; 
 Yet nothing feel in that rough coat 
 Save when the knile is at your throat. 
 Wherever driven by wind or tide. 
 Exempt from every ill beside. 
 
 And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
 Who reckon every touch a blemish. 
 If all the plants that can be found 
 Embellishing the scene around. 
 Should droop and wither where they grow 
 You would not feel at all — not you. 
 The noblest minds their virtue prove 
 By pity, sympathy, and love: 
 These, these are I'eelings truly fine. 
 And prove their owner half divine. • 
 
 His censure reach'd them as he dealt it 
 And each by shrinking show'd f^e felt it. 
 
 THE SHRUBBERY. 
 
 WRITTE.V IM A TIMK OP APFLICTION. 
 
 On, happy shades — to me unblest ! 
 
 Friendly to peace, but not to me ! 
 How ill the scene that otTers rest. 
 
 And heart that cannot rest, aoree ! 
 
 This glassy stream, that spreading pine. 
 Those alders, quivering to the breeze. 
 
 Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, 
 And please, if anything could please. 
 
 But fix'd unalterable Care 
 
 Foregoes not what she feels within. 
 Shows the same sadness every wtier ., 
 
 And slights the season and "the scene. 
 
 For all that pleased in wood or lawn. 
 
 While Peace possess'd these silent bowers 
 
 Her animating smile withdrawn, 
 Has lo.st its beauties and its powers. 
 
 The saint or moralist should tread 
 This moss-grown alley nmsing, slow; 
 
 They seek like me the secn;t shade. 
 But n.it Ukc me to nourish woe ! 
 
 Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 
 
 Alike admonish not to roam; 
 These tell me of enjoyments past. 
 
 And those of sorrows yet to come.
 
 as 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 
 
 NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED 
 
 STATE. 
 
 The lady thus ad Jicss'd her spouse — 
 What a mere dungeon is this house ; 
 By no means li-r^e enough ; and was it, 
 Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, 
 Those hangings with their worn-out graces, 
 Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, 
 Are such an antiquated scene, 
 They overwhelm me with the spleen. 
 k.'ir Humphrey, shooting in the dark. 
 Makes answer quite beside the mark: 
 No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
 Engaged myself to be at home. 
 And shall expect him at the door 
 Precisely when the clock strikes four. 
 
 You are so deaf, the lady cried, 
 (And raised her voice, and frown'd beside,) 
 Yiu are so sadly deaf, my dear, 
 What shall I do to make you hear 1 
 
 Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
 3 ">me people are more nice than wise : 
 For one slight trespass all this stir 1 
 What if he did ride whip and spur, 
 Twas but a mile — your favorite horse 
 Will never look one hair the worse. 
 
 Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing — • 
 Child 1 I am rather hard of hearing — 
 Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl : 
 I tell you, you can't hear at all ! 
 Then, with a voice exceeding low, 
 No matter if you hear or no. 
 
 Alas ! and is domestic strife. 
 That sorest ill of human life, 
 A plague so little to be fear'd. 
 As to be wantonly incurr'd, 
 To gratify a fretful passion, 
 On every trivial provocation 1 
 The kindest and the happiest pair 
 Will find occasion to forbear ; 
 And something every day they live 
 To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
 But if infirmities, that fall 
 In common to the lot of all, 
 A blemish or a sense impair'd, 
 Are crimes so little to be spared. 
 Then farewell all that must create 
 The comfort of the wedded state ; 
 Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, 
 Anu tumult, and intestine war. 
 
 The love that cheers life's latest stage, 
 Proof against sickness and old age. 
 Preserved by virtue from declension. 
 Becomes not weary of attention ; 
 But lives, when that exterior grace, 
 Which first inspired the fiame, decays. 
 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,' 
 To faults compassionate or blind, 
 And will with sympathy endure 
 Those evils it would gladly cure : 
 But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
 Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
 Proves that the heart is none of his, 
 Or soon expels him if it is. 
 
 THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Forced from home and all its pleasures, 
 Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 
 
 To increase a stranger's treasures, 
 O'er the raging billows borne. 
 
 Men from England bought and sold me, 
 Paid my price in paltry gold ; 
 
 But, though slave they have enroU'd me 
 Minds are never to be sold. 
 
 Still in thought as free as ever, 
 
 What are England's rights, I ask. 
 Me from my delights to sever, 
 
 Me to torture, me to task 1 
 Fleecy locks and black complexion 
 
 Cannot forfeit nature's claim; 
 Skins may differ, but affection 
 
 Dwells in white and black the same. 
 
 Why did all-creating Nature 
 
 Make the plant for which we toil 1 
 Sighs must fan it, tears must water, 
 
 Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
 Think, ye masters iron-hearted, 
 
 Lolhng at your jovial boards, 
 Think how many backs have smarted 
 
 For the sweets your cane affords. 
 
 Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 
 
 Is there One who reigns on high 1 
 Has he bid you buy and sell us, 
 
 Speaking from his throne, the sky 1 
 Ask him, if your knotted scourges. 
 
 Matches, blood-extorting screws. 
 Are the means that duty urges 
 
 Agents of his will to use 1 
 
 Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, 
 
 Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
 Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 
 
 Are the voice with which he speaks. 
 He, foreseeing what vexations 
 
 Afric's sons should undergo, 
 Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 
 
 Where his whirlwinds answer — no. 
 
 By our blood in Afric wasted, 
 
 Ere our necks received the chain ; 
 By the miseries that we tasted. 
 
 Crossing in your barks the main , 
 By our sufferings, since ye brought us 
 
 To the man-degrading mart. 
 All sustain'd by patience, taught us 
 
 Only by a broken heart ; 
 
 Deem our nation brutes no longer. 
 
 Till some reason yc shall find 
 Worthier of regard, and stronger 
 
 Than the color of ur kind. 
 Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
 
 Tarnish all your boasted powers. 
 Prove that you have human feelings, 
 
 Ere you pnudly question ours! 
 
 PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 
 
 Video meliora proboque, 
 Deteriora sequor. 
 
 I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, 
 And fear those who buy them and sell them ara 
 knaves ; [and groans, 
 
 What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, 
 Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. 
 
 I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, 
 
 For how could we do without sugar and rum 1
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 ^IP 
 
 Especially r gar, so needful we see 1 
 
 What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea ! 
 
 Besides, if we do, ihe French, Dutch, and Danes 
 Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains ; 
 If we do not bay the poor creatures, they will, 
 And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. 
 
 if foreigners likewise would give up the trade. 
 Much more in behalf of your wish might be 
 
 said; 
 But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, 
 Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks ] 
 
 Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind 
 A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd. 
 On purpose to answer you, out of my mint ; 
 But I can assure you I saw it in print. 
 
 A youngste; at school, more sedate than the rest, 
 H:iil once his integrity put to the test ; 
 His comrades had plotted an or«||iard to rob, 
 And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. 
 
 He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, 
 " Oh no ! [go ; 
 
 What! rob our good neighbor! I pray you don't 
 Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, 
 Then think of his children, for they must be fed." 
 
 " You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
 But apples we want, and apples we'll have; 
 If you will go with us. you shall have a share, 
 If, not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 
 
 They spoke, and Tom pondered — " I see they 
 
 will go ; 
 Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
 Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could. 
 But staying behind will do him no good. 
 
 " If the matter depended alone upon me, 
 
 His apples might hang till they dropp'd from 
 
 the tree ; 
 But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too, 
 He will lose none by me, though I get a few." 
 
 His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease 
 And went with his comrades the apples to seize 
 He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan 
 He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 
 
 THE MORNING DREAM. 
 
 'TwAS in the glad season of spring, 
 
 Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
 I dream'd what I cannot but sing. 
 
 So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
 I dream'd that on ocean afloat. 
 
 Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
 While the billows high lifted the boat, 
 
 And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 
 
 In the steerage a woman I saw, 
 
 Such at least was the form that stic wore, 
 Whose beauty impressed me with awe. 
 
 Ne'er taut^ht nic by womnn before: 
 She sat, and a shickl at hrr side 
 
 Shod liirht likf a sun on the waves, 
 And smiling divinely, she cried — 
 
 " I 20 to make freemen of slaves." 
 
 Then, raising her voice to a strain 
 
 The sweetest that ear ever heard. 
 She sung of the slave's broken chain 
 
 Wherever her glory appear'd. 
 Some clouds which had over us hung 
 
 Fled, chas'd by her melody clear, 
 And methought, while she liberty sung, 
 
 'Twas liberty only to hear. 
 
 Thus swiftly dividing the flood. 
 
 To a slave-cultured island we came, 
 Where a di^mon, her enemy, stood — 
 
 Oppression his terrible name. 
 In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 
 
 A scourge hiing with lashes he bore. 
 And stood lookii\g <Mit tor his prey 
 
 From Africa's ijonowful shore. 
 
 Hut soon as, approaching the land, 
 
 That goddrss-iike woman he view'd. 
 The scourge he let fall from his hand. 
 
 With blood of his sulijects imbrued. 
 I saw him lioth sicken and die. 
 
 And, the moment the monster expir'd, 
 Heard shouts that ascended the sky, 
 
 From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 
 
 Awaking, how could I but muse 
 
 At what such a dream should betide. 
 But soon my ear caught the glad news, 
 
 Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide 
 That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves. 
 
 For the hatred she ever has shown 
 To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves. 
 
 Resolves to have none of her own. 
 
 THE DIVERTING HISTORY OP JOHN 
 GILPIN; 
 
 SHOWING HOW HG WKNT FARTHER THAN HE 
 INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 
 
 John Gii.pin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown, 
 A trainband captain eke was he 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's sy)ouso said to her dear : 
 Though wedded we have been 
 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 My sister, and my sister's child, 
 
 Myself, and children three, 
 Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 
 
 On horseback after we. 
 
 He soon replied, I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one, 
 And you are she, my dearest dear, 
 
 Thereibre it shall be done. 
 
 I am a linendraper bold. 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 .'.nd my good I'riend the calendrer 
 
 Will lend kis horse to go.
 
 620 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 iuoth Mrs. Gilpin, that's well said ; 
 
 And for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnish'd with our own, 
 
 Whicli is both bright and clear. 
 
 John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 
 
 O'erji.-yed was he to find. 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning fame, the chaise was brought, 
 
 But yet was not allow'd 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 
 
 Where tliey did all get in ; 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack wont the whip, round went the wheels, 
 
 Were never folk so glad, 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 And up he got, in ha.ste to ride, 
 
 But soon came down again ; 
 
 For saddletree scarce reach'd had he. 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So d!>wn he came ; for loss of time. 
 
 Although it grieved him sore, 
 Yet loss of penci,, full well he knew. 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Were suited to their jnind. 
 When Betty screaming cam - down stairs, 
 
 " The wine is left behind !'' 
 
 Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me. 
 
 My leathern belt likewise. 
 In wiiich I bear my trusty sword 
 
 WJien I d(j exercise. 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin ('careful soul !"> 
 
 Had two stone bottles found. 
 To hold the liquor that she loved. 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling e- r. 
 Through which the b^lt he drew, 
 
 .And hung a bottle on each side, 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 Tnen over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipp'd tVoin top to toe, 
 I'is long red cloak, well lirush'd uid neat. 
 
 He manlully did throw. 
 
 ;Vjw see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his ni:nble steed, 
 F jll slowly pacing o'er the stones. 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 tSut finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod fett, 
 The snorting beast began to trot 
 
 Which gali'd him in his seat. 
 
 So, fair and softly, John he ••■•'iC'], 
 
 But John he cried in vain ; 
 That trot became a gallop foci?. 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So stooping down, as needs he must 
 
 Who cannot sit upright, 
 He grasp'd the mane with both his harias, 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 
 Had handled been before. 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or nought, 
 
 Away went hat and wig ; 
 He little dreamt, when he set out. 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamer long and gay. 
 Till, loop and button failing both, 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 The bottles he had slung ; 
 A bottle swinging at each side. 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 
 
 Up flew the windows all ; 
 And every soul cried out. Well done ! 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 Away went Gilpin — who but he 1 
 His fame soon spread around, 
 
 He carries weight ! he rides a race! 
 'Tis for a thousand pound ! 
 
 And still, as fast as he drew near, 
 
 'Twas wonderful to view. 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low. 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 Were shatter'd at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road. 
 
 Most piteous to be seen, 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seem'd to carry weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle braced ; 
 For all might see the bottle necks 
 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 
 These gambols he did play. 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay ; 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 
 On both sides of the way, 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, 
 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton, his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride.
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 6iJj 
 
 Btop, stop. John Gilpin ! — Here's the house ! 
 
 They all at once did cry ; 
 The dinner waits, and we are tired : 
 
 Said Gilpin — So am I ! 
 
 Rut ye* his horse was not a whit 
 
 Incli led to tarry there ; 
 For whyl — his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew, 
 
 Shot by an arciier strong ; 
 So did he fly — whicli brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against his will, 
 Till at his friend the calendrer's 
 
 The horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calendrer, amazed to see 
 
 His neighbor in such trim, 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 What news 1 what news 1 your tidings tell ; 
 
 Tell me you must and shall — 
 Say why bareheaded you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all 1 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke ! 
 And thus unto the calendrer 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : 
 
 I came because your horse would come. 
 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, 
 
 They are upon the road. 
 
 The calendrer, riglit glad to find, 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Rcturn'd him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house went in ; 
 
 Whence straight came he with hat and wig; 
 
 A wig that flow'd behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 
 Thus show'd iiis ready wit: 
 My head is twice as big as yours. 
 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 But let me scrape the dirt away 
 
 That hangs upon your face ; 
 And stop and eat, for well you mi f 
 
 Be in a hungry case. 
 
 Said .lolin, It is my wedding-day, ' 
 
 And all the workl would star--, 
 If wife should dine at lidmonton. 
 
 And I should dine at Ware. 
 
 So turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 I am in haste to dine ; 
 'Twas for ypur pleasure you came here, 
 You shall go back for mine. 
 
 A.h luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 
 
 For wliich he paid full dear; 
 For, while he spake a braymg ass 
 
 Did suig most loud and clear ; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as ho 
 
 Had heard a lion roar, 
 And gallop'd off with all his might. 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 
 He lost them sooner thau at first, 
 
 For why 1 — they were too big. 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 
 Her husband posting down 
 Into the country far away. 
 
 She puli'd out half-a-crown ; 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said. 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 
 This shall be yours, when you bring bao^ 
 My husband safe and well. 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 John coming back amain ; 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 
 
 By catching at his rein ; 
 
 But, not performing what he meant. 
 And gladly would have done, 
 
 The frighted steed he frighted more. 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went postboy at his heels, 
 The postboy's horse right glad to miss 
 
 The lumbering of the wheels 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With postboy scampering in the rear. 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : 
 
 Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman ! 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The toll-men thinking as before. 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so did ho, and won it too, 
 
 For he got lir.stto town ; 
 Nor stopp'd till where ho had got uf 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing, long live the king, 
 
 And Gilpin long live he ; 
 And when he ne.'it doth ride abroad. 
 
 May I be there to see ! 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM, 
 
 A NiGHTiNOALE, that all day long 
 Had chcer'd the village with his song, 
 Nor yet at eve his note suspended. 
 Nor yet when eventide was ended. 
 Began to feel, as well ho might, 
 The keen demands of appetite ; 
 When, looking eagerly around, 
 He spied far off, upon the ground, 
 A something sbining in the dark, 
 And knew the glowworm by his spark ,
 
 622 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 So stooping down from hawthorn top. 
 He thought to put him in his crop. 
 The worm, aware of his intent, 
 Harangued him thus right eloquent — 
 
 Did you admire my lamp, quoth he. 
 As much as I your minstrelsy. 
 You would abhor to do me wrong 
 As much as I to spoil your song ; 
 For 'twas the self-same Power divine 
 Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
 That you with music, I with light, 
 Might beautify and cheer the night. 
 The songster heard his short oration. 
 And, warbling out his approbation, 
 Released him, as my story tells. 
 And found a supper somewhere else. 
 
 Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
 Their real interest to discern ; 
 That brother should not war with brother. 
 And worry and devour each other ; 
 But sing and shine by sweet consent. 
 Till life's poor transient night is spent, 
 Respecting in oach other's case 
 The gifts of nature and of grace. 
 
 Those Christians best deserve the name 
 Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
 Peace both the duty and the prize 
 Of him that creeps and him that flies. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTEST- 
 ANT LADY IN FRANCE. 
 
 Madam, 
 
 A stranger's purpose in these lays 
 Is to congratulate, and not to praise. 
 To give the creature the Creator's due 
 Were sin in me, and an offence to you. 
 From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, 
 Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, 
 A coin by craft for folly's use design'd. 
 Spurious, and only current with the blind. 
 
 The path of sorrow, and that path alone. 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
 No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode, 
 Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
 The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
 Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, 
 Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread. 
 With unshod feet they yet securely tread, 
 Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend. 
 Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
 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." 
 balmy gales of sonl-reviving air ! 
 salutary streams, that murmur there ! 
 These flowing from the fount of grace above, 
 Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. 
 The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ; 
 Chill blasts of trouble nip their "ipringing 
 
 joys ; 
 An envious world will interpose its frown. 
 To mar delights superior to its own ; 
 And many a pang, experienced still within, 
 Bcmindis them of their hated inmate, sin : 
 
 I 
 
 But ills of every shape and every name, 
 Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim : 
 And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast) 
 Is given in earnest of eternal rest. 
 
 Ah, be not i,ad, although thy lot he cast 
 Far from the nock, and in a boundless waste ! 
 No shepherd's tents vithin thy view appear, 
 But the chief Shepne: 1 even there is near; 
 Thy tender sorrows .lii,! fhy plaintive strain 
 Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; 
 Thy tears all issue fro;a a source divine, 
 And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine — 
 So once u\ G<ie in's ileece the dews were found, 
 And drought on all the drooping herbs around. 
 
 TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN 
 
 Unwin, I should but ill repay 
 
 The kindness of a friend. 
 Whose worth deserves as warm a (ay 
 
 As ever friendship penn'd. 
 Thy name omitted in a page 
 That would reclaim a vicious age. 
 
 A union form'd, as mine with thee, 
 
 Not rashly, or in sport, 
 May be as fervent in degree 
 
 And faithful in its sort. 
 And may as rich in comfort prove, 
 As that of true fraternal love. 
 
 The bud inserted in the rind, 
 
 The bud of peach or rose, 
 Adorns, though differing in its kind, 
 
 The stock whereon it grows. 
 With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, 
 As if produced by nature there. 
 
 Not rich, I render what* may, 
 
 I seize thy name in haste. 
 And place it in this first essay, 
 
 Lest this should prove the last. 
 'Tis where it should be — in a plan 
 That holds in view the good of miiji. 
 
 The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 
 
 Should be the poet's heart ; 
 Aflection lights a brighter flame 
 
 Than ever blazed by art. 
 No muses on these lines attend, 
 I sink the poet in the friend. 
 
 TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON. 
 
 AN INV.TATIU.V 'NTO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 The swallows in their torpid state 
 
 Compose their useless wing. 
 And bcus in hives as idly wait 
 
 The call of early Spring. 
 
 The keenest frost that binds the stream 
 The wildest wind that blows, 
 
 Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, 
 Secure of their repose. 
 
 But man, all feeling and awake, 
 
 The gloomy scene surveys ; 
 With present" ills his heart must ache, 
 
 And pant for brighter days.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Q2S 
 
 Old Winter halting o'er the mead, 
 Bids me and Mary mourn ; 
 
 But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, 
 And whispers your return. 
 
 Then April, with her sister May, 
 Shall chase him irom tlie bowers, 
 
 And weave fresh garlands every day, 
 To crown the smiling licurs. 
 
 And if a tear that speaks regret 
 
 Of happier times appear, 
 A glimpse of joy, that we have met, 
 
 Shall shine and dry the tear. 
 
 CATHARINA. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, 
 (now MRS. COURTNEY.) 
 
 She came — she is gone — we have met — 
 
 And meet perhaps never again ; 
 The sun of that moment is set, 
 
 And seems to have risen in vain. 
 Catharina has lied like a dream — 
 
 (So vanishes pleasure, alas !) 
 But has left a regret and esteem 
 
 That will not so suddenly pass. 
 
 The last evening ramble we made, 
 
 Catharina, Maria, and I, 
 Our progress was often delay'd 
 
 By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
 We paused under many a tree. 
 
 And much she was charm'd with a tone, 
 Less sweet to Maria and me, 
 
 Who so lately had witncss'd her own. ^ 
 
 My numbers that day she had sung. 
 
 And gave thefti a grace so divine, 
 As only her musical tongue 
 
 Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
 The longer I heanl, I esteem'd 
 
 The woik of my fancy the more, 
 And e'en to myself never seem'd 
 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
 Though tile pleasures of London exceed 
 
 In number the days of the year, 
 Catharina, did nothing impede, 
 
 Would feel herself haiipier here; 
 For the close-woven arches of limes 
 
 On the banks of our river, I know. 
 Are sweeter to her many times 
 
 Than aught that the city can show. 
 
 So it is when the mind is endued 
 
 With a well-judging taste from above, 
 Then, wlicthcr fmbellish'd or rude, 
 
 'Tis nature alone that we love. 
 The achievemfnts of art may amuse. 
 
 May even our wonder excite ; 
 But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 
 
 A lasting, a sacred delight. 
 
 Since then in the rural recess 
 
 Catharina alone can rejoice, 
 May it still be her lot to possess 
 
 The scene of her sensible choice ! 
 To inhabit a mansion remote 
 
 From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
 And by Philomel's annual note 
 
 To measure the life that she leads. 
 
 With her book, and her voice, and her Ijre. 
 
 To wing all her moments at home ; 
 And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 
 
 As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
 She will have just the life she [refers, 
 
 With little to hope or to fear, 
 And ours would be pleasanc as hers. 
 
 Might we view her enjoying it here. 
 
 THE MORALIZER CORRECTED 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 A HERMIT, (or if 'chance you hold 
 
 That title now too trite and old,) 
 
 A man. once young, who lived retired 
 
 As hermit could have well desired, 
 
 His hours of study closed at last. 
 
 And linish'd his concise repast, 
 
 Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book, 
 
 Within its customary nook, 
 
 And, staff in hand, set ibrth to share 
 
 The sober cordial of sweet air. 
 
 Like Isaac, with a mind applied 
 
 To serious thought at evening-tide. 
 
 Autumnal rains had made it chill. 
 
 And from the trees, that fringed his hill. 
 
 Shades slanting at the close of day, 
 
 Chill'd more hij else delightful way. 
 
 Distant a little mile he spied 
 
 A western bank's still sunny side. 
 
 And right toward the favor'd place 
 
 Proceeding witli his nimblest pace. 
 
 In hope to bask a little yet, 
 
 Just reach'd it when the sun was set. 
 
 Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! 
 Learns sometliing Irom whate'er occurs — 
 And hence, he said, my mind computes 
 The real worth of man's pursuits. 
 His object chosen, wealth or fame, 
 Or other sublunary game. 
 Imagination to his view 
 Presents it deck'd with every hue 
 That can seduce him not to spare 
 His powers of best exertion there. 
 Hut youth, health, vigor to expend 
 On so desirable an end. 
 Ere long approach life's evening shades 
 The glow that fancy gave it fades ; 
 And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace 
 That first engaged him in tiie chase. 
 
 True, answer'd an angelic guide, 
 Attendant at the senior's side — 
 But whether all the time it cost, 
 To urge the fruitless chase be lost, 
 IMust be decided liy the worth 
 Of that which call'd his ardor forth. 
 Trifles pursued, whate'er the event. 
 Must cause him shame or discontent; 
 A vicious object still is worse. 
 Successful there, he v/ins a curse; 
 But he, whom e'en in lile's last stage 
 Endeavors laudable engage. 
 Is paid at least in j)ea(-e of mind, 
 And sense of having well design d ; 
 And if, ere he attain his end. 
 His sun precipitate descend, 
 A brighter prize than that he meant 
 Shall recompense his mere intent. 
 No virtuous wish can bear a date 
 Either too early or too late. 
 
 ■ a>wiwi ii """
 
 «'24 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 
 
 Thf, greenhouse is my summer seat; 
 My shrubs displiiced from that retreat 
 
 Enjoy'il the. open c.ir; 
 Two goldlinches whose spriglitly song 
 Had been tbe'.r \i;utual solnee long, 
 
 Lived liappy prisoners there. 
 
 They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
 That Hutter loose on golden wing, 
 
 And frolic where tluy list; 
 Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, 
 But that delight they never knew, 
 
 And therefore never miss'd. 
 
 But nature works in every breast, 
 With force not easily suppress'd; 
 
 And Dick felt some desires, 
 That, after many an efl'ort vain. 
 Instructed him at length to gain 
 
 A pass between his wires. 
 
 The open windows seem'd to invite 
 The freeman to a farewell flight ; 
 
 But Tom was still confined ; 
 And Dick, although his way was clear, 
 Was much too generous and sincere 
 
 To leave his friend behind. 
 
 So settling on his cage, by play. 
 And chirp, and kiss he seem'd to say 
 
 You must not live alone — 
 Nor would he quit that chosen stand 
 Till I, with slow and cautious hand, 
 
 Return'd him to his own. 
 
 O ye, who never taste the joys 
 
 Of Friendship satisfied with noise, 
 
 Fandango, ball and rout ! 
 Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
 A prison with a friend preferr'd 
 
 To liberty without. 
 
 THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 
 
 A TAI.E. 
 
 There is a field, through which I often pass. 
 Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, 
 A '.joining close to Kil wick's echoing wood, 
 Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood. 
 Reserved to solace many a neighboring squire, 
 That he may follow them through brake and brier. 
 Contusion hazarding of neck or spine. 
 Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. 
 A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd. 
 Runs in a bottom and divides the field ; 
 Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, 
 But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; 
 AnJ where the land slopes to its watery bourn 
 Wide yawns a ga\t' beside a ragged thorn ; 
 Bricks lin^ the sides, but Fhiver'tl long ago, 
 And horrid braniblrs intertwine below ; 
 A hollow scoop'd 1 judge, in ancient time, 
 For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. 
 
 Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red. 
 With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed, 
 Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray. 
 With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away. 
 But corn was housed and beans were in the stack, 
 Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, 
 
 With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and 
 
 throats 
 With a whole gamut fiU'd of heavenly notes. 
 For which, alas ! my destiny severe. 
 Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. 
 
 The sun. accomj)lishing his early march. 
 His lamj) now planted on heaven's topmost arch, 
 When, exercise and air my only aim, 
 And heedless whither, to that field I came. 
 Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound 
 Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, 
 Or with the liigh-rais'd horn's melodious clang 
 All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang, [press'd 
 
 Sheep grazed the field ; some with soft bosom 
 The herb as soil while nibbling stray'd the rest; 
 Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, 
 Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. 
 All seem'd so peaceful that, from them convey'd. 
 To me their jieace by kind contagion spread. 
 
 But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, 
 'Gan make his instrument of music speak, 
 And from within the wood that crash was heard, 
 Thouorh not a hounil froai whom it burst appear'd. 
 The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed, 
 Alt huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed. 
 Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, 
 Then coursed the field around, and coursed it 
 
 round again ; 
 But recollecting, with a sudden thought, [nought, 
 That flight in circles urged advanced them 
 They gather'd close around the old pit's brink. 
 And thought again^but knew not what to think 
 
 The man to solitude accustom'd long. 
 Perceives in everything that lives a tongue ; 
 Not animals alone but shrubs and trees 
 Have speech for him, and understood with ease ; 
 Atler long drought when rains abundant fall, 
 He J^jars the herbs and flowers rejoicing all ; 
 Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, 
 How glad they i atch the largess of the skies ; 
 But, with precision nicer still, the mind 
 He scans of every 'oKi>motive kind ; 
 Birds of all feather beasts of every name ; 
 That serve mankind or shui. tht.i/i, wild or tame 
 The looks and gestures of tneir gric.^ and fears 
 Have all articulation in his ears ; 
 He spells them true by intuition's light. 
 And needs no glossary to set him right. 
 
 This truth premised was needful as a text. 
 To win due credence to what follows next. 
 
 Awhile they mused ; surveying every face. 
 Thou hadst supposed them of superior race ; 
 Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, 
 Stamp d on each countenance such marks of 
 
 mind. 
 That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt, 
 Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzled out ; 
 Or academic tutors, teaching youths. 
 Sure ne'er to want them, matheniatic truths ; 
 When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, 
 A ram, the ewes and v\'ethers sad address'd. 
 
 Friends ! we have lived too long. I never 
 heard 
 Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. 
 Could I believe, that winds for a^es pent 
 In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent. 
 And from their prison-house below arise, 
 ■VVith all these hideous bowlings to the skies, 
 I could be much composed, nor should appear. 
 For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. 
 
 * Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq.
 
 BO ADICE A.— HEROISM. 
 
 625 
 
 Yoursehes have seen, what time the thunders 
 
 All niglit, me resting quiet in the fold. [roll'd 
 Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, 
 I could expound the melancholy tone ; 
 Should deem it by our old companion made, 
 The ass ; for he, we know, has lately stray'd. 
 And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, 
 Might be supposed to clamor for a guide. 
 But ah ! those dreadful yells, what soul can hear, 
 That owns a carcass, and not quake for tear ? 
 Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd 
 And i'ang'd with brass the demons are abroad ; 
 I hold it therefore wisest and most lit 
 Tliat liltj to save, we leap into the pit. 
 
 Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, 
 But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe. 
 
 How ! leap into the pit our life to save 1 
 To save our life leap all into the grave 1 
 For can we find it less ? Contemplate first 
 The di |)tli how awful ! lulling there, we burst: 
 Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall 
 m part abate, that happiness were small ; 
 For with a race like theirs, no chance I see 
 Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. 
 Meantime nol.'se kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, 
 Or be it not or be it whose it may, [tongues 
 
 And rush those, other sounds that seem by 
 Of demons ulter'd, frym whatever lungs, 
 Sountis are but sounds, and. till the cause appear, 
 We have at least commodious standing here. 
 Come liend. come fury, giant, monster, blast 
 From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. 
 
 While thus she spake. I tainter heard the 
 For Reynard close attended at his heels [peals. 
 By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse, 
 Through mere good fortune, took a different 
 
 course. 
 The flock grew calm again, and I, the road 
 Following that led me to my own abode. 
 Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found 
 Such cause of terror in an empty sound. 
 So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Beware of desperate steps. The rf arkest day, 
 Live till to-morrow, will have pass d away. 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 WiiF.N the British warrior queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rode, 
 
 Sought with an indignant mein, 
 Counsel of her country's gods, 
 
 Sago beneath the spreading oak 
 Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 
 
 Every burning word he spoke 
 Full of rage, and full of grief. 
 
 Princess ! if our aged eyes 
 
 Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
 'Tis because resentment ties 
 
 All ttie terrors of our tongues. 
 
 Rome shall perish — write that word 
 In the blood that she has'spilt; 
 
 Perish hopeless and abhorr'd, 
 Deep in ruin as in guilt. 
 
 Rome, for empire far renown'd, 
 Tramples on a thousand states ; 
 
 Soon her pride shall kiss the ground 
 Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 
 
 Other Romans shall arise, 
 Heedless of a soldier's name; 
 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
 Harmony the path to fame. 
 
 Then the progeny that springs 
 From the forests of our land, 
 
 Arm'd with thunder, clad with winirs, 
 Shall a wider world command. 
 
 Regions Caesar never knew 
 
 I'hy posterity shall sway; 
 Where his eagles never flew, 
 
 None invincible as they. 
 
 Such tlie bard's prophetic words, 
 Pregnant with celestial fire, 
 
 Bending as he swept the chords 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre. 
 
 She, with all a monarch's pride, 
 Felt them in her bosom glow: 
 
 Rush'd to battle, tbught. and died ; 
 Dying, hurld them at the foe. 
 
 Ruffians, pitiless as proud. 
 
 Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
 Empire is on us bestowed, 
 
 Shame and ruin wait for you. 
 
 HEROISM. 
 
 TiiERK was a time when ^Etna's silent fire 
 Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; 
 When, conscious of no danger from below, 
 She tower d a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. 
 No thunders shook with deep intestine sound 
 The blooming groves that girdled her around. 
 Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines 
 (Untelt the I'ury of those !)ursting mines) 
 The peasant'* hopes and not in vain, assured, 
 In peace upon her sloping sides matured. 
 W^hcn on a d;iy like that of the last doom, 
 A conflagration laboring in her womb. 
 She teem'd and heaved with an infernal hirth, 
 That shook the circlinir seas and solid earth. 
 Dark and voluminous the vapors rise. 
 And hang their liorrors in the neighl)oring skies, 
 While through the Stygian veil that blots the day, 
 In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. 
 But oh ! what muse and in what powers of song. 
 Can trace the torrent as it burns along 1 
 Havoc and devastation in the van, 
 It marches o'er tlie prostrate works of man; 
 Vines olives herbage, forests disappear, 
 And all the charms of a Sicilian year. 
 
 Revolving seasons t'ruitless as they pass, 
 See it an unin.orm'd and idle mass; 
 Without a soil to invite the tiller's care. 
 Or blade that might redeem it from despair. 
 Yet time at length (what will not time achieve'?) 
 Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. 
 Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, 
 And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. 
 O bliss precarious and un.safe retreats, 
 O charming Paradise of short-lived sweeta' 
 40
 
 626 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The self-same gale that wails the fragrance 
 
 round 
 Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : 
 Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, 
 Again pours ruin on the vale below. 
 Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, 
 That only future ages can restore. 
 
 Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws, 
 Who write in blood the merits of your cause, 
 Who strike the blow, then plead your own 
 
 defence, 
 Glory your aim, but justice your pretence ; 
 Behold in ^Etna's emblematic fires 
 The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! 
 Fast by the stream that bounds your just 
 domain, 
 And tells you where you have a right to reign, 
 A nation dwells, not envious of your throne. 
 Studious of peace, their neighbor's and their own. 
 Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue 
 Their only crime, vicinity to you ! 
 The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad. 
 Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road ; 
 At every step beneath their feet they tread 
 The life of multitudes, a nation's bread ! 
 Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress 
 Before them, and behind a wilderness. 
 Famine, and pestilence, her lir.stborn son. 
 Attend to finish wliat the sword begun; 
 And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn. 
 And folly pays, resound at your return. 
 A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train 
 Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again : 
 And years of pining indigence must show 
 What scourges are the gods that rule below. 
 Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, 
 (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) 
 Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, 
 Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil. 
 Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, 
 And the sun gilds the shining spires acrain. 
 
 Increasing commerce and reviving art 
 Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; 
 And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, 
 That wealth within is ruin at the door. 
 What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, 
 But jEtnas of the suQ'ering world ye sway "? 
 Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe. 
 Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; 
 And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, 
 To prove you there destroyers as ye are. 
 
 O place me in some heaven-protected isle. 
 Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; 
 Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, 
 No crested warrior dips his plume in blood ; 
 Where Power secures what Industry has won; 
 Where to succeed is not to be undone ; 
 A land that distant tyrants hate in vain. 
 In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 
 OUT OF NORFOLK, 
 THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. 
 
 O THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 
 Voice only fails, else h.»w dis* rtct they say, 
 " Grieve not, my child, cha-e a!' thy fears aw ay !' 
 The meek intelligence o^ those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that cm immortalize. 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here sbines on me .'■'.ill the same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though untxp'^cted here: 
 Who bidst me honor with an artless song. 
 Affectionate, a mother Ijst so lone. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone. 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Flysian reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
 
 My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast 
 dead. 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just, begun 1 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
 And turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such"?— It was.— Where thou art gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wish'd, liong believed. 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
 more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 
 'Tis now become a history little known, 
 That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
 Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [laid ; 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 
 The biscuit or confectionary plum; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 
 
 glow'd : 
 All this, and more endearing still than all. 
 Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, 
 Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks 
 That humor interposed too often makes ; 
 All this still legible in memory's page. 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honors to thee as my numbers may; 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
 Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 627 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 
 
 hours, 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and 
 
 smile,) 
 Could those few j)leasant days again appear, 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 
 
 here ? 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
 But no — what here wo call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean cross'd) 
 Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swill ! hast reach'd the 
 
 shore, 
 '• Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"* 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
 Always from port witiiheld, always distress'd — 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd. 
 Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass 
 
 lost. 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 But oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise— 
 The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
 And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
 To have renew'd the joys that once were mine. 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 Anil, while the wings of fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 What virtue, or what mental grace 
 But men unqualified and base 
 
 Will boast it their po.ssession 1 
 Profusion apes the noble part 
 Of liberality of heart, 
 
 And dullness of discretion. 
 
 If every polish'd gem we find, 
 Illuminating heart or mind, 
 
 Provoke to imitation ; 
 No wonder friendship docs the same, 
 That jewel of the jiurest flame, 
 
 Or rather constellation. 
 
 * Garth. 
 
 No knave but boldly will pretend 
 The requisites that form a friend, 
 
 A real and a sound one ; 
 Nor any fool, he would deceive. 
 But prove as ready to believe. 
 
 And dream that he had found one. 
 
 Candid, and generous, and just, 
 Boys care but little whom they trust, 
 
 An error soon corrected — 
 For who but learns in riper years 
 That man, when smoothest he appears. 
 
 Is most to be suspected 1 
 
 But here again a danger lies, 
 Lest, having misapplied our eyes, 
 
 And taken trash tor treasure. 
 We should unwarily conclude 
 Friendship a false ideal good, 
 
 A mere Utopian pleasure. 
 
 An acquisition rather rare 
 Is yet no subject of despair; 
 
 Nor is it wise complaining, 
 If, either on forbidden ground, 
 Or where it was not to be tbund. 
 
 We sought without attaining. 
 
 No friendship will abide the test. 
 That stands on sordid interest. 
 
 Or mean selt-love erected ; 
 Nor such as may awhile subsist 
 Between the sot and sensualist. 
 
 For vicious ends connected. 
 
 Who seek a t'riend should come disposed 
 To exhibit in lull bloom disclosed, 
 
 The graces and the beauties 
 That form the character he seeks. 
 For 'tis a union that bespeaks 
 
 Reciprocated duties. 
 
 Mutual attention is implied. 
 And equal truth on either side, 
 
 And constantly supported; 
 'Tis senseless arrogance to accuse 
 Another of sinister views. 
 
 Our own as much distorted. 
 
 But will sincerity suffice 1 
 It is indeed above all price. 
 
 And must be made the basis ; 
 But every virtue of the soul 
 Must constitute the charming whole, 
 
 All shining in their places. 
 
 A fretful temper will divide 
 
 The closest knot that ma}' be tied, 
 
 By ceaseless sharp corrosion ; 
 A temper passionate and fierce 
 May suddenly your joys disperse 
 
 At one immense explosion. 
 
 In vain the talkative unite 
 
 In hopes of permanent delight — 
 
 The secn'et just committed, 
 Forgetting its important weight. 
 They drop through mere desire to prate. 
 
 And by themselves outwitted. 
 
 How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
 All thoughts of friendship are but dseams, 
 
 If envy chance to creep in ; 
 An envious man, if you succeed, 
 May prove an envious foe indeed, 
 
 But not a friend worth keeping.
 
 628 
 
 COWPER S WORKS. 
 
 As envy f)ines at good possess'd, 
 So jealousy looks forth distress'd 
 
 On good that seems approaching; 
 And it' success his steps attend, 
 Discerns a rival in a friend, 
 
 And hates him for encroaching. 
 
 Hence authors of illustrious name 
 Unless belied hy common fame, 
 
 Are sadly prone to quarrel. 
 To deem the wit a friend displays 
 A tax upon their own just praise, 
 
 And pluck each other's laurel. 
 
 A man renown 'd for repartee 
 Will seldom scruple to make free 
 
 With friendship's finest feeling, 
 Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
 And say he wounded you in jest, 
 
 By way of balm for healing. 
 
 Whoever keeps an open ear 
 For tattlers will be sure to hear 
 
 The trumpet of contention ; 
 Aspersion is the babbler's trade, 
 To listen is to lend him aid. 
 
 And rush into dissension. 
 
 A friendship that in frequent fits 
 Of controversial rage emits 
 
 The sparks of disputation. 
 Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, 
 Most unavoidably creates 
 
 The thought of conflagration. 
 
 Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
 True as a needle to the pole, 
 
 Their humor yet so various — 
 They manifest their whole life through 
 The needle's deviation too, 
 
 Their love is so precarious. 
 
 The great and small but rarely meet 
 On terms of amity complete ; 
 
 Plebeians must surrender, 
 And yield so much to noble folk, 
 It is combining fire with smoke, 
 
 Obscurity with splendor. 
 
 Some are so placid and serene 
 (As Irish bogs are always green) 
 
 They sleep secure from waking ; 
 And are indeed a bog that bears 
 Your unparticipated cares 
 
 Unmoved and without quaking. 
 
 Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
 Their heterogeneous politics 
 
 Without an effervescence, 
 Like that of salts with lemon juice, 
 Which does not yet hke that produce 
 
 A friendly coalescence. 
 
 Religion should extinguish strife. 
 And make a calm of human life ; 
 
 But friends that chance to differ 
 On points which God has left at large, 
 How freely will they meet and charo-e— 
 
 No combatants are stiffer. 
 
 To prove at last my main intent 
 Needs no expense of argument, 
 
 No cutting and contriving — 
 Seeking a real friend we seem 
 To adojit the chemist's golden dream, 
 
 With still less hope of thriving. 
 
 Sometimes the fault is all our own, 
 Some blemish in due time made known 
 
 By trespass or omission ; 
 Sometimes occasion brings to litrht 
 Our friend's defect long hid from sight, 
 
 And even from suspicion. 
 
 Then judge yourself, and prove your man 
 As circumspectly as you can. 
 
 And having made election. 
 Beware no neglitrence of yours, 
 Such as a friend but ill endures, 
 
 Enfeeble his affection. 
 
 That secrets are a sacred trust, 
 
 That friends should be sincere and just, 
 
 That constancy befits them, 
 Are observations on the case. 
 That savor much of common place, 
 
 And all the world admits them. 
 
 But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, 
 An architect requires alone 
 
 To finish a fine building — 
 The palace were but half complete. 
 If he could possibly forget 
 
 The carving and' the gilding. 
 
 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 mnch his friend indeed 
 To pardon or to bear it. 
 
 As similarity of mind. 
 
 Or something not to be defined, 
 
 First fixes our attention ; 
 So manners decent and polite, 
 The same we practised at first sight, 
 
 Must save it from declension. 
 
 Some act upon this prudent plan, 
 " Say little, and hear all you can." 
 
 Safe policy, but hateful — 
 So barren sands imbibe the shower 
 But render neither fruit nor flower. 
 
 Unpleasant and ungrateful. 
 
 The man I trust, if shy to me, 
 Shall find me as reserved as he, 
 
 No subterfuge or pleading 
 Shall win my confidence again ; 
 I will by no means entertain 
 
 A spy on my proceeding. 
 
 These samples — for alas ! at last 
 These are but samples, and a taste 
 
 Of evils yet unmention'd — 
 May prove the task a task indeed. 
 In which 'tis much if we succeed, 
 
 However well intention'd. 
 
 Pursue the search, and you will find 
 Good sense and knowledge of mankind 
 
 To be at least expedient, 
 And, afler summing all the rest. 
 Religion ruling in the breast 
 
 A principal ingredient. 
 
 The noblest Friendship ever shown 
 T le Saviour's history makes known. 
 
 Though some have turn'd and turn'd it; 
 And, whether being crazed or blind. 
 Or seeking with a biass'd mind. 
 
 Have not, it seems, discern'd it. 
 
 I 
 
 —. ^
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 629 
 
 O Friendship ! if my soul forego 
 Thy dear delights while here below. 
 
 To mortify and grieve lue, 
 May I myself at last appear, 
 Unworthy, base and insincere, 
 
 Or may my friend deceive me 1 
 
 ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, 
 
 which the ownkr oy iiim sold at the 
 althok's instance. 
 
 Go — thou art all unfit to share 
 
 The pleasures of this place 
 With such as its old tenants are, 
 
 Creatures of gentler race. 
 
 The squirrel here his hoard provides, 
 
 Aware of wintry storms. 
 And woodpeckers explore the sides 
 
 Of rugged oaks tor worms. 
 
 The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn 
 
 With frictions of her fleece ; 
 And here I wander eve and morn. 
 
 Like her, a friend to peace. 
 
 Ah ! — I could pity thee exiled 
 
 From this secure retreat — 
 I would not lose it to be styled 
 
 The happiest of the great. 
 
 But thou canst taste no calm delight; 
 
 Thy pleasure is to show 
 Thy magnanimity in figiit, 
 
 Thy prowess — therefore, go — 
 
 I care not whether east or north. 
 
 So I no more may find thee ; 
 The angry muse thus sings thee forth. 
 
 And claps the gate behind thee. 
 
 ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. 
 Utritten in commemoration of HIS majesty's 
 
 HAPPY RECOVERY. 
 
 I ransack'd for a theme of song, 
 
 Much ancient chronicle, and long; 
 
 I read of bright embattled fields, 
 
 Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields. 
 
 Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast 
 
 Prowess to dissipate a host ; 
 
 Through tomes of fable and of dream 
 
 I sought an eligible theme, 
 
 But none 1 found, or found them shared 
 
 Already by some happier bard. 
 
 To modern times, with truth to guide ■ 
 My busy search, I next applied ; 
 Here cities won. and fleets dispersed. 
 Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed. 
 Deeds of unperishing renown, 
 Our fathers' triumphs and our own. 
 
 Thus as the bee t'rom bank to bower, 
 Assiduous sips at every flower. 
 But rests on none till that be found 
 Where most ncctarcous sweets abound, 
 So I, from theme to theme display'd 
 In many a page historic, stray'd. 
 Siege after siege, fight after fight. 
 Contemplating with small delight. 
 
 (For feats of sanguinary hue 
 Not always glitter in my view,) 
 Till, settling on the current year, 
 I found the far-sought treasure near, 
 A theme for poetry divine, 
 A theme to ennoble even mine, 
 In memorable eighty-nine. 
 
 The spring of eighty-nine shall be 
 An aera cherish'd long by me, 
 Which joyful I will ofl record. 
 And thankful at my frugal board ; 
 For then the clouds of eighty-eight, 
 That threaten'd England's trembling stJite 
 With loss of what she least could spare, 
 Her sovereign's tutelary care. 
 One breath of heaven, that cried — Restore! 
 Chased, never to assemble more: 
 And for the richest crown on earth, 
 If valued by its wearer's worth, 
 The symbol of a righteous reign 
 Sat fast on George's brows again. 
 
 Then peace and joy again possess'd 
 Our Queen's long-agitated breast ; 
 Such joy and peace as can be known 
 By sufferers like herself alone. 
 Who losing, or supposing lost. 
 The good on earth they valued most, 
 For that dear sorrow's sake forego 
 All hope of happiness below. 
 Then suddenly regain the prize. 
 And flash thanksgivings to the skies ! 
 
 O Queen of Albion, queen of isles ! 
 Since all thy tears were changed to smiles, 
 The eyes, that never saw thee, shine 
 With joy not unallied to thine ; 
 Transports not chargeable with art 
 Illume the land's remotest part, 
 And strangers to the air of courts, 
 Both in their toils and at their sports, 
 The happiness of answer'd prayers, 
 That gilds thy features, show in theirs. 
 
 If they who on thy state attend. 
 Awe-struck, before tliy presence bend, 
 'Tis but the natural effect 
 Of grandeur that ensures respect; 
 But she is something more than queen 
 Who is beloved where never seen. 
 
 HYMN, 
 
 FOR THE nSE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY 
 
 Hkar, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, 
 
 In heaven thy dwelling place. 
 From infants made the public care. 
 
 And taught to seek thy face. 
 
 Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, 
 
 And grant us, we implore, 
 Never to waste in sinful play 
 
 Thy holy sabbaths more. 
 
 Thanks that we hear, — but O impart 
 
 To each desires sincere, 
 That we may listen with our heart. 
 
 And learn as well as hear. 
 
 For if vain thoughts the minds engage 
 
 Of older far than we. 
 What hope, that, at our heedless age, 
 
 Our minds should e'ei be free 1
 
 630 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Much hope, if thou our spirits take 
 
 Under thy gracious sway, 
 Who canst the wisest wiser make, 
 
 And babes as wise as they. 
 
 Wisdom and bUss thy word bestows, 
 
 A sun that ne'er dechnes, 
 And be thy mercies shower'd on those 
 
 Who placed us where it shines. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BtraJOINSD TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF 
 
 THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,* 
 
 ANNO DOMINI 1787. 
 
 PaUda mors Eeqiio pulsat pede pauperum tabemas, 
 Regumque tuires. — Horace. 
 
 Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door 
 Of royal halls and hovels of the poor. 
 
 While thirteen moons saw smoothly run 
 
 The Nen's barge-laden wave, 
 All these, life's rambling journey done, 
 
 Have found their home, the grave. 
 
 Was man (frail always) made more frail 
 
 Than in foregoing years 1 
 Did famine or did plague prevail, 
 
 That so much death appears "? 
 
 No ; these were vigorous as their sires, 
 
 Nor plague nor famine came ; 
 This annual tribute Death requires, 
 
 And never waives his claim. 
 
 Like crowded forest trees we stand. 
 
 And some are mark'd to fall ; 
 The axe will smite at God's command, 
 
 And soon shall smite us all. 
 
 Green as the bay tree, ever green. 
 
 With its new foliage on. 
 The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, 
 
 I pass'd — and they were gone. 
 
 Read, ye that run, the awful truth 
 
 With which I charge my page ; 
 A worm is in the bud of youth, 
 
 And at the root of age. 
 
 No present health can health ensure 
 
 For yet an hour to come ; 
 No medicine, though it oft can cure. 
 
 Can always balk the tomb. 
 
 And O 1 that humble as my lot. 
 
 And scorn'd as is my strain. 
 These truths, though known, too much forgot, 
 
 I may not teach in vain. 
 
 So prays your clerk with all his heart, 
 
 And, ere he quits the pen, 
 Begs you for once to take his part, 
 
 And answer all — Amen ! 
 
 * Compcsed for Jolin Cox, parish clerk of North- 
 ampton. 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1788. 
 
 Quod adest, memento 
 Componere cBquus. Cietera lluminis 
 Eitu feruntur. — Horace. 
 
 Improve the present hour, for all beside 
 Is a mere feather ou a torrent's tide. 
 
 Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage 
 To whom the rising year shall prove his last, 
 As I can number in my punctual page, 
 And item down the victims of the past ; 
 
 How each would trembling wait the mournfu 
 
 sheet, 
 On which the press might stamp him next to die ; 
 And, reading here his sentence, how replete 
 With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye 
 
 Time then would seem more precious than the 
 
 joys 
 In which he sports away the treasure now ; 
 And prayer more seasonable than the noise 
 Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow. 
 
 Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink 
 Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore. 
 Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think. 
 Told that his setting sun must rise no more. 
 
 Ah self-deceived ! Could I prophetic say 
 Who next is fated, and who next to fall. 
 The rest might then seem privileged to play ; 
 But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to all, 
 
 Observe the dappled foresters, how light 
 They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade — 
 One falls — the rest, wide scatter'd with affright, 
 Vanish at once into the darkest shade. 
 
 Had we their wisdom, should we, oflen warn'd, 
 Still need repeated warnings, and at last, 
 A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, 
 Die self-accused of life run all to waste ! 
 
 Sad waste ! for which no afler-thrifl atones. 
 The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ; 
 Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones 
 But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. 
 
 Learn then, ye hving ! by the mouths be taught 
 Of all these sepulchres, instructors true. 
 That, soon or late, death also is your lot. 
 And the next opening grave may yawn for you 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1789. 
 
 — Placid Sique ibi demum morte quievit— ViRO. 
 There calm at length he breathed his soul away. 
 
 "O 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.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 63J 
 
 "My home henceforth is in the skies, 
 
 Earth, seas, and sun, adieu ! 
 All heaven unfolded to my eyes, 
 
 I have no sight for you." 
 
 So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd 
 
 Of faith's supporting rod, 
 Then breathed his soul into its rest, 
 
 The bosom of his God. 
 
 He was a man among the few 
 
 Sincere on virtue's side ; 
 And all his strength from Scripture drew, 
 
 To hourly use applied. 
 
 That rule he prized, by that he fear'd. 
 
 He hated, hoped, and loved ; 
 Nor ever frown'd, or sad appear'd, 
 
 But when his heart had roved. 
 
 For he was frail as thou or I, 
 
 And evil lelt within; 
 But when he felt it, heaved a sigh, 
 
 And loathed the thought of sin. 
 
 Such lived Aspasio ; and at last 
 Call'd up from earth to heaven, 
 
 The gulf of death triumphant pass'd. 
 By gales of blessing driven. 
 
 His joys be mine, each reader cries. 
 
 When my last hour arrives: 
 They shall be yours, my verse replies, 
 
 Such only be your lives. 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1790. 
 
 No commonentem recta sperne. — Buchanan. 
 Despise not ray good counsel. 
 
 He who sits from day to day 
 Where the prison'd lark is hung, 
 
 Heedless of his loudest lay, 
 
 Hardly knows that he has sung. 
 
 Where the watchman in his round 
 Nightly liils his voice on high, 
 
 None, accustom'd to the sound. 
 Wakes the sooner for his cry. 
 
 So your verse-man I, and clerk, 
 
 Yearly in my song proclaim 
 Death at hand — yourselves his mark— • 
 
 And the foe's unerring aim. 
 
 Duly nt my time I come. 
 
 Publishing to all aloud — 
 Soon tiie grave must be your home, 
 
 And your only suit, a shroud. 
 
 But the monitory strain. 
 
 Oil repeated in your cars. 
 Seems to sound too much in vain, 
 
 Wins no notice, wakes no fears. 
 
 Can a truth, by all confess'd 
 Of such magnitude and weight. 
 
 Grow, by being oil imprcss'd. 
 Trivial as a parrot's prate. 
 
 69 
 
 Pleasure's call attention wins, 
 
 Hear it often as we may ; 
 New as ever seem our sins, 
 
 Though committed every day. 
 
 Death and judgment, heaven and hell- 
 These alone, so often heard, 
 
 No more move us than the bell 
 When some stranger is interr'd. 
 
 O then, ere the turf or tomb 
 
 Cover us from every eye, 
 Spirit of instruction, come, 
 
 Make us learn that we must die. 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1792. 
 
 Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 
 Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum 
 Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari 
 
 ViRa. 
 Happy the mortal who has traced effects 
 To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, 
 And death and roaring hell's voracious fires ! 
 
 Thankless for favors from on high, 
 Man thinks lie fades too soon : 
 
 Though 'tis his privilege to die, 
 Would he improve the boon. 
 
 But he, not wise enough to scan 
 
 His blest concerns aright, 
 Would gladly stretch life's little span 
 
 To ages, if he might. 
 
 To ages in a world of pain. 
 
 To ages where he goes 
 Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain, 
 
 And hopeless of repose. 
 
 Strange fondness of the human heart, 
 
 Enamor'd of its harm ! 
 Strange world, that costs it so much smart, 
 
 And still has power to charm. 
 
 Whence has the world her magic power 1 
 
 Why deem we death a foe "? 
 Recoil from weary life's best hour, 
 
 And covet longer woe 1 
 
 The cause is Conscience — Conscience oft 
 
 Her tale of guilt renews : 
 Her voice is terrible though soft, 
 
 And dread of death ensues. 
 
 Then anxious to be longer spared 
 Man mourns his fleeting breath : 
 
 All evils then seem light, compared 
 With the approach of death. 
 
 'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fear 
 That prompts the wish to stay : 
 
 He has incurr'd a long arrear, 
 And must despair to pay. 
 
 Paij ! follow Christ, and all is paid ; 
 
 His death your peace ensures ; 
 Think on the grave where he was laid, 
 
 And calm descend to yours.
 
 632 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 
 
 FOR THE YEAR 1793. 
 
 De sacris autem hsec sit una sententia, ut conserventur. 
 
 Cic. DE Leq. 
 
 But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things 
 sacred be inviolate. 
 
 He lives who lives to God alone, 
 
 And all are dead beside; 
 For other source than God is none 
 
 Whence hie can be supplied. 
 
 To live to God is to requite 
 
 His love as best we may : 
 To make his precepts our delight. 
 
 His promises our stay. 
 
 But life, within a narrow ring 
 
 Of giddy joys comprised, 
 Is falsely named, and no such thing, 
 
 But rather death disguised. 
 
 Can life in them deserve the name, 
 
 Who only live to prove 
 For what poor toys they can disclaim 
 
 An endless life above 1 
 
 Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; 
 
 Much menaced, nothing dread ; 
 Have wounds, which only God can heal, 
 
 Yet never ask his aid 1 
 
 Who deem his house a useless place, 
 
 Faith, want of common sense; 
 And ardor in the Christian race, 
 
 A hypocrite's pretence 1 
 
 Who trample order ; and the day 
 
 Which God asserts his own 
 Dishonor with unhallow'd play. 
 
 And worship chance alone 1 
 
 If scorn of God's commands, impress'd 
 
 On word and deed, imply 
 The better part of man unbless'd 
 
 With life that cannot die ; 
 
 Such want it, and that want uncured 
 
 Till man resigns his breath, 
 Speaks him a criminal, assured 
 
 Of everlasting death. 
 
 Sad period to a pleasant course ! 
 
 Yet so will God repay 
 Sabbaths profaned without remorse, 
 
 And mercy cast away. 
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH, 
 
 STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE, 
 
 Time was when I was free as air. 
 The thistle's downy seed my fare, 
 
 My drink the morning dew ; 
 I perch'd at will on every spray. 
 My form genteel, my plumage gaj, 
 
 My strains forever new. 
 
 But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
 And form genteel were all in vain. 
 
 And of a transient date ; 
 For, caught and caged, and starved to death, 
 In dying sighs my little breath 
 
 Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 
 
 Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
 And thanks for this effectual close 
 
 And cure of every ill ! 
 More cruelty could none express; 
 And I, if you iiad shown me less, 
 
 Had been your prisoner still. 
 
 THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE. 
 
 The pine-apples, in triple row. 
 Were basking hot, and all in blow; 
 A bee of most discerning taste 
 Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd. 
 On eager wing the spoiler came, 
 And search'd for crannies in the frame. 
 Urged his attempt on every side. 
 To every pane his trunk applied ; 
 But still in vain the frame was tight, 
 And only pervious to the light: 
 Thus having wasted half the day, 
 He trimm'd his flight another way. 
 
 Metiiinks. I said, in thee I find 
 The sin and madness of mankind. 
 To joys forbidden man aspires. 
 Consumes his soul with vain desires ; 
 Folly tlie spring of his pursuit. 
 And disappointment all the fruit. 
 While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, 
 The nyjiiph between two chariot glasses, 
 She is the pine-apple, and he 
 The silly unsuccessful bee. 
 The maid who views with pensive air 
 The show-glass fraught with glittering ware, 
 Sees watches bracelets, rings, and lockets, 
 But sighs at thought of empty pockets; 
 Like thine, her appetite is keen, 
 But ah, the cruel glass between ! 
 
 Our dear delights are often such. 
 Exposed to view, but not to touch; 
 The sight our foolish heart inflames, 
 We long for pine-apples in frames ; 
 With hopeless wish one looks and lingers, 
 One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers ; 
 But they whom truth and wisdom lead 
 Can gather honey from a weed. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FIND- 
 ING THE HEEL OF A SHOE. 
 
 Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks! 
 Not that my muse, though bashful shall deny 
 She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou 
 
 cast 
 A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
 Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, 
 And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
 Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
 Hopes she from this — presumptuous, though, 
 
 perhaps 
 The cobbler, leather-carving artist ! might. 
 Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon, 
 Whatever ; not as erst the fabled cock, 
 Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
 Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Where- 
 fore, ah ! 
 Why not on me that favor, (worthier sure !) 
 Conferr'd-stthou, goddess ! Thou art blind thou 
 
 say'st : 
 Enough 1 — thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 633 
 
 Nor does my muse no benefit exhale 
 From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here 
 Hints worthy sajje philosophy are found ; 
 Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! 
 This ponderous heel of pcrlbrated hide 
 Compact with pegs indented many a row, 
 Haply (i'oT such its massy form bespeaks) 
 The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
 Upl)ore : on this supported oft, he stretch'd, 
 With uncouth strides along the furrow'd glebe, 
 Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time 
 (What will not cruel time 1) or a wry step 
 Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, ala^ ! 
 He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, 
 Pursue his destined way with syinaietry. 
 And some proportion forai'd, now on one side 
 Curtail d and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
 Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop! 
 With toilsome steps and difficult, moves on. 
 Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
 Of humble villager — the statesman thus, 
 Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, 
 Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
 His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
 While policy prevails, and friends prove true ; 
 But, that support soon failing by him leil 
 On whom he most depended, basely left, 
 Betray'd, deserted; from his'airy height 
 Headlong he falls ; and through the rest of life 
 Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 
 1746. 
 
 AN ODE, 
 
 ON READING RICHARDSON'.S HISTORY OF SIR 
 CHARLES GRANDISON. 
 
 Say, ye apostate and profane, 
 Wretches, who blush not to disdain 
 
 Allegiance to your God, — 
 Did e'er your idly wasted love 
 Of virtue for her sake remove 
 
 And lift you from the crowd 1 
 
 Would you the race of glory run, 
 Know, the devout, and they alone, 
 
 Are equal to the task : 
 The laliors of the illustrious course 
 Far other than the unaided force 
 
 Of human vigor ask. 
 
 To arm against reputed ill 
 
 The patient heart too brave to feel 
 
 The tortures of despair : 
 Nor safer yet high-crested pride, 
 W'hen wealth (lows in with every tide 
 
 To gain admittance there. 
 
 To rescue from the tyrant's sword 
 
 The opprcss'd ; unseen and unimplored, 
 
 To cheer the face of woe ; 
 From lawless insult to defend 
 An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 
 
 And a forgiven foe ; 
 
 These, these distinguish from tho crowd, 
 And these alone, the great and good. 
 
 The guartlians of mankind ; 
 Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
 with what matchless speed they leave 
 
 The multitude behind ! 
 
 Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
 Virtues like these derive their birth 1 
 
 Derived from Heaven alone, 
 Full on that favor'd breast they shine, 
 Where taith anil resignation join 
 
 To call the blessing down. 
 
 Such is that heart: — but while the muse 
 Thy tlicme, O Richardson, pursues, 
 
 Her feeble spirits faint : 
 She cannot reach, and would not wroncr, 
 The subject for an angel's song. 
 
 The hero, and the saint ! 
 1753. * 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 
 
 'Tis not that I design to rob 
 
 Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, 
 
 For thou art born sole heir and single 
 
 Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; 
 
 Not that I mean, while thus I knit 
 
 My threadbare sentiments tosicther. 
 
 To show ray genius or my wit, 
 
 Wlien God and you know I have neither; 
 
 Or such as migiit be belter shown 
 
 By letting poetry alone. 
 
 'Tis not with either of these views 
 
 That I pi'esumed to address the muse : 
 
 But to divert a fierce banditti. 
 
 (Sworn foes to everything that's witty!) 
 
 That, with a black, infernal train, 
 
 Make cruel inroads in my brain. 
 
 And daily threaten to drive tiience 
 
 My little garrison of sense; 
 
 The fierce banditti which I mean 
 
 Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen. 
 
 Then there's another reason yet, . 
 
 Which is, that I may fairly quit 
 
 The debt, which justly became due 
 
 The moment when I heard from you ; 
 
 And you might grumble, crony mine, 
 
 If paid in any other coin ; 
 
 Since twenty sheets of lead. God knows, 
 
 (I would say twenty sheets of prose,) 
 
 Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 
 
 As one of gold, and yours was such. 
 
 Thus, the preliminaries settled, 
 
 I fairly find myself pitchkettled,* 
 
 And cannot see, though few see better, 
 
 How I shall hammer out a letter. 
 
 First, for a thougiit — since all agree — ■ 
 A thought — I have it — let me see — 
 'Tis gone again — plague on't ! I thought 
 I hatl it — but I have it not. 
 Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son. 
 That useful thing, her needle, gone I 
 Riike well the cinders — sweep the floor, 
 And sift the dust behind the door ; 
 \Vhile eager Hodge beliolds the prize 
 In old grimalkin's glaring eyes: 
 -And Gammer finds it on her knees. 
 In every sliining straw siie sees. 
 This simile were a[)t enough ; 
 But I've another, critic-proof! 
 The virtuoso thus, at noon, 
 Broihng beneath a July sun, 
 
 * Pitchkettled, a favorite plirnse at the time when tins 
 Epistle was written, expro.ssive ol' bein^c puzzled, or what 
 in the Spectator's tiino wirnld have been caMed bam- 
 boozled.
 
 634 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The gilded butterfly pursues, 
 
 O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews ; 
 
 And, after many a vain essay. 
 
 To captivate the tempting prey, 
 
 Gives him at length the lucky pat. 
 
 And has him safe beneath his hat : 
 
 Then lifts it gently from the ground ; 
 
 But, ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; 
 
 Culprit his liberty regains. 
 
 Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. 
 
 The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit 
 
 With simile to illustrate it ; 
 
 But as too much obscures the sight, 
 
 As often as too little Ught, 
 
 We have our similes cut short, 
 
 For matters of more grave import. 
 
 That Matthew's numbers run with ease, 
 
 Each man of common sense agrees 1 
 
 All men of common sense allow 
 
 That Robert's lines are easy too : 
 
 Where then the preference shall we place, 
 
 Or how do justice in this case"? 
 
 Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains 
 
 Smooth'd and refined the meanest strains; 
 
 Nor sufler'd one ill-chosen rhyme 
 
 To escape him at the idlest time ; 
 
 And thus o'er all a lustre cast, 
 
 That while the language lives shall last. 
 
 A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,) 
 
 For 'tis my business to reply ; 
 
 Sure so much labor, so much toil. 
 
 Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 
 
 Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed. 
 
 Who both write well, and write full speed ! 
 
 Who throw their Helicon about 
 
 As freely as a conduit spout ! 
 
 Friend Robert, thus like chien savant 
 
 Lets fall a poem en passant, 
 
 Nor needs his genuine ore refine — 
 
 'Tis ready polish'd from the mine. 
 
 A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT, 
 
 WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779. 
 
 Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream 
 There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blas- 
 pheme ; 
 In subterraneous caves his life he led. 
 Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. 
 When on a day, emerging from the deep, 
 A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!) 
 The wages of his weekly toil he bore 
 To buy a cock— whose blood might win him more ; 
 As if the noblest of the feather'd kind 
 Were but for battle and for death design'd ; 
 As if the consecrated hours were meant 
 For sport to minds on cruelty intent ; 
 It chanced (such chances Providence obey) 
 He met a fellow laborer on the way, 
 Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed ; 
 But now the savage temper was reclaim'd, 
 Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; 
 For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. 
 His iron heart with scripture he assail'd, 
 Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. 
 His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew, 
 Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew. 
 He wept ; he trembled ; cast his eyes around. 
 To find a worse than he ; but none he found. 
 
 He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. 
 Grace made the wound, and grace alone should 
 
 heal. 
 Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies 
 He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. 
 That holy day was wash'd with many a tear. 
 Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. 
 The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine 
 Learn'd, by his alter'd speech, the change divine ! 
 Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore 
 
 the day 
 Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they. 
 " No," said the penitent, ■• such words shall share 
 This breath no more ; devoted now to prayer. 
 O ! if thou seest (thine eye the future sees) 
 That I shall yet again blaspheme hke these ; 
 Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel. 
 Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; 
 Now take me to that heaven I once defied, 
 Thy presence, thy embrace 1" — He spoke, and 
 
 died. 
 
 TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS 
 RETURN FROM RAMSGATE. 
 
 That ocean you have late survey'd. 
 
 Those rocks I too have seen ; 
 But I, afflicted and dismay'd, 
 
 You, tranquil and serene. 
 
 You from the flood-controlling steep 
 
 Saw stretch'd before your view, 
 With conscious joy, the threatening deep, 
 
 No longer such to you. 
 
 To me the waves, that ceaseless broke 
 
 Upon the dangerous coast. 
 Hoarsely and ominously spoke 
 
 Of all my treasure lost. 
 
 Your sea of troubles you have past. 
 
 And found the peaceful shore; 
 I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last. 
 
 Come home to port no more. 
 Oct., 1780. 
 
 LOVE ABUSED. 
 
 1/ 
 
 What is there in the vale of life 
 Half so delightful as a wife, 
 When friendship, love, and peace combine 
 To stamp the marriage-bond divine 1 
 The stream of pure and genuine love 
 Derives its current from above ; 
 And earth a second Eden shows 
 Where'er the healing water flows : 
 But ah, if from the dykes and drains 
 Of sensual nature's feverish veins, 
 Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, 
 Impregnated with ooze and mud, 
 Descending fast on every side, 
 Once mingles with the sacred tide. 
 Farewell the soul-enUvening scene ! 
 The banks that wore a smiling green, 
 With rank defilement overspread. 
 Bewail their flowery beauties dead. 
 The stream polluted, dark, and dull, 
 Dift'used into a Stygian pool. 
 Through life's last melancholy years 
 Is fed with overflowing tears : 
 Complaints supply the zephyr's part. 
 And siffhs that heave a breaking heart.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 635 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY 
 AUSTEN. 
 
 Dear Anna — between friend and friend 
 Prose answers ev^ery common end ; 
 Serves, in a plain and homely way, 
 To express the occurrence of the day ; 
 Our health, the weather, and the news; 
 What walks we take, what books we choose; 
 And all the floating thoughts we find 
 Upon the surface of the mind. 
 
 But when a poet takes the pen, 
 Far more alive tlian -other men. 
 He feels a gentle tingling come 
 Down to his finger and his thumb, 
 Derived from nature's noblest part, 
 The centre of a glowing heart : 
 And this is what the world, who knows 
 No flights above the pitch of prose. 
 His more sublime vagaries sliirhtinir, 
 Denornn ates an itch lor writing. 
 No wonder I, who scribble rhyme 
 To catch the triflers of the time, 
 And tell them truths divine and clear, 
 Which, couch'd in prose they will not hear ; 
 Who labor hard to allure and draw 
 The loiterers I never saw, 
 Should feel that itching and that tingling, 
 With all my purpose intermingling. 
 To your intrinsic merit true, 
 When call'd to address myself to you. 
 
 Mysterious are His ways whose power 
 Brings forth that unexpected hour, 
 When minds, that never met before. 
 Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
 It is the allotment of the skies, 
 The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
 That guides and governs our affections. 
 And plans and orders our connexions : 
 Directs us in our distant road. 
 And marks the bounds of our abode. 
 Thus we were settled when you found us, 
 Peasants and children all around us. 
 Not dreaming of so dear a friend, 
 Deep in the abyss of Silver End.* 
 Thus Martha, e'en against her will, 
 Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
 And you, though you must needs prefer 
 The fairer scenes of sweet Sanccrre.f 
 Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
 A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
 This page of Providence quite new, 
 And now just opening to our view. 
 Employs our present thoughts and pains 
 To guess and spoil what it contains : 
 But day by day, and year by year, 
 AVill make the dark enigma clear; 
 And furnish us, perhaps, at last. 
 Like other scenes already past. 
 With proof that we, and our affairs, 
 Are part of a Jehovah's cares ; 
 For God unfolds l>y slow degrees 
 The purport ot' his deep decrees; 
 Sheds every hour a clearer light 
 In aid of our defective sight; 
 And spreads, at length, before the soul, 
 A beautiful and perfect whole, 
 Which busy man's inventive brain 
 Toils to anticipate in vain. 
 
 * An ol)sciiro p.irt ofOliioy, adjoinins to the residence 
 af Cowpcr, wliicli faco(f tlie inarkel-pliice. 
 t Lady Austen's residence in France. 
 
 Say, Anna, had you never known 
 The beauties of a rose full blown, 
 Could you, though luaiinous your eye. 
 By looking on the bud descry, 
 Or guess with a prophetic power, 
 The future splendor of the flower 1 
 Just so the Omnipotent, who turns 
 The system of a world's concerns, 
 From mere minutise can educe 
 Events of most important use ; 
 And bid a dawning sky display 
 The blaze of a meridian day. 
 The works of man tend, one and all, 
 As needs they must, from great to small; 
 And vanity absorbs at length 
 The monuments of liuman strength. 
 But who can tell how vast the plan 
 Which this day's incident began 1 
 Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion 
 For our dim-sighted observation ; 
 It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird 
 That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
 And yet may prove, when understood, 
 A harbinger of endless good. 
 
 Not that I deem, or mean to call 
 Friendship a blessing cheap or small : 
 But merely to remark, that ours. 
 Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
 Rose from a seed of tiny size 
 That seem'd to promise no such prize; 
 A transient visit intervening, 
 And made almost without a meaning, 
 (Hardly the effect of inclination, 
 Much less of pleasing expectation.) 
 Produced a friendsliip, ttien begun, 
 That has cemented us in one ; 
 And placed it in our power to prove, 
 By long fidelity and love, 
 That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
 " A threefold cord is not soon broken." 
 
 Dec, 1781. 
 
 THE COLUBRIAD. 
 
 Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast 
 
 Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. 
 
 I, passing swill and inattentive by, 
 
 At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; 
 
 Not muchconcern'd to knowwhatthey did there: 
 
 Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 
 
 But presently a loud and furious hiss [thisi" 
 
 Caused me to stop and to exclaim, " What's 
 
 When lo ! upon the threshold met my view. 
 
 With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 
 
 A viper, long us Count de Grasse's queue. 
 
 Fortli from his head his forked tongue he throws, 
 
 Darting it full against a kitten's no.se ; 
 
 Who. having never seen in field or house. 
 
 The like, sat still and silent as a mouse ; 
 
 Only projecting, with attention due, [youl'' 
 
 Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, " Wlio ara 
 
 On to the hall went I, with pace not slov(r. 
 
 But swill as lightning for a long Dutch hoe: 
 
 With which well arin'd I liasttn'd to the spot, 
 
 To find the viper, but I foun<l him not. 
 
 And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 
 
 Found only that he was not to be found. 
 
 But still the kittens, sitting as before, 
 
 Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 
 
 •' I hope," said I, " the villain I would kill 
 
 Has sHpp'd between the door and the door-sill
 
 And if I make dispatch, and follow hard, 
 No doubt but I shall find him in the yard :" 
 For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 
 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
 E'en there I found him there the full-grown cat, 
 His head, with velvet paw. did gently pat ; 
 As curious as the kittens erst had been 
 To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
 Fill'd with heroic ardor at the sight, 
 And fearing every moment he would bite, 
 And rob our household of our only cat 
 That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
 With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door. 
 And taught him never to come there no more. 
 1762. 
 
 SONG. ON PEACE. 
 
 (Written in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady 
 Austen, who gave the sentiment. 
 
 Air — '■'• My fond Shepherds of late^'' 
 
 No longer I follow a sound ; 
 No longer a dream I pursue ; 
 
 happiness ! not to be found. 
 Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 
 
 1 have sought thee in splendor and dress, 
 
 In the regions of pleasure and taste ; 
 
 I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, 
 
 But have proved thee a vision at last. 
 
 An humble ambition and hope 
 
 The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 
 
 'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope. 
 And the summit of all our desires. 
 
 Peace may be the lot of the mind 
 That seeks it in meekness and love ; 
 
 But rapture and bliss are confined 
 To the glorified spirits above. 
 
 SONG. 
 Also written at the request of Lady Austen. 
 
 Air—" The Lass of Pattie^s Jl/;7/." 
 
 When all within is peace. 
 
 How nature seems to smile ! 
 Delights that never cease 
 
 The livelong day beguile. 
 From morn to dewy eve 
 
 With open hand she showers 
 Fresh blessings to deceive 
 
 And soothe the silent hours. 
 
 It is content of heart 
 
 Gives Nature power to please ; 
 The mind that feels no smart 
 
 "Enlivens all it sees ; 
 Can make a wintry sky 
 
 Seem bright as smiHng May, 
 And evening's closing eye 
 
 As peep of early day. 
 
 The vast majestic globe. 
 
 So beauteously array'd 
 In Nature's various robe. 
 
 With wondrous skill display'd, 
 Is to a mourner's heart 
 
 A dreary wild at best ; 
 It flutters to depart, 
 
 And longs to be at rest. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 selected from an occasional poem entitled 
 "VALEDICTION." 
 
 Oh Friendship ! cordial of the human breast I 
 So little felt, so fervently profess'd ! 
 Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years ; 
 The promise of delicious fruit appears : 
 We hug the hopes of constancy and truth, 
 Such is the folly of our dreaming youth ; 
 But soon, alas ! detect the rash mistake 
 That sanguine inexperience loves to make ; 
 And view with tears the expected harvest lost, 
 Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. 
 Whoever undertakes a friend's great part 
 Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart, 
 Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove 
 A thousand ways the tbrce of genuine love. 
 He may be call'd to give up health and gain, 
 To exchange content lor trouble, ease for painj 
 To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan, 
 And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. 
 The heart of man. for such a task too frail, 
 W'hen most relied on is most sure to fail ; 
 And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe, 
 Starts from its office like a broken bow. 
 
 Votaries of business and of pleasure prove 
 Faithless alike in friendship and in love. 
 Retired from all the circles of the gay. 
 And all the crowds that bustle life away, 
 To scenes where competition, envy, strife, 
 Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life. 
 Let me, the charge of some good angel, find 
 One who has known, and has escaped mankind ; 
 Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away 
 The manners, not the morals, of the day : 
 With him, perhaps with her (for men have known 
 No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,) 
 Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, 
 All former friends forgiven and forgot, 
 Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, 
 Union of hearts without a flaw between. 
 'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise. 
 If God give health, that sunshine of our days ! 
 And if he add a blessing shared by few, 
 Content of heart, more praises still are due — 
 But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd 
 Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest; 
 And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, 
 Born from above and made divinely wise. 
 He gives, what bankrupt nature never can. 
 Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man. 
 Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew, 
 A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. 
 Nov., 1783. 
 
 EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allow'd. 
 Whom to have bred may well make England 
 
 proud, 
 Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, 
 The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; 
 Whose verse may claim— grave, masculine, and 
 
 strong — 
 Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; 
 Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd, 
 And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. 
 O man, immortal by a double prize. 
 By fame on earth — by glory in the skies ! 
 Jan., 1785.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 637 
 
 TO MISS C- 
 
 ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 How many between east and west 
 
 Disgrace their parent earth, 
 Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
 
 The day that gave thein birth ! 
 Not so when SteUa's natal morn 
 
 Revolving months restore, 
 We can rejoice that she was born, 
 
 And wish her born once more ! 
 1786. 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 
 
 This cap, that so stately appears, 
 
 With ribbon-bound tassel on high, 
 Which seems by the crest that it rears 
 
 Ambitious of brushing the sky : 
 Tliis cap to my cousin I owe, 
 
 She gave it, and gave me beside, 
 Wreath d into an elegant bow, 
 
 The ribbon with which it is tied. 
 
 This wheel-footed studying chair. 
 
 Contrived both for toil and repose. 
 Wide-el bivv'd. and wadded with hair, 
 
 In which I both scribble and dose. 
 Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes. 
 
 And rival in lustre of that 
 In which or astronomy lies, 
 
 Fair Cassiopeia sat : 
 
 These carpets so soft to the foot, 
 
 Caledonia's traffic and pride ! 
 Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot, 
 
 Escaped from a cross-country ride ! 
 This table, and mirror within, 
 
 Secure from collision and dust, 
 At which I oft shave cheek and chin 
 
 And periwig nicely adjust: 
 
 This moveable structure of shelves. 
 
 For its beauty admired and its use, 
 And charged with octavos and twelves, 
 
 The gayest I had to produce ; 
 Where, flaming in scarlet and gold. 
 
 My poems enchanted I view, 
 And hope in due time to behold 
 
 My Iliad and Odyssey too : 
 
 This china, that decks the alcove. 
 
 Which here people call a buffet, 
 But what the gods call it above 
 
 Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : 
 These curtains that keep the room warm 
 
 Or cool, as tlic season demands. 
 Those stoves tliat for pattern and form 
 
 Seem the labor of Mulcibcr's hands : 
 
 All these are not half that I owe 
 
 To one, from our earliest youth, 
 To me ever ready to show 
 
 Benignity, friendship, and truth; 
 For time the dostroyer declared 
 
 And foe of our perishing kind, 
 If even her iace he has spared. 
 
 Much less could he alter her mind. 
 
 Thus compass'd about with the goods 
 And chattels of leisure and ease, 
 
 I indulge my poetical moods 
 In many such fancies as these ; 
 
 And fancies I fear they will seem — 
 Poets' goods are not often so fine; 
 The poets will swear that I dream 
 When I sing of the splendor of mine. 
 1786. 
 
 LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL 
 OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ., 
 
 IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS 
 NEPHEW WILLIAM OP WESTON. 
 
 Farewell ! endued with all that could engage 
 All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! 
 In prime of life, for sprightliness enroU'd 
 Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old; 
 
 In lite's last stage, (O blessings rarely found H 
 Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown d" 
 Through every period of this changeful state 
 Unchanged thyself— wise, good, aiiectionate ! 
 
 Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem 
 O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, 
 Although thy worth be more than half supprest 
 Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. 
 June, 1788. 
 
 ON THE aUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON. 
 
 THE NIGHT OP THK SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH, 1789. 
 
 When, long sequester'd from his throne, 
 
 George took his seat again. 
 By right of worth, not blood alone, 
 
 Entitled here to reign. 
 
 Then loyalty, with all his lamps 
 
 New trimm'd, a gallant show ! 
 Chasing the darkness and the damps, 
 
 Set London in a glow. 
 
 'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares 
 Which form'd the chief display, 
 
 These most resembling cluster'd stars. 
 Those the long milky way. 
 
 Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spire^ 
 
 And rockets flew, self-driven, 
 To hang their momentary fires 
 
 Amid the vault of heaven. 
 
 So, fire with water to compare, 
 
 The ocean serves, on high 
 Up-spouted by a whale in air. 
 
 To express unwieldy joy. 
 
 Had all the pageants of the world 
 
 In one procession join'd. 
 And all tlie banners been unfurl'd 
 
 That heralds e'er designed. 
 
 For no such sight had England's queen 
 
 Forsaken her retreat. 
 Where George, recover'd, made a scene 
 
 Sweet always, doubly sweet. 
 
 Yet glad, she came that night to prove, 
 
 A witness undescried. 
 How much the object of her love 
 
 Was loved by all beside.
 
 638 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Darkness the skies had mantled o'er 
 
 In aid of her design — 
 Darkness, O Q,ueen ! ne'er call'd before 
 
 To veil a deed of thine ! 
 
 On borrow'd wheels away she flies, 
 
 Resolved to be unknown, 
 And gratify no curious eyes 
 
 That night except her own. 
 
 Arrived, a night like noon she sees, 
 And hears the million hum ; 
 
 As all by instinct, like the bees, 
 Had known their sovereign come. 
 
 Pleased she beheld, alofl portray'd 
 
 On many a splendid wall, 
 Emblems of health and heavenly aid, 
 
 And George the theme of all. 
 
 Unlike the enigmatic line. 
 
 So difficult to spell, 
 Which shook Belshazzar at his wine 
 
 The night his city fell. 
 
 Soon watery grew her eyes and dim, 
 
 But with a joyful tear, 
 None else, except in prayer for him, 
 
 George ever drew from her. 
 
 It was a scene in every part 
 
 Like those in fable feign'd. 
 And seem'd by some magician's art 
 
 Created and sustain'd. 
 
 But other magic there, she knew, 
 
 Had been exerted none. 
 To raise such wonders in her view. 
 
 Save love of George alone. 
 
 That cordial thought her spirit cheer d, 
 And, through the cumbrous throng, 
 
 Not else unworthy to be fear'd, 
 Convey'd her calm along. 
 
 So, ancient poets say, serene 
 The sea-maid rides the waves, 
 
 And fearless of the billowy scene 
 Her peaceful bosom laves. 
 
 With more than astronomic eyes 
 She view'd the sparkling show ; 
 
 One Georgian star adorns the skies, 
 She myriads found below. 
 
 Yet let the glories of a night 
 Like that, once seen, suffice, 
 
 Heaven grant us no such future sight. 
 Such previous woe the price ! 
 
 THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.* 
 
 Muse — hide his name of whom I sing, 
 Lest his surviving house thou bring 
 For his sake into scorn, 
 
 * Written on reading the following in the obituary of 
 tlie Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789. — "At Totten- 
 ham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, 
 and in the splendor of his carriages and horses nvalled 
 by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospi- 
 tality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to 
 eonriviality ; but, if he had his foibles he^ad his merits 
 also, that f;ir outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of 
 cork-fighting, and had a favorite cock, upon which he 
 had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid 
 
 Nor speak the school from which he drew 
 The much or little that he knew, 
 Nor place where he was born. 
 
 That such a man once was, may seem 
 Worthy of record (if the theme 
 
 Perchance may credit win) 
 FoiT proof to man, what man may prove, 
 If grace depart, and demons move 
 
 The source of guilt within. 
 
 This man (for since the howling wild 
 Disclaims him, man he must be styled) 
 
 Wanted no good below, 
 Gentle he was, if gentle birth 
 Could make him such, and he had worth, 
 
 If wealth can worth bestow. 
 
 In social talk and ready jest, 
 He shone superior at the feast. 
 
 And qualities of mind, 
 Illustrious in the eyes of those 
 Whose gay society he chose, 
 
 Possess'd of every kind. 
 
 Methinks I see him powder'd red. 
 With bushy locks his well-dress'd head 
 
 Wing'd broad on either side. 
 The mossy rosebud not so sweet ; 
 His steeds superb, his carriage neat, 
 
 As luxury could provide. 
 
 Can such be cruel 1 Such can be 
 Cruel as hell, and so was he; 
 
 A tyrant entertain'd 
 With barbarous sports, whose fell delight 
 Was to encourage mortal fight 
 
 'Twixt birds to battle train'd. 
 
 One feather'd champion he possess'd, 
 His darling far beyond the rest. 
 
 Which never knew disgrace. 
 Nor e'er had fought but he made flow 
 The life-blood of his fiercest foe, 
 
 The Caesar of his race. 
 
 It chanced at last, when on a day. 
 He push'd him to the desperate fray. 
 
 His courage droop'd, he fled. 
 The master storm'd, the prize was lost. 
 And, instant, frantic at the cost. 
 
 He doom'd his favorite dead. 
 
 He seized him fast, and from the pit 
 Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, 
 
 And, Bring me cord, he cried ; 
 The cord was brought, and. at his word, 
 To that dire implement the bird, 
 
 Alive and struggling, tied. 
 
 The horrid sequel asks a veil ; 
 And all the terrors of the tale 
 
 That can be shall be sunk — 
 Led by the sufferer's screams aright 
 His shock'd companions view the sight, 
 
 And hiiii with fury drunk. 
 
 upon this cock he lost ; which so enraged him, that he 
 had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a largo 
 fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affect- 
 ing, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to 
 interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a 
 poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, 
 that he would kill the first man who interposed ; but, in 
 the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down 
 dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the cir- 
 cumstances which attended the death of this great pillar 
 of humanity."
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 539 
 
 All, suppliant, beg a milder fate 
 For the old warrior at the grate : 
 
 He, deaf to pity's call, 
 Whirl'd round hiiu rapid as a wheel 
 His culinary club of steel 
 
 Death menacing on all. 
 
 But vengeance hung not far remote, 
 
 For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat, 
 
 And heaven and eartli defied, 
 Big witli a curse (oo closely pent, 
 That struggled vainly for a vent. 
 
 He totter'd, reel'd, and died. 
 
 'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, 
 To point the judgment of the skies ; 
 
 But judgments plain as this. 
 That, sent for man's instruction, bring 
 A written label on their wing, 
 
 'Tis hard to read amiss. 
 May, 1789. 
 
 TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. 
 
 BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WEST- 
 MINSTER. 
 
 HisTiNcis ! I knew thee young, and of a mind, 
 While young, humane, conversable, and kind, 
 Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, 
 Now grown a villain, and the worst of men. 
 But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd 
 And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 
 
 TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, 
 
 ■»N HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, 
 " AD LIBRUM SUUM." 
 
 MvuiA, could Horace have guess'd 
 
 What honor awaited his ode 
 To his own little volume address'd. 
 
 The honor which you have bostow'd ; 
 Who have traced it in characters here, 
 
 So elegant, even, and neat, 
 He had laugli'd at the critical sneer 
 
 ^Vhich he seems to have trembled to meet. 
 
 And sneer, if you please, he had said, 
 
 A nymph shall hereatler arise. 
 Wlio shall give me, when you are all dead, 
 
 The glory your malice denies; 
 Shall dignity give to my lay, 
 
 Althougli hut a mere bagatelle; 
 And even a f>oet shall say, 
 
 Nothing ever was written so well. 
 Feb., 1790. 
 
 TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE 
 HALIBUT, 
 
 ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 2G. 
 
 1784. 
 
 WiiERR hast thou floated, in what seas pursued 
 Thy pastime 'i when wast thou an egg new 
 
 spawn'd. 
 Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste 1 
 Roar as tliey might, the overbearing winds 
 That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast 
 
 safe — 
 
 And in thy minikin and embryo state, 
 Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, 
 Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd 
 The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, 
 And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. 
 Indebted to no magnet and no chart, 
 Nor under guidance of the polar fire, 
 Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, 
 Grazing at large in meadows submarine, 
 Where fiat Batavia, just emerging, peeps 
 Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks 
 Beat back the surge — and where Hibernia shoots 
 Her wondrous causeway far into the main. 
 — Wherever thou hast fed, thou httle thought'st, 
 And I not more, that I should feed on thee. 
 Peace, therefore, and good health, and much 
 
 good fish. 
 To him who sent thee ! and success, as oft 
 As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well ! 
 
 To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee 
 Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd 
 Would envy, could they know that thou wast 
 To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE, 
 
 ERECTED AT THE SOWING OP A GROVE OF OAKS 
 AT CHILI.INGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD 
 ESa, 1790. 
 
 Other stones the era tell 
 When some feeble mortal fell ; 
 I stand here to date the birth 
 Of these hardy sons of earth. 
 
 Which shali longest brave the sky, 
 Storm and frost — these oaks or I ] 
 Pass an age or two away, 
 I must moulder and decay, 
 But the years that crumble me 
 Shall invigorate the tree. 
 Spread its branch, dilate its size, 
 Lift its summit to the skies. 
 
 Cherish honor, virtue, truth. 
 So shalt tiiou prolong thy youth. 
 Wanting these, however fast 
 Man be fix'd and forin'd to last. 
 He is lifeless even now, 
 Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 
 .Tune, 17'J0. 
 
 ANOTHER, 
 
 FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION 
 AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR. 
 
 Reader ! behold a monument 
 
 That asks no sigh or tear, 
 Though it perpetuate the event 
 
 Of a great burial here. 
 June, 1790. Aimo 1791 
 
 TO MRS. KING, 
 
 ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR, A PATCH- 
 WORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING 
 
 The bard, if e'er he feel at all. 
 Jlust sure be quicken'd by a call 
 Both on his heart and head,
 
 640 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 To pay with tuneful thanks the care 
 And kindness of a lady fair, 
 Who deigns to deck Jiis bed. 
 
 A bed like this, in ancient time, 
 On Ida's barren top sublime, 
 
 (As Homer's epic shows) 
 Composed of sweetest vernal flowers. 
 Without the aid of sun or showers. 
 
 For Jove and Juno rose. 
 
 Less beautiful, however gay, 
 
 Is that which in the scorching day, 
 
 Recpives the weary swain, 
 Who, laying his long scythe aside, 
 Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, 
 
 Till roused to toil again. 
 
 What labors of the loom I see ! 
 
 Looms numberless have groan'd for me ! 
 
 Should every maiden come 
 To scramble ibr the patch that bears 
 The impress of the robe she wears. 
 
 The bell would toll for some. 
 
 And oh. what havoc would ensue! 
 
 This bright display of every hue 
 All in a momi^nt fled ! 
 
 As if a storm should strip the bowers 
 
 Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers- 
 Each pocketing a shred. 
 
 Thanks then to every gentle fair 
 Who will not come to peck me bare 
 
 As bird of borrowed feather, 
 And thanks to one above them all, 
 The gentle fair of Pertenhall, 
 Who put the whole together. 
 August, 1790. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 
 
 Poets attempt the noblest task they can. 
 Praising the author of all good in man. 
 And. next commemorating worthies lost. 
 The dead in whom that good abounded most. 
 
 Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more 
 Famed for thy probity from shore to shore, 
 Thee, Thornton ! worthy in some page to shine. 
 As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
 I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
 The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. 
 Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
 It were to weep that goodness has its meed. 
 That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky. 
 And glory for the virtuous when they die. 
 
 What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard 
 Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afiord. 
 Sweet as the privilege of healing woe 
 By virtue sufTer'd combating below 1 [means 
 That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee 
 To illumine with delight the saddest scenes. 
 Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
 As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
 Thou hadst an industry in doing good, 
 Restless as his wlio toils and sweats for food ; 
 Avarice in thee was the d(;sire of wealth 
 By rust unperishable or by stealth. 
 And if the genuine worth of gold depend 
 On application to its noblest end, 
 
 Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven 
 Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. 
 And, though God made thee of a nature prone 
 To distribution boundless of thy own. 
 And still by motives of religious force 
 Iinpell'd thee more to that heroic course. 
 Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
 Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat; 
 And, though in act unwearied, secret still. 
 As in some solitude the summer rill 
 Refreshes where it winds, the faded green, [seen 
 And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un- 
 
 Such was thy charity : no sudden start, 
 After long sleep of passion in the heart, 
 But stedfast principle, and in its kind. 
 Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, 
 Traced easily to its true source above, 
 To him vvliose works bespeak his nature, love. 
 
 Thy Imunties ail were Christian, and I make 
 This record of thee for the Gospel's sake; 
 That the incredulous themselves may see 
 Its use and power exemplified in thee. 
 Nov., 1790. 
 
 THE FOUR AGES. 
 
 (a brief FRAGME^fT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED 
 POEM.) 
 
 " I COULD be well content, allowed the use 
 Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd 
 From worn-out follies now acknowledged such, 
 To recommence life's trial, in the hope 
 Of fewer errors on a second proof!" 
 
 Thus, while grey evening luU'd the wind, and 
 call'd 
 Fresh odors from the shrubbery at my side. 
 Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused, 
 And held accustom'd conference with my heart; 
 When from within it thus a voice replied : 
 
 "Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught 
 at length 
 This wisdom, and but this, from all the past 1 
 Is not the pardon of thy long arrear. 
 Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
 Of talents judgment, mercies, better far 
 Than opportunity vouchsafed to err 
 With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect 1" 
 
 I heard, and acquiesced : then to and fro 
 Oft pacing as the mariner his deck, 
 My gravelly bounds from self to human kind 
 I pass'd, and next consider'd — what is man. 
 
 Knows he his origin 1 can he ascend 
 By reminiscence to his earliest date 1 
 Slept he in Adam1 And in those from him 
 Through nuaierous generations, till he found 
 At length his destined moment to be born 1 
 Or was he not till fashion'd in the womb? 
 Deep mysteries both ! which schoolmen mus 
 
 have toil'd 
 To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still. 
 
 It is an evil incident to man, 
 And of the worst that unexplored he leaves 
 Truths useful and attainable with ease, 
 To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies 
 Not to be solved, and useless if it might. 
 Mysteries are food for angels; they digest 
 With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, 
 While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean 
 His manna from the ground, or starve and die. 
 May, 1791.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 64] 
 
 THE RETIRED CAT.* 
 
 A poet's cat, sedate and grave, 
 
 As poet well could wish to have, 
 
 Was much addicted to inquire 
 
 For nooks to which she might retire, 
 
 And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
 
 She might repose, or sit and think. 
 
 I know not where she caught the trick — 
 
 Nature perhaps herself had cast her 
 In such a mould pliilosophique, 
 
 Or else she Icarn'd it of her master. 
 Sometimes ascending, debonair, 
 An apple tree, or lofty pear, 
 liodged with convenience in the fork, 
 She watch'd the gardener at his work; 
 Sometimes her ease and solace souirht 
 In an old eiiipty watering pot : 
 There, wanting nothing save a fan, 
 To seem some nymph in her sedan 
 Apparell'd in exactest sort. 
 Anil ready to be borne to court. 
 
 But love of change, it seems, has place 
 Not only in our wiser race ; 
 Cats also feel, as well as we. 
 That passion's force, and so did she. 
 Her climbing, she began to find, 
 Exposed her too much to the wind, 
 And the old utensil of tin 
 Was cold and comfortless within : 
 She there lore wisli'd instead of those 
 Some place of more serene repose, 
 Where neither cold might come, nor air 
 Poo rudely wanton with her hair, 
 And sought it in the likeliest mode 
 Within her master's snug abode. 
 
 A drawer, it chanced,°at bottom lined 
 With linen of the softest kind. 
 With such as merchants introduce 
 From India, for the ladies' use, 
 A drawer impending o'er the rest, 
 Half open in the topmost chest. 
 Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
 Invited her to slumber there ; 
 Puss with delight beyond expression, 
 Survey d the scene and took pos.session. 
 Recumbent at her ease, ere long. 
 And luH'd by her own humdrum song. 
 She leit the cares of life behind. 
 
 And slept as she would sleep her last. 
 When in can^o. housewitt^ly inclined, 
 The chambermaid, and shut it fast; 
 By no malignity impcU'd, 
 But all unconscious whom it held. 
 
 Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) 
 " VVas ever cat attended thus 1 
 The open drawer was lell, I see. 
 Merely to prove a nest for me. 
 For soon as I was well composed, 
 Then came the maid, and it was closed. 
 
 * Cowper's partiality to animals i.s well known. I.ady 
 Heskelh, in one ol her leltcr;*, , states, "that he hiwJ, at one 
 time, five iiil)l)it's, three haroa, two giiiiiea-pit;s, ii ma^'- 
 pie, a jay, and a starlinij; besides two (;oldlhichcs, tw-'o 
 canary l)irds, and two dof^'s. It ia amazinLC Ikiw the thn-o 
 hares can find room to f,'ainl)(il and frolic (as they cer- 
 tainly dol in his small parlor;" and she adds, "I l'<)ri,'ot 
 to cnninerale a simirrcl, which he had at the same tijne, 
 and which used to play with one ol' the hares cuntiniially. 
 One oveninf,', the cat frivinir one of the hares a sound box 
 on the ear, the hare ran after her, and, havins; cauijht 
 her, punished her hy drumniiii'.; on her back with her 
 two feet as hard as dniui-sticUs, till the creature would 
 have uctually been loUed, had not Mrs. Uuwiu rescued 
 her." 
 
 How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet 
 
 what a delicate retreat ! 
 
 1 will resign myself to rest 
 Till Sol declining in the west. 
 Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, 
 Susan will come and let me out." 
 
 The evening came, the sun descended, 
 And Puss remain'd still unattended. 
 The night roll'd tardily away, 
 (With her indeed 'twas never day,) 
 The sprightly morn her course renew'd, 
 The evening grey again ensued, 
 And puss cauie into mind no more 
 Than if entomb'd the day before. 
 With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room, 
 She now presaged approaching doom, 
 Nor slept a wink or purr'd, 
 Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. 
 
 That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
 Heard an inexplicable scratching; 
 His noble heart went pit-a-pat, 
 And to himself he said—' VVhat's that?" 
 He drew the curtain at his side. 
 
 And forth he peep'd but nothing spied. 
 Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 
 Something imprison'd in the chest, 
 
 And doubtful what, with prudent care 
 
 Resolved it should continue there. 
 
 At length a voice which well he knew, 
 
 A long and melancholy mew. 
 
 Saluting his poetic ears. 
 
 Consoled him and dispell'd his fears ; 
 
 He left his ()ed, he trod the floor. 
 
 He 'gan in haste the drawers ex'-,lore, 
 
 The lowest first, and without stop 
 
 The rest in order to the top. 
 
 For 'tis a truth well known to most, 
 
 That whatsoever thing is lost. 
 
 We seek it ere it come to light. 
 
 In every cranny but the right. 
 
 Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete 
 
 As erst, with airy self-conceit. 
 
 Nor in her own fond apprehension 
 
 A theme for all the world's attention. 
 
 But modest, sober cured of all 
 
 Her notions hyperbolical, 
 
 And wishing lor a place of rest 
 
 Anything ratlier than a chest. 
 
 Then stepp'd the poet into bed 
 
 With this rejection in his head : 
 
 MOUAL. 
 
 Beware of too sublime a sense 
 Of your own worth and consequence : 
 The man who dreams himself so great, 
 And his importance of such weight, 
 That all around in all that's done,' 
 Must move and act lor him alone. 
 Will learn in school of tribulation 
 The lolly of his expectation. 
 1791. 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 
 
 Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, 
 Of numerous charms possess'd, 
 
 A warm dispute once chanced to wage, 
 Whose temper was the best. 
 
 The worth of each had been complete 
 Had both alike bccn mild • 
 41
 
 642 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 But one, although her smile was sweet, 
 Frown'd ollener tiian she smiled. 
 
 And in her humor, when she frown'd, 
 Would raise her voice and roar, 
 
 And shake with fury to the ground 
 The garland that she wore. 
 
 The other was of gentler cast, 
 
 From all such frenzy clear. 
 Her frowns were seldom known to last, 
 
 And never proved severe. 
 
 To poets of renown in song 
 The nymphs referr'd the cause, 
 
 Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong. 
 And gave misplaced applause. 
 
 They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, 
 
 The flippant and the scold, 
 And though she changed her mood so oft, 
 
 That faUing left untold. 
 
 No iudores, sure, were e'er so mad, 
 
 Or so resolved to err — 
 In short, the charms her sister had 
 
 They lavish'd all on her. 
 
 Then thus the god, whom fondly they 
 
 Their great inspirer call, 
 Was heard, one genial summer's day. 
 
 To reprimand them all. 
 
 " Since thus ye have combined," he said, 
 " My fevorite nymph to slight. 
 
 Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
 With June's undoubted right, 
 
 " The minx shall for your folly's sake, 
 
 Still prove herself a shrew, 
 Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 
 
 And pinch your noses blue." 
 May, 1791. 
 
 YARDLEY OAK.* 
 
 Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 
 
 That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, 
 
 (Since which I number threescore winters past.) 
 
 A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps. 
 
 As now, and with excoriate forks deform. 
 
 Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued 
 
 With truth "from heaven, created things adore, 
 
 I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 
 
 It seems idolatry with some excuse, 
 When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
 Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet 
 Unpurified by an authentic act 
 Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine. 
 Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
 Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
 Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. 
 
 Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball [jay. 
 Which babes might play with ; and the thievish 
 Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd 
 The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
 Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
 And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
 
 * This tree had been Icnowu by the name of Judith for 
 many ages. Perhaps it received that name on being 
 planted by the Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, 
 whom lie gave in marriage to the English Earl Waltheof, 
 with the counties of Northampton and Huntingdon as 
 her dower.— fida Letters, p. 301. 
 
 But fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
 Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 
 Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, 
 With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared 
 The soft receptacle, in which, secure. 
 Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 
 
 So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can. 
 Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search 
 Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss. 
 Sifts half the pleasures of short hfe away ! 
 
 Thou fell'st mature ; and, in the loamy clod 
 Swelling with vegetative force instinct. 
 Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins, 
 Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact ; 
 A leaf succeeded, and another leaf. 
 And, all the elements thy puny growth 
 Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. 
 Who lived when thou wast such. Oh, could'st 
 thou speak. 
 As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
 Oracular, I would not curious ask 
 The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth 
 Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 
 
 By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
 The clock of history, facts and events 
 Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
 Recovering, and mis.stated setting right — 
 Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again ! 
 Time made tliee what thou wast, king of the 
 woods ; 
 And time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
 For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
 O'erhung the champaign ; and the numerous 
 
 flocks 
 That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope 
 Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the .storm. 
 No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived 
 Thy popularity, and art become 
 (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
 Forgotten, as the ibliage of thy youth, [push'd 
 While thus through all the stages thou hast 
 Of treeship— first, a seedling, hid in grass ; 
 Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as century roU'd 
 Slow after century, a giant bulk 
 Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root. 
 Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
 With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
 The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict 
 On other mighty ones, found also thee. 
 
 What exhibitions various hath the world 
 Witness'd of mutability in all 
 That we account most durable below 1 
 Change is the diet on which all subsist, 
 Created changeable, and change at last. 
 Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
 Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
 Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
 Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought, 
 Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
 In all that live, plant, animal, and man. 
 And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. 
 Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works 
 Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
 The force that agitates not unimpair'd ; 
 But worn by frequent impulse to the cause 
 Of their best tone their dissolution owe. 
 
 Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
 The great and little of thy lot, thy growth 
 From almost nullity into a state 
 Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
 Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
 Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 643 
 
 Could shake thee to the root — and time has been 
 When tempests could not. At thy firmest a<re 
 Thou hadst witliin tliy bole solid contents [deck 
 That might have ribb'd the sides an<l plank'dtlie 
 Of some Hai^<r'd admiral ; and tortuous arms, 
 The shipwri;jlit's darling treasure, didst present 
 To the t'our-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
 Warp'd into tough kncc-timbcr, many a load !* 
 But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days 
 Oaks tell not, hewn by thousands, to supply 
 The bottondess demands of contest waged 
 For senatorial honors. Thus to time 
 The task was left to whittle thee away 
 With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, 
 Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more. 
 Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, 
 Achieved a labor which had, far and wide. 
 By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. 
 
 Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
 Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that 
 
 seems 
 A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, 
 Which it would give in rivulets to tiiy root. 
 Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
 The feller's toil, which tiiou couldst ill requite. 
 Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
 A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, 
 Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
 The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 
 
 So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet 
 Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid. 
 Though all the superstructure by the tooth 
 Pulverized of venality, a shell 
 Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 
 
 Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent 
 them off 
 Long since, and rovers of the forest wild 
 With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some 
 
 have left 
 A splintcr'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white ; 
 And some memorial none where once they grew. 
 Yet lite still hngrrs in thee, and puts forth 
 Proof not contemptible of what she can. 
 Even where death predominates. The spring 
 Finds thee not less alive to her sweet Ibrce 
 Than yonder upstarts of the neighboring wood, 
 So much thy juniors, wlio their birth received 
 Half a millennium since the date of tliine. 
 
 But since, altliougli well qualified by age 
 To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
 May be expected trom thee, seated here 
 On thy distorted root, with hearers none, 
 Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
 Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
 In my own ear such matter as I may. 
 
 One man alone, the father of us all, 
 Drew not his life from woman ; never gazed, 
 With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, , 
 On all around him ;, Icarn'd not by degrees, 
 Nor owed articulation to his ear; 
 But, moulded by his Maker into man 
 At once, upstood intelligent, survcy'd 
 All creatures, with precision understood 
 Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd 
 To each his name significant, and lill'd 
 With love and wisdi^m. rendcr'd back to Heaven 
 In praise hariiionious the first air be drew. 
 He was excused the penalties of dull 
 
 * Knee-timber is found in the croolvod arms of oak, 
 Whicji, by reiison of tlicir distortion, are eiisily adjusted 
 ,o the angle formed where the duck and the ship's sides 
 meet. 
 
 Minority. No tutor charged his hand 
 With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
 With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
 Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose 
 
 course, 
 Eventful, should supply her with a theme .... 
 1791. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE, 
 
 WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'i 
 DAY. 
 
 Whexce is it that, amazed, I hear 
 
 From yonder wither'd spray. 
 This foremost morn of all the year. 
 
 The melody of May 1 
 
 And why, since thousands would be proud 
 
 Of such a tavor shown, 
 Am I selected from the crowd 
 
 To witness it alone 1 
 
 Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 
 
 For that I also long 
 Have practised in the groves like thee, 
 
 Though not like thee in song 1 
 
 Or sing'st thou, rather, under force 
 
 Of some divine command, 
 Commission'd to presage a course 
 
 Of happier days at hand ! 
 
 Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 
 
 And joyous year have I, 
 As thou to-day, put forth my song 
 
 Beneath a wintry sky. 
 
 But thee no wintry skies can harm, 
 
 Who only need'st to sing 
 To make e'en January charm. 
 
 And every season spring. 
 179-2. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 
 
 OF MISS PATTY MORE's, SISTER OP HANNAH MORE. 
 
 In vain to live from age to age 
 While modern bards endeavor, 
 
 I write my name in Patty's page, 
 And gain my point forever. 
 
 W. COWPER. 
 March C, 1792. 
 
 SONNET 
 TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 
 
 Thy country, Wilberforce. with just disdain. 
 Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd 
 Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 
 
 From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. 
 Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter- 
 gall'd, 
 
 Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain. 
 
 Thou hast achieved a part ; hast gain'd the ear 
 
 Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : 
 
 Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold cau- 
 tion pause 
 And weave delay, the better hour is near 
 That shall remunerate thy toils severe. 
 
 By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
 
 644 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
 From all the just on earth and all the blest above. 
 April 16, 17'je. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. 
 
 To purify their wine some people bleed 
 A lamb into the barrel, and succeed ; 
 No nostrum, planters say is half so good 
 To make fine sugar as a negro's blood. 
 Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, 
 And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs, 
 'Tis in the blood of innocence alone- 
 Good cause why planters never try their own. 
 
 TO DR. AUSTIN, 
 
 OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. 
 
 Austin 1 accept a grateful verse from me, 
 The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. 
 Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind 
 Pleasing requital in my verse may find ; 
 Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, 
 Immortalizing names which else had died: 
 And O ! could I command the glittering wealth 
 With which sick kings are glad to purchase 
 Yet, if extensive fame, and sure tohve, [health ! 
 Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 
 I would not recompense his arts with less, 
 Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 
 Friend of my friend !* I love thee, though 
 unknown, 
 And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 
 May 26, 1792. 
 
 CATHARINA : 
 
 THE SECOND PART: ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE 
 COURTENAY, ESa. 
 
 Believe it or not, as you choose, 
 
 The doctrine is certainly true, 
 That the future is known to the muse. 
 
 And poets are oracles too. 
 I did but express a desire 
 
 To see Catharina at home, 
 At the side of my friend George's fire. 
 
 And lo — she is actually come ! 
 
 Such prophecy some may despise, 
 
 But the wish of a poet and friend 
 Perhaps is approved in the skies. 
 
 And therefore attains to its end. 
 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth 
 
 From a bosom effectually vvarm'd 
 With the talents, the graces, and worth 
 
 Of the person for whom it was form'd. 
 
 Mariat would leave us, I knew. 
 
 To the grief and regret of us all. 
 But less to our grief, could we view 
 
 Catharina the Queen of the Hall. 
 And therefore I wish'd as I did. 
 
 And therefore this union of hands: 
 Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 
 
 But all cry — Amen — to the bans. 
 * Hayley. t Lady Throckmorton. 
 
 Since, therefore, I seem to incur 
 
 No danger of wishing in vain 
 When making good wishes for her, 
 
 I will e'en to my wishes again — 
 With one I have made her a wife. 
 
 And now I will try with another. 
 Which I cannot suppress for my life — 
 
 How soon I can make her a mother. 
 June, 1792. 
 
 EPITAPH ON FOP, 
 
 A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 
 
 Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name. 
 Here moulders one whose bones some honoi 
 
 claim. 
 No sycophant, although of spaniel race, 
 And though no hound, a martyr to the chase — 
 Ye squirrels rabbits, leverets, rejoice. 
 Your haunts no lonorer echo to his voice; 
 This record of his fate exulting view. 
 He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. 
 
 " Yes," — the indignant shade of Fop re.plies— 
 " And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies." 
 August, 1792. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ., 
 
 ON HIS PICTURE OP ME IN CRAYONS, 
 
 Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the 
 months of August and September, 1792. 
 
 RoMNEY, expert infallibly to trace 
 
 On chart or canvas not the fonn alone 
 And semblance, but however faintly shown, 
 
 The mind's impression too on every face — 
 
 With strokes that time ought never to erase. 
 Thou hastsopenciU'd mine that though I own 
 The subject worthless, I have never known 
 
 The artist shining with superior grace. 
 
 But this I mark — that symptoms none of woe 
 In thy incomparable work appear. 
 
 Well — 1 am satisfied it should be so. 
 
 Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; 
 
 For in my looks what sorrow could 'st thou see 
 When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee 1 
 October, 1792. 
 
 MARY AND JOHN. 
 
 If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 
 
 'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. 
 
 Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the 
 
 scratches ! 
 .It can't be a match— 'tis a bundle of matches. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, 
 
 or CHICHELEY. 
 
 Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man 
 
 lies, 
 Till all who knew him follow to the skies. 
 Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep ; 
 Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants 
 
 weep — 
 And justly— few shall ever him transcend 
 As husband, parent, brother, master, friend, 
 April, 1793.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 645 
 
 TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, 
 
 ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK 
 MADE By HERSELF. 
 
 PURSE 
 
 My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
 When I was young, and thou no more 
 
 Than phiything tor a nurse. 
 I danced and fondled on my knee, 
 A kitten both in size and glee, 
 
 I thank thee for my purse. 
 
 Gold pays the worth of all things here ; 
 But not of love ; — that gem's too dear 
 
 For richest rogues to win it ; 
 I, therefore, as a proof of love, 
 Esteem tiiy present tar above 
 The best things kept within it. 
 May 4, 17'j;t. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN 
 THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN. 
 
 This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
 Built as it has been in our waning years, 
 A rest afforded to our weary feet, 
 Preliminary to — the last retreat. 
 May, 1793. 
 
 TO MRS. UNWIN. 
 
 Marv ! I want a lyre with other strings, 
 
 Such aid t'rom heaven as some have feign'd 
 
 thoy drew, 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
 
 And undebased by praise of meaner things, 
 
 That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
 I may record thy worth with honor due. 
 In verse as musical as thou art true, 
 
 And that immortalizes whom it sings. 
 
 But thou hast little need. There is a book 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light. 
 
 On winch the eyes of God not rarely look, 
 A chronicle of actions just and bright; 
 
 There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
 And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee 
 mine. 
 May, 1793. 
 
 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ., 
 
 ON HIS PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTiaUE BUST 
 OF HOMER. 
 
 Kinsman beloved, and as a son, l)y me I 
 When I behold tiie fruit of thy regard, 
 The sculptured lorm of my old favorite bard, 
 
 I reverence feel lor him, and love for thee : 
 
 Joy too and grief— much joy that there should be. 
 Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to 
 
 reward 
 With some applause my bold attempt and hard. 
 
 Which others .scorn : critics by courtesy. 
 
 The grief is tiiis, tiiat, sunk in Homer's mine, 
 I lose my precious years, now soon to tail. 
 
 Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
 Proves dross when balanced in the Christian 
 scale. 
 
 Be wiser thou — like our tbrefother Donne, 
 
 Seek he avcnly wealth, and work for God alone. 
 May 1793. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO 
 RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. 
 
 If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 
 
 found 
 While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around, 
 Might fitly represent tlie church endow'd 
 With heavenly gills to heathens not allow'd; 
 In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high, 
 Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry : 
 Heaven grant us half the omen — may we see 
 Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! 
 May, 1793. 
 
 ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING 
 A YOUNG BIRD. 
 
 A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you. 
 
 Well ted, and at his ease. 
 Should wiser be than to pursue 
 
 Each tritie that he sees. 
 
 But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 
 
 Which flew not till to-day, 
 Against my orders, whom you heard 
 
 Forbidding you the prey. 
 
 Nor did you kill that you might eat 
 
 And ease a doggish pain. 
 For him, though chased with furious .leat, 
 
 You letl where he was slain. 
 
 Nor was he of the thievish sort, 
 
 Or one whom blood allures, 
 But innocent was all his sport 
 
 Whom you have torn tor yours. 
 
 My dog I what remedy remains, 
 
 Since teach you all I can, 
 I see you, after all my pains. 
 
 So much resemble man 1 
 July 1.'), 1793. 
 
 BEAU'S REPLY. 
 
 Sir. when I flew to seize the bird 
 
 In spite of your command, 
 A louder voice than yours I heard. 
 
 And harder to withstand. 
 
 You cried — Forbear ! — but in my breast 
 A mightier cried — Proceed ! — 
 
 'Twas nature, Sir, whose strontr behest 
 Iinpeird me to the deed. , 
 
 Yet, much as nature I respect, 
 
 I ventured once to break 
 (As you perhaps may recollect) 
 
 Her precept for your sake ; 
 
 And when your linnet on a day. 
 
 Passing his prison door, 
 Had tlutter'd all his strength away, 
 
 And panting press'd the floor, 
 
 Well knowing him a sacred thing. 
 
 Not destined to my tooth, 
 I only kiss'd his ruffled wing. 
 
 And lick'd the feathers smooth. 
 
 Let my obedience then cxcus-: 
 My disobedience now,
 
 646 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
 From your aggrieved bow-wow : 
 
 If killing birds be such a crime, 
 (Which I can hardly see.) 
 
 What think you, Sir, of killing time 
 With verse address'd to me 1 
 
 TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ES^- 
 
 Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, 
 Worthier to stand forever, if they could, 
 Than any built of stone or yet of wood, 
 
 For back of royal elephant to bear ! 
 
 O for pemiission from the skies to share. 
 Much to my own, though little to thy good, 
 With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) 
 
 A partnership of literary ware ! 
 
 But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth 
 To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays ; 
 
 Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth ! 
 But what his commentator's happiest praise *? 
 
 That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes. 
 Which they who need them use, and then 
 despise. 
 
 June 29, 1793. 
 
 ANSWER 
 
 To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine 
 Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent 
 to her, on condition siie should neither show it, nor 
 take a copy. 
 
 To be remember'd thus is fame, 
 
 And in the first degree ; 
 And did the few like her the same, 
 
 The press might sleep for me. 
 
 So Homer in the memory stored 
 
 Of many a Grecian belle. 
 Was once preserved— a richer hoard. 
 
 But never lodged so well. 
 
 1793. 
 
 ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. 
 
 The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse. 
 Whom all this elegance might well seduce; 
 Nor can our censure on the husband fall. 
 Who for a wife so lovely, slew them all. 
 
 September, 1793. 
 
 TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT 
 GRAVINA, 
 
 On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into 
 Italian Verse. 
 
 My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, 
 
 And steep'd not now in rain. 
 But in CastiL'an streams by you. 
 
 Will never fade again 
 1793. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON. 
 
 Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme 
 Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. 
 
 Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein; 
 Seems it to say — " Health here has long tc 
 
 reign V 
 Hast thou the vigor of thy youth 1 an eye 
 That beams delight 1 a heart untaught to sigh'? 
 Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease 
 Anticipates a day it never sees ; 
 And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud 
 Exclaims " Prepare thee for an early shroud." 
 
 EPITAPH ON A HARE. 
 
 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
 Nor swifter greyhound follow. 
 
 Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
 Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo ; 
 
 Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. 
 Who, nursed with tender care. 
 
 And to domestic bounds confined. 
 Was still a wild Jack hare. 
 
 Though duly from my hand he took 
 
 His pittance every 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 regaled, 
 
 On pippins' russet peel, 
 And when his juicy salads fail'd 
 
 Sliced carrot pleased him well. 
 
 A turkey carpet was his lawn. 
 
 Whereon he loved 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 showers, 
 
 Or when a storm drew near. 
 
 Eight years and five round rolling moons 
 
 He thus saw steal away, 
 
 Dozing out all his idle noons, 
 
 And every night at play. 
 
 I kept him for his humor'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.
 
 TTIHI IS 
 
 !K] «i K rc
 
 TREATMENT OF HIS HARES. 
 
 641 
 
 EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM. 
 
 Ilic etiani jacet, 
 
 Qui totuiii novennium vixit, 
 
 Puss. 
 
 Sistc paulisper, 
 
 Q,ui prcDteriturus es, 
 
 Et tecum sic rcpula — 
 
 Hunc neque canis venaticus, 
 
 Nee plumbum missile, 
 
 Nee laqucus, 
 
 Nee inibres niiuii, 
 
 Confeccre : 
 
 Tamen mortuus est — 
 
 Et moriar ego. 
 
 The following account of the tr(;atment of his 
 hares was inserted by Covvpcr in the Gentle- 
 man's Magazine. 
 
 In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind 
 and body, incapable ol" dive rtint,' myself either Willi com- 
 jiany or boolis, and yet in a cuiidiliou tliat made some 
 divei'.si(jn necessary, I was glad of anytliiii,:c tlial Wdidd 
 eiv^w^i: my atlentioii, without fatij^uiui; it. The children 
 of a nei'^dibor of mine had a leveret y;iven lliem ior a play- 
 thing; it was at that time about three muuths old. Un- 
 derstanding belter how to tease the poor creature than 
 to feed il, and scjon becoming weary of their charge, they 
 readily ci)nsenled that their father, who saw it pining and 
 growing leaner every day, should f)tl'er it to iny accept- 
 ance. 1 was willing enough to take the i)risuuer under 
 my protection, perceiving that, in the management of 
 niich an animal, and in tlie attempt to tame it, I shoidd 
 find just tliat sort of employment which my case required. 
 Jt was soon knownamong the neighbors that 1 was pleased 
 with the present, and tlie conseciuence was, that in a short 
 time I had as many leverets otl'ered to me as would have 
 slocked a |)ad(lock. 1 undertook the care of three, which 
 it is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names 
 1 gave them — I'uss, 'I'iney, and Bess. Notwithstanding 
 the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you that 
 they were all males. Immediately commencing carpen- 
 ter, I built them houses to sleep in ; each had a separate 
 apartment, so contrived that their ordure wotdd pass 
 through the bottom of it; an earthen pan placed under 
 each received whatsoever fell, which being duly eniijlied 
 and washed, they were thus ke[it perfectly sweet and 
 clean. In the daytime they had the range of a hall, and 
 at niglit retired each tohisowu bed, never intruding into 
 that of another. 
 
 Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, 
 raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from 
 my temples. He would sulfer me to take him up, and to 
 carry him about in my arms, and has more than once 
 fallen fast asleej) upon my knee, lie was 111 three days, 
 during which lime I nursed him, kept him a])art from 
 his fellows, that Ihey might not molest him (for, like 
 many other wild animals, they persecute one of their 
 own species that is sick,) and by constant care, and try- 
 ing him with a variety of herbs, restored him to perfixt 
 health. .N'o creature coidd be more grateful than my jia- 
 tient after his recovery; a sentiment which he most sig- 
 nillcanlly expressed by licking my hand, lirst the back 
 of it, then the palm, then every linger separately, then 
 between all the lingers, iis if anxiinis to leave no part of 
 it unsahited; a ceremony which he never performed but 
 onc<! again upon a similar occasion. Kinding liim ex- 
 tremely tractable, 1 made it my custom to carry him 
 always after bieakfastinlo tlu; garden, where ho hid him- 
 self generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleep- 
 ing or chewiii'-C the cud till evening; in the leaves also 
 of that vine he found a favorite repast. 1 had not long 
 habituated him to this tasie of libeity, before ho b'^an 
 to be impatient for the return of the time when he miijht 
 enjoy it. lie would invite mo, to the garden by drum- 
 ming upon my knee, and by a look of such expression 
 as it was not possible to misinti'rpret. if this rhetoric 
 did not immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of 
 my coat betW(M'ii his teeth, and pidl it with all his force. 
 Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tameil ; the shy- 
 ness of his nature was done away, and on the whole it 
 was visible by many symptoms, which I have not room 
 to enumerate, that he was happier in human society than 
 When shiii i^> with his natural companions. 
 
 Not so Tmey; upon him the kindest treatment had 
 not the least eU'ect. He too w;us sick, and in his sicknos' 
 had an equal share of my attention ; but if, after his re^ 
 covery, 1 took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, 
 strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. Ho 
 was however very entertaining in his way ; even his sur- 
 hness was matter of mirth, and in his plav he preserved 
 such an air of gravity, and performed his ieats with such 
 a solemnity of manner, that in him too X had an agreea- 
 ble comiianion. 
 
 Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose 
 death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, 
 which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a 
 hare of great humor and drollery. Puss was tamed by 
 gentle usage ; Tiney was not to be tamed at all ; and 
 Bess had a courage and confidence that made niin tame 
 from the beginning. 1 always admitted them into the 
 parlor after supper, when, the carpet aUbrdini; their feet 
 a lirm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a 
 thousand gambols, in which Be.s.s, being remarkably 
 strong and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and 
 proved himscilf the Veslris of the party. One evening, 
 the cat being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Hess 
 upon thecheek, an indignity which he resented by drum- 
 ming upon her back with such violence that the cat was 
 happy to e.scai)e from under his paws, and hide herself. 
 1 describe these animals as having each a character of 
 his own. Such they were in fact, and tlwdr countenances 
 were so expressive of that chiiracler, that, when 1 looked 
 only on the lace of either, I immediately knew which it 
 w^as. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his 
 Hock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that 
 he can, by that indication only, distinguish each from 
 all the rest ; and yet, to a common observer, the differ- 
 ence is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same 
 discrimination in the cast of countenances woidd be dis- 
 coverable in hares, and am persuaded that among a 
 thousand of them no two could be found exactly simi- 
 lar : a circumstance little suspected by those who have 
 not had opportuiiily to observe it. These creatures have 
 singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration 
 that is made in the place to which they are accustomed, 
 and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a 
 new object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it 
 was mended with a patch, end that jiatch in a moment 
 underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be 
 very much directed by the smell in the choice of their 
 favorites: to some persons, though they saw them daily, 
 they could never be reconciled, and would even scream 
 when they attempted to touch them ; but a miller com- 
 ing in engaged their atl'ections at once ; his powdered 
 coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder 
 that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens of 
 the kind has taught me to hold the sportman's amuse- 
 ment in abhorrence; he little knows what amiable crea- 
 tures he persecutes, of what gratitudi^ they are capable, 
 how cheerful they are m their spirits, what enjoyment 
 they have of life, and that, impressed as they seem with 
 a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives 
 them peculiar cause for it. 
 
 That I may not be tedious,I will just give ashort sum- 
 mary of those articles of diet that suit them best. 
 
 I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but 
 it is an erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple : 
 they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quittinc; it 
 for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, 
 and lettuce, are their favorite vegetables, especially the 
 last. I discover«d by accident that fine white sand' is in 
 i;reat estimation with them; I suppose as a dii;estive. 
 It happened, that 1 was cleaning a birdcage when the 
 Inires were with me; I placed a pot lilled with such 
 sand upon the lloor, which, being at once directed to it 
 by a strong inslinct, they devoured voraciously; since 
 that lime I have generally taken care to see them well 
 supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy 
 both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat : straw 
 of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their 
 dainties: Ihey will fee<l greedily upon oats, but if fur- 
 nished Willi clean straw never want them ; it serves them 
 also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet 
 and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed re- 
 quire aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity of 
 them with great relish, and are particularly fond ol the 
 plant called musk; they seem to resemble sheep in Ihif., 
 that, if their pasture be loo succulent, they are very fi'V 
 ject to the rot; to prevent which, 1 always made bread 
 their principal innirishment, and, tilling a pan with it 
 cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their 
 chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night , 
 during the winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I 
 mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrot, addii)g
 
 648 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin ; for, thoufch 
 they are fond of the paring, the apple itself dissrnsts them. 
 These however not being a sufficient substitute for the 
 juice of summer herbs, they must at this time be sup- 
 plied with water ; but so placed, that they cannot over- 
 set it into their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally 
 they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of 
 the common brier, eating even the very wood when it is 
 of considerable thickness. 
 
 Bess, 1 have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine 
 years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of 
 some hurt in his loins by a fall ; Puss is still living, and 
 has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs 
 of decay, nor even of age, except that he has grown more 
 discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot con- 
 clude without observing, that I have lately introduced a 
 dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a 
 hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it 
 with great caution, but there was no real need of it. Puss 
 discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symp- 
 tom of hostility. There is therefore, it should seem, no 
 natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit 
 of the one occasions the flight of the other, and the dog 
 pm-sues because he is trained to it; they eat bread at 
 the same time out of the same hand, and are in all re- 
 spects sociable and fi'iendly. 
 
 I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I 
 not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them, 
 that they are indefixtigably nice in keeping themselves 
 clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with 
 a brush under each foot ; and that they are never infested 
 by any vermin. 
 
 May 28, 1784. 
 
 MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER's PAPERS. 
 
 Tuesday, March 9, 1786. 
 This day died poor Puss, aged eleveu years eleven 
 months. He died between twelve and one at noon, of 
 mere old age, and apparently without pain. 
 
 A TALE.* 
 
 In Scotland's realms, where trees are few, 
 
 Nor even shrubs abound ; 
 But where, however bleak the view, 
 
 Some better thmgs are found ; 
 
 For husband there and wife may boast 
 
 Their union undefiled. 
 And false ones are as rare almost 
 
 As hedgerows in the wild — 
 
 In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare 
 
 The history chanced of late — 
 The history of a wedded pair, 
 
 A chafiinch and his mate. 
 
 The spring drew near, each felt a breast 
 
 With genial instinct fill'd ; 
 They pair'd and would have built a nest, 
 
 But found not where to build. 
 
 The heaths uncover'd and the moors 
 
 Except with snow and sleet, 
 Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores 
 
 Could yield them no retreat. 
 
 Long time a breeding-place they sought, 
 
 Till both grew vex'd and tired ; 
 At length a ship arriving brought 
 
 The good so long desired:^ 
 
 * This tale is founded on an article which appeared 
 in the Buckin-ihamshire Herald, f^aturday, June 1, 1793: 
 — ''Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the 
 head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomie- 
 law, ther(! is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest 
 was built while the vessel lay at (ireenock, and was fol- 
 lowed hither by both birds. Though the block is occa- 
 Bionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the 
 birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, 
 visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, 
 but when she descends to the hull for food." 
 
 A ship ! — could such a restless thinfr 
 
 Afl'ord them place of rest 1 
 Or was the merchant charged to bring 
 
 The homeless birds a nest 1 
 
 Hush ! silent hearers profit most — 
 
 This racer of the sea 
 Proved kinder to them than the coast. 
 
 It served them with a tree. 
 
 But such ii tree ! 'twas shaven deal. 
 
 The tree they call a mast. 
 And had a hollow with a wheel. 
 
 Through which the tackle pass'd. 
 
 Within that cavity aloft 
 
 Their roofless home they fix'd, 
 
 Form'd with materials neat and soft, 
 Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd. 
 
 Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor 
 With russet specks bedight — 
 
 The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, 
 And lessens to the sight. 
 
 The mother-bird is gone to sea, 
 As she had changed her kind ; 
 
 But goes the male 1 Far wiser, he 
 Is doubtless left behind. 
 
 No — soon as from ashore he saw 
 The winged mansion move, 
 
 He flew to reach it. by a law 
 Of never-faihng love ; 
 
 Then, perching at his consort's side. 
 
 Was briskly borne along. 
 The billows and the blast defied. 
 
 And cheer'd her with a song. 
 
 The seaman with sincere delight 
 His feather'd shipmates eyes, 
 
 Scarce less exulting in the sight 
 Than when he tows a prize. 
 
 For seamen inuch believe in signs. 
 And from a chance so new 
 
 Each some approaching good divines. 
 And may his hopes be true ! 
 
 Hail, honor'd land ! a desert where 
 
 Not even birds can hide. 
 Yet parents of this loving pair 
 
 Whom nothing could divide. 
 
 And ye who. rather than resign 
 
 Your matrimonial plan, 
 W^ere not afraid to plough the brine 
 
 In company with man ; 
 
 For whose lean country much disdain 
 
 We English often show, 
 Yet from a richer nothing gain 
 
 But wantonness and woe — 
 
 Be it your fortune, year by year 
 The same resource to prove, 
 
 And may ye, sometimes landing here, 
 Instruct us how to love ! 
 
 June, 1793.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 649 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 The twentieth year is well nigh past 
 Since first our sky was overcast ; 
 Ah! would that tliis might be the last! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow ; 
 'Tvvas my distress that brouglit thee low, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For iny sake restless herelot'orc, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind office for me still. 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. 
 And all tliy threads with magic art 
 Have wound themselves about this heart. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 Like language uttered in a dream: 
 Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my siglit 
 Than golden beams of orient light, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
 What sight wortli seeing could I see 1 
 The sun would rise in vain for me. 
 
 My Mary I 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline. 
 Thy hands tlicir little tbrce resign; 
 Yet gently press'd, press gently mine. 
 
 My Mary 1 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
 That now at every step thou movest 
 Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know. 
 How oil the satlncss that I show 
 Translbrms thy smiles to looks of woe. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much ri'seiiiblance of the paFt, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 Autumn of 1793. 
 
 THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 Ob&curest night involved the sky, 
 The Atlantic billows roar'd, 
 
 When such a destined wretch as I, 
 Wash'd headlonrr I'rom on board. 
 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 His floating home Ibrever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast 
 Than he with whom he went, 
 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast 
 With warmer wishes sent. 
 
 He loved them both but both in vain. 
 
 Nor him beheld, nor her a^ain. 
 
 O 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay; 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 
 
 Or courage die awti^ ; 
 But waged with death a lasting strife, 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 
 He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 
 To check the vessel's course, 
 
 But so the I'urious blast prevail'd, 
 That, pitikss p-;rforce. 
 
 They lett their outcast mate behind, 
 
 And scudded still belbre the wind. 
 
 Some succor yet they could aflbrd; 
 
 And, such as storms allow, 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 
 
 Delay'd not to bestow : 
 But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, 
 Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
 Their haste himself condemn, 
 
 Aware that flight, in such a sea 
 Alone could rescue tht-m ; 
 
 Yet bitter lelt it still to die 
 
 Deserted, and his triendsso nigh. 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, selt-upheld: 
 And so long he, with unspent power. 
 
 His destiny repell'd : 
 And ever, as the minutes flew, 
 Entreated help, or cried— " Adieu !" 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 
 His comrades, who belbre 
 Had heard his voice in every blast, 
 
 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. 
 That tills his name, his worth, his aire, 
 
 Is wet with Anson's tear ; 
 And tears by banls or heroes shed 
 Alike immortalize the dead. 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream. 
 
 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. 
 
 No voice divine the storm allay'd. 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When, snatcbd I'roai all etTectual aid. 
 
 We perish'd. each alone : 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 .'Vnd whehn'd hi deeper gulfs than he. 
 March 20, 1799.
 
 650 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 
 
 Dear President, whose art sublime 
 Gives perpetuity to time. 
 And bids transactions of a day, 
 Tiiat fleeting hours would waft away 
 To dark futurity, survive, 
 And in unfading beauty live, — 
 You cannot with a grace decline 
 A special mandate of the Nine — 
 Yourself, whatever task you choose. 
 So much indebted to the Muse. 
 
 Thus say the sisterhood : — We come- 
 Fix well your pallet on your thumb, 
 Prepare the pencil and the tints — 
 We come to furnish you with hints. 
 French disappointment, British glory. 
 Must be the subject of the stoiy. 
 
 First strike a curve, a graceful bow, 
 Then slope it to a point below ; 
 Your outline easy, airy, light, 
 Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. 
 Let independence, sanguine, horrid. 
 Blaze like a meteor in the forehead : 
 Beneath (but lay aside j'our graces) 
 Draw six-and-tvventy rueful laces. 
 Each with a staring, stedfast eye, 
 Fix'd on his great and good ally. 
 France flies the kite — 'tis on the wing- 
 Britannia's lightning cuts the string. 
 The wind that raised it, ere it ceases. 
 Just rends it into thirteen pieces, 
 Takes charge of every fluttering sheet, 
 And lays them all at George's feet. 
 
 Iberia, trembling from afar, 
 Renounces the confederate war. 
 Her eiforts and her arts o'ercome, 
 France calls her shatter'd navies home. 
 Repenting Holland learns to mourn 
 The sacred treaties she has torn ; 
 Astonishment and awe profound 
 Are stamp'd upon the nations round: 
 Without one friend, above all foes, 
 Britannia gives the world repose. 
 
 THE DISTRESSED TRAVELERS; 
 
 OR, LABOR IN VAIN. 
 
 A New Song, to a Tune never sung bejors. 
 
 I SING of a journey to Clifton,* 
 
 We would have perform'd, if we could; 
 Without cart or barrow, to lift on 
 
 Poor Maryt and me through the mud. 
 Slee, sla, slud. 
 Stuck in the mud ; 
 Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood ! 
 
 So away we went, slipjiing and sliding ; 
 
 Hop, hop, d la mode de deux frogs, 
 'Tis near as good walking as riding. 
 When ladies are dress'd in their clogs. 
 Wheels, no doubt, 
 Go briskly about, 
 But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout. 
 
 * A villac;e near Olney. 
 t Mrs. Unwin. 
 
 DIALOGUE. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 " Well ! now, I protest it is charming; 
 
 How finely the weather improves ! 
 That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming. 
 
 How slowly and stately it moves." 
 
 HE. 
 
 " Pshaw ! never mind, 
 'Tis not in the wind, [hina 
 
 We are travelling south, and shall leave it be> 
 
 SHE. 
 
 " I am glad we are come for an airing, 
 For folks may be pounded, and pcnn'd. 
 
 Until they grow rusty, not caring 
 To stir half a mile to an end.' 
 
 HE. 
 
 " The longer we stay, 
 The longer we may ; 
 It's a folly to think about weather or way." 
 
 SHE. 
 
 " But now I begin to be frighted, 
 If I fall what a way I should roll ! 
 
 I am glad that the bridge was indicted, 
 Stay ! stop ! I am sunk in a hole '" 
 
 HE. 
 
 " Nay, never care. 
 'Tis a common affair ; 
 You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there." 
 
 SHE. 
 
 " Let me breathe now a little nnd ponder 
 
 On what it were better to do; 
 That terrible lane I see yonder, 
 
 I think we shall never get through." 
 
 HE. 
 
 " So think I :— 
 But, by the bye, 
 We never shall know, if we never should try." 
 
 SHE. 
 
 " But should we get there, how shall we get home 1 
 What a terrible deal of bad road we have past 1 
 Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come 
 To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last ! 
 Oh this lane ! 
 Now it is plain 
 That struggling and striving is labor in vain." 
 
 HE. 
 
 " Stick fast there while I go and look ;" 
 
 SHE. 
 
 " Don't go away, for fear I should fall :" 
 
 HE. 
 
 " I have examined it, every nook, 
 
 And what you see here is a sample of all. 
 
 Come, wheel round. 
 
 The dirt we have found 
 Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound." 
 
 Now, sister Anne,* the guitar you must take, 
 
 Set it, and sing it, and make it a song : 
 I have varied the verse, for variety's sake. 
 And cut it off short — because it was long, 
 'Tis hobbling and lame, 
 Which critics won't blame, 
 For the sense and the sound, they say, should 
 be the same. 
 
 * The late Lady Austen.
 
 Mioi^iiLLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 651 
 
 ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON 
 LITERATURE.* 
 
 The Genius of the Auirustan age 
 His head among Rome's ruins rear'd, 
 And, bursting with heroic rage, 
 When literary Heron appear'd ; 
 
 Thou hast, he cried, like him of old 
 Wlio set the Ephesian dome on fire, 
 By being scandalously bold, 
 Attain'd the mark of thy desire. 
 
 And for traducing Virgil's name 
 Shalt share his merited reward ; 
 A perpetuity of fame. 
 That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 CN THE I.ATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH 
 THE REMAINS OF MILTON.f ANNO 1790. 
 
 " Me too, perchance, in future days, 
 The sculptured stone shall show, 
 With Paphian myrtle or with bays 
 Parnassian on my brow. 
 
 " But I, or ere that season come, 
 Escaped from every care. 
 Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, 
 And sleep securely there. ":^ 
 
 So sang in Roman tone and style, 
 
 The youthful bard, ere long 
 Ordain'd to grace his native isle 
 
 With her sublimest song. 
 
 Who then but must conceive disdain, 
 
 Hearing the deed unblest 
 Of wretches who have dared profane 
 
 His dread sepulchral rcsf? 
 
 Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones^ 
 
 Where Milton's ashes lay, 
 That trembled not to grasp his bones 
 
 And steal his dust away ! 
 
 O ill requited bard ! neglect 
 Thy living worth repaid, 
 And blind idolatrous respect 
 As much affronts thee dead. 
 August, 1790. 
 
 * Nominally by Robert ITcron, Ksq., but supposed to 
 have been writti'ii hy .John I'iiikortou. 8vo. 17H.3. 
 
 t Tin; bones of Millon, who IIlm buried in Crippleccate 
 church, were disinlerreU : a painphlt't by f,e i\uve was 
 published at the time, giving an account of what appeared 
 on opening his colUn. 
 
 X Forsitan ct nos(rog ducat de martnore vultus, 
 Ncctens aut I'aphia inyrti aiil I'arnasside laurl 
 Fronde comas— At ego secura pace quiescam. 
 
 .Milton in Jlanso. 
 
 $ Cowper, no doyibt. had in his memory the lines said 
 to have been written by .sti;ikspeare on his tomb: 
 
 "Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeM 
 To dig the dusl inelosed here. 
 Ulest be the man that spares these stones, 
 And curst be ho that moves my boues." 
 
 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL. 
 
 June 22, 17=*i 
 
 My dear friend, 
 
 If reading verse be your delight, 
 'Tis mine as much, or more, to write; 
 But what we would, so weak is man. 
 Lies oft remote from what we can. • 
 For instance, at this very time 
 I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme 
 To soothe my friend, and, had I power. 
 To cheat him of an anxious hourj 
 Not meaning (tor I must confess. 
 It were but folly to suppress) 
 His pleasure, or his good alone. 
 But squinting partly at my own. 
 But though the sun is tlaiuing high 
 In the centre of yon arch, the sky, 
 And he had once (and who but he 1) 
 The name for setting genius free. 
 Yet whether poets of past days 
 Yielded him undeserved praise. 
 And he by no uncommon lot 
 Was famed for virtues he had not; 
 Or whether, which is like enough, 
 His Highness may have taken huff, 
 So seldom souifht with invocation. 
 Since it has been the reigning fashion 
 To disregard his inspiration, 
 I seem no brighter in my wits, 
 For all the radiance he emits, 
 Than if I saw, through midnight vapor, 
 The gliuimering of a tarthing taper. 
 Oh for a succedaneum, then, 
 To accelerate a creeping pen ! 
 Oh for a ready succedaneum, 
 (iuod caput, cerebrum, et cranium 
 Ponderc liberet exoso, 
 Et morbo jam caliginoso ! 
 'Tis here ; this oval box well fill'd 
 With best tobacco, finely mill'd, 
 Beats all Anticyra's pretences 
 To disengage the encumbi'r'd senses 
 Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame, 
 Where'er thine haunt, wiiate'er thy name, 
 Whether reposing on the side 
 Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide. 
 Or listening with delight not small 
 To Niagara's distant Ikll, 
 'Tis thine to cherish and to feed 
 The pungent nose-refreshing weed 
 Which, whether pulverized it gain 
 A speedy passage to the brain. 
 Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise 
 In circling eddies to the skies, 
 Does thought more quicken and refine 
 Than all the breath of all the Nine- 
 Forgive the bard, if bard he be, 
 Who once too wantonly made free, 
 To touch with a satiric wipe 
 That symbol of thy power, the pipe; 
 So may no blight intist thy plains. 
 And no unseasonable rains; 
 And so may smiling peace once more 
 Visit America's sad shore; 
 And thou secure from all alarms, 
 Of thundering drums and glittering arniSj 
 Rove unconfined beneath the shade 
 Thy wide expanded leaves have made; 
 So may thy votaries increase. 
 And lumigation never cease.
 
 652 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 May Newton with renew'tl delights 
 Perform thine odoriferous rites, 
 While clouds of incense half divine 
 Involve thy disappearing shrine; 
 And so may smoke-inhaling Bull 
 Be always filling, never full. 
 
 EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, 
 
 OF WESTON. 
 
 Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's 
 
 tomb. 
 But happiest they who win the world to come : 
 Believers have a silent field to fight, 
 And their exploits are veil'd fr?m human sight. 
 They in some nook, where little known thsy 
 
 dwell. 
 Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell ; 
 Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, 
 And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 
 1791. 
 
 SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER 
 BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom 'st 'midst many 
 
 a thorn, 
 Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd. 
 Can e'er forget the charms he left behind. 
 Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn ! 
 In happier days to brighter prospects born, 
 O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind. 
 Like thee, content in every state may find, 
 And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn. 
 To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme 
 Of idle mirth, and affectation coy; 
 To blend good sense with elegance and ease; 
 To bid Alfliction's eye no longer stream; 
 Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy, 
 The guide to pleasures which can never cease ! 
 
 ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION 
 OF HOMER. 
 
 CowpER had sinn'd with some excuse, 
 
 If, bound in rhyming tethers. 
 He had committed this abuse 
 
 Of changing ewes for wethers;* 
 
 But, male for female is a trope, 
 
 Or rather bold misnomer. 
 That would have startled even Pope, 
 
 When he translated Homer. 
 
 DN THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS 
 MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHIxNG IN 
 T.HE YEAR .1789. 
 
 O sovERRiGN of an isle renown'd 
 
 For undisputed sway. 
 Wherever o'er yon gulf profound 
 
 Her navies wing their way. 
 
 * I have heard about my wether mutton from various 
 quarters. It was a bhinder hardly pardonable in a man 
 Who has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, 
 
 With juster claims she builds at length 
 
 Her empire on the sea, 
 And well may boast the waves her strength, 
 
 Which strength restored to thee. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MISS- 
 
 ON READING? 
 THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.* 
 
 And dwells there in a female heart, 
 By bounteous Heaven design'd, 
 
 The choicest raptures to impart, 
 To feel the most refined — 
 
 Dwells there a wish in such a breast 
 
 Its nature to forego, 
 To smother in ignoble rest 
 
 At once both bliss and woe 1 
 
 Par be the thought, and far the strain. 
 
 Which breathes the low desire, 
 How sweet so'er the verse complain. 
 
 Though Phoebus string the lyre. 
 
 Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,) 
 
 Who, knowing them, can tell 
 From generous sympathy what joys 
 
 The glowing bosom swell : 
 
 In justice to the various powers 
 
 Of pleasing, which you share, 
 Join me, amid your silent hours. 
 
 To form the better prayer. 
 
 With lenient balm my Oberon hence 
 
 To fairy land be driven. 
 With every herb that blunts the sense 
 
 Mankind received from heaven. 
 
 Oh ! if my sovereign Author please. 
 
 Far be it from my fate 
 To live unbless'd in torpid ease, 
 
 And slumber on in state ; 
 
 " Each tender tie of life defied, 
 Whence social pleasures spring. 
 Unmoved with all the world beside, 
 A solitary thing — " 
 
 Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow, 
 
 Thus braves the whirling blast, 
 Eternal winter doom'd to know. 
 
 No genial spring to taste. 
 
 In vain warm suns their influence shed. 
 
 The zephyrs sport in vain. 
 He rears unchanged his barren head, 
 
 Whilst beauty decks the plain. 
 
 What though in scaly armor dress'd. 
 
 Indifference may repel 
 The shafts of wo — in such a breast 
 
 No joy can ever dwell. 
 
 'Tis woven in the world's great plan, 
 And fix'd by heaven's decree, 
 
 almost these thirty years. I have accordingly satirizec 
 myself in two stanzas, which I composed last night, while 
 I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with 
 laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant, therefore, 
 you will know how to account for it.— Letter to Joseph 
 Hill, F.St/., dated April 15, 17'J2. 
 
 * For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see .Annual Register, vol. V. 
 p. 202.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 654 
 
 That all the true delights of man 
 Should spring from sympathy. 
 
 'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws 
 
 Of nature we retain, 
 Our self-approving bosom draws 
 
 A pleasure from its pain. 
 
 Thus grief itself has comforts dear 
 
 The sordid never know ; 
 And ecstacy attends the tear 
 
 When virtue bids it flow. 
 
 For, when it streams from that pure source, 
 
 No bribes the heart can win 
 To check, or alter from its course, 
 
 The luxury within. 
 
 Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, 
 
 Who. if from labor eased, 
 Extend no cure beyond themselves, 
 
 Unpleasing and unpleased. 
 
 Let no low thought suggest the prayer, 
 Oh ! grant kind Heaven, to me, 
 
 Long as I draw ethereal air, 
 Sweet Sensibility ! 
 
 Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen. 
 
 With lustre-beaming eye, 
 A train, attendant on their queen, 
 
 (Her rosy chorus) fly ; 
 
 The jocund loves in Hymen's band. 
 
 With torches ever bright. 
 And generous friendsliip, hand in hand 
 
 With pity's wat'ry sight. 
 
 The gentler virtues too are join'd 
 
 In youih immortal warm ; 
 The soil relations, which, combined. 
 
 Give life her every charm. 
 
 The arts come smiling in the close, 
 
 And lend celestial Hre; 
 The marble breathes the canvas glows, 
 
 The muses sweep the lyre. 
 
 *' Still may my molting bosom cleave 
 
 To sufferings not my own. 
 And still the sigh responsive heave 
 
 Where'er is heard a croan. 
 
 " So pity shall take virtue's part. 
 
 Her natural ally. 
 And fashioninir my sollen'd heart. 
 
 Prepare it for the sky." 
 
 This artless vow may Heaven receive, 
 
 And you tbnd maid, approve: 
 So may your guiding angil give 
 
 Whate'er you wisli or love! 
 
 So may the rosy-finger'd hours 
 
 Lead on the various year, 
 And every joy, which now is yours, 
 
 Extend a larger sphere ! 
 
 And suns to co)ne. as round they wheel. 
 
 Your golden moments bless 
 With all a tender heart can feel, 
 
 Or lively fancy guess ! 
 
 1702. 
 
 FROM 
 
 A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, 
 
 LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, 
 
 Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand 
 What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face, 
 
 That you are in fashion all over the land, 
 And 1 am so much fallen into disgrace. 
 
 Do but see what a pretty contemplative air 
 I give to the company — pray do but note 'em — 
 
 You would think that the wise men of Greece 
 
 were all there, [of Gotham. 
 
 Or at least would suppose them the wise men 
 
 My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown 
 
 roses, 
 
 While you are a nuisance where'er you appear ; 
 
 There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of 
 
 noses, [hear. 
 
 Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to 
 
 Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, [gaging. 
 And opening his mouth with a smile quite en- 
 
 The box in reply was heard plainly to say. 
 What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! 
 
 If you have a little of merit to claim, [weed, 
 You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian 
 
 And 1, if I seem to deserve any blame. 
 
 The be fore- mentioned drug in apology plead. 
 
 Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, 
 No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, 
 
 We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, [in us. 
 But of anything else they may choose to put 
 
 THE FLATTING MILL. 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATION. 
 
 When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold 
 Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length, 
 It is pass'd between cylinders ollen, and roU'd 
 In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. 
 
 Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears 
 Like a loose heap of ribbon, of glittering show. 
 Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears. 
 And, warin'd by the pressure, is all in a glow. 
 
 This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain 
 The thump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet. 
 And at last is of service in sickness or pain 
 To cover a pill for a delicate palate. 
 
 Alas for the poet ! who dares undertake 
 
 To urge reforjnation of national ill — 
 
 His head and his heart are both likely to ache 
 
 With the double employment of mallet and mill 
 
 If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight. 
 Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow. 
 Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight. 
 And catch in its progress a sensible glow. 
 
 After all he must beat it as thin and as fine 
 As the leafthatenfolds whatan invalid swallows. 
 For truth is unwelcome, however divine, 
 And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.
 
 654 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME 
 REDBREAST, 
 
 A FAVORITE OP MISS SALLY HURDIS. 
 
 These are not dewdrops, these are tears, 
 
 And tears by Sally shed 
 For absent Robin, who she fears, 
 
 With too much cause, is dead. 
 
 One morn he came not to her hand 
 
 As he was wont to come, 
 And, on her finger percli'd, to stand 
 
 Picking his breakfast-crumb. 
 
 Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd 
 
 She sought him, but in vain — 
 That day he came not, nor the next, 
 
 Nor ever came again. 
 
 She therefore raised him here a tomb, 
 Though where he fell, or how. 
 
 None knows, so secret was his doom. 
 Nor where he moulders now. 
 
 Had half a score of coxcombs died 
 
 In social Robin's stead. 
 Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, 
 
 Or haply never shed. 
 
 But Bob was neither rudely bold 
 
 Nor spiritlessly tame ; 
 Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, 
 
 But always in a flame. 
 March, 1792. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ,. 
 
 Hayley — thy tenderness fraternal shown 
 In our first interview, delightful guest ! 
 To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd, 
 
 Such as it is, has made my heart thy own. 
 
 Though heedless now of new engagements 
 grown ; 
 For threescore winters make a wintry breast, 
 And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest 
 
 Of friendship more, except with God a.one. 
 But thou hast won me ; nor is God my foe, 
 
 Who, ere this last aftlictive scene began, 
 Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, 
 My brother, by whose sympathy I know 
 
 Thy true deserts infallibly to scan. 
 
 Not more to admire the bard than love the man. 
 June 2, 1792. 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Here lies one who never drew 
 Blood himself, yet many slew ; 
 Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
 Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger. 
 Armed men have gladly made 
 Him their guide, and him obey'd; 
 At his signified desire 
 Would advance, present, and fire — 
 Stout he was. and large of limb. 
 Scores have fled at sight of him ! 
 And to all this fame he rose 
 Only following his nose. 
 Neptune was he call'd, not he 
 Who controls the boisterous sea, 
 
 But of happier command, 
 Neptune of the furrow'd land ; 
 And, your wonder vain to shorten. 
 Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 
 1792. 
 
 ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. 
 
 In language warm as could be breathed or penn'd 
 Thy picture speaks the original, my friend. 
 Not by those looks that indicate thy mind — 
 They only speak thee friend of all mankind ; 
 Expression here more soothing still I see, 
 That friend of all a partial friend to me. 
 i93. 
 
 ON A PLANT OP VIRGIN'S BOWER. 
 
 DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT, 
 
 Thrive, gentle plant ! and weave a bower 
 
 For Mary and for me. 
 And deck with many a splendid flower, 
 
 Thy foliage large and free. 
 
 Thou earnest from Eartham, and wilt shade 
 
 (If truly I divine) 
 Some future day the illustrious head 
 
 Of him who made thee mine. 
 
 Should Daphne show a jealous frown 
 
 And envy seize the bay, 
 Affirming none so fit to crown 
 
 Such honor'd brows as they. 
 
 Thy cause with zeal we shall defend. 
 
 And with convincing power ; 
 For why should not the virgin's friend 
 
 Ee crown'd with virgin's bower? 
 Spring of 1793. 
 
 ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL 
 
 FROM MR. HAYLEY. 
 
 I SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vain 
 To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain, 
 But from that error now behold me free, 
 Since I received him as a gift from thee. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH, BY A LADY, 
 
 In returning- a Poem of Mr. Cowper''s, lent to the Writer, 
 on condition she should neither show it nor take a copy.. 
 
 What wonder ! if my wavering hand 
 
 Had dared to disobey. 
 When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 
 
 And Cowper led astray. 
 
 Then take this tempting gift of thine. 
 
 By pen uncopied yet ! 
 But canst thou Memory confine, 
 
 Or teach me to forget 1 
 
 More lasting than the touch of art. 
 
 Her chaiacters remain ; 
 When written by a feeling heart 
 
 On tablets of the brain.
 
 MISCELANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 655 
 
 COWPER'S REPLY. 
 
 To be rcmfimbfr'd thus is fame, 
 
 And in the first decree; 
 And did the tew. like her, the same, 
 
 The press might rest for me. 
 
 So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd 
 Ot' many a Grecian belle, 
 
 Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 
 But never lodsed so well. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA 
 JANE COWPER. 
 
 WiM.iAM was once a basliful youth. 
 
 His modesty was such, 
 That one miirht suy. to say the truth, 
 
 He rather had too much. 
 
 Some said that it was want of sense, 
 
 And others, want of spirit, 
 (So blest a thing is impudence,) 
 
 While others could not bear it. 
 
 But some a different notion had, 
 
 And at each otiier winking, 
 Obs(!rved, that thougli lie little said. 
 
 He paid it olT with thinking. 
 
 Howe'cr. it happcn'd, by degrees, 
 
 He mended, and grow better. 
 In company grew more at ease. 
 
 And dress'd a little smarter ; 
 
 Nay, now and then, could look quite gay. 
 
 As other people do; 
 And sometimes said, or tried to say, 
 
 A witty thing or so. 
 
 He eyed the women, and made free 
 
 To comment on their shapes. 
 So that there was, or seeiu'd to be, 
 
 No fear of a relapse. 
 
 The women said, who tliouglit him rough. 
 
 But now no longer foolish, 
 " The creature might do well enough, 
 
 But wants a deal of polish." 
 
 At length improved from liead to heel, 
 
 'Twas scarce too much to say, 
 No dancing beau was so genteel. 
 
 Or half so dcgage. 
 
 Now that a miracle so strange 
 
 May not in vain be shown, 
 Let the dear maid who wrought the change 
 
 E'en claim him for her own ! 
 
 TO TFIE SAME. 
 
 How quick the change from joy to wo, 
 Howf chcquer'd is our lot below ! 
 SeMom we view the prospect fair; 
 Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care, 
 rSome pleasing intervals between,) 
 Scowl over more tiian half the scene. 
 Last week with Delia, gentle maid ! 
 Far hence in liappier fields I stray'd. 
 
 Five suns successive rose and set. 
 And saw no monarch in his state, 
 Wrapt in the blaze of majesty, 
 So free from every care as I. 
 Next day the scene was overcast — ■ 
 Such day till then I never pass'd, — 
 For on that day, relentless late ! 
 Delia and I must separate, 
 "^^et ere we look'd our last farewell, 
 From her dear lips this comfort fell, — 
 " Fear not that time, where'er we rove^ 
 Or absence, shall abate my love." 
 
 LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT. 
 
 SwKKT babe ! whose image here express'd 
 Does tliy peaceful slumbers show; 
 
 Guilt or fear, to break thy rest. 
 Never did tliy spirit know. 
 
 Soothing slumbers! soft repose, 
 Such as mock the painter's skill, 
 
 Such as innocence bestows, 
 Harmless infant I lull thee still. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 On ! to some distant scene, a willing exile 
 Froin the wild roar of tliis busy world. 
 Were it my late with Delia to retire. 
 W'ith her to wander through the sylvan shade, 
 Each morn, or o'er the moss-ombrownail turf, 
 Where, blest as the priaie parents of mankind 
 In their own Eden, we would envy none, 
 But. greatly pitying whom the world calls happy^ 
 Gently spin out the silken tiiread of life ! 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN 
 THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON. 
 
 Hkkg, free from riot's hated noise, 
 Be mine, yc calmer, purer joys, 
 
 A book or friend bestows ; 
 Far from the storms that shake the great, 
 Contentment's gale shall fan my seat, 
 
 And sweeten my repose. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM 
 RUSSEL. 
 
 Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste 
 The present moments, and regret the past; 
 Deprived of every joy I valued most, 
 I\Iy friend torn from me. and my mistress lost; 
 Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mein, 
 The dull effect of humor, or of spleen ! 
 .Still, still. I mourn, with each returning day, 
 Him* snateh'd by late in early youth away ; 
 And her— thro' tedious years ofdoubt and' pain, 
 Fix'd in her choioe, and faithful— but in vain I 
 O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
 Whose eye ne'er yet retus'd the wretch a tear; 
 Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows 
 Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; 
 
 * Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the younR 
 poet.
 
 656 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 See me — ere yet my destin'd course half ilone, 
 Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
 See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
 Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
 Nor ask. why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, 
 And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
 Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, 
 All that delights the happy — palls with me ! 
 
 ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH. 
 
 Cocoa-nut naught, 
 Fish too dear, 
 None must be bought 
 For us that are here : 
 
 No lobster on earth, 
 That ever I saw, 
 To me would be worth 
 Sixpence a claw. 
 
 So. dear madam, wait 
 Till fish can he got 
 At a reas'nable rate. 
 Whether lobster or not ; 
 
 Till the French and the Dutch 
 Have quitted the seas, 
 And then send as much 
 And as oft as you please. 
 
 TO MRS. NEWTON. 
 
 A NOBLE theme demands a noble verse, 
 
 In such I thank you for your fine oysters. 
 
 The barrel was magnificently large, 
 
 But, being sent to Olney at free charge. 
 
 Was not inserted in the driver's list. 
 
 And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd ; 
 
 For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd 
 
 Inquir'd for oysters Hob his noddle scratch'd ; 
 
 Denying that his wagon or his wain 
 
 Did any such commodity contain. 
 
 In consequence of which your welcome boon 
 
 Did not arrive till yesterday at noon ; 
 
 In consequence of which some chanc'd to die. 
 
 And some, though very sweet, were very dry. 
 
 Now Madam says, (and what she says must still 
 
 Deserve attention, say she what she will,) 
 
 That what we call the diligence, be-case 
 
 It goes to London with a swifter pace. 
 
 Would better suit the carriage of your gift. 
 
 Returning downward with a pace as swift ; 
 
 And therefore recommends it with this aim — 
 
 To save at least three days. — the price the same; 
 
 For though it will not carry or convey [may. 
 
 For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you 
 
 For oyster bred upon the salt sea-shore, 
 
 Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more. 
 
 News have I none that I can deign to write, 
 Save that it rain'd j)rodigiously last night ; 
 And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour, 
 Caught in the first beginning of the show'r; 
 But walking, running, and with much ado, 
 Got home — ^just time enough to be wet through. 
 
 Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told. 
 Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold", 
 And wishing just the same good hap to you, 
 We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu ! 
 
 VERSES PRINTED BY HIMSELF ON A 
 FLOOD AT OLNEY. 
 
 To watch the storms, and hear the sky 
 Give all our almanacks the lie; 
 To shake with cold and see the plains 
 In autumn drown'd with wintry rains; 
 'Tis thus I syjend my moments here, 
 And wish myself a Dutch mynheer; 
 I then should have no need of wit ; 
 For lumpish Hollander unfit ! 
 Nor should I then repine at mud, 
 Or meadows deluged with a flood; 
 But in a bog live well content. 
 And find it just my element; 
 Should be a clod, and not a man; 
 Nor wish in vain tor Sister Ann, 
 With charitable aid to drag 
 My mind out of its proper quag; 
 Should have the genius of a boor, 
 And no ambition to have more. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A SUNDAY-SCHOOL 
 HYMN. 
 
 Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r, 
 
 In heaven, thy dwelling-place. 
 From intants, made the public care, 
 
 And taught to seek thy face ! 
 
 Thanks for thy word, and for thy day. 
 
 And grant us, we implore. 
 Never to waste in sint'ul play 
 
 Thy holy sabbaths more. 
 
 Thanks that we hear — but, oh! impart 
 
 To each desires sincere. 
 That we may listen with our heart, 
 
 And learn, as well as hear. 
 
 ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER. 
 
 (in the manner op homer.) 
 
 The straw-stufT'd hamper with its ruthless steel 
 lie open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords 
 Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth 
 
 came 
 The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat, 
 Or oats, or barley ; next a bottle green 
 Throat-full clear spirits the contents, distill'd 
 Drop atler drop odorous, by the art 
 Of the fair mother of his Iriend — the Rose. 
 
 ON THE NEGLECT OF HOMER. 
 
 Could Homer come himself distress'd and poor 
 And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door, 
 The rich old vixen would exclaim, (I fear,) 
 " Begone ! no tramper gets a farthing here." 
 
 I 
 
 V_
 
 SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE HEY. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 The Rev. John Newton has formed too 
 prominent a feature in the life and correspond- 
 ence of Cowper, and is too intimately associ- 
 ated with his endeared name, not to require a 
 brief notice of the leading events of his life, 
 on introdacing those beautiful Olney Hymns 
 which were written by Cowper. Any detailed 
 statement is rendered unnecessary by his own 
 memoir of himself,* and a subsequent one 
 by the Rev. Mr. Cecil. The life of Newton 
 abounds with the most extraordinary inci- 
 dents, resembling the fictions of romance, 
 rather than the realities of common life. But 
 the Imnd of God is so visible, and the ulti- 
 mate I riumph of divine grace is so signally dis- 
 played amidst the most daring provocations, 
 as to render it one of the most remarkable 
 biographical memoirs ever submitted to the 
 public eye. 
 
 The Rev. Jolm Newton was born in 
 London the 24th of July, 1725. His father 
 was master of a ship in the Mediterranean 
 trade. His mother was a pious character ; 
 and it is to her that he was indebted, in his 
 early years, for those religious impressions 
 which, however subsequently weakened, were 
 probably never wholly effaced. Her pre- 
 mature death deprived him of this excellent 
 parent, at an age when he most needed her 
 superintending care. When he was eleven 
 years old he joined his ftither, and made five 
 voyages with him to the Mediterranean. 
 His early life seems to present a mingled 
 detail of religious duties and declensions — 
 relapses into sin, accompanied by strong con- 
 victions of iiis guilt and danger — providential 
 warnings, which roused his conscience for a 
 time, and were subsequently forgotten ; till 
 at length, by successive instances of grieving 
 God's Holy Spirit, he sank into tlie very 
 depths of wickedness. In the year 1742 he 
 formed an attachment, equalling in degree 
 all that the writers of romance have im.a- 
 gined ; but in its duration unalterable. In 
 1743 he was impressed, put on board a ten- 
 der, from which he was released by the exer- 
 tions of his father, and soon after entered the 
 navy as a midshipman. Here he was seduced 
 into inlidel principles by one of his compan- 
 
 * Seo Tlie T/ife of the Rev. John Newton, writtpii by 
 himsi'll', ill 11 SLTit'.s of lettera addressed to the Rev. Mr. 
 llaweis. 
 
 ions, who in a violent storm was swept into 
 eternity, while he himself was mercifully 
 spared. Having deserted his ship, he was 
 overtaken, kept in irons, publicly whipped, 
 and degraded from his office. He now be- 
 came a prey to the most gloomy thoughts, 
 and seemed to be given up to judicial hard- 
 ness, and even to doubt the existence of a 
 future state of being. 
 
 We contemplate this period of nis life with 
 awe and terror. He subsequently engaged in 
 the slave-trade on the coast of Africa, where 
 his conduct awakened, even among the slaves, 
 emotions of alarm and astonishment. In 
 the midst of this daring impiety, Newton 
 passed through every successive stage of 
 providential dealings, from the first whisper of 
 conscience, till the awful catalogue of judg- 
 ments seemed to be utterly expended. Every- 
 thing was exhausted save the long-sufferinjj 
 and mercy of God. His guilt was equalled 
 only by his misery. The slave-trade on the 
 coast of Africa was to him the fit memorial 
 of a captivity more galling in its character, 
 more terrible in its consequences. At home 
 abroad, on the mighty deep, or on foreigr 
 shores, he carried with him the marks of his 
 servitude, the taint of his corruption, and the 
 visible wrath of an offended God. 
 
 The divine dealings towards the children 
 of pious parents are strongly illustrated in 
 the foregoing narrative. We have often ob- 
 served that tiiey are generally the subjects of 
 a special dispensation whenever they become 
 wanderers from God. In mercy to the pray- 
 ing parent, as well as to the erring child, he 
 never leaves them without repeated tokens 
 of his displeasure and intimations of his will. 
 He disappoints their hopes, blights their pros- 
 pects, and brings upon them the day of his 
 wrathful visitation. "7/" his children forsake 
 my law and walk not in my judgments ; if 
 they break my statutes, and keep not my com- 
 mandments ; then will I visit their transgres- 
 si(m with the rod, and their iniquity icith 
 stripes. Nevertheless, my loving-kindness unll 
 I not utterly take from him, nor suffer my faith- 
 fulness to fail." Psalm. Ixxxix. 30 — 33. 
 
 We by no means interpret this clause as 
 
 generally conveying the assurance that the 
 
 children of pious piirents will ultimately be 
 
 saved. The conclusion would be too ab- 
 
 42
 
 658 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 solute, and seem opposed to the testimony 
 of facts. But we nevertheless believe that 
 the prayers and instructions of a godly parent 
 rise up, like the alms of Cornelius, as a me- 
 morial before God; and that early impres- 
 sions are seldom utterly effiiced. They pur- 
 sue the memory amid the tumult of business, 
 the seductions of pleasure, and the broad 
 path of sin. They are a powerful stimulant 
 to conscience in moments of pain, depression, 
 and sorrow ; till at lengli the cry of penitence 
 often bursts from the overwhelmed heart, and 
 the last accents have been known to be those 
 of prayer and praise. 
 
 We now proceed to detail the particulars 
 of Newton's conversion. This event occurs 
 on his return homewards from the coast of 
 Africa, when the ship is overtaken by a dread- 
 ful storm, and death seems to be inevitable. 
 We extract the account from his own nar- 
 rative. 
 
 " The 21st of March is a day much to be re- 
 membered by me, and I have never suffered 
 it to pass wholly unnoticed since the year 
 1748. On that day the Lord sent from on 
 high, and delivered me out of deep waters. I 
 began to think of my former religious profes- 
 sions ; the extraordinary turns in my life ; 
 the calls, warnings, and deliverances I had 
 met with ; the licentious course of my con- 
 versation, particularly my unparalleled effron- 
 tery in making the gospel-history the constant 
 subject of profane ridicule. I thought, allow- 
 ing the Scripture premises, tliere never was 
 nor could be such a sinner as myself; and 
 then, comparing tlie advantages I had broken 
 througii, I concluded at iirst, that my sins 
 were to great to be forgiven. The Scripture 
 likewise seemed to say the same ; for I had 
 formerly been well acquainted with the Bible, 
 and many passages upon this occasion re- 
 turned upon my memory, particularly those 
 awful passages, Prov. i. 24 — 31; Heb. vi. 
 4 — 6 ; and 2 Pet. ii. 20, which seemed so 
 exactly to suit my case and character as to 
 bring with them a presumptive proof of a 
 divine original. Thus, as I have said, I waited 
 with fear and impatience to receive my in- 
 evitable doom. Yet, though I had thoughts 
 of this kind, they were exceedingly faint and 
 disproportionate ; it was not till long after, 
 (perhaps several years,) till I had gained 
 some clear views of the infinite righteousness 
 and grace of Jesus Christ my Lord, that I 
 liad a deep and strong apprehension of my 
 state by nature and practice : and, perhaps, 
 till then I could not have borne the sight. 
 vVhen I saw, beyond all probability, there 
 vas still hope of respite, and heard about six 
 in the evening that the ship was freed from 
 water, there arose a gleam of hope ; I thought 
 I saw the hand of God displayed in our favor. 
 I began to pray ; I could not utter the prayer 
 of faith ; I could not draw near to a recon- 
 
 ciled God, and call him Father. My prayer 
 was like the cry of tlie ravens, which yet the 
 Lord does not disdain to hear. I now be- 
 gan to think of that Jesus whom I had so 
 often derided. I recollected the particulars 
 of his life, and of his death : and death for 
 sins not Ms own, but, as I remembered, for 
 the sake of those who in their distress sliould 
 put their trust in Him. And now I chiefly 
 wanted evidence. The comfortless principles 
 of infidelity were deeply riveted, and I rather 
 wished than believed tliese things were real 
 facts. The great question now was, how to 
 obtain faith 7 I speak not of an appropria- 
 ting faith, (of which I then knew neitiier the 
 nature nor necessity,) but how I should gain 
 an assurance that the Scriptures were of di- 
 vine inspiration, and a sufBcient warrant for 
 the exercise of trust and hope in God. One 
 of the first helps I received (in consequence 
 of a determination to examine the New Tes- 
 tament more carefully) was from Luke xi. 13. 
 I had been sensible "that to profess faith in 
 Jesus Christ, when in reality I did not be- 
 lieve his history, was no better than a mock- 
 ery of a heart-searching God : but here I 
 found a Spirit spoken of, which was to be 
 communicated to those who ask it. Upon 
 this I reasoned thus. If this book is true. 
 the promise in this passage is true likewise. 
 I have need of that very Spirit by which the 
 whole was written, in order to understand it 
 aright. He has engaged here to give that 
 Spirit to those who ask. I must, therefore, 
 pray for it ; and if it is of God, he will make 
 good his own word. My purposes were 
 strengthened by John vii. 17. I concluded 
 from thence, that though I could not say 
 from my heart that I believed the gospel, yet 
 I would for the present take it for granted, 
 and that by studying it in this light I should 
 be more and more confirmed in it. If what 
 I am writing could be perused by our mod- 
 ern infidels, they would say (for I too well 
 knov,' their manner) that I was very desirous 
 to persuade myself into this opinion. I con- 
 fess I was : and so would they be, if the Lord 
 should show them, as he was pleased to 
 show me at that time, the absolute necessity 
 of some expedient to interpose between a 
 righteous God and a sinful soul. Upon the 
 gospel scheme I saw at least a peradventure 
 of hope, but on every other side I was sur- 
 rounded with black unfathomable despair.''* 
 Alluding to the means which he enjoyed at 
 this eventful period, for acquiring spiritual 
 light and knowledge, he observes, "As to 
 books, I had a New Testament, Stanhope, and 
 a volume of Bishop Beveridge's Sermons, one 
 of which, upon our Lord's passion, affected me 
 much. In perusing the New Testament, I 
 was struck with several passages, particularly 
 that of the fig-tree, Luke xiii. ; the case of 
 * See " Life of Newton," preflxed to his works.
 
 LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 65S» 
 
 St. Paul, 1 Tim. i. ; but particularly the prodigal, 
 Luke XV. — a case I thought had never been so 
 •clearly exemplified as by myself. And then 
 the goodness of the father in receiving, nay, 
 in running to meet such a son, and tiiis in- 
 tended only to illustrate the Lord's goodness 
 to returning sinners ; this gained upon me. I 
 continued much in prayer; I saw that the Lord 
 had interposed so far to save me ; and I hoped 
 he would do more. The outward circumstan- 
 ces helped in this place to make me still more 
 serious and earnest in crying to Him who 
 alone could relieve me; and sometimes I 
 tliought I could be content to die even for 
 want of food, if I might but die a believer. 
 Thus f;ir I was answered, that before we ar- 
 rived in Ireland I had a satisfactory evidence 
 in my own mind of the trutli of the gospel, 
 as considered in itself, and its exact suitable- 
 ness to answer all my needs. I saw that, by 
 the way there pointed out, God might declare, 
 not his mercy only, but his justice also, in the 
 pardon of sin, on account of the obedience 
 and suiferings of Jesus Christ. I stood in 
 need of an Almiglity Saviour, and such a one 
 I found described in the New Testament. 
 Thus far the Lord had wrought a marvellous 
 thing. I was no longer an infidel. I heartily 
 renounced my former profaneness; I had 
 taken up some right notions ; was seriously 
 disposed, and sincerely touched with a sense 
 of the undeserved mercy I had received, in 
 being brought safe through so many dan- 
 gers. I was sorry for my past misspent life, 
 and purposed an immediate reformation ; I 
 was quite freed from the habit of swearing, 
 which seemed to have been deeply rooted in 
 me as a second nature. Thus, to all appear- 
 ance, I was a new man. But thougii I cannot 
 doubt that this change, so far as it prevailed, 
 was wrought by the Spirit and power of God ; 
 yet still I was greatly deficient in many re- 
 spects. I was, in some degree, affected with 
 a sense of my more enormous sins, but I was 
 little aware of the innate evils of my heart. 
 I liad no apprehension of the spirituality and 
 extent of the law of God. The hidden life 
 of a Christian, as it consists in communion 
 with God by Jesus Ciirist, and a continual de- 
 pendence on liim for hourly supplies of wis- 
 dom, strength, and comfort, was a mystery, 
 of which I had as yet no knowledge. I ac- 
 knowledged the Lord's mercy in pardoning 
 what was past, but depended ehieny upon my 
 own resolution to do better for the time to 
 come. I had no Christian friend or fivithful ■ 
 minister to advise me that my strength was no 
 more than my righteousness: and though I 
 soon began to inquire for serious books, yet, 
 not having spiritual discernment, I frequently 
 made a wrong choice ; and I was not brouidit 
 m the way of evangelicnl preaching or conver- 
 sation, (except a few times, when I heard Ijflt 
 understood not,) for six years after this period. 
 
 Those things the Lord was pleased to discover 
 to me gradually. I learned them here a little 
 and there a little, by my own painful experj 
 ence, at a distance from the common meana 
 and ordinances, and in the midst of the same 
 course of evil company, and bad examples, as 
 I had been conversant with for some time. 
 From this period I could no more make a mock 
 at sin, or jest with holy things: I no more 
 questioned the truth of Scripture, or lost a 
 sense of the rebukes of conscience. There- 
 fore I consider this as the beginning of my 
 return to God, or rather of his return to me ; 
 but I cannot consider myself to have been a 
 believer (in the full sense of the word) till a 
 considerable time afterwards."* 
 
 Progressive conversions seem to be most 
 agreeable to the analogy of nature ; and 
 though we by no means question the reality 
 of instantaneous conversions, or consider that 
 the grace of God is limited either to time, 
 manner or degree ; yet we have generally ob- 
 served that they partake too much of a spirit 
 of excitement to form a sure and safe test. 
 The excitement of the senses is a dangerous 
 ingredient in holy things, because they are 
 equally susceptible of opposite impressions. 
 Those conversions ultimately prove most 
 solid and abiding, where tlie understanding is 
 enlightened, the conscience roused, and the 
 will subdued by the simultaneous energy and 
 power that moves and purifies the feelings 
 and affections of the heart. 
 
 But in whatever manner it was accom- 
 plished, the conversion of Newton claims to 
 rank among those memorable acts of divine 
 grace which have invested the names of a 
 Rochester, a Gardiner, and a Bunyan, with so 
 much interest and celebrity. May we not also 
 mark its affinity to the still more distinguished 
 examples recorded in tiie sacred writings, such 
 as a Manasses, or a Saul, prototypes not less 
 in guilt than in mercy? If any man could 
 justly appropriate the words of the apostle, 
 surely that individual was Newton. " How- 
 beit for tiiis cause I obtained mercy, that in me 
 first Jesus Christ uiiyht show forth all long 
 suffering, for a pattern to them which should 
 hereafter believe on him to life everlasting." 
 1 Tim. i. 16. Instances like these abound in 
 edifying truths. They exhibit the divine 
 sovereignty in legible and unerring characters. 
 They serve also to confound the pride and 
 self-glory of man by proving that '• base tilings 
 of tlie world, and things which are despised, 
 iiath God chosen, yea and things which are 
 not, to bring to nought things tbat are : that 
 no flesh should glory in ' js presence." 1 Cor 
 i. 28, 29. 
 
 But above all they proclaim that no man is 
 beyond the reach of mercy, however guilty 
 depraved, or lost ; and tliat tiie door is never 
 closed to the- broken and contrite spirit. Let 
 
 * Life of r^ewton.
 
 6b0 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 not then the penitent despair, nor yet the im- 
 penitent presume; but rightly interpreting 
 these wonderful and gracious dispensations, 
 may many a returning prodigal, like Newton, 
 exclaim in the accents of adoring faith and 
 love, " Who is God like unto thee, that par- 
 doneth iniquity, and passeth by the trans- 
 gression of the remnant of his heritage ? He 
 retaineth not his ano-er forever, because he 
 delighteth in mercy." Micah vii. 18. 
 
 Tiiat we may proceed to the more impor- 
 tant events of Newton's subsequent history, 
 we shall here briefly mention, that at this time 
 he wrote to his father, who was then going 
 out as Governor of York Fort, in Hudson's 
 Bay, where he died in 1750. He previously 
 gave his consent to his son's marriage with 
 Miss Catlett, the lady who had been tiie ob- 
 ject of so long and romantic an attachment. 
 They were united on the 1st of February, 
 1750. After this event he made three voya- 
 ges to Africa, devoting much of his time to 
 classical and devotional studies, and perform- 
 ing public worship in his vessel according to 
 the Liturgy of the Church of England, iwice 
 every day. The moral change which his mind 
 had experienced is expressed in the following 
 beautiful and edifying manner, strongly ex- 
 emplifying the power of divine grace to raise 
 and elevate the soul. 
 
 " To be at sea in these circumstances, with- 
 drawn out of the reach of iiuiumerable tempt- 
 ations, with opportunity and turn of mind 
 disposed to observe the wonders of God in 
 the great deep, with the two noblest objects 
 of sight, the expanded heavens and the ex- 
 panded ocean, continually in view; and where 
 evident interpositions of Divine Providence, 
 in answer to prayer, occur almost every day ; 
 these are helps to quicken and conhnn the 
 life of faith, which, in a good measure, supply 
 to a religious sailor the want of those advan- 
 tages whicli can be enjoyed only upon the 
 shore. And, indeed, though my knowledge 
 of spiritual things, as knowledge is usudlly 
 estimated, was at this time very small ; yet I 
 sometimes look back with regret on these 
 scenes. I never knew sweeter or more fre- 
 quent hours of divine communion, than in my 
 two last voyages to Guinea, when I was either 
 almost secluded from society on shipboard, 
 or when on shore amongst the natives. J have 
 wandered through the woods, reflecting on 
 the singular goodness of the Lord to me, in 
 a place where, perhaps, there was not a person 
 that knew Him for some thousands of miles 
 -ound about me. 
 
 •' In desert woods, with thee, my Goel, 
 Where human footsteps never trod, 
 
 How happy could I be ; 
 Thou my repose from care, my light, 
 Amidst the darkness of the niifht, 
 
 In solitude my company."* 
 
 • These lines are a translation from the following well- 
 
 His views on the subject of the slave-trade 
 are thus recorded by himself. 
 
 "During the time I was engaged in the 
 slave-trade, I never had the least scruple as tc 
 its lawfulness. I was upon the whole satis- 
 fied with it, as the appointment Providence 
 had marked out for me ; yet it was, in many 
 respects, far from eligible. It was indeed, ac- 
 counted a genteel employment, and usually 
 very profitable, though to me it did not prove 
 so, the Lord seeing that a large increase of 
 wealth would not be good for me. However, 
 I considered myself as a sort of a gaoler or 
 turnkey, and I was sometimes shocked with 
 an employment that was perpetually convers- 
 ant with chains, bolts and shackles. In this 
 view I had often petitioned in my prayers that 
 the Lord, in his own time, would be pleased 
 to fix me in a more humane calling, and, if it 
 might be, place me where I might have more 
 frequent converse with his people and ordi- 
 nances, and be freed from those long separa- 
 tions from home which very often were hard 
 to bear. My prayers were now answered, 
 though in a way which I little expected."* 
 
 The circumstance to which he alludes may 
 be brieliy stated. When he was within two 
 days of sailing on a new voyage, and to all 
 appearance in good health, he was suddenly 
 seized with a fit, which deprived him of sense 
 and motion. It lasted about an hour, but left 
 behind such symptoms as induced the physi- 
 cians to judge that it would not be safe or 
 prudent to proceed on the voyage. The event 
 was remarkable. The person who was ap- 
 pointed to take his place, most of the ofllcers, 
 and many of the crew died, and the vessel 
 was brought back to Liverpool with great 
 difficult-.f 
 
 Thus ended Newton's connexion with Af- 
 rica and the slave-trade and with a sea-faring 
 mode of life. He was destined for higher 
 ends, and the providence and grace of God 
 soon pointed out a sphere more suited to his 
 newly acquired views, and presenting ample 
 means for extended usefulness. 
 
 " And now," he observes, " having reason 
 to close with the Apostle's determination, 
 ' to know nothing but Jesus Christ and him 
 crucified,' I devoted my life to the prosecu- 
 tion of spiritual knowledge, and resolved to 
 pursue nothing but in subservience to this 
 main design."| With this view he acquired 
 a suflicient proficiency in the Greek lan- 
 guage, so as to read with facility the New 
 Testament and Septuagint ; he then entered 
 upon the study of the Hebrew, and two 
 
 known passage of Propertius ; Newton piously .ipplying 
 to the Creator what the poet addresses to the cniature. 
 
 Sic ego desertis possim bene vivero sylvis. 
 
 Quo nulla humano sit via trita pede. 
 
 Tu mihi curarum requies, in node ve] atrl, 
 
 Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis. 
 
 See Life of J^ewton. 
 
 * Life of Newton. t IWd. t Ibid.
 
 LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 6ih 
 
 years afterwards engaged in tlic Syriae, he- 
 sides reading the best writers in divinity, 
 and attending on the ministry of men dis- 
 tinguished for their piety and their scriptural 
 views. In reference to his own entrance on 
 the sacred office, he thus states his senti- 
 ments. 
 
 " One word concerning my views to the 
 ministry, and I have done. I have told yon, 
 that this was my dear motlier's hope con- 
 cerning me; but iier death and the scenes 
 of life in which I afterwards engaged, seemed 
 to cut off the probability. The Hrst desires 
 of this sort in my own mind arose many 
 years ago, from reflection on Gal. i. 23, 21. 
 ' But they had heard only, that he which 
 persecuted us in times past, now preacheth 
 tlie faith which once he destroyed. And 
 they glorified God in me.' I could not but 
 wish for such a public opportunity to testify 
 the riches of divine grace. I thought I was, 
 above most living, a fit person to proclaim 
 that faithful saying, ' That Jesus Christ came 
 into the world to save the chief of sinners;' 
 and as my life had been full of remarkable 
 turns, and I seemed selected to show what 
 the Lord could do, I was in some hopes that 
 perhaps, sooner or later, he might call me 
 into this service."* 
 
 This choice of Newton seemed to be not 
 only a natural consequence of his newly- 
 acquired state of mind, but to be in perfect 
 conformity with those leadings of Provi- 
 dence which we have so fully recorded. Who 
 so fit to proclaim the adorable mercy and 
 goodness of God, the freeness of his grace, 
 tlie severity of his justice, and the tenderness 
 of his love, as he who had so recently gone 
 through the whole of the mighty process ? 
 Who could trace the natural obduracy and 
 corruption of the human heart, the rebellion 
 of the will, the vile slavery of sin, and the 
 power that breaks its fetters, like him whose 
 past history so forcibly illustrated these 
 truths] Men cannot teach others till they 
 themselves are first taught of God ; and so 
 long as this necessary discipline is wanting 
 preaching is but a sublime and empty decla- 
 mation. 
 
 Newton being further confirmed in his 
 resolution by he judgment of some Chris- 
 tian friends, received a title to a curacy in 
 Vorkshire, Dec. 16, 1758, and applied to the 
 Archbishop of York, Dr. Gilbert, for ordina- 
 tion. As he had not however graduated at 
 the University, he was rejected, tlie Arch- 
 bishop alleging the rules and canons of the 
 fhiu-ch. Four years after thif period, in 
 17(J2, having experienced a continuance of 
 the same difficulties, and conscious that he 
 was luryiug his talents, he was about to 
 ilirecl his zeal in another channel, when he 
 
 * Life of Newton. 
 
 was restrained by the influence of his wife. 
 In reference to this trial, he makes the fol. 
 lowing refiection. " The exercises of m} 
 raiud upon this point, I believe, have not 
 been peculiar to myself. I have known sev- 
 eral persons, sensible, pious, of competent 
 ribilities, and cordially attached to the estab- 
 lished church, who, being wearied out with 
 repeated refusals of ordination, and, perhaps, 
 not havincn the advantage of such an adviser 
 as I had, have at length struck into the itin- 
 erant path, or settled among the Dissenters. 
 Some of these, yet living, are men of re- 
 spectable characters and useful in their min- 
 istry. But their influence, which would once 
 have been serviceable to the true interests 
 of the church of England, now rather oper- 
 ates against it." 
 
 Finally, being recommended by the Earl 
 of Dartmouth* to Dr. Green, Bishop of Lin- 
 coln, of whose candor and kindness he speaks 
 with much respect, he was ordained deacon 
 at Buckden, April 29, 1764, and appointed 
 to the curacy of Olncy, Bucks. He received 
 priest's orders the year following. 
 
 In this sphere of duty Newton continued 
 nearly si.xteen years exercising the functions 
 of his office with exemplary fidelity, going 
 from house to house, and exhibiting a pat- 
 tern of an excellent parish priest. By the 
 munificence of John Thornton, Esq., he was 
 enabled to exercise the rites of hospitality 
 and to dispense relief effectually to the poor. 
 " Be hospitable," said Mr. Thornton, " and 
 keep an open house for such as are worthy 
 of entertainment. Help the poor and needy. 
 I will statedly allow you 200Z. a year, and 
 readily send whatever you have occasion to 
 draw for more." Newton once observed, 
 that he thought he had received of JMr. 
 Thornton upwards of 3,000/. in this way, 
 during the time he resided at Olney.f 
 
 Such traits do honor to human nature. 
 
 One of the incidents which distinguishes 
 the residence of Newton at Olney is his 
 friendship and intercourse with Cowper. It 
 is said, that this intercourse was injurious to 
 the poet, and that Newton's peculiar views, 
 which were Calvinistic, increased the morbid 
 turn of his mind. The doctrinal sentiments 
 of Newton we shall shortly consider, with- 
 out however entering upon a lengthened dis- 
 cussion nnsuited to the character of the 
 present work. But we hesitate not to aflirm 
 that though the standard of Newton was un- 
 questionably more Calvinistic than what is 
 generally adopted by the clergy in these 
 times, the main doctrines which he held were 
 the common fundamental principles of the 
 
 * T.ord Dartmoutli was the patron of Ihelivin!? of Olney 
 and distiuLruishLHl for his piety. It is due to this noble 
 family to state, that in no histance has a vacancy iu Ilia 
 livin'^ ever been (llled up but iu subserviency to the iU' 
 terests of true religion. 
 
 t Cecil's Memoir of Newton.
 
 362 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Christian faith, and that no preacher could 
 have been more practical in his views. In 
 other respects, Newton was social in his 
 spirit, affectionate in his feelings, and culti- 
 vated in his understanding. Having had 
 ample means of ascertaining his real char- 
 acter, the editor can with truth assert that 
 no man was more beloved, admired, and re- 
 spected. 
 
 We next examine Newton's doctrinal views. 
 
 The doctrines of Newton embraced all 
 those great fundamental truths whicli distin- 
 guish the period of the reformation, and 
 were continued downwards to the times of 
 Charles I., when an evident departure from 
 sound doctrine is perceptible in the writers 
 of that age, as well as in those which suc- 
 ceeded.* We claim for Newton the praise 
 of having been one among a few faithful 
 witnesses who boldly proclaimed those truths, 
 when religion was degenerating, with some 
 few exceptions, into a system of moral ethics. 
 It is to such men as Romaine, Venn, Ber- 
 ridge, Milner, Walker of Truro, Adam of 
 Wintringham, Stillingfleet, Jones of St. Sav- 
 iour's, Newton, and a few others, that we 
 owe that revival of piety which is now diffus- 
 ing itself so generally among the members 
 of our church. These doctrines comprise 
 the fall and corruption of man, the divinity 
 and offices of the Saviour, the necessity of 
 conversion by the grace of the Holy Spirit, 
 free justification by faith in the atonement, 
 the work of sanctification in all its progres- 
 sive stages, attested by the evidence of a 
 holy and devoted life, founded on these 
 views and principles. 
 
 These great and important truths are gen- 
 erally called " doctrines according to godli- 
 ness ;" that is, they constitute the only gen- 
 uine spring and source of godliness. It 
 cannot be effected without them, because 
 the principle would be wanting which is 
 alone competent to produce real holiness. 
 They form the vital essence of Christianity, 
 its distinguishing and essential badge, its 
 grace, its ornament, and glory. 
 
 Some men decry doctrine altogether, and 
 assert that we are more concerned with the 
 precepts than the doctrines of tiie Bible. 
 But these doctrines are to be found in our 
 Articles,! in our Homilies,! in the works of 
 Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley, Hooper, Tindal, 
 and others, the confessors and martyrs of 
 the glorious Reformation. 
 
 We subjoin the testimony of an eminent 
 prelate on this subject, delivered in a charge 
 in the year 1792. We refer to the venerable 
 Bishop of Durham, Dr. Shute Barrington. 
 
 " All that distinguishes Christianity from 
 
 * Bishops Hall, Davenant, and .Jeremy Taylor, are hon- 
 orable exceptions. 
 
 t See 9, JO, 11, \% 13th Articles. 
 
 % See tlie Homilies entitled " On the misery of man ;" 
 on " Justifying faith ;" " Good works annexed to faith ;" 
 
 other religions is doctrinal ; a Christian's 
 hopes and consolations, his obligations and 
 motives, are doctrinal points ; the very means 
 and end of his salvation, the many objects 
 of his most earnest intention, are all points 
 of faith and doctrine. Divest Christianity 
 of its faith and doctrines, and you despoil it 
 of all tJiat is peculiar to it in its motives, its 
 consolations, its sanctions, and its duties. 
 You divest it of all that made revelation 
 necessary ; you reduce it to the cold and in- 
 effectual substance of what is called philos- 
 ophy; that philosophy which has of late 
 shown itself not the friend of religion, learn- 
 ing, and civil order, but of anarchy, conceit, 
 and atheism : you reduce it to the obscure 
 glimmerings of human knowledge ; that 
 knowledge vvliich the greatest of the ancient 
 philosophers* confessed to be totally insuffi- 
 cient to satisfy the doubts and solicitude of 
 an inquiring mind, and looked forward with 
 a kind of prophetic exultation to the period 
 when Divine Providence, in compassion to 
 the weakness of our nature, should enlighten 
 mankind by the revelation of himself, which 
 modern pliilosophers reject."f 
 
 We add the distinguished testimony jf 
 Archbishop Seeker. 
 
 " To improve the people effectually, you 
 must be assiduous in teaching the principles 
 not only of virtue and natural religion, but 
 of the gospel : and of the gospel, not as al- 
 most explained away by modern refiners, 
 but ' as the truth is in Jesus;' as it is taught 
 by the church of which you are members ; 
 as you have engaged by your subscriptions 
 and declarations, that you will teach it your- 
 selves. You must preach to them fitith in 
 the ever-blessed Trinity ; you must set forth 
 the original corruption of our nature ; our 
 redemption, according to God's eternal pur- 
 pose in Christ, by the sacrifice of the cross ; 
 our sanctification by the influences of the 
 Divine Spirit; the insufficiency of good 
 works, and the eflicacy of faith to salva- 
 tion 
 
 " The truth, I fear, is, that many, if not 
 most of us, have dwelt too little on these 
 
 doctrines in our sermons, partly 
 
 from not having studied theology deeply 
 enough to treat of them ab y and benefi- 
 cially. God grant it may never have been 
 for want of inwardly experiencing their im- 
 portance. But, whatever be the cause, the 
 effect has been lamentahle."\ 
 
 If a solemn and admonitory warning was 
 ever conveyed to the Christian world on 
 this subjectjpt has been afforded by the con- 
 duct of the church of Geneva. By a regula- 
 
 on " the death and passion of our Saviour Christ ;" Hom- 
 ily for Whitsmidav, &.C. 
 
 * Plato. 
 
 t See Bishop of Durham's Charge, (Barrington,) 1793 
 
 X See " Watson's Tracts," vol. vi.
 
 LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 663 
 
 tion, the breach of wliich was made punish- 
 able by expulsion, the great fundamental 
 doctrines, such as the essential divinity of 
 Christ, the doctrine of human corruption, the 
 atonement, justitieation by faith, and the per- 
 sonality and offices of the Holy Spirit, were 
 prohibited in the pulpit. The people, no 
 longer accustomed to these important truths, 
 soon forgot them, and the consequence has 
 been the substitution of a cold and lifeless 
 Socinianism. Had it not been for that band 
 of faithful men in this country, so much 
 misrepresented and traduced, who shall say 
 wiiether, in our own communion, we might 
 not have incurred the same fearful result? 
 They stood in the gap, like Phinehas, and the 
 plague was stayed. 
 
 We know all that is urged in opposition 
 to this reasoning, and v/e will examine its 
 merits. These doctrines, it is said, are over- 
 charged. The corruption of human nature, 
 for instance, instead of being described as 
 jjartial, is represented to be total. Society, 
 we are assured, could not exist on such a 
 supposition. 
 
 Let us listen to what Newton remarks on 
 this subject. 
 
 " His natural powers, though doubtless im- 
 paired, were not destoyed. Man by nature 
 is still capable of great things. His under- 
 standing, reason, memory, imagination, &c. 
 sufficiently proclaim that the ' hand which 
 made him is divine.' He is, as Milton says 
 of Beelzebub, ^majestic though in ruins.'' He 
 can reason, invent, and, by application, attain 
 a considerable knowledge in natural things. 
 The exertions of human genius, as specified 
 in the characters of some philosophers, poets, 
 orators, &c., are wonderful. Bui man can- 
 not know, love, trust or serve Ids Maker, un- 
 less he be reneicecl in the spirit of his mind."* 
 
 " Sin did not deprive him of rationality but 
 of spirituality."t 
 
 Again : " God has not left man destitute of 
 such dispositions as are necessary to the 
 peace of society ; but I deny that there is 
 any moral goodness in them, unless they are 
 founded in a supreme love to God, have his 
 glory for their aim, and are produced by faith 
 in Jesus Clirist."t 
 
 What does Newton here assert that is not 
 maintained in the IStli Article of our own 
 Church ?t 
 
 Thus man's natural and moral powers sur- 
 vive the fall ; but those which are spiritual 
 are elTaced and lost. Nature cannot confer 
 what it is the province of grace alone to be- 
 stow. It requires a divine pomer to restore 
 and quicken tlie soul. But wMt is the doc- 
 trine of the church of England as regards 
 
 * See Newton's " Cardiphonia." Letter to Rev. Mr. S. 
 
 t Ibid. 
 
 t Works done before the griico of Ctirist and the inspi- 
 ration of Ins Spirit, are not pleasant to God, forasmuch 
 as tbey spring not of faith in Jesus Clirist, &c. 
 
 man's partial or total corruption ? Wo ex- 
 tract the following passage from the Hmnilj 
 on the Nativity : — 
 
 " Whereby it came to pass that, as before 
 (the fiill) he was blessed, so now he was ac- 
 cursed; as before he was loved, so now he 
 was abhorred ; as before he was most beau- 
 tiful and precious, so now he was most vile 
 and wretched in the sight of his Lord and 
 Maker. Instead of the image of God, he 
 was now become the image of the devil, in- 
 stead of the citizen of heaven, he was become 
 the bond slave of hell, having in himsel no 
 one part of his former purity and cleanness, hut 
 being altogether spotted and defiled, insomuch 
 that now he seemed to be nothing else but a 
 lump of sin."* Who ever used language 
 stronger and explicit than these words ? 
 
 Thus we see that men, in attacking these 
 views and sentiments, are in fjict, impugning 
 the doctrines of their own church. 
 
 We merely add one more remark on the 
 much-controverted subject of conversion. To 
 those who deny this doctrine, and describe 
 it as " spiritual revelry," pretended illumina- 
 tions, &c., we recommend the consideration 
 of the following passage in the Homily on 
 Whitsunday. It refers to our Lord's convijr- 
 sation with Nicodemus, and to the inability 
 of the latter to comprehend this great spirit- 
 ual change of heart. 
 
 " Behold a lively pattern of a fleshly and 
 carnal man. He had little or no intelligence 
 of the Holy Ghost, and therefore he goeth 
 bluntly to work, and asketh how this thing 
 were possible to be true. Whereas, other- 
 wise, if he had known the great power of 
 the Holy Ghost in this behalf, that it is He 
 which inwardly worketh the regeneration 
 and new birth of mankind, he would never 
 have marvelled at Christ's words, but would 
 rather take occasion thereby to praise and 
 glorify God." 
 
 We have thought proper to adduce these 
 testimonies, because they vindicate the doc- 
 trines o Newton, and of those who concur 
 with him in these views. They fully prove 
 how much the stability of our church, in the 
 estimation of sotne of its ablest advocates, 
 depends on the faithfulness with which these 
 doctrines are maintained. On tliis subject 
 we would bog to express our deepest con- 
 viction that, if the Church of England is to 
 survive those perils by which she is threat- 
 ened ; if, as we anticipate, she will rise from 
 her tribulation with renewed strength and 
 beauty ; it is to the purity of her doctrine, 
 and to the devotedness of her ministers, and 
 not to the richness of her endowments, or to 
 the secular arm of the state, that she must 
 be indebted for her durability and greatness. 
 To be upheld, she must be " strong in tho 
 
 * See also Article IX. of the Church of England, oi 
 Original Sin.
 
 664 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 Lord and in the power of Iiis might," apos- 
 tolical in her doctrines, restored in her dis- 
 cipline, and hoiy in her practice. The lan- 
 guage shall then be addressed to her that is 
 applied by the inspired prophet to Zion ; 
 " No weapon that is formed against thee 
 shall prosper, and every tongue that shall 
 rise against tiiee in judgment thou shall con- 
 demn." Isaiah liv. 17. Or, to use words 
 still more emphatic, " The gates of hell shall 
 not prevail against her." 
 
 Having thus generally vindicated the doc- 
 trines of Newton, we next advert to some of 
 his writings. We make a few extracts from 
 his Cardiphonia, the most popular of his writ- 
 ings, being a series of letters on religious 
 subjects. The following is addressed to a 
 nobleman, distinguished for his piety. 
 
 " To devote soul and body, every talent, 
 power and faculty, to the service of the 
 Lord's cause and will ; to let our light shine 
 (in our several situations) to the praise of 
 grace ; to place our highest joy in the con- 
 templation of his adorable perfection ; to re- 
 joice even in tribulations and distresses, in 
 reproaches and infirmities, if thereby the 
 power of Christ may rest upon us, and be 
 magnified in us ; to be content, yea, glad to 
 be nothing, that he may be all in all ; — to 
 obey him in opposition to the threats or so- 
 licitations of men ; to trust him, though all 
 outward appearances seem against us ; to 
 rejoice in him, though we should (as will 
 sooner or later be the case) have nothing 
 else to rejoice in ; to live above the world, 
 and to have our conversation in heaven ; to 
 be like the angels, finding our own pleasure 
 in performing his; — this, my Lord, is the 
 prize, the mark of our high calling, to which 
 we are encourged with a holy ambition con- 
 tinually to aspire. It is true, we shall still 
 fall short; we shall find that, when we 
 should do good, evil will be present with 
 us ; but the attempt is glorious, and shall not 
 be wholly in vain, lie that gives us thus to 
 will, will enable us to perform with growing 
 success, and teach us to profit even by our 
 mistakes and imperfections."* 
 
 The privileges of the believer are thus set 
 fbrth. 
 
 "How great and honorable is the privilege 
 of a true believer ? That he has neither wis- 
 dom nor strensfth in himself is no disadvan- 
 tage ; for he is connected witii infinite wis- 
 dom and almighty power. Though weak as 
 a worm, his arms are strengthened by the 
 mighty God of Jacob, and all things become 
 possible, yea, easy to him, that occur within 
 the compass of liis proper duty and calling. 
 The Lord, whom he serves, engages to pro- 
 
 f)ortion his strength to his day, whether it 
 )e a day of service or of suffering; and, 
 
 * "Cardiphonia." Letters to a Nobleman. 
 
 though he is fallible and short-sighted, ex- 
 ceedingly liable to mistake and imposition, 
 yet, while he retains a sense that he is so, 
 and with the simplicity of a child asks coun- 
 sel and direction of the Lord, he seldom 
 takes a wrong step, at least not in matters 
 of consequence ; and even his inadvertencies 
 are overruled for good. If he forgets his 
 true state, and thinks himself to be some- 
 thing, he presently finds he is indeed nothing; 
 but if he is content to be nothing, and to have 
 nothing, he is sure to find a seasonable and 
 abundant communication of all that he wants. 
 Thus he lives, like Israel in the wilderness, 
 upon mere bounty; but then it is a bounty 
 unchangeable, unwearied, inexhaustible, and 
 all-sufficient."* 
 
 The believer's call, duty, and privilege is 
 thus illustrated by the happy application of 
 Milton's character of Abdiel, at the end of 
 book 5, of the "Paradise Lost." The com- 
 pliment to his noble friend is just and 
 merited. 
 
 " Faithful found 
 Among the faithless, faithful only he, 
 Among innumerable false, unmov'd, 
 Unshaken, unseduc'd, unterrified, 
 His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 
 Nor number, nor example, with him wrought 
 To swerve from truth, or change his constant 
 
 mind 
 Thoucfh single." 
 
 " Methinks your Lordship's situation par- 
 ticularly resembles that in which the poet has 
 placed x\bdiel. You are not indeed called to 
 serve God quite alone ; but, amongst those 
 of your own rank, and with whom tiie station 
 in which he has placed you necessitates you 
 to converse, how few are there who can un- 
 derstand, second, or approve the principles 
 upon which you act ; or easily bear a con- 
 duct which must ingress conviction or reflect 
 dishonor upon themselves? But you are 
 not alone. The Lord's people (many of 
 whom you will not know till you meet them 
 in glory) are helping you here with their 
 prayers. His angels are commissioned to 
 guard and guide your steps. Yea, the Lord 
 himself fixes his eye of mercy upon your pri- 
 vate and public path, and is near you at your 
 right hand, that you may not be moved! 
 That he may comfort you with the light of 
 his countenance, and uphold you with the 
 arm of his power, is my frequent prayer."* 
 
 Such is the sweet strain of practical and 
 experimental piety in which Newton writes, 
 uniting the graces of composition with the 
 courtesy of ^ristian feeling, and the senti 
 ments of an exalted piety. The nobleman 
 to whom these letters aj-e addresrsed, (twenty- 
 six in number,) was the Earl of Dartmouth, 
 
 * " Cardiphonia."
 
 LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 
 
 665 
 
 the patron of the living of Olney. Happy 
 would it be if men of rank were always will- 
 ing' to listen to such truths, and the pen of a 
 Newton could record them with so much faith- 
 fulness and grace. The date of this corre- 
 spondence commences iu the year 1765, and 
 terminates in 1777. The suceeding eight 
 letters, to the Rev. Mr. S., are addressed to 
 the Rev. Thomas Scott, and will be shortly 
 adverted to. Mr. B., to whom eleven letters 
 are inscribed, is Mr. Barham, the father of 
 the late Jos. Foster Barham, Esq. M.P. One 
 letter is addressed to the latter, as Mr. B., 
 jun. ; and Miss M. B., is Miss Martha Bar- 
 ham, his sister. The Rev. Mr. R., is JMr. 
 Rose, late Rector of Beckenham, who married 
 her sister. I am enabled to verifv these facts 
 from family connexion, and personal knowl- 
 edge. Besides these letters, Newton was 
 the author of " Omicron," " Letters to a 
 Wife," " Review of Ecclesiastical History," 
 "Sermons," "The Aged Pilgrim's Triumph," 
 " Life of the Rev. \Viiliam Grimshawe," an 
 ancestor of the Editor, distinguished for his 
 piety and laborious exertions, though accom- 
 panied with some peculiarities; 1 cannot 
 however record his name without reverence 
 for his piety and zeal. The majority of the 
 Olney Hymns were contributed by Newton, 
 and have always been acceptable to the re- 
 ligious public. They are diversified in their 
 subject, and uniformly spiritual and experi- 
 mental, though inferior, as poetical composi- 
 tions, to those contributed by Cowper. 
 
 His lines on the Ocean are characterized 
 by great force and beauty. 
 
 A THOUGUT OS THK SKA SHORE. 
 
 In ev'ry object here I see 
 
 Soinethinir, O Lord ! that leads to thee. 
 
 Finn as the rocks thy promise stands, 
 
 Thy mercies countless as the sands; 
 
 Thy love a sea iaiineiistt|y wide, 
 
 Thy grace an everllovvfnjr tide. 
 
 In ev'ry object here I see 
 
 Something my heart that points at thee. 
 Han] as tiie rocks til it bound the strand, 
 Untrnitlul as the barr(Mi sand 
 Deep and deceitful as the ocean, 
 And, like the tides, in constant motion. 
 
 The last point of view in which Newton 
 claims to be considered is, as the honored 
 instrument, in the hands of God, for raising 
 up others who became eminent for piety and 
 usefulness. We pass over many instances 
 of comp iratively less importance, and select 
 two of known celebrity, the late Rev. Tiiomas 
 Scott,and the Rev. CI ludius Buchanan. Mr. 
 Scott, at the time of Newton's residence at 
 Olney, was the curate of Ravenstoue, in that 
 neighborhood. Though strictly conscien- 
 tious, and earnest in the discharge of his 
 duties, yet his views were indistinct, and his 
 mind laboring under strong prejudices. The 
 
 sentiments and principles of Newton, so op- 
 posite to his own, excited his attention. He 
 was unable to comprehend them, and, as a 
 natural consequence, deprecated and rejected 
 them. Newton presented him with one of 
 his publications, entitled "Omicron." This 
 led to a correspondence, which is inserted in 
 the " Cardiphonia." The influence of New- 
 ton's arguments, though slow, Avas finally 
 successful. The strong aaid powerful preju- 
 dices of Scott yielded, like the mists that are 
 dispelled by the penetrating beams of the 
 sun. He has recorded this eventful period 
 of his life in his "Force of Truth," a book 
 which merits to be universally read. Mr. 
 Scott's subsequent career and usefulness are 
 well known. He was "a burning and a shin- 
 ing light." His " Commentary on the Bible" 
 requires no eulogium, its praise is in all the 
 churches. In America alone, we believe that 
 not less than forty or fifty thousand copies 
 have been sold. It is now circulating in 
 France and in Switzerland. Perhaps no 
 book has contributed so essentially to dif- 
 fuse the great doctrines of the Reformation, 
 and to revive the piety and spirit of former 
 ages. We do not know a more splendid 
 trophy to the name and usefulness of New- 
 ton, than to be recorded as the instrument, 
 under the Divine blessing, of having raised 
 up so distinguished a character as the Rev. 
 Thomas Scott. 
 
 The second instance is that of the Rev. 
 Claudius Buchanan. Mr. Newton, after a 
 residence of nearly sixteen years at Olney, 
 was removed to London, having been pre- 
 sented, by the recommendation of John 
 Thornton, Esq., to the living of St. Mary 
 Woolnoth. On a Sunday evening a stranger 
 stood in one of the aisles of the church, 
 while Newton was preaching. He became im- 
 pressed witli what he heard, andcommunicated 
 to him the state of his mind: Newton admir- 
 ing his talents, and anticipating his future 
 usefulness, introduced him to the late Henry 
 Thornton, Esq., by whose liberality he was 
 sent to college. He was afterwards or- 
 dained, and subsequently filled an important 
 situation in the east. He at length returned 
 to Europe to awaken Britain to the claims 
 of India. The effect produced by his ap- 
 peals, and by his celebrated sermon, " The 
 Star in the East," will long be remembered. 
 He was eminently instrumental in rousing 
 public attention to the duty of evangelizing 
 India. 
 
 The stranger whose history we have thus 
 briefly recorded was the Rev. Claudius Bu- 
 chanan. 
 
 Such is the history of Newton, abounding 
 in the most singular and eventful incidents, 
 and exhibiting a man not less distinguished 
 by his piety than by his acknowledged talents 
 and great usefulness. The moral truths that
 
 666 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 it conveys are both numerous and highly in- 
 structive. To parents it is fraught witli the 
 greatest encouragement, by proving that early 
 impressions of piety, however they may seem 
 to be extinguished by a long course of im- 
 penitence, may subsequently revive, though 
 probably under the most solemn dispensa- 
 tions : " Thou shalt be visited of the Lord 
 with thunder, and with earthquake, and great 
 noise, with storm and tempest, and the flame 
 of devouring fire." Isaiah xxix. 6. The mercy 
 that spares in the midst of manifold provoca- 
 tions; the long-sutfering and goodness of 
 God ; the doctrine of a particular Providence ; 
 the strivings of his Spirit ; the necessity of 
 the conversion of the soul to God; and the 
 ultimate triumphs of his grace ; how forcibly 
 have these truths been illustrated in the fore- 
 going narrative ! Reader, adore the wonder- 
 ful power and grace of God ! See what this 
 grace has done for others ! Learn what it is 
 capable of effecting for yourself, and what an 
 instrument of extended usefulness Providence 
 may render you, when your ow« heart is once 
 renewed by his Spirit! Who shall trace the 
 final consequences of a single soul thus 
 brought to God ! The last great day alone 
 can reveal the issue. If then you have not 
 yet entered on this heavenly road, make the 
 grand experiment in the strength and power 
 of God. " It is high time to awake out of 
 sleep." " The night is far spent, the day is 
 at hand." Save thyself and others. Flee to 
 the cross of Christ for pardon and mercy. 
 Read the neglected Bible. Pour out the 
 heart in fervent, persevering prayer ; and let 
 thy faitii be quickened, and thy fears as- 
 suaged by the gracious assurance, " All things 
 
 whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, 
 ye shall receive." Matt. xxi. 22. 
 
 He died at his residence in Coleman-street 
 Buildings, London, Dec. 21, 1807, in his 83rd 
 year. 
 
 The following epitaph, composed by him- 
 self, is inscribed on a plain marble tablet, 
 near the vestry door, in the church of St. 
 Mary Woolnoth, London. 
 
 JOHN NEWTON, Clerk, 
 
 ONCE AN INFIDEL AND LIBERTINE, 
 
 A SERVANT OF SLAVES IN AFRICA, 
 
 WAS, BY THE RICH MERCY OP OUR LORD AND 
 
 SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST, 
 
 PRESERVED, RESTORED, PARDONED, 
 
 AND APPOINTED TO PREACH THE FAITH HE HAD 
 
 LONG LABORED TO DESTROY, 
 
 NEAR SIXTEEN YEARS AT OLNEY IN BUCKS, 
 
 AND TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS IN THIS CHURCH. 
 
 ON FEB. 1, 1750, HE MARRIED 
 
 MARY, 
 
 DAUGHTER OP THE LATE GEORGE CATLETT, 
 
 OF CHATHAM, KENT. 
 
 HE RESIGNED HER TO THE LORD WHO GAVE HEE, 
 
 ON THE 15tH OF DECEMBER, 1790. 
 
 In his study at the vicarage in Olney, 
 Bucks, are still to be seen the following 
 lines, inscribed on the wall : — 
 
 " Since thou wast precious in my sight thou 
 hast been honorable." — Isaiah xliii. 4. 
 
 But, 
 
 " Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bond- 
 man in the land of Egypt, and the Lord thy God 
 redeemed thee." — Deuteronomy xv. 15 
 
 PPtELIMIMRY REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 The origin of the Olney Hymns, and the 
 proportion contributed by Cowper to that 
 collection, have been already stated in the 
 first part of this work.* Before, however, 
 we enter on tlie subject of these hymns, it 
 will not perhaps be thought uninteresting to 
 present the reader with a brief historical ac- 
 count of Psalmody, and to detail the circum- 
 stances which first gave rise to a metrical ver- 
 sion of the Psalms of David. We shall ex- 
 tract the information principally from " War- 
 ton's History of English Poetry." Sir John 
 Hawkins may also be consulted on the same 
 subject.! 
 
 * Page 56, T History of Music. 
 
 The praise of having first effected a metri- 
 cal version of the Psalms is to be assigned 
 to France. About the year 1540, Clement 
 Marot, valet of the bedchamber to Francis I., 
 was the fiivorite poet of France. Being tired 
 of the vanities of profane poetry, and anxious 
 to raise the tone of public taste and feeling, 
 he attempted a version of the Psalms into 
 French rhyme, aided by Theodore Beza, and 
 encouraged by the Professor of Hebrew in 
 the University of Paris. This translation, 
 not aiming at any innovation in the public 
 worship, received the sanction of the Sor. 
 bonne, as containing nothing contrary to 
 sound doctrine. Solicitous to justify this
 
 REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS, 
 
 667 
 
 new application of his poetical powers, Ma- 
 rot expatiates in his dedication on the supe- 
 rior claims of sacred poetry, and observes 
 "that the golden age would now be restored, 
 when we siiould see the peasant at his plough, 
 the carman in the streets, and the mechanic 
 in his shop, solacing their toils with psalms 
 and canticles; and the shepherd and shep- 
 herdess, reposing in the sliade, and teach- 
 ing tlic rocks to echo the name of the Cre- 
 ator."* 
 
 This version soon eclipsed the brilliancy 
 of his raadigrals and sonnets. In the festive 
 and splendid court of Francis I. of a sudden 
 nothing was heard but the psalms of Cle- 
 ment Marot. By each of tlie royal family 
 and the principal nobility of the court, a 
 psalm was chosen, and adapted to a popular 
 ballad tune. 
 
 Calvin soon discovered what a powerful 
 auxiliary psaim-singing might prove to the 
 reformed religion, and immediately intro- 
 duced Marot's version into his congregation 
 at Geneva. They were adapted to plain and 
 easy melodiesf by Guillaunie de Franc, and 
 became a characteristic badge of the newly- 
 established worship. Germany next caught 
 the sacred ardor, and the choral mode of ser- 
 vice yielded to the attractive and popular 
 character of a devotional melody, in which 
 all might join, without distinction of rank or 
 character. Psalm-singing being thus asso- 
 ciated with the Reformed religion, became 
 interdicted to the Catholics under the most 
 severe penalties. 
 
 This predilection for sacred song soon 
 reached England. Previously however to 
 this event, Sir Thomas Wyatt and the cel- 
 ebrated Lord Surrey had translated portions 
 of the Psalms into metre. We subjoin a 
 brief specimen from each of these writers, 
 as illustrating the style and poetical preten- 
 sions of that early perio(|^f English litera- 
 ture. 
 
 Psalm xxxii. — Beati quorum, <f'c. 
 
 Oh ! happy are they that have forgiveness got 
 Of tlieir oirence, not by their penitence, 
 As by merit, wiiich recoiupenseth not ; 
 Although that yet pardon hath not offence 
 Without the same, but by the goodness 
 Of him tliat liatli perfect intelligence, 
 Of heart contrite, and covereth the irreatness 
 Of siji within a merciful disciiarge. — 
 
 * l.p. Ti!il)onreiir a s,a charruS, 
 Le Cliarnnier paniiy le rug, 
 Kt IWiti.sari en sa boutique, 
 Avec([uos un P.^cauine ou Cantique, 
 Kn son lal)i)iir so soiilatter. 
 Hoiireu.x qui orra K^ Hertrer 
 Et la l5eri;ere au bois oslans. 
 Fail- ([ue roclicrs et eslari<;9 
 Apres eux clianteiit la liautcur 
 Du saiiict Jioin de Cruateur. 
 
 Clejvient Marot. 
 t Ttiis mode of adaptation may be sren in the " Godly 
 and Spiritual Som'^'.V' &c„ printed at Edinburgh in loU7, 
 imd ri'printed tlii-re iu 1601.— Vark. 
 
 And happy is he to whom God doth impute 
 No more his faults, by 'knowledging his sin : 
 But cleansed now the Lord doth him repute. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt. 
 
 Psalm viii. LORD, WHAT IS MAN 1 
 
 But yet among all these I ask, " What thino- is 
 
 man!" 
 Whose turn to serve in his poor need this work 
 
 Thou first began. 
 Or what is Adam's son that bears his father's 
 
 mark 1 
 For whose delight and comfort eke Thou has 
 
 wrought all this work. 
 I see thou mind'st him much, that dost reward 
 
 him so : 
 Being but earth, to rule the earth, whereon him- 
 self doth go. 
 From angels' substance eke Thou mad'st him 
 
 differ small ; 
 Save one doth change his hfe awhile ; the other 
 
 not at all. 
 The sun and moon also Thou mad'st to "ive him 
 
 light; 
 And each one of the wandering stars to twinkle 
 
 sparkles bright. 
 The air to give him breath; the water for his 
 
 health ; 
 The earth to bring forth grain and fruit, for to 
 
 increase his wealth. j 
 
 Earl' of Surrey. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt versified the seven 
 Penitential Psalms, and died in 1542. The 
 Earl of Surrey honored his memory and vir- 
 tues by three sonnets. Five years after- 
 wards this distinguished and highly-gifted 
 nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of 
 Henry VIII., and was beheaded, in the year 
 1547. He has left a version of the eighth, 
 fifty-fifth, seventy-third, and eighty-eighth 
 Psalms.* 
 
 The versification of Sternhold and Hop- 
 kins, the first that was ever used in the 
 Church of England, next demands our at- 
 tention. Sternhold was groom of the robes 
 to Henry VIII. It is singular that both in 
 France and England we are indebted to lay- 
 men and court poets for the introduction of 
 wliat subsequently became so characteristic 
 a feature in the reformed worship. Stern- 
 hold composed fifty-one Psalms, and dedi- 
 cated his version to King Edward VI. His 
 coadjutor in this undertaking was John 
 Hopkins, a clergyman and school-master, in 
 Suftblk. His poetry is rather of a higher 
 order than that of Sternhold. He translated 
 fifty-eight Psalms. To the above may be 
 added the names of William Whyttingham, 
 Dean of Durham, who added sixteen Psalms. 
 Tlie hundredth and hundred and ninteenth 
 Psalms were included in this number. The 
 rest were contributed by Robert Wisdome, 
 Archdeacon of Ely ; by William Hethe, a 
 
 * There is ,il9o a fraicmont of a comment on the Seven 
 Penitential P:«alms, in Eni?lish verse, attributed to Dr. 
 Alcdck, IHshop of Ely, tlie founder of Jesus CoUoge, 
 Cambridge.
 
 Scotch divine ; John Pullain, and Thomas 
 Churchyard, one of the pages of the Earl of 
 Surrey. The entire version of the Psalter 
 was at length published by John Day, in 
 1562, attached for the first time to the Com- 
 mon Prayer, and entitled, " The whole Booke 
 of Psalnies, collected into English metre, by 
 J. Sternhold, J. Hopkins, and others, con- 
 ferred with the Ebrue, with apt Notes to sing 
 them withall." 
 
 They are believed to contain some of the 
 original melodies composed by French and 
 German musicians. Many of them are the 
 tunes of Gondinel and Le Jeune, who are 
 among the first composers of Marot's French 
 psalms. Not a few were probably imported 
 by the Protestant refugees from Flanders, 
 who fled into England from the persecution 
 of the Duke of Alva. Some of our own 
 musicians, such as Marbeck, Tallis, Tye, 
 Parsons, and Munday, are supposed to have 
 contributed their talents towards this under- 
 taking. 
 
 We insert a few extracts from the original 
 version, which in this refined age will appear 
 rather ludicrous, and unsuited to the dignity 
 of sacred poetry. 
 
 Psalm Ixxxiv. 13. 
 
 Why doost withdrawe thy hand aback, 
 And hide it in thy lappe '] 
 O plucke it out, and be not slack 
 To give thy foes a rappe ! 
 
 Psalm Ixviii. 37. 
 
 For why "? their hearts were nothing bent, 
 To him nor to his trade. 
 
 The miraculous march of Jehovah before 
 the Israelites, through the wilderness, is thus 
 represented by Sternhold. 
 
 Psalm Ixviii. 
 
 When thou didst march before thy folk, 
 
 The Egyptians from among, 
 And brought them from the wilderness, 
 
 Which, was both wide and long : 
 
 The earth did quake, the raine pourde downe, 
 Heard loere great claps of thunder ; 
 
 The mount Sinai shooke in such a sorte, 
 As it would cleave in sunder. 
 
 Thy heritage with drops of rain 
 
 Abundantly was washt ; 
 And if so be it barren was, 
 
 By thee it was refresht. 
 
 God's army is two millions, 
 
 Of warriors good and strong, 
 The Lord also in Sinai 
 
 Is present them among. 
 
 Though this version has undergone many 
 revisions, yet we fully agree with VVarton, 
 that its continued use is discreditable to the 
 
 Church of England.* The translation, in its 
 genuine and unsophisticated state, mayjustly 
 indeed be considered, as he observes, no in 
 considerable monument of our ancient liter 
 ature, if not of our ancient poetry ; and Ful- 
 ler, likewise, remarks, " Match these verses 
 for their ages, they shall go abreast with the 
 best poems of those times." Still the spirit 
 of the present age demands a higher stand- 
 ard both of poetical taste and devotional 
 piety. They are too bald and jejune. The 
 public feeling requires a more luminous ex- 
 hibition of the great truths of the gospel, 
 and a more experimental mode of delineating 
 the trials and conflicts of the Christian war- 
 fare. No man has accomplished this impor- 
 tant task more successfully than Watts. He 
 has united the inspiration of poetry with the 
 hallowed fire from the altar; and we hesitate 
 not to assert, that if Watts had been a church- 
 man, his version would have been in univer- 
 sal repute among us. It is already incorpo- 
 rated with most of the modern selections, 
 where there is a return to the doctrines of 
 the Reformation; and Sternhold and Hop- 
 kins are becoming increasingly unsuited to 
 the advancing spirit of religious inquiry. 
 
 It was this conviction that induced New- 
 ton, in the year 1771, to engage in the com- 
 position of the Olney Hymns. They were 
 designed to be the joint contribution of New- 
 ton and Cowper, but the morbid depression 
 of the poet prevented the fulfilment of his 
 share of the engagement. The total number 
 contributed by Cowper has been variously 
 stated. Hayley estimates it at sixty-eight. 
 Other biographers have considerably reduced 
 the amount. Some editions assign sixty- 
 three ; others insert sixty-five. There is at 
 present no uniform standard, nor is there, to 
 the best of our judgment, one single edition 
 entitled to the credit of correctness.! We 
 trust that we hafp the means of deciding 
 tliis controverted subject. So far as the 
 original edition, now lying before us, pub- 
 lished, under the superintendence of Newton 
 himself, by Johnson, the bookseller, and bear- 
 ing the date of 1779, may be considered as 
 the most authentic guide and criterion, we 
 are enabled to state that the original number, 
 distinguished by the initial letter C (Cow- 
 per's signature), is sixty-seven. If to the 
 above we add a hymn not inserted in New- 
 ton's original edition, because subsequently 
 composed, but which we have been enabled 
 to authenticate as the production of Cowper 
 the total number, entitled to be ascribed to 
 
 * Warton's censure is expressed in very stron? lan- 
 guage. "To the disgrace i)f sacred music, sacred poetry, 
 and our established worship, these Psalms still continue 
 to be sung in the Church of England." See History of 
 English Poetry^ vol. ii. p. 461. 
 
 t One edition imputes two hymns of Newton's to Cow- 
 per, by mistaliing the numerical letter C for the initial 
 of Cowper's name.
 
 REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 669 
 
 .lis pen, is sixty-eight. The hymn that we 
 allude to begins, 
 
 " To Jesus, the crown of my hope." 
 
 It has already appeared before the public in 
 some modern selections. 
 
 Of tiiese hymns two were written at the 
 period of Cowper's recovery at St. Albans, 
 when ids mind had received those gracious 
 impressions wliich so powerfully inilueneed 
 his future principles and writings. Tiie _^rs^ 
 which Cowper ever composed was in allusion 
 to this event. It is entitled " The Happy 
 Change," and begins with the words, 
 
 " How bless'd thy creature is, God." 
 
 The second was written when he contempla- 
 ted retiring from the busy world. It is the 
 beautiful and admired hymn, 
 
 " Far from the world, O Lord, I flee." 
 
 It may be interesting to the reader to learn, 
 from concurring sources of information, that 
 the celebrated hymn commencing with 
 
 " God moves in a mysterious way," 
 
 was the lasl in the collection that he com- 
 posed, and that it was written on the eve of 
 that afflicting malady, which, occurring in 
 Jan., 1773, suspended his powers for nearly 
 seven successive years, though his corre- 
 spondence was partially resumed with Mr. 
 Hill and Mr. Unwin, from the year 1776. It 
 was during a solitary walk in the fields that 
 lie had a presentiment of his approaching at- 
 tack, and it is to this remarkable impression 
 tli,;t we owe the origin of the above admired 
 composition. 
 
 This hymn acquires a peculiar interest 
 from the above incident as well as from the 
 unshaken faith and sulunission which it incul- 
 cates under the darkest dispensations. It 
 seems as if God were giving him a chart of 
 the voyage through those seas of trouble 
 which he was about to navigate. No man 
 could have written this hymn unless under 
 the influence of a real or supposed special 
 dispensation ; and one end perhaps designed 
 by it was, that Cowper should not oidy con- 
 vey instruction to his own mind, but be made 
 the instrument of consoling others. Few 
 hymns have been more admired or more fre- 
 quently (juoled. It stands pre-eminent in that 
 llass wliich refer to the mysterious de;dings 
 of God, and is singularly qualified to invig- 
 orate the faith, to check the speculations of 
 finite reason, and to lead the sufferer to re- 
 pose on the unerring wisdom and goodness 
 of God. 
 
 We must be carefu';, at the same time, how 
 we reason on these subjects. That impres- 
 sions of approaching trials may be sent from 
 God, and subsequently be realised, we are by 
 
 no means prepared to deny ; but that they are 
 often the occasion of fulfilling themselves, by 
 acting strongly on a nervous temperament, 
 we still more firmly believe. Again, that 
 they frequently exist, and are not confirmed 
 by the result, is well known. On the whole, 
 we think reason as well as Scripture militates 
 strongly against the doctrine of impressions. 
 There is often an order and progression in 
 ihem which, if minutely traced, prove their 
 fivllacy. Anxiety first suggests fear. A too 
 great sensitiveness of feeling, an excursive 
 imagination, and the want of a more vigorous 
 exercise of faith next invest what was only 
 imaginary, with reality. It thus acquires a 
 form and existence, next expands into mag- 
 nitude, and then rises into the power and as- 
 cendancy of an absorbing idea; till, by a final 
 deception, the impression is attributed to a 
 divine hand. But who does not see that it is 
 more justly to be ascribed to morbid sensi- 
 bility, to nervous excitement, and, most of all, 
 to the want of a firmer confidence in the 
 power and goodness of God ? The language 
 of Scripture is decidedly opposed to the the- 
 ory of impressions. The Bible directs us 
 never to indulge in anticipations of evil, and 
 to " take no thought for the morrow." An 
 habitual trust in a superintending Providence 
 will ever prove to be the best preservative 
 against imaginary or real evil, and will fill 
 the mind with the sweet calm of a holy and 
 abiding peace. 
 
 In returning to the subject of the Olney 
 Hymns, we may remark that those contrib- 
 uted by Cowper are, with some few excep- 
 tions, distinguished by excellences of no com- 
 mon kind. To the grace and beauty of po- 
 etical composition, they unite the sublimity 
 of religious sentiment, and the tenderness 
 and fervor of devotional feeling. The nearer 
 approriches to the Ueity, \\hich constitute the 
 comuiuinon of the soul with God, and in which 
 the believer is able to contemplate him as a 
 reconciled Father in Christ Jesus; the suffi- 
 ciency of divine grace to pardon all our sins, 
 and to renew and sanctify the soul ; the as- 
 pirations of prayer for the attainment of these 
 blessings, and the song of praise in the con- 
 sciousness of their enjoyment; the faith that 
 reposes every care on his promises, and re- 
 alises their covenanted truth ; such are the 
 subjects on which Cowper delights to dwell 
 with a fervor which gives new wings to our 
 devotion, and raises us above the enfeebling 
 vanity of earthly things. 
 
 To specify all the hymns which lay claim 
 to our admiration, would far exceed the limits 
 of our i)lan, and interfere with the judgment 
 and discrimination of the reader. We cannot, 
 however, avoid referring to the following: — 
 "O for a closer walk with God;" "Ere God 
 had built the mountains;" "The Lord will 
 happiness divine ;" " There is a fountain fill'd
 
 670 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 with blood ;" " Hark, my soul, it is the Lord;" 
 " God of my life, to thee I call ;" and espe- 
 cially, "The billows swell, the winds are 
 high." There is a character of experimental 
 piety pervading the hymns of Cowper, which 
 singularly adapts them to meet the feelings 
 of the contemplative or tried Christian. The 
 deeper and more secret emotions of the soul ; 
 the vicissitudes of joy and sorrow; the fears 
 that depress, and tiie hopes that soothe and 
 tranquillize the mind, are treated with a fidel- 
 ity and pathos, that render Cowper emphati- 
 cally the poet of the heart. His hymns pos- 
 sess one peculiar feature which powerfully 
 engages our sympathies. They disclose the 
 inward recesses, and deep exercises of his 
 own mind. But the sorrows of Cowper are 
 now ended. Every trace is obliterated, ex- 
 cept the record of them which is stamped on 
 
 his interesting page. He has entered within 
 the vail, where the mysterious dispensations 
 of Providence, whicli once cast their deep 
 shade on his chequered path, are vindicated 
 and explained. He has joined "the general 
 assembly and church of the first-born, which 
 are written in heaven, and an innumerable 
 company of angels, and God, the judge of all, 
 and the spirits of just men made perfect, and 
 Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant." 
 There, freed from the sorrows and finite con- 
 ceptions of erring reason, he unites with the 
 redeemed of the Lord in that nobler song of 
 praise, "Unto Him that loved us, and washed 
 us from our sins in his own blood, and hath 
 made us kings and priests unto God and his 
 Father; to him be glory and dominion forever 
 and ever. Amen. 
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 I. WALKING WITH GOD— Gen. v. 24. 
 
 Oh ! for a closer walk with God, 
 A calm and heavenly frame ; 
 
 A light to shine upon the road 
 That leads me to the Lamb ! 
 
 Where is the blessedness I knew 
 
 When first I saw the Lord 1 
 Where is the soul-refreshing view 
 
 Of Jesus and his word "? 
 
 What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd ! 
 
 How sweet their aiemory still ! 
 But they have left an aching void, 
 
 Tlie world can never fill. 
 
 Return, O holy Dove, return ! 
 
 Sweet messenger of rest : 
 I hate the sins that made thee mourn, 
 
 And drove thee from my breast. 
 
 The dearest idol I have knowrr, 
 
 Whate'er that idol be, 
 Help me to tear it from thy throne, 
 
 And worship only thee. 
 
 So shall my walk be close with God, 
 
 Calm and serene my frame : 
 So purer light shall mark the road 
 
 That leads me to the Lamb. 
 
 II. JEHOVAH-JIREH. THE LORD WILL 
 PROVIDE.— Gm. xxii. 14. 
 
 The saints should never be dismay'd, 
 Nor sink in hopeless fear : 
 
 For when they least expect his aid, 
 The Saviour will appear. 
 
 This Abraham found : he raised the knife ; 
 
 God saw, and said, " Forbear ! 
 Yon ram shall yield his meaner fife ; 
 
 Behold the victim there." 
 
 Once David seem'd Saul's certain prey; 
 
 But hark ! the foe's at hand ;* 
 Saul turns his arms another way, 
 
 To save the invaded land. 
 
 When Jonah sunk beneath the wave, 
 
 He thought to rise no more ;f 
 But God prepared a fish to save. 
 
 And bear him to the shore. 
 
 Blest proofs of power and grace divine 
 
 That meet us in his word ! 
 May every deep-felt care of mine 
 
 Be trusted with the Lord. 
 
 Wait for his seasonable aid, 
 
 And though it tarry, wait : 
 The promise may be long delay'd. 
 
 But cannot come too late. 
 
 III. JEHOVAH-ROPHI. I AM THE LORE 
 THAT HEALETH THEE.— .E^od. xv. 26. 
 
 Heal us, Emmanuel, here we are, 
 
 Waiting to feel thy touch : 
 Deep-wounded souls to thee repair, 
 
 And, Saviour, we are such. 
 
 * 1 Sam. xxiii. 27. 
 
 t Jonah i. 17.
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 671 
 
 Our faith is feeble, we confess, 
 
 We faintly trust tliy word ; 
 But wilt thou pity us the less 1 
 
 Be that far from thee, Lord ! 
 
 Remember him who once applied, 
 
 With trembling for relief; 
 " Lord, I believe," with tears he cried,* 
 
 " Oh, help my unbelief!" 
 
 She too, who touch'd thee in the press, 
 
 And healing virtue stole, 
 Was answer''], ' Daughter, go in peace,t 
 
 Thy laith hath made thee whole." 
 
 Conccal'd amid tlic gathering throng, 
 She would have siiunn'd thy view ; 
 
 And if her faith was firm and strong, 
 Had strong misgivings too. 
 
 Like her, with hopes and fears we come, 
 
 To touch thee, if we may. 
 Oh ! send us not despairing home, 
 
 Send none unheal'd away. 
 
 IV. JEHOVAH-NISSI. THE LORD MY 
 
 BAlSiNER.—E.vod. xvii. 15. 
 
 By whom was David taught 
 
 To aim the deadly blow, 
 When he Goliath fought. 
 And laid the Gittitc low 1 
 Nor sword nor spear the stripling took, 
 But chose a pebble from the brook. 
 
 'Twas Israel's God and king 
 Who sent him to the fight ; 
 Who gave him strength to sling, 
 And skill to aim aright. 
 Ye feeble saints, your strength endures, 
 Because young David's God is yours. 
 
 Who order'd Gideon forth. 
 
 To storm the invaders' camp, 
 With arms of little worth, 
 A pitcher and a lampi:}' 
 The trumpets made his coming known, 
 And all the host was overthrown. 
 
 Oh ! I have seen the day, 
 
 Wh<n. with a single word, 
 God helping me to say, 
 My trust is in the Lord, 
 My soul hrtth quell'd a thousand foes. 
 Fearless of all that could oppose. 
 
 But unbelief self-will, 
 
 Self righteousness, and pride. 
 How often do they steal 
 My wea])on from my side I 
 Yet David's I,ord. and Gideon's friend. 
 Will help his servant to the end. 
 
 V. JEHOVAH-SHALOM. THE LORD 
 SEND PEACE.— Ju%es vi. '21. 
 
 Jesus, whese blood so freely stream'd, 
 
 To satisfy the law's demand ; 
 By thee from guilt and wrath redecm'd. 
 
 Before the Father's face I stand. 
 
 * Mark i.\. 24. t Mark v. 34. 
 
 t Judges vii. 9 and 20. 
 
 To reconcile offending man. 
 
 Make Justice drop her angry rod; 
 What creature could have fbrm'd the plan, 
 
 Or who fulfil it but a God 1 
 
 No drop remains of all the curse. 
 
 For wretches who deserved the whole; 
 
 No arrows dipt in wrath to pierce 
 The guilty but returning soul. 
 
 Peace by such means so dearly bought, 
 What rebel could have hoped to see 1 
 
 Peace, by his injured Sovereign wrought. 
 His Sovereign fasten'd to a tree. 
 
 Now, Lord, thy feeble worm prepare ! 
 
 For strife with earth and hell begins ; 
 Confirm and gird me tor the war. 
 
 They hate the soul that hates his sins. 
 
 Let them in horrid league agree I 
 They may assault, they may distress; 
 
 But cannot quench thy love to me, 
 Nor rob me of the Lord, my peace. 
 
 VL WISDOM.— P;ot. viii. 2-2—31. 
 
 Erb God had built the mountains, 
 
 Or raised the fruitful hills ; 
 Before he fiU'd the fountains 
 
 That feed the running rills ; 
 In me, from everlasting, 
 
 The wonderful I AM, 
 Found pleasures never-wasting. 
 
 And Wisdom is my name. 
 
 When, like a tent to dwell in, 
 
 He spread the skies abroad. 
 And swathed about the swelling 
 
 Of Ocean's mighty flood ; 
 He wrought by weight and measure, 
 
 And I was with him then : 
 Myself the f'ather's pleasure, 
 
 And mine the sons of men. 
 
 Thus Wisdom's words discover 
 
 Thy glory and thy grace, 
 Thou everlasting lover 
 
 Of our unworthy race ! 
 Thy gracix)us eye survey'd us 
 
 Ere stars were seen above; 
 In wisdom thou hast made us. 
 
 And died for us in love. 
 
 And couldst thou be delighted 
 
 \Vitli creatures such as we, 
 Who. wiicn we saw thee, slighted 
 
 And nail'd thee to a tree 1 
 Unt'athomal)le wonder. 
 
 And mystery divine ! 
 The voice that speaks in thunder, 
 
 Says, " Sinner, I am thine !" 
 
 VII. VANITY OF THE WORLD 
 
 God gives his mercies to be spent ; 
 
 Your hoard will do your soul no good; 
 Gold is a blessing only lent. 
 
 Repaid by giving others food. 
 
 The world's esteem is but a bribe. 
 
 To buy their peace you sell your own ;
 
 672 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The slave of a vain-glorious tribe, 
 
 Who hate you while they make you known. 
 
 The joy that vain amusements give, 
 Oh ! sad conclusion that it brings ! 
 
 The honey of a crowded hive, 
 Defended by a thousand stings. 
 
 'Tis thus the world rewards the fools 
 That live upon her treacherous smiles : 
 
 She leads them blindfold by her rules, 
 And ruins all whom she beguiles. 
 
 God knows the thousands who go down 
 From pleasure into endless woe; 
 
 And with a kng despairing groan 
 Blaspheme their Maker as they go. 
 
 O fearful thought ! be timely wise : 
 Delight but in a Saviour's charms, 
 
 And God shall take you to the skies, 
 Embraced in everlasting arms. 
 
 VIII. O LORD, I WILL PRAISE THEE. 
 
 Isaiah xii. 1. 
 
 I WILL praise thee every day 
 Now thine anger's turned away ! 
 Comfortable tlioughts arise 
 From the bleeding Sacrifice. 
 
 Here in the fair gospel-field, 
 Wells of free salvation yield 
 Streams of lil'e, a pl(;nteous store, 
 And my soul shall thirst no more. 
 
 Jesus is become at length 
 My salvation and my strength; 
 And his praises shall prolong, 
 While I live, my pleasant song. 
 
 Praise ye then his glorious name, 
 Publish his exalted tame ! 
 Still his worth your praise exceeds, 
 Excellent are all his deeds. 
 
 Raise again the joyful sound, 
 Let the nations roll it round 1 
 Zion, shout, for this is he, 
 God the Saviour dwells in thee ! 
 
 X. THE CONTRITE HEART.-Zsaia^ Ivii. 15. 
 
 The Lord will happiness divine 
 
 On contrite hearts bestow ; 
 Then tell mc, gracious God, is mine 
 
 A contrite heart or no "? 
 
 I hear, but seem to hear in vain, 
 
 Insensible as steel; 
 If aught is felt, 'tis only pain 
 
 To find I cannot feel. 
 
 I sometimes think myself inclined 
 
 To love thee, if I could : 
 But often feel another mind. 
 
 Averse to all trial's good. 
 
 My best desires are faint and few, 
 
 I fain would strive for more ; 
 But when I cry, " My strength renew," 
 
 Seem weaker than before. 
 
 Thy saints are comforted, I know. 
 And love thy house of prayer; 
 
 I theretbre go where others go. 
 But find no comfort there. 
 
 O make this heart rejoice or ache; 
 
 Decide tliis doubt for me; 
 And if it be not broken, break. 
 
 And heal it if it be. 
 
 X. THE FUTURE PEACE AND GLORY 
 OF THE CHURCH.— /saia/i ix. 15—20. 
 
 Hrar what God the Lord hath spoKen, 
 "O my people, faint and few. 
 Comfortless, afflicted broken. 
 Fair abodes I build for you ; 
 Thorns of heart-felt tribulation 
 Shall no more perplex your ways: 
 You shall name your walls. Salvation, 
 And your gates shall all be praise. 
 
 " There, like streams that feed the garden, 
 Pleasures without end shall flow ; 
 For the Lord, your laith rewarding. 
 All his bounty shnll bestow; 
 Still in undisturb'd possession 
 Peace and righteousness shall reign; 
 Never shall you feel oppression. 
 Hear the voice of war again. 
 
 "Ye no more your suns descending, 
 Wanintr moons no more shall see : 
 But your griets forever ending. 
 Find eternal noon in me ; 
 God shall rise and shining- o'er you, 
 Change to day the gloom of night; 
 He. the Lord, shall be your glory, 
 God your everlasting light." 
 
 XL JEHOVAH OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS. 
 
 Jer. xxiii. 6. 
 
 My God, how perfect are thy ways! 
 
 But mine polluted are; 
 Sin twin s itself about my praise, 
 
 And slides into my prayer. 
 
 When I would speak what thou hast dons 
 
 To save me from my sin, 
 I cannot make thy mercies known. 
 
 But self-applause creeps in. 
 
 Divine desire, that holy flame 
 
 Thy grace creates in me ; 
 Alas ! impatience is its name. 
 
 When it returns to thee. 
 
 This heart, a fountain of vile thoughts, 
 
 How does it overflow I 
 While self upon the surface floats. 
 
 Still bubbhng from below. 
 
 Let others in the gaudy dress 
 
 Of fy ncied merit shine ; 
 The Lord shall be my righteousness, 
 
 The Lord forever mine.
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 673 
 
 XII. EPHRAIM REPENTING — 
 Jer. xxxi. 18—20. 
 
 My God, till I received tiiy stroke, 
 
 How like a beast was I ! 
 So unaccustom'd to the yoke, 
 
 So backward to comply. 
 
 Witli grief my just reproach I bear, 
 Shame tills me at the thought; 
 
 How Ircquent my rebellions were ! 
 What wickedness I wrought ! 
 
 Thy merciful restraint I scorn'd, 
 
 And left .the pleasant road ; 
 Yet turn me, and I shall be turn'd 
 
 Thou art the Lord my God. 
 
 " Is Ephraim banish'd from my tlioughts, 
 
 Or vile in my esteem 1 
 No," saith the Lord, " with all his faults, 
 
 I still remember him. 
 
 "Is he a dear and pleasant child 1 
 
 Yes, dear and pleasant still ; 
 Thouirh sin his tbolish heart beguiled. 
 
 And he withstood my will. 
 
 "My sharp rebuke has laid him low, 
 
 He seeks my face again ; 
 My pity kindles at hisvvoe. 
 
 He shall not seek in vain." 
 
 XIII. THE COYKNANT.—Ezek. xxxvi. ^5-28 
 
 The Lord proclaims his grace a])road ! 
 Behold I change your hearts of stone; 
 Each shall renounce his idol-god. 
 And serve, henceforth, the Lo'rd alone. 
 
 My grace, a flowing stream, proceeds 
 To wash you f5lthincss away ; 
 Ye shall abhor your former deeds. 
 And learn my statutes to obey. 
 
 My truth the great design ensures, 
 I give myself away to you ; 
 You shall be mine, I will be yours, 
 Your God unalterably true. 
 
 Yet not unsought, or unimplored, 
 The plenteous irrace shall I confer;* 
 
 No— your whole heart shall seek the Lord, 
 I'll put a praying Spirit there. 
 
 From the first breath of life divine, 
 Down to the last expiring hour, 
 
 The gracious work shall all be mine. 
 Begun and ended in my power. 
 
 XIV. JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH. 
 Ezck, xlviii. 35. 
 
 As birds their infant brood protect,f 
 And spread their wings to shelter them. 
 Thus saith the Lord to his elect, 
 " So will I guard Jerusalem." 
 
 And what then is Jerusalem, 
 This darling object of his care ■? 
 Where is its worth in God's esteem 1 
 Who built it, who inhabits there ^ 
 
 * Verse 37. f Isaiah xxxi. 5. 
 
 Jehovah founded it in blood, 
 The blood of his incarnate Son; 
 There dwell the saints, once foes to God, 
 The sinners whom he calls his own. 
 
 There, though besieged on every side. 
 Yet much beloved and guarded well 
 From age to age they have defied 
 The utmost force of earth and hell. 
 
 Let earth repent, and hell despair, 
 This city has a sure defence ; 
 Her name is call'd The Lord is there, 
 And who has power to drive him thence 1 
 
 XV. PRAISE FOR THE FOUNTAIN 
 OPENED.— Z-ec. xiii. 1. 
 
 Thkre is a fountain fill'd with blood 
 Drawn from Emmanuel's veins; 
 
 And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, 
 Lose all their guilty stains. 
 
 The dying thief rejoiced to see 
 
 That fountain in his day ; 
 And there have I, as vile as he, 
 
 Wash'd all my sins away. 
 
 Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood 
 
 Shall never lose its power. 
 Till all the ransom'd church of God 
 
 Be saved to sin no more. 
 
 E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream 
 
 Thy flowing wounds supply. 
 Redeeming love has been my theme. 
 
 And shall be till I die. 
 
 Then in a nobler, sweeter song, 
 
 I'll sing tliy power to save ; 
 When this poor lisping stammerinc toncrue 
 
 Lies silent in the grave. 
 
 Lord, I believe thou hast prepared 
 
 (Unworthy tliough I be) 
 For me a blood-bought free reward, 
 
 A golden harp for me ! 
 
 'Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years, 
 
 And fonn'd iiy power divine. 
 To sound in God the Father's ears 
 
 No other name but thine. 
 
 XVI. THE SOWER.— Ma«. xiii. 3. 
 
 Ye sons of earth prepare the plough, 
 Break up the fallow ground; 
 
 The sower is gone forth to sow. 
 And scatter blessings round. 
 
 The seed that finds a stony soil. 
 
 Shoots forth a hasty blade; 
 But ill repays the sower's toil. 
 
 Soon witiier'd, scorch'd, and dead. 
 
 The thorny ground is sure to balk 
 
 All hopes of harvest there; 
 We find a tall and sickly stalk, 
 
 But not the fruitful ear. 
 
 The beaten path and highway side 
 Receive the trust in vain ; 
 
 43
 
 674 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 The watchful birds the spoil divide, 
 And pick up all the grain. 
 
 But where the Lord of grace and power 
 
 Has bless'd the happy field, 
 How plenteous is the golden store 
 
 The deep-wrought furrows yield ! 
 
 Father of mercies, we have need 
 
 Of thy preparing grace ; 
 Let the same hand that gives the seed 
 
 Provide a fruitful place. 
 
 XVn. THE HOUSE OF PRAYER.— 
 Mark xi. 17. 
 
 Thy mansion is the Christian's heart, 
 
 Lord, thy dwelling-place secure ! 
 Bid the unruly throng depart, 
 
 And leave the consecrated door. 
 
 Devoted as it is to thee, 
 
 A thievish swarm frequents the place ; 
 They steal away my joys from me. 
 
 And rob my Saviour of his praise. 
 
 There, too, a sharp designing trade 
 Sin, Satan, and the world maintain ; 
 
 Nor cease to press me and persuade 
 To part with ease, and purchase pain. 
 
 I know them, and I hate their din, 
 
 Am weary of the bustling crowd ; 
 But while their voice is heard within, 
 
 1 cannot serve thee as I would. 
 
 Oh ! for the joy thy presence gives. 
 
 What peace shall reign when thou art here ! 
 
 Thy presence makes this den of thieves 
 A calm delightful house of prayer. 
 
 And if thou make thy temple shine, 
 
 Yet, self-abased, will I adore ; 
 The gold and silver are not mine, 
 
 I give thee what was thine before. 
 
 XVin. LOVEST THOU ME 1—Jo/m xxi. 16. 
 
 Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord : 
 'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word ; 
 Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee: 
 " Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me 1 
 
 " I deliver'd thee when bound, 
 And when bleeding, heal'd thy wound ; 
 Sought thee wandering, set thee right, 
 Turn'd thy darkness into light. 
 
 " Can a woman's tender care 
 Cease towards the child she bare 7 
 Yes, she may forgetful be. 
 Yet will I remember thee. 
 
 " Mine is an unchanging love. 
 Higher than the heights above; 
 Deeper than the depths beneath, 
 Free and faithful, strong as death. 
 
 " Thou shalt see my glory soon, 
 When the work of grace is done ; 
 Partner of my throne shalt be : — 
 Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me 1" 
 
 Lord, it is ray chief complaint, 
 That my love is weak and faint : 
 Yet I love thee and adore : 
 Oh for grace to love thee more ! 
 
 XIX. CONTENTMENT.— PM. iv. 11. 
 
 Fierce passions discompose the mind, 
 
 As tempests vex the sea ; 
 But calm content and peace we find, 
 
 When, Lord, we turn to thee. 
 
 In vain by reason and by rule, 
 
 We try to bend the will ; 
 For none but in the Saviour's school 
 
 Can learn the heavenly skill. 
 
 Since at his feet my soul has sat, 
 
 His gracious words to hear. 
 Contented with my present state, 
 
 I cast on him my care. 
 
 " Art thou a sinner, soul 1" he said, 
 " Then how canst thou complaint 
 
 How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd 
 With everlasting pain ! 
 
 " If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured, 
 Compare thy griefs with mine ; 
 
 Think what my love for thee endured, 
 And thou wilt not repine. 
 
 " 'Tis I appoint thy daily lot, 
 
 And I do all things well ; 
 Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot, 
 
 And rise with me to dwell. 
 
 '• In life my grace shall strength supply, 
 
 Proportion'd to thy day ; 
 At death thou still shalt find me nigh. 
 
 To wipe thy tears away." 
 
 Thus I, who once my wretched days 
 
 In vain repinings spent, 
 Taucrht in my Saviour's school of grace, 
 
 Have learnt to be content. 
 
 XX. OLD TESTAMENT GOSPEL.- 
 Heb. iv. 2. 
 
 Israel, in ancient days, 
 Not only iiad a view 
 Of Sinai in a blaze. 
 
 But learn'd the Gospel too ; 
 The types and figures were a glass 
 In which they saw a Saviour's face. 
 
 The paschal sacrifice. 
 
 And blood-besprinkled door* 
 Seen with enUghten'd eyes, 
 And once applied with power, 
 Would teach the need of other blood. 
 To reconcile an angry God. 
 
 The Lamb, the Dove, set forth 
 
 His perfect innocence, f 
 Whose blood of matchless worth 
 Should be the soul's defence ; 
 For he who can for sin atone. 
 Must have no failings of his own. 
 
 * Exod. xii. 13. 
 
 t Lev. xii. 6.
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 675 
 
 The scape-goat on his head* 
 The people's trespass bore, 
 And, to the desert led, 
 Was to be seen no more : 
 In him our Surety seeni'd to say, 
 " Behold I bear your sins away." 
 
 Dipt in his fellow's blood, 
 
 The living bird went tree ;■]" 
 The type well understood, 
 Express'd the sinner's plea ; 
 Described a guilty soul enlarged, 
 And by a Saviour's death discharged. 
 
 Jesus, I love to trace. 
 
 Throughout the sacred page, 
 The footsteps of thy grace, 
 The same in every age ! 
 O grant that I may faithful be 
 To clearer light vouchsafed to me ! 
 
 XXI. SARDIS.—Rev. iu. 1-6. 
 
 " Write to Sardis,'' saith the Lord, 
 
 And write wliat he dr:clares, 
 He whose Spirit, and whose word, 
 
 Upholds the seven stars : 
 " All thy works and ways I search, 
 
 Find thy zeal and love decay'd ; 
 Thou art call'd a living church, 
 
 But thou art cold and dead. 
 
 " Watch, remember, seek, and strive. 
 
 Exert thy former pains ; 
 Let thy timely care revive. 
 
 And strengthen what remains : 
 Cleanse thine heart, thy works amend. 
 
 Former times to mind recall, 
 Lest my sudden stroke descend, 
 
 And smite thee once lor all. 
 
 " Yet I number now in thee 
 
 A few that are upright; 
 These my lather's tace shall see 
 
 And walk with me in white. 
 W^hen in judgment I appear, 
 
 They for mine will be confest; 
 Let my faithful servants hear. 
 
 And woe be to the rest." 
 
 XXn. PRAYER FOR A BLESSING ON 
 THE YOUNG. 
 
 Bestow, dear Lord, upon our youth 
 
 The gill of saving grace ; 
 And let the seed of sacred truth 
 
 Fall in a fruitful place. 
 
 Grace is a plant, where'er it grows. 
 
 Of pure and heavenly root; 
 But fairest in the youngest shows, 
 
 And yields tlic sweetest fruit. 
 
 Ye careless ones, hear betimes 
 
 The voice of sovereign love ! 
 Your youth is stain'd with many crimes, 
 
 But mercy reigns above. 
 
 True, you are young, but there's a stone 
 W'ithin the youngest breast ; 
 
 * Lev. xvi. 21. t Lev. .\iv. 51—53. 
 
 Or half the crimes which you have done 
 Would rob you of your rest. 
 
 For you the public prayer is made, 
 
 Oh ! join the public prayer ! 
 For you the secret tear is shed, 
 
 O shed yourself a tear! 
 
 We pray that you may early prove 
 
 The Spirit's power to teacli ; 
 You cannot be too young to love 
 
 That Jesus whom we preach. 
 
 XXIII. PLEADING FOR AND WITH 
 YOUTH. 
 
 Sin has undone our wretched race. 
 
 But Jesus has restored. 
 And brought the sinner face to face 
 
 With his forgiving Lord. 
 
 This we repeat, from year to year, 
 
 And press upon our youth ; 
 Lord, give them an attentive ear, 
 
 Lord, save them by thy truth. 
 
 Blessings upon the rising race ! 
 
 Make this a happy hour. 
 According to thy richest grace. 
 
 And thine almighty power. 
 
 We feel for your unhappy state, 
 
 (May you regard it too,) 
 And would awhile ourselves forget 
 
 To pour out prayer for you. 
 
 We see, though you perceive it not, 
 The approaching awful doom ; 
 
 O tremble at the solemn thought, 
 And flee the wrath to come I 
 
 Dear Saviour, let this new-born year 
 
 Spread an alarm abroad ; 
 And cry in every careless ear, 
 
 " Prepare to meet thy God I" 
 
 XXIV. PRAYER FOR CHILDREN. 
 
 Gracious Lord, our children see, 
 By thy mercy we are free ; 
 But shall these, alas ! remain 
 Subjects still of Satan's reign "? 
 Israel's young ones, when of old 
 Pharaoh threaten'd to withold,* 
 Then thy messenger said, "No; 
 Let the children also go." 
 
 When the angel of the Lord, 
 Drawing forth his dreadful sword, 
 Slew, with an avenging hand. 
 All the first-born of the land ;"f 
 Then the people's doors he pass'd, 
 Where the bloody sign was placed ; 
 Hear us, now. upon our knees, 
 Plead the blood of Christ for these I 
 
 Lord, we tremble, for we know 
 How the fierce malicious foe, 
 Wheeling round his watchful flight 
 Keeps them ever in his sight : 
 
 * E.vod. X. 9. t Exod. xii. 12.
 
 676 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Spread thy pinions, King of kings! 
 Hide them safe beneath thy wings ; 
 Lest the ravenous bird of prey 
 Stoop, and beaj the brood away. 
 
 XXV. JEHOVAH JESUS. 
 
 My song shall bless the Lord of all, 
 My praise shall climb to his abode ; 
 
 Thee, Saviour, by that name I call, 
 The great Supreme, the mighty God. 
 
 Without beginning or decline, 
 
 Object of faith, and not of sense ; 
 
 Eternal ages saw him shine, 
 He shines eternal ages hence. 
 
 As much, when in the manger laid, 
 
 Almighi}' ruler of the sky. 
 As when the six days' works he made 
 
 Fill'd all the morning stars with joy. 
 
 Of all the crowns Jehovah bears, 
 
 Salvation is his dearest claim ; 
 That gracious sound well pleased he hears, 
 
 And owns Emmanuel lor his name. 
 
 A cheerful confidence I feel, 
 
 My well placed hopes with joy I see ; 
 My bosom glows with heavenly zeal, 
 
 To worship him who died for me. 
 
 As man, he pities my complaint, 
 His power and truth are all divine ; 
 
 He will not fail, he cannot faint, 
 Salvation's sure, and must be mine. 
 
 XXVI. ON OPENING A PLACE FOR 
 SOCIAL PRAYER. 
 
 Jesus ! where'er thy people meet, 
 There they behold thy mercy-seat ; 
 Where'er they seek thee, thou art found. 
 And every place is hallow'd ground. 
 
 For thou, within no walls confined, 
 Inhabitest the humble mind ; 
 Such ever bring thee when they come, 
 And going, take thee to their home. 
 
 Dear Shepherd of thy chosen few I 
 Thy former mercies here renew ; 
 Here to our waiting hearts proclaim 
 The sweetness of thy saving name. 
 
 Here may we prove the power of prayer, 
 To strengthen faith, and sweeten care ; 
 To teach our faint desires to ri^e, 
 And bring all heaven before our eyes. 
 
 Behold, at thy commanding word 
 We stretch the curtain and the cord;* 
 Come thou and fill this wider space. 
 And bless us with a large increase. 
 
 Lord, we are few, but thou art near ; 
 Nor short thine arm, nor deaf thine ear; 
 Oh rend the heavens, come quickly down, 
 And make a thousand hearts thine own ! 
 
 * Isaiah liv. 2. 
 
 XXVII. WELCOME TO THE TABLE. 
 
 Tins is the feast of heavenly wine 
 
 And God invites to sup ; 
 The juices of the living vine 
 
 Were press'd to fill the cup. 
 
 Oh ! bless the Saviour, ye that eat, 
 
 With royal dainties fed ; 
 Not heaven aflbrds a costlier treat. 
 
 For Jesus is the bread. 
 
 The vile, the lost, he calls to them, 
 
 Ye trembling souls appear ! 
 The righteous in their own esteem 
 
 Have no acceptance here. 
 
 Approach, ye poor, nor dare refuse 
 The banquet spread for you ; 
 
 Dear Saviour, this is welcome news, 
 Then I may venture too. 
 
 If guilt and sin afford a plea. 
 
 And may obtain a place. 
 Surely the Lord will welcome me. 
 
 And I shall see his face. 
 
 XXVIII. JESUS HASTING TO SUFFER 
 
 The Saviour, what a noble flame 
 
 Was kindled in his breast. 
 When hasting to Jerusalem, 
 
 He march'd before the rest I 
 
 Good-will to men and zeal for God 
 
 His every thought engross ; 
 He longs to be baptized with blood,* 
 
 He pants to reach the cross ! 
 
 With all his sufferings full in view. 
 
 And woes to us unknown, 
 Forth to the task his spirit flew ; 
 
 'Twas love that urged him on. 
 
 Lord, we return thee what we can: 
 Our hearts shall sound abroad 
 
 Salvation to the dying Man, 
 And to the rising God ! 
 
 And while thy bleeding glories here 
 
 Engage our wondering eyes, 
 We learn our lighter cross to bear, 
 
 And hasten to the skies. 
 
 XXIX. EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. 
 
 What various hindrances we meet 
 
 In coming to a mercy-seat ! 
 
 Yet who that knows the worth of prayer, 
 
 But wishes to be ofl;en there 1 
 
 Prayer makes the darken'd cloud withdraw, 
 Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw, 
 Gives exercise to faith and love. 
 Brings every blessing from above. 
 
 Restraining prayer, we cease to fight, 
 Prayer makes the Christian's armor bright ; 
 And Satan trembles when he sees 
 The weakest saint upon his knees. 
 
 • Luke xii. 50. 
 
 I
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 677 
 
 While Moses stood with arms spread wide, 
 Success was found on Isreal's side ; 
 But when through weariness they fail'd, 
 That moment Amaleli prevail'd.* 
 
 Have you no words 1 Ah ! think attain, 
 Words flow apace when you coiiiphiin, 
 And fill your tellow creature's ear 
 With the sad tale of all your care. 
 
 Were half the breath thus vainly spent 
 To Heaven in supplication sent, 
 Your cheerful song would oftener be, 
 " Hear what the Lord has done for me." 
 
 JCXX. THE LIGHT AND GLORY OF THE 
 WORD. 
 
 The Spirit breathes upon the Word, 
 And brings the truth to sight ; 
 
 Precepts and promises afl'ord 
 A sancti tying light. 
 
 A glory gilds the sacred page, 
 
 Majestic like the sun ; 
 It gives a light to every age, 
 
 It gives, but borrows none. 
 
 The hand that gave it still supplies 
 
 The gracious light and heat : 
 His truths upon the nations rise. 
 
 They rise, but never set. 
 
 Let everlasting thanks be thine, 
 
 For such a bright display, 
 As makes a world of darkness shine 
 
 With beams of heavenly day. 
 
 My soul rejoices to pursue 
 
 The steps of him I love, 
 Till glory breaks upon my view 
 
 In briirhter worlds above. 
 
 XXXI. ON THE DEATH OF A MINISTER. 
 
 Hi.s master taken from his head, 
 
 Elisha saw him go ; 
 And in desponding accents said, 
 
 " Ah, what must Israel dol" 
 
 But he forgot the Lord who lifts 
 
 The beggar to the throne ; 
 Nor knew, tiiat all Elijah's gifts 
 
 Will soon be made liis own. 
 
 What! when a Paul has run his course, 
 
 Or when .Apollos dies. 
 Is Israel left witiiout resource ] 
 
 And have we no supplies 1 
 
 Yes, while* the dear Redeemer lives 
 
 We have a hound less store, 
 And shall be fed with what he gives, 
 
 Who lives for evermore. 
 
 XXXII. THE SHINING LIGHT. 
 
 T.Iy former hopes are fled. 
 My terror now begins ; 
 
 * Exodus xvii. 11. 
 
 I feel, alas! that I am dead 
 In trespasses and sins. 
 
 Ah, whither shall I fly I 
 
 I hear the thunder roar; 
 The law proclaims destruction nigh, 
 
 And vengeance at the door. 
 
 When I review my ways, 
 I dread impendmg doom: 
 
 But sure a friendly whisper says, 
 " Flee from the wrath to come." 
 
 I see, or think I see, 
 A glimmering from afar ; 
 
 A beam of day, that shines forme 
 To save me from despair. 
 
 Forerunner of the sun,* 
 It marks the pilgrim's way ; 
 
 I'll gaze upon it while I run. 
 And watch the rising day. 
 
 XXXIII. SEEKING THE BELOVED. 
 
 To those who know the Lord I speak, 
 
 Is my beloved near 1 
 The bridegroom of my soul I seek, 
 
 Oh ! when will he appear 1 
 
 Though once a man of grief and shame, 
 
 Yet now he fills a throne, 
 And bears the greatest, sweetest name, 
 
 That earth or heaven has known. 
 
 Grace flies before, and love attends 
 
 His steps where'er he goes ; 
 Though none can see him but his friends, 
 
 And they were once his foes. 
 
 He speaks — ol edient to his call 
 
 Our warm affections move : 
 Did he but shine alike on all. 
 
 Then all alike would love. 
 
 Then love in every heart would reign, 
 
 And war would cease to roar; 
 And cruel and bloodthirsty men 
 
 Would thirst for blood no more. 
 
 Such Jesus is, and such his grace, 
 
 Oh, may he shine on you ! 
 And tell him, when you see his face, 
 
 I long to see him too.f 
 
 XXXIV. THE WAITING SOUL. 
 
 Breathr from the gentle south, O Lord, 
 And cheer me from the north ; 
 
 Blow on the treasures of thy word. 
 And call the spices Ibrth ! 
 
 I wish, thou know'st, to be resign'd, 
 And wait with patient hope ; 
 
 But hope delay'd fatigues the mind. 
 And drinks the spirit up. 
 
 Help me to reach the distant goal. 
 
 Confirm my feeble knee ; 
 Pity the sickness of a soul 
 
 That faints for love of thee. 
 
 * Psalm cxxx. 6. 
 
 t Cant. r. 8.
 
 678 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Cold 03 I feel this heart of mine, 
 
 Yet since I feel it so ; 
 It yields some hope of life divine 
 
 Within, however low. 
 
 I seem forsaken and alone, 
 
 I hear the lion roar ; 
 And every door is shut but one, 
 
 And that is mercy's door. 
 
 There, till the dear Deliv'rer come, 
 I'll wait with humble pray'r ; 
 
 And when he calls his exile home. 
 The Lord shall find me there. 
 
 XXXV. WELCOME CROSS. 
 
 'Tis my happiness below 
 
 Not "to live without the cross, 
 But the Saviour's power to know, 
 
 Sanctifying every loss; 
 Trials must and will befall; 
 
 But with humble faith to see 
 Love inscribed upon them all 
 
 This is happiness to me. 
 
 God in Israel sows the seeds 
 
 Of affliction, pain, and toil; 
 These spring up and choke the weeds 
 
 Which would else o'erspread the soil : 
 Trials make the promise sweet, 
 
 Trials give new life to prayer; 
 Trials bring me to his feet. 
 
 Lay me low, and keep me there. 
 
 Did I meet no trials here. 
 
 No chastisement by the way : 
 Might I not, with reason, fear 
 
 I should prove a castaway 1 
 Bastards may escape the rod,* 
 
 Sunk in earthly, vain delight : 
 But the true born child of God 
 
 Must not, would not, if he might. 
 
 XXXVI. AFFLICTIONS SANCTIFIED BY 
 THE WORD. 
 
 HOW I love thy holy word. 
 Thy gracious covenant, O Lord ! 
 It guides me in the peaceful way; 
 
 1 think upon it all the day. 
 
 What are the mines of shining wealth, 
 The strength of youth, the bloom of health ! 
 What are all joys compared with those 
 Thine everlasting word bestows ! 
 
 Long unafflicted, undismay'd. 
 In pleasure's path secure I stray'd ; 
 Thou mad'st me feel thy chastening rod,f 
 And straight I turn'd unto my God. 
 
 What though it pierced my fainting heart, 
 I bless thine hand that caused the smart; 
 It taught my tears awhile to flow, 
 But saved me from eternal woe. 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou left me unchastised, 
 Thy precept I had still despised ; 
 And still the snare in secret laid. 
 Had my unwary feet betray'd. 
 
 * Hebr^^s xii. 8. f Psalm cxix. 71. 
 
 I love thee, therefore, O my God, 
 And breathe towards thy dear abode; 
 Where, in thy presence fully blest. 
 Thy chosen saints forever rest. 
 
 XXXVII. TEMPTATION. 
 
 The billows swell, the winds are high, 
 Clouds overcast my wintry sky ; 
 Out of the depths to thee I call, — 
 My fears are great, my strength is small. 
 
 O Lord, the pilot's part perform, 
 And guard and guide me through the storm, 
 Defend me from each threatening ill, 
 Control the waves, — say, " Peace be still." 
 
 Amidst the roaring of the sea. 
 My soul still hangs her hope on thee ; 
 Thy constant love, thy faithful care, 
 Is all that saves me from despair. 
 
 Dangers of every shape and name 
 Attend the followers of the Lamb, 
 Who leave the world's deceitful shore, 
 And leave it to return no more. 
 
 Though tempest-toss'd and half a wreck, 
 My Saviour through the floods I seek; 
 Let neither winds nor stormy main 
 Force back my shatter'd bark again. 
 
 XXXVIII. LOOKING UPWARDS IN A 
 STORM. 
 
 God of my life, to thee I call, 
 Afflicted at thy feet I fall ; 
 When the great water-floods prevail,* 
 •Leave not my trembling heart to fail ! 
 
 Friend of the friendless and the faint 
 Where should I lodge my deep complaint 7 
 Where but with thee, whose open' door 
 Invites the helpless and the poor ! 
 
 Did ever mourner plead with thee. 
 And thou refuse that mourner's pleal 
 Does not the word still fix'd remain, 
 That none shall seek thy face in vain? 
 
 That were a grief I could not bear. 
 Didst thou not hear and answer prayer; 
 But a prayer-hearing, answering God, 
 Supports me under every load. 
 
 Fair is the lot that's cast for me ; 
 I have an Advocate with thee ; 
 They whom the world caresses most 
 Have no such privilege to boast. 
 
 Poor though I am, despised, forgot,f 
 Yet God, my God, forgets me not : 
 And he is safe, and must succeed, 
 For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead. 
 
 XXXIX. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 
 OF DEATH. 
 
 My soul is sad, and much dismay'd, 
 See, Lord, what legions of my foes, 
 
 * Psalm Ixix. 15. t Psalm xl. 17.
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 679 
 
 With fierce Apollyon at tlieir head, 
 My heavenly pilgrimage oppose ! 
 
 See, from the ever-burning lake 
 How like a smoky cloud they rise ! 
 
 With horrid blasts my soul they shake, 
 With storms of blasphemies and lies. 
 
 Their fiery arrows reach the mark,* 
 My throbbing heart with anguish tear ; 
 
 Each lights upon a kindred .spark, 
 And finds abundant fuel there. 
 
 I hate the thought that wrongs the Lord ; 
 
 Oh ! I would drive it from my breast. 
 With thy own sharp two-edged sword. 
 
 Far as the east is from the west. 
 
 Come, then, and chase the cruel host. 
 Heal the deep wounds I have received ! 
 
 Nor let the powers of darkness boast, 
 That I am foil'd, and thou art grieved ! 
 
 XL. PEACE AFTER A STORM. 
 
 When darkness long has veil'd my mind. 
 And smiling day once more appears : 
 
 Then, my Redeemer, then I find 
 The folly of my doubts and fears. 
 
 Straight I upbraid my wandering heart. 
 And blush that I should ever be 
 
 Thus prone to act so base a part. 
 Or harbor one hard thought of thee ! 
 
 Oh ! let me then at length be taught 
 What I am still so slow to learn 
 
 That God is love, and changes not. 
 Nor knows the shadow of a turn. 
 
 Sweet truth, and easy to repeat ! 
 
 But when my faith is sharply tried, 
 I find myself a learner yet. 
 
 Unskilful, weak, and apt to slide. 
 
 But, O my Lord, one look from thee 
 Subdues the disobedient will ; 
 
 Drives doubt and discontent away, 
 And thy rebellious worm is still. 
 
 Thou art as ready to forgive 
 
 As I am ready to repine ; 
 Thou therefore all the praise receive; 
 
 Be shame and self-abhorrence mine. 
 
 XLL MOURNING AND LONGING. 
 
 The Saviour hides his face ! 
 My spirit thirsts to prove 
 Renew'd supplies of pardoning grace, 
 And n^ver-failing love. 
 
 The favor'd souls who know 
 What glories shine in him, 
 Pant for iiis presence as the roe 
 Pants for the living stream ! 
 
 What trifles tease me now ! 
 Tliey swarm like summer flies. 
 They cleave to everything I do. 
 And swim before my eyes. 
 
 • Ephes. vi. 10. 
 
 How dull the sabbath day. 
 Without the sabbath's Lord ! 
 How toilsome then to sing and pray, 
 And wait upon the word ! 
 
 Of all the truths I hear. 
 How few delight my taste ! 
 I glean a berry here and there, 
 But mourn the vintage past. 
 
 Yet let me (as I ought) 
 Still hope to be supplied ; 
 No pleasure else is worth a thought, 
 Nor shall I be denied. 
 
 Though I am but a worm. 
 Unworthy of his care. 
 The Lord will my desire perform. 
 And grant me all my prayer. 
 
 XLII. SELF-ACaUAINTANCE. 
 
 Dear Lord ! accept a sinful heart, 
 
 Which of itself complains, 
 And mourns, with much and frequent smart, 
 
 The evil it contains. 
 
 There fiery seeds of anger lurk. 
 
 Which often hurt my irame ; 
 And wait but for the tempter's work. 
 
 To fan them to a flame. 
 
 Legality holds out a bribe 
 
 To purchase life from thee ; 
 And discontent would fain prescribe 
 
 How thou shalt deal with me. 
 
 While unbelief withstands thy grace, 
 
 And puts the mercy by ; 
 Presumption, with a brow of brass, 
 
 Says, " Give me, or I die." 
 
 How eager are my thoughts to roam 
 
 In quest of what they love ! 
 But ah ! when duty calls them home. 
 
 How heavily they move ! 
 
 Oh, cleanse me in a Saviour's blood, 
 
 Transform me by thy power. 
 And make me thy beloved abode, 
 
 And let me rove no more. 
 
 XLIII. PRAYER FOR PATIENCE. 
 
 Lord, who hast suflTer'd all for me, 
 
 My peace and pardon to procure. 
 The lighter cross I bear for thee, 
 
 Help mc with patience to endure. 
 
 The storm of loud repining hush, 
 I would in humble silence mourn ; 
 
 Why should the unburnt. though burning busl^ 
 Be angry as the crackling thorn 1 
 
 Man should not faint at thy rebuke. 
 
 Like .Toshua falling on his Cuce* 
 When the curst thing that Achan took 
 
 Brought Israel into just disgrace. 
 
 Perhaps some golden wedge suppress'd. 
 Some secret sin olTcnds my God ; 
 
 * Joshua vii. 10, 11,
 
 680 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Perhaps that Babylonish vest, 
 
 Sell-righteousness, provokes the rod. 
 
 Ah! were I buffeted all day, 
 
 Mock'd, crown'd with thorns, and spit upon 
 1 yet should have no right to say, 
 
 My great distress is mine alone. 
 
 Let me not angrily declare 
 
 No pain was ever sharp like mine ; 
 
 Nor murmur at the cross I bear, 
 
 But rather weep, remembering thine. 
 
 XLIV. SUBMISSION. 
 
 O Lord, my best desire fulfil, 
 
 And help me to resign 
 Life, health, and comfort to thy will, 
 
 And make thy pleasure mine. 
 
 Why should I shrink at thy command, 
 Whose love forbids my fears 1 
 
 Or tremble at the gracious hand 
 That wipes away my tears 1 
 
 No, let me rather freely yield 
 
 What most I prize to thee ; 
 Who never hast a good withheld, 
 
 Or wilt withhold, Irom me. 
 
 Thy favor all my journey through, 
 Thou art engaged to grant ; 
 
 What else I want, or think I do, 
 'Tis better still to want. 
 
 Wisdom and mercy guide my way, 
 
 Shall I resist them both 1 
 A poor blind creature of a day. 
 
 And crush'd before the moth ! 
 
 But ah ! my inward spirit cries, 
 
 Still bind me to thy sway ; 
 Else the next cloud that veils the skies, 
 
 Drives all these thoughts away. 
 
 XLV. THE HAPPY CHANGE. 
 
 How blest thy creature is, O God, 
 
 When, with a single eye. 
 He views the lustre of thy word, 
 
 The day-spring from on high ! 
 
 Through all the storms that veil the skies, 
 And frown on earthly things. 
 
 The Sun of Righteousness he eyes, 
 With healing in his winn-s. 
 
 Struck by that light, the human heart, 
 
 A barren soil no more, 
 Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad. 
 
 Where serpents lurk'd before.* 
 
 The soul a dreary province once 
 
 Of Satan's dark domain. 
 Feels a new empire form'd within. 
 
 And owns a heavenly reign. 
 
 The glorious orb, whose golden beams 
 
 The fruitful year control, 
 Since first, obedient to thy word, 
 
 He started from the goal ; 
 
 * Isaiah xxxv. 7. 
 
 Has cheer'd the nations with the joys 
 
 His orient rays impart ; 
 But Jesus, 'tis thy light alone 
 
 Can shine upon the heart. 
 
 XL VI. RETIREMENT. 
 
 Far from the world, Lord, I flee, 
 
 From strife and tumult far ; 
 From scenes where Satan waces still 
 
 His most successful war. 
 
 The calm retreat, the silent shade. 
 With prayer and praise agree ; 
 
 And seen by the sweet bounty made 
 For those who follow thee. 
 
 There, if the Spirit touch the soul, 
 
 And grace her mean abode, 
 Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love^ 
 
 She communes with her God! 
 
 There like the nightingale she pours 
 
 Her sohtary lays ; 
 Nor asks a witness of her song, 
 
 Nor thirsts for human praise. 
 
 Author and Guardian of my life. 
 Sweet source of light divine. 
 
 And, (all harmonious names in one) 
 My Saviour, thou art mine ! 
 
 What thanks I owe thee, and what love, 
 
 A boundless, endless store. 
 Shall echo through the realms above 
 
 When time shall be no more. 
 
 XLVII. THE HIDDEN LIFE. 
 
 To tell the Saviour all my wants, 
 
 How pleasing is the task ! 
 Nor less to praise him when he grants 
 
 Beyond what I can ask. 
 
 My laboring spirit vainly seeks 
 
 To tell but half the joy ; 
 With how mucli tenderness he speaks. 
 
 And helps me to reply. 
 
 Nor were it wise, nor should I choose. 
 
 Such secrets to declare ; 
 Like precious wines their tastes they lose, 
 
 Exposed to open air. 
 
 But this with boldness I proclaim, 
 
 Nor care if thousands hear. 
 Sweet is the ointment nf his name. 
 
 Not life is half so dear. 
 
 And can you frown, my former friends. 
 Who knew what once I was ; 
 
 And blame the song that thus commends 
 The Man who bore the cross 1 
 
 Trust me, I draw the likene.ss true, 
 
 And not as fancy paints ; 
 Such honor may he give to you. 
 
 For such have all his saints. 
 
 I 
 
 1
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 681 
 
 XLVIII. JOY AND PEACE IN BELIEVING. 
 
 How fair the scene, how clear the light, 
 
 
 That fills t!ie remnant of his days 1 
 
 Sometimes a light surprises 
 
 
 The Christian while he sings ; 
 
 A kingly character he bears. 
 
 It is the Lord who rises 
 
 No change his priestly office knows; 
 
 With healing in his wings; 
 
 Unlading is the crown he wears. 
 
 When comforts are declining, 
 
 His joys can never reach a close. 
 
 He grants the soul again 
 A season ot' clear shining, 
 
 Adorn'd with glory from on high. 
 
 To cheer it alter rain. 
 
 Salvation shines upon his face; 
 His robe is of the ethereal dye. 
 
 In holy contemplation, 
 
 His steps are dignity and grace. 
 
 We sweetly then pursue 
 
 
 The theme ot' God's salvation, 
 
 Inferior honors he disdains, 
 
 And find it ever new. 
 
 Nor stoops to take applause from earth: 
 
 Set free from present sorrow 
 We cheerfu ly can say. 
 
 The King of kings himself maintains 
 
 The expenses of his heavenly birth. 
 
 E'en let the unknown to-morrow* 
 
 The noblest creature seen below. 
 
 Bring with it what it may. 
 
 Ordain'd to fill a throne above ; 
 
 It can bring with it nothing, 
 
 God gives him all he can bestow. 
 
 But he will bear us through; 
 
 His kingdom of eternal love ! 
 
 Who gives the lilies clothing, 
 
 
 Will clothe his people too ; 
 
 My soul is ravish 'd at the thought I 
 
 Beneath the spreading heavens 
 
 Methiiiks from earth 1 jce him rise ! 
 
 No creature but is fed ; 
 
 Anirels coivratulate his lot, 
 
 And he who feeds the ravens, 
 
 And shout him welcome to the skies I 
 
 Will give his children bread. 
 
 
 The vine nor fig-tree neither f 
 
 LI. LIVELY HOPE AND GRACIOUS 
 
 Their wonted fruit should bear. 
 
 FEAR. 
 
 Though all the fields should wither, 
 
 Nor flocks nor herds be there: 
 
 I WAS a grovelling creature once, 
 
 Yet God the same abiding, 
 
 And basely cleaved to earth ; 
 
 His praise shall tune my voice, 
 
 I wanted spirit to renounce 
 
 For, while in him confiding, 
 
 The clod that gave me birth. 
 
 I cannot but rejoice. 
 
 
 But God has breath'd upon a womi. 
 And sent me, from above. 
 
 
 XLIX. TRUE PLEASURES. 
 
 Wings such as clothe an angel's form, 
 
 
 The wings of joy and love. 
 
 Lord, my soul with jileasure springs, 
 
 
 When .lesus' name I hear; 
 
 W'ith these to Pisgah's top I fly, 
 
 And when God the Spirit brings 
 
 And there delighted stand, 
 
 The word of promise near : 
 
 To view beneath a shining slcy 
 
 Beauties too. in holiness, 
 
 The spacious promised land. 
 
 Still delighted I perceive; 
 Nor have wordsV^mt- c-an express 
 
 
 The Lord of all the vast domain 
 
 The joys thy precepts give. 
 
 Has promised it to me; 
 
 The length and breadth of all the plain. 
 
 Clothed in sanctity and grace, 
 
 As far as faith can see. 
 
 How sweet it is to see 
 
 
 These wiio love thee as they pass, 
 
 How glorious is my privilege I 
 
 Or when they w'ait on thee : 
 
 To thee for help I call ; 
 
 Pleasant too to sit and tell 
 
 I stand upon a mountain's edge. 
 
 What we owe to love divine ; 
 
 Oil save me, lest I fall ! 
 
 Till our bosoms grateful swell. 
 
 
 And eyes begin to shine. 
 
 Though much exalted in the Lord, 
 
 My strength is not my own ; 
 
 Tho-ie (he comforts I possess. 
 
 Then let me tremble at his word. 
 
 Which God shall slill increase, 
 
 And none shall cast lue down. 
 
 All his ways are pleasantness,:}: 
 
 ^^ % 
 
 And all his paths are peace. 
 
 
 Nothing Jesus did or spoke. 
 
 LII. FOR THE POOR. 
 
 Henceforth let me ever slight; 
 
 
 For I love his easy yoke.V) 
 
 When Hagar found the bottle spent, 
 
 And find his burden light. 
 
 And wept o'er Ishmael, 
 
 
 A message from the Lord was sent 
 
 
 To guide her to a well.* 
 
 L. THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 
 
 Should not Elijah's cake and cruscf 
 
 Honor and happiness unite 
 
 Convince us" at this day. 
 
 To make the Christian's name a praise; 
 
 A gracious God will not refuse 
 
 * Matthew vi. 34. t Hnbakkuk iii. 17, 18. 
 
 Provisions by the way 1 
 
 X Prov. iii, 17. ^ Matt. .\i. 30. 
 
 * Gen. xxi. 19. \ 1 Kings xvli. 14
 
 His saints and servants shall be fed, 
 
 The promise is secure ; 
 " Bread shall be given them," he has said, 
 
 " Their water shall be sure."* 
 
 Repasts far richer they shall prove, 
 Than all earth's dainties are ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love, 
 Though in the meanest fare. 
 
 To Jesus then your trouble bring, 
 
 Nor murmur at your lot ; 
 While you are poor and he is King, 
 
 You shall not be forgot. 
 
 LIII. MY SOUL THIRSTETH FOR GOD. 
 
 I THIRST, but not as once I did. 
 
 The vain delights of earth to share; 
 
 Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid 
 That I should seek my pleasures there. 
 
 It was the sight of#thy dear cross 
 
 First wean'd my soul from earthly things ; 
 
 And taught me to esteem as dross 
 
 The mirth of fools and pomp of kings. 
 
 I want that grace that springs from thee, 
 That quickens all things where it flows, 
 
 And makes a wretched thorn like me 
 Bloom as the myrtle or the rose. 
 
 Dear fountain of delight unknown! 
 
 No longer sink below the brim; 
 But overflow and pour me down 
 
 A living and life-giving stream ! 
 
 For sure, of all the plants that share 
 The notice of thy Father's eye, 
 
 None proves less grateful to his care. 
 Or yields him meaner fruit than I. 
 
 LIV. LOVE CONSTRAINING TO OBEDI- 
 ENCE. 
 
 No strength of nature can suffice 
 
 To serve the Lord aright: 
 And what she has she misapplies, 
 
 For want of clearer light. 
 
 How long beneath the law I lay 
 
 In bondage and distress 1 
 I toil'd the precept to obey. 
 
 But toil'd without success. 
 
 Then, to abstain from outward sin 
 
 Was more than I could do; 
 Now, if I feel its power within, 
 
 I feel I hate it too. 
 
 Then, all my servile works were done 
 
 A righteousness to raise ; 
 Now, freely chosen in the Son, 
 
 I freely choose his ways. 
 
 " What shall I do," was then t.ie word, 
 "That I may worthier grow 1" 
 
 "What shall I render to the Lordi" 
 i i my inquiry now. 
 
 * Isa. xxxiii. 16. 
 
 To see the law by Christ fulfill'd, 
 And hear his pardoning voice. 
 
 Changes a slave into a child,* 
 And duty into choice. 
 
 LV. THE HEART HEALED AND 
 CHANGED BY MERCY. 
 
 Sin enslaved me many years, 
 
 And led me bound and blind ; 
 Till at length a thousand fears 
 
 Came swarming o'er my mind. 
 "Where," I said, in deep distress, 
 
 " Will these sinful pleasures end 1 
 How shall I secure my peace. 
 
 And make the Lord my friend?" 
 
 Friends and ministers said much 
 
 The gospel to enforce ; 
 But my blindness still was such, 
 
 I chose a legal course : 
 Much I fasted, watch'd, and strove. 
 
 Scarce would show my face abroad, 
 Fear'd almost to speak or move. 
 
 A stranger still to God. 
 
 Thus afraid to trust his grace, 
 
 Long time did I rebel ; 
 Till, desparing of my case, 
 
 Down at his feet I fell : 
 Then my stubborn heart he broke. 
 
 And subdued me to his sway; 
 By a simple word he spoke, 
 
 " Thy sins are done away." 
 
 LVI. HATRED OF SIN. 
 
 Holy Lord God ! I love thy truth, 
 Nor dare thy least commandment slight ; 
 
 Yet pierced by sin, the serpent's tooth, 
 I mourn the anguish of the bite. 
 
 But, though the poison lurks within, 
 Hope bids me still wi|J^patience wait; 
 
 Till death shall set me free from sin, 
 Free from the only thing I hate. 
 
 Had I a throne above the rest. 
 
 Where angels and archangels dwell. 
 
 One sin, unslain, within my breast, 
 
 Would make that heaven as dark as hell, 
 
 The prisoner, sent to breathe fresh air. 
 And bless'd with liberty again. 
 
 Would mourn, were he condemn'd to wear 
 One link of all his former chain. 
 
 But, oh ! no foe invades the bliss, 
 
 When glory crowns the Christian's head ; 
 
 One view of Jesus as he is 
 Will strike all sin for ever dead. 
 
 LVII. THE NEW CONVERT. 
 
 The new-born child of gospel grace, 
 
 Like some fair tree when summer's nigh, 
 
 Beneath Emmanuel's shining face 
 Lifts up his blooming branch on high. 
 
 * Romans iii. 31.
 
 THE OLNEY HYMNS. 
 
 683 
 
 No fears he feels, he sees no foes, 
 No conflict yet his faith employs, 
 
 Nor has he learnt to whom he owes 
 The strength and peace his soul enjoys. 
 
 But sin soon darts its cruel sting, 
 And comforts sinking day by day : 
 
 What seem'd his own, a self-fed spring, 
 Proves but a brook that glides away. 
 
 When Gideon ann'd his numerous host, 
 The Lord soon made his numbers less ; 
 
 And said, "Lest Israel vainly boast,* 
 ' My arm procured me this success.' " 
 
 Thus will he bring our spirits down, 
 And draw our ebbing comforts low. 
 
 That, saved by grace, but not our own, 
 We may not claim the praise we owe. 
 
 LVin. TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS. 
 
 O God, whose favorable eye 
 
 The sin-sick soul revives. 
 Holy and heavenly is the joy 
 
 Thy shining presence gives. 
 
 Not such as hypocrites suppose, 
 
 Who with a graceless heart 
 Taste not of thee, but drink a dose, 
 
 Prepared by Satan's art. 
 
 Intoxicating joys are theirs. 
 
 Who, wliile they boast their light, 
 
 And seem to soar above the stars, 
 Are plunging into night. 
 
 LulI'd in a soft and fatal sleep, 
 
 They sin, and yet rejoice ; 
 Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, 
 
 Would they not hear his voice 1 
 
 Be mine the comforts that reclaim 
 The soul from Satan's power ; 
 
 That make me blush for what I am. 
 And hate my si^the more. 
 
 'Tis joy enough, my All in All, 
 
 At thy dear feet to lie ; 
 Thou wilt not let me lower fall, 
 
 And none can higher fly. 
 
 LIX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH. 
 
 TiiR Lord receives his highest praise 
 From humble minds and hearts sincere; 
 
 While all tlic loud profe.'isor says 
 Oflcnds the righteous Judge's ear. 
 
 To walk as children of the day, 
 To mark the precepts' holy light. 
 
 To wage the warfare, watch, and pray, 
 Show who are pleasing in his sight. 
 
 Not words alone it cost the Lord, 
 To purchase pardoit for his own ; 
 
 Nor will a soul, by grace restored, 
 Return the Saviour words alone. 
 
 With golden bells the priestly vest. 
 
 And rich pomegranates border'd round,-f 
 
 • Judges vii. 2. 
 
 t Exod. xxviii. 33. 
 
 The need of holiness express'd. 
 
 And call'd for fruit, as well as sound. 
 
 Easy, indeed, it were to reach 
 A mansion in the courts above, 
 
 If swelling words and fluent speech 
 Might serve, instead of faith and love. 
 
 But none shall gain the blissful place, 
 
 Or God's unclouded glory see. 
 Who talks of free and sovereign grace, 
 'Unless that grace has made him free ! 
 
 LX. ABUSE OF THE GOSPEL. 
 
 Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace, 
 
 In this licentious day; 
 And while they boast they see thy face, 
 
 They turn their own away. 
 
 Thy book displays a gracious light 
 
 That can the blind restore ; 
 But these are dazzled by the sight. 
 
 And blinded still the more. 
 
 The pardon, such presume upon, 
 
 They do not beg. but steal ; 
 And when they plead it at thy throne, 
 
 Oh ! Where's the Spirit's seal "? 
 
 Was it for this, ye lawless tribe, 
 
 The dear Redeemer bled 1 
 Is this the grace the saints imbibe 
 
 From Christ the living head 1 
 
 Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few 
 
 Are fed with heavenly fare ; 
 But these, the wretched husks they chew 
 
 Proclaim them what they are. 
 
 The liberty our hearts implore 
 
 Is not to live in sin ; 
 But still to wait at wisdom's door 
 
 Till mercy calls us in. 
 
 LXI. THE NARROW WAY. 
 
 What thousands never knew the road ! 
 
 What thousands hate it when 'tis known 
 None but the chosen tribes of God 
 
 Will seek or choose it for their own. 
 
 A thousand ways in ruin end, 
 One, only, leads to joys on high; 
 
 By that my willing steps ascend. 
 Pleased with a journey to the sky. 
 
 No more I ask, or hope to find. 
 
 Delight or happiness below ; 
 Sorrow may well possess the mind 
 
 That feeds where thorns and thistles grov* 
 
 The joy that fades is not for me, 
 
 I seek immortal joys above ; 
 There glory without end shall be 
 
 The bright reward of faith and love. 
 
 Cleave to the world, ye sordid worms, 
 C ntented lick your native dust, 
 
 i»ut God shall fight with all his storms 
 Against the idol of your trust.
 
 684 
 
 COWPER S WORKS. 
 
 LXII. DEPENDENCE. 
 
 To keep the lamp alive, 
 With oil we fill the bowl ; 
 'Tis water makes the willow thrive, 
 And grace that feeds the soul. 
 
 The Lord's unsparing hand 
 Supplies the living stream ; 
 It is not at our own command, 
 But still derived from him. 
 
 Beware of Peter's word,* 
 Nor confidently say, 
 " I never will deny thee. Lord," 
 But, " Grant I never may 1" 
 
 Man's wisdom is to seek 
 His strength in God alone ; 
 And e'en an angel would be weak, 
 Who trusted in his own. 
 
 Retreat beneath his wings, 
 And in his grace confide ; 
 This more exalts the King of kings| 
 Than all your works beside. 
 
 In Jesus is our store, 
 Grace issues from his throne ; 
 Whoever says, " I want no more," 
 Confesses he has none. 
 
 LXIII. NOT OF WORKS. 
 
 Grace, triumphant in the throne. 
 Scorns a rival, reigns alone ; 
 Come and bow beneath her sway. 
 Cast your idol works away. 
 Works of man, when made his plea. 
 Never shall accepted be ; 
 Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm !) 
 Are the best he can perform. 
 
 Self, the god his soul adores. 
 Influences all his powers : 
 Jesus is a shghted name. 
 Self-advancement all his aim ; 
 But when God the Judge shall come. 
 To pronounce the final doom, 
 Then for rocks and hills to hide 
 All his works and all his pride ! 
 
 Still the boasting heart replies. 
 What ! the worthy and the wise, 
 Friends to temperance and peace. 
 Have not these a righteousness 1 
 Banish every vain pretence 
 Built on human excellence; 
 Perish everything in man, 
 But the grace that never can. 
 
 LXIV. PRAISE FOR FAITH. 
 
 Of all the gifts thine hand bestows, 
 
 Thou giver of all good ! 
 Not heaven itself a richer knows 
 
 Than my Redeemer's blood. 
 
 Faith too, the blood-receiving grace. 
 From the same hand we gain ; 
 
 * Matthew xxvi. 33. t John vi. 29. 
 
 Else, sweetly as it suits our case, 
 That gift had been in vain. 
 
 Till thou thy teaching power apply, 
 
 Our hearts refuse to see. 
 And weak, as a distemper'd eye, 
 
 Shut out the view of thee. 
 
 Blind to the merits of thy Son, 
 
 What misery we endure ! 
 Yet fly that hand from which alone 
 
 We could expect a cure. 
 
 We praise thee, and would praise thee more, 
 
 To thee our all we owe ; 
 The precious Saviour, and the power 
 
 That makes him precious too. 
 
 LXV. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Almighty King ! whose wondrous hand 
 Supports the weight of sea and land. 
 Whose grace is such a boundless store, 
 No heart shall break that sighs for more. 
 
 Thy providence supplies my food. 
 And 'tis thy blessing makes it good ; 
 My soul is nourish'd by thy word. 
 Let soul and body praise the Lord. 
 
 My streams of outward comfort came 
 From him who built this earthly frame; 
 Whate'er I want his bounty gives. 
 By whom my soul forever lives. 
 
 Either his hand preserves from pain, 
 Or, if I feel it, heals again ; 
 From Satan's malice shields my breast, 
 Or overrules it for the best. 
 
 Forgive the song that falls so low 
 Beneath the gratitude I owe ! 
 It means thy praise, however poor, 
 An angel's song can do no more. 
 
 LXVL I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT 
 ALL TIMES. 
 
 Winter has a joy for me, 
 
 While the Saviour's charms I read, 
 Lowly, meek, from blemish free. 
 
 In the snow-drop's pensive head. 
 
 Spring returns, and brings along 
 
 Life-invigorating suns : 
 Hark ! the turtle's plaintive song 
 
 Seems to speak his dying groans 1 
 
 Summer has a thousand charms. 
 
 All expressive of his worth ;• 
 'Tis his sun that lights and warms. 
 
 His the air that cools the earth. 
 
 What! has Autumn left to say 
 Nothing of a Saviour's graced 
 
 Yes, the beams of milder day 
 Tell me of his smiling face. 
 
 Light appears with early dawn, 
 While the sun makes haste to rise ; 
 
 See his bleeding beauties drawn 
 On the blushes of the skies.
 
 ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 
 
 685 
 
 Evening with a silent pace, 
 Slowly moving in the west, 
 
 Shows an emblem of his grace, 
 Points to an eternal rest. 
 
 LXVII. LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST. 
 
 To Jesus, the Crown of my hope, 
 
 My soul is in haste to be gone : 
 O bear me, ye cherubim, up. 
 
 And waft me away to his throne ! 
 
 My Saviour, whom absent I love, 
 Whom, not having seen, I adore ; 
 
 Whose name is exalted above 
 All glory, dominion, and power; 
 
 Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain 
 My soul from her portion in thee; 
 
 Ah ! strike off this adamant chain 
 And make me eternally free. 
 
 When that happy era begins. 
 
 When array'd in thy glories I shine, 
 Nor grieve any more, by my sins, 
 
 The bosom on which I recline : 
 
 then shall the veil be remov'd, 
 
 And round mc thy briglitness be pour'd 
 
 1 shall meet him whom absent I lov'd, 
 
 I shall see whom unseen I ador'd. 
 
 And then, never more shall the fears, 
 The trials, temptations, and woes. 
 
 Which darken this valley of tears. 
 Intrude on my bhssful repose. 
 
 Or, if yet remember'd above. 
 
 Remembrance no sadness shall raise ; 
 
 They will be but new signs of thy love, 
 New themes for my wonder and praise. 
 
 Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain 
 
 Shall set me eternally free. 
 Will but strengthen and rivet the chain 
 
 Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee. 
 
 LXVIIL LIGHT SHINING OUT OF 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 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 
 
 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 mucli dread 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 Bhnd unbelief is sure to err,* 
 
 And scan his work in vain : 
 God is his own interpreter, 
 
 And he will make it plain. 
 * John xiii. 7. 
 
 BRIEF ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION, 
 
 AND OF 
 
 THE MYSTIC WRITERS. 
 
 The mystic writers, thougli the object of 
 so much public attention in France, towards 
 the close of the seventeenth century, have 
 never attracted much notice in this country, 
 and are known rather as a matter of histori- 
 cal fact than of personal interest. It is to 
 Cowper that we are indebted for the transla- 
 tion of the Hymns of Madame Guion, the 
 founder, or rather reviver, of the Mystics; for 
 It is evident from ecclesiastical history, that 
 they existed so early as in the third and fourth 
 tenturies, and that the habits of profound con- 
 
 templation and retirement from the world, m 
 which they indulged, led to the monastic se- 
 clusion of which St. Anthony was the most 
 eminent example. Dionysius the Areopagite 
 is, however, generally considered to be the 
 founder of this sect in the fourth century. Ma- 
 carius and Hilarion are also included among 
 its supporters. The celebrated Thomas a 
 Kcmpis, in the fifteenth century, adopted a 
 kind of purified mysticism. Molino, a Span- 
 isii priest, though resident at Rome, still fur- 
 ther extended these views; till at length
 
 58b 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Madame Guion, in the reign of Louis XIV., 
 embodied them in their present form, which 
 is known in France under the name of Qui- 
 etism, from the calm repose and indifference 
 to external objects which is characteristic of 
 these principles. 
 
 The Mystics professed to elevate the soul 
 above all sensible and terrestrial objects, and 
 to unite it to the Deity in an ineffable man- 
 ner; to inculcate a pure and absolutely dis- 
 interested love of God, for his own sake, and 
 on account of his adorable perfections : to 
 maintain a close and intimate communion 
 with him by mortifying all the senses, by a 
 profound submission to his will, even under 
 the consciousness of perdition, and by an in- 
 ternal sanctity of heart, strengthened by a 
 holy and sublime contemplation. We shall 
 shortly examine this system, and inquire how 
 far this indifference to salvation, from a sup- 
 posed conformity to the will of God, is found- 
 ed either on reason or Scripture; and whether 
 the pure love of God, independent of his love 
 to us, and of our personal interest in the 
 blessings of redemption, is a state of mind to 
 be generally attained. 
 
 But we shall first advert to the manner in 
 which Madame Guion was led to embrace 
 these views, and illustrate them by a refer- 
 ence to her own writings. After endeavor- 
 ing, by unceasing efforts, and many acts of 
 external piety, to raise her mind to a high 
 tone of religious perfection, without being 
 able to attain it, she meets with an ecclesias- 
 tic of the order of St. Francis, and requests 
 him to explain the cause of this failure. His 
 reply, and the remarkable consequences by 
 which it was followed, is thus recorded by 
 herself in the narrative of her own life, 
 "/if is, madam, because you seek without 
 lohat you have within. Accustom yourself to 
 seek God in your heart, and you will there 
 find him.''' 
 
 " Having said these words, he left me. 
 They were to me like the stroke of a dart, 
 which penetrated through my heart. I felt 
 at this instant a very deep wound, a wound 
 so delightful that 1 desired not to be cured. 
 These words brought into my heart what I 
 had been seeking so many years ; or rather, 
 they discovered to me what was there, and 
 which I had not enjoyed for want of knowing 
 it. Oh my Lord ! thou wast in my heart, 
 and demandedst only a simple turning of my 
 mind inward, to make me perceive thy pres- 
 ence. Oh infinite Goodness! How was I 
 rr#ining hither and thither to seek thee ; my 
 life was a burden to me, though my happiness 
 was in myself I was poor in the midst of 
 riches, and ready to perish with hunger, near 
 a table plentifully spread, and a continual 
 feast. Oh Beauty, ancient and new ! Why 
 have I known thee so late! Alas! I sought 
 thee where thou wast not, and did not seek 
 
 thee where thou wast. It was for want of 
 understanding these words of thy gospel, 
 ' The kingdom of God cometh not with ob- 
 servation : neither shall they say, Lo here, or 
 Lo there. For behold the kingdom of God 
 is within you.' This I experienced; for thou 
 becamest my king, and my heart thy king- 
 dom, wherein thou didst reign supreme, and 
 perform all thy sacred will." 
 
 Hours, she observes, now passed away like 
 moments, and she- could hardly do anything 
 else but pray. She enters at the same time 
 upon a strict course of penances, deprives 
 herself of the most innocent indulgences, and 
 succeeds so fiir that she could scarcely prefer 
 one thing to another. Her senses are severe- 
 ly mortified, and kept under uniform restraint. 
 She aims at nothing less than the death of 
 the senses', and the utter extinction of self. 
 " It is only by a total death to self," she re- 
 marks, " that we can be lost in God." 
 
 At length these continual efforts become 
 painful to her, and she is far from realizing 
 either inward peace or the grace of true holi- 
 ness. In describing her state of mind, she 
 observes : 
 
 " I began to experience an insupportable 
 weight, in that very piety which had formerly 
 been so easy and delightful to me ; not that I 
 did not love it extremely, but I found myself 
 defective in that noble practice of it to which 
 I aspired. The more I loved it, the more I 
 labored to acquire what I saw I failed in. 
 But alas ! I seemed continually to be overcome 
 by that which was contrary to it. My heart, 
 indeed, was detached from all sensual plea- 
 sures. For these several years past it has 
 seemed to me that my mind is so detached and 
 absent from the body, that I do things as if I 
 did them nqt. If I eat or refresh myself, it 
 is done with such an absence, or separation, 
 as I wonder at, and with an entire mortifica- 
 tion of the keenness of sensation in all the 
 natural functions." 
 
 In addition to this dissatisfaction with her- 
 self, it is her lot to be married to a man who 
 is strongly opposed to her views and prin- 
 ciples. Her domestic trials aggravate her 
 wretchedness, and she enjoys peace neither 
 in herself, in others, nor in God. 
 
 "I could now no longer pray as formerly. 
 Heaven seemed shut to me, and I thought 
 justly too. I could get no consolation, nor 
 make any complaint thereupon : nor had I any 
 creature on earth to apply to, or to whom I 
 might impart my condition. I found myself 
 banished from all beings, without finding a 
 support or refuge in anything. I could no 
 more practice any virtue with facilit)^ Such 
 as had formerly been familiar to me seemed 
 now to have left me. ' Alas !' said I, ' is it 
 possible that this heart, formerly all on fire, 
 should now become like ice V Laden with a 
 weight of past sins, and a multitude of new
 
 ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 
 
 687 
 
 ones, I could not think God would ever par- 
 don me, but looked on myself as a victim of 
 hell. Whatever I tried for a remedy, seemed 
 only to increase the malady. I may say tiiat 
 tears were my drink, and sorrow my food. I 
 had within myself an executioner who tor- 
 tured me without respite." 
 
 We believe the case of Madame Guion to 
 be by no means singular. Many aim at high 
 attainments in religion, with tlie utmost sin- 
 cerity of intention, but, being ignorant of the 
 true way of peace, to wliich a more scriptural 
 view would infallibly lead tliem, they load the 
 conscience with heavy burdens, till it sinks 
 under the weight of the oppression. Peace 
 of mind is not to be found in self-intiicted 
 austerities, in overstrained etibrts, nor even in 
 tlie way of internal holiness. This is seeking 
 the living among the dead. We first find God, 
 not by what we try to do for ourselves, but 
 in a firm reliance on what Christ the Lord has 
 done for us. " He was wounded for our 
 transgressions, he was bruised for our iniqui- 
 ties; the chastisement of our peace was upon 
 him; and with his stripes we are healed." 
 Tiiis is the only true ground of acceptance. 
 This is tlie Ibundation laid in Zion. "He is 
 our peace." Hpliness follows, but does not 
 go before ; it is tlie effect, but not the cause. 
 Mysticism inverts the order, and seems to give 
 more honor to the sanctifying Spirit tlum to 
 a crucilied Saviour and Redeemer. 
 
 However specious, tlierefore the counsel 
 given by the priest miglit seem to be, and 
 powerfully as she was impressed by it for a 
 season, yet it failed in imparting the whole 
 truth. He led iier to derive peace from con- 
 templating Christ wiihiri ; but true peace can 
 How only from contemplating Cin'ist without. 
 The " water" and the " blood" are emblemat- 
 ical of a double operation. Each is neces- 
 sary, Ciirist in the heart for sanctitication, 
 Christ on the cross for justilication and pardon 
 of sin. To neglect the latter, and to lix our 
 inmost thoughts on tlie former only, what is it 
 but to make a Saviour of sanctification, and to 
 render the cross of none elfect ? 
 
 In the midst of her internal disquietude, 
 the husband of Madame Guion dies. " At 
 last," she writes, "after having jiassed twelve 
 years and four months in the crosses of mar- 
 riage, as great as possible, except poverty, 
 which 1 never knew, though I had much de- 
 sired it, (jod drew me out of that state to 
 give me still stronger crosses to bear, and 
 of such a nature as I had never met with be- 
 fore." 
 
 Her life from this period was a continual 
 scene of trials and persecutions, to which iicr 
 views and principles uniformly expo.scd her. 
 
 Relieved now from all external restraint, 
 /his devoted woman dedicates herself to the 
 Lord by a solenni surrender, wiiich she calls 
 a marriage contract, and engages to live 
 
 wholly to him and to his glory for the remain- 
 der of her days. 
 
 Her state of mind, and the joy and happi. 
 ness which it led to, are thus expressed. 
 
 " At this time I found tluit 1 had the perfect 
 chastity of love to God, mine being without 
 any reserve, division, or view of interest; — ■ 
 perfect poverty, by the total privation of every- 
 thing that was mine both inwardly and out' 
 wardly ; — perfect obedience to the will of God, 
 submission to the churchy and honor to Jesus 
 Christ in loving himself only." 
 
 " The joy which such a soul possesses in its 
 God is so great, that it experiences the truth 
 of those words of the royal prophet, 'AH 
 they who are in thee, O Lord, are like persons 
 ravished wuth joy.' To such a soul the words 
 of our Lord seem to be addressed, ' Vourjoy 
 no man shall take from you.' John xvi. 22. 
 It is as it were plunged in a river of peace ; 
 its prayer is continual: nothing can hinder it 
 from praying to God, or from loving in'm. It 
 amply verities these words in the Canticles, 
 'I sleep, but my heart waketh:' for it finds 
 that even sleep itself does not hinder it from 
 praying. Oh, unutterable happiness ! Who 
 could ever have thought that a soul, which 
 seemed to be in the utmost misery, should 
 ever find a happiness eqiuil to tin's ? Oh happy 
 yoverty, happy loss, happy nothingness, which 
 gives no less than God himself in his own 
 immensity, no more circumscribed to the 
 limited manner of the creature, but always 
 drawing it out of that to plunge it wholly into 
 his own divine essence. 
 
 " What then renders this soul so perfectly 
 content ? It neither knows nor wants to 
 know anything but what God calls it to. 
 Herein it enjoys divine content, after a man- 
 ner vast, immense, independent of exterior 
 events ; more satisfied in its humiliation, and 
 in the opposition of all creatures, by the or- 
 der of Providence, than on the throne of its 
 own choice. 
 
 " It is here that the apostolic life begins. 
 But is every one called to that state ? Very 
 few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend ; and 
 of the few that are called to it, fewer still 
 walk in true purity." 
 
 This entire surrender of the soul to God, 
 or self-abandonment, she thus describes. 
 
 " Abandonment is a matter of the greatest 
 importance in our process ; it is the key to 
 the inner court; so that whosoever knoweth 
 truly how to abandon himself, soon becomes 
 perfect. We must, therefore, continue sted- 
 fast and immoveable therein, nor listen to the 
 voice of natural reason. Great faith produces 
 great abandonment ; we must confide in God, 
 'hoping against iiope.' (Rom. iv. 18.) 
 
 " Abandonment is the casting oflT all selfish 
 care, that we may be altogether at the Divine 
 disposal. All Christians are exhorted to this 
 resignation ; for it is said to all, ' Take no
 
 688 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 thouglit saying, What shall we eat ? or what 
 shall we drink ? or, wherewitiial shall we be 
 clothed ? for your heavenly Father knoweth 
 that ye have need of all these things.' (Matt, 
 vi. 31, 32.) 'In all thy ways acknowledge 
 him, and he shall direct thy paths.' (Prov. iii. 
 6.) 'Commit thy ways unto tiie Lord, and 
 thy thoughts shall be established.' (Prov. 
 xvi. 3.) 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; 
 trust also in him, and he shall bring it to pass.' 
 (Psalm x.xxvii. 5.) 
 
 " Our abandonment then should be as fully 
 applied to our external as internal things, 
 giving up all our concerns into the hands of 
 God, forgetting ourselves, and thinking only 
 of him ; by which the heart will remain al- 
 ways disengaged, free, and at peace. It is 
 practised by continually losing our own will 
 in the will of God ; by renouncing every par- 
 ticular inclination as soon as it arises, how- 
 ever good it may appear, that we may stand 
 in indiffei-ence witJi respect to ourselves, and 
 only will that which God from eternity had 
 willed ; by being resigned in all things, 
 whether for soul or body, whether for time or 
 eternity; by leaving what is past in oblivion, 
 what is to come to Providence, and devoting 
 the present moment to God, which brings 
 with itself God's eternal order, and it is as in- 
 fallible a declaration to us of his will, as it is 
 inevitable and common to all; by attributing 
 nothing that be&Us us to the creature, but 
 regarding all things in God, and looking upon 
 all, excepting only our sins, as infallibly pro- 
 ceeding from him. Surrender yourselves, 
 then, to be led and disposed of just as God 
 pleaseth, with respect both to your outward 
 and inward state." 
 
 There is also another term, of frequent oc- 
 currence in Madame Guion's writings, called 
 the annilnlaiion of the powers or senses, (ane- 
 antissement des puissances,) by which she 
 means that all tlie senses and passions are to 
 be completely mortified, .and suppressed, in 
 order that the soul, freed from the heavy in- 
 cumbrance, may aspire to full and unre- 
 strained communion with God. 
 
 Such is the outline of mysticism, which we 
 have endeavored to illustrate in her own 
 words. Indiscriminate censure would be no 
 less opposed to the real truth than indis- 
 criminate praise. 
 
 The proselytes made to this doctrine in 
 France were numerous, consistingf of names 
 distmguished by their piety and rank. Among 
 these, she had the honor of including the 
 great FenLloii, who, though he had too much 
 taste and judgment to adopt the extremes of 
 her system, listened with delight when she 
 descanted before him, at the Hotel de Beau- 
 villiers, on the pure and disinterested love of 
 God.* 
 
 It was in vain that the celebrated Bishop 
 
 * Life of F6n61on. 
 
 of Meaux* exposed her doctrines with all the 
 powers of his wit, aided by the splendor of 
 his eloquence. Her persecutions awakened 
 new interest. She was sent to the castle of 
 Vincennes, as if she had been a prisoner of 
 state. 
 
 There she employed her lonely hours in 
 pouring out the effusions of her heart, in 
 hymns expressive of her love to God, and of 
 the fervor of her devotion. Some of these 
 compositions, written under circumstances so 
 interesting, we shall present to the reader. 
 They are indebted for their English dress to 
 the poet Covvper, and to the suggestion of the 
 Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport Pagnell, who con- 
 ceived that the spirit which they breathe could 
 not fiiil to be congenial to a mind like his. 
 
 We shall now venture' to ot^er a few re- 
 marks on this system. 
 
 What we admire in Madame Guion is, the 
 purity of her heart, its incessant aspirations 
 after holiness, its secret and close communion 
 with God. These are qualifications in which 
 tliere is reason to believe that the great bulk 
 of professing Christians are greatly deficient. 
 Religion, even among reflecting minds, par- 
 takes more of a i)hilosophical than a spiritual 
 character. The fire is in the intellect, the ice 
 is in the heart. In the social circle, the essay, 
 or review, how often is spiritual religion 
 branded with the title of enthusiasm, and the 
 wings of devotion clipped, lest she should 
 soar with too lofty an elevation, and pass 
 beyond the limits which a cold and calculat- 
 ing policy would prescribe. 
 
 Among others again, who are the professed 
 followers of Christ, how far do all fall short 
 in the sublime and devotional feeling of love 
 to God ! The higher attainments of Chris- 
 tian piety, the inward fervency of spirit, and 
 the entire surrender of the soul, are not suf- 
 ficiently realized. Men do not rise to the 
 elevation of Bible Christianity. Religion is 
 considered too much in the light of a struggle 
 and a warfare, and too little as a state of in- 
 ward repose and joy unspeakable and full of 
 glory. 
 
 It is in this respect that we think the de- 
 votional spirit of Madame Guion may be con- 
 templated with profit, if by a wise discrimi- 
 nation we can adopt what is excellent, and 
 reject what is overstrained, legal, and vis- 
 ionary. 
 
 There is, however, a fomiliarity in her ad- 
 dresses to the Deity incompatible with the 
 reverence due to a sense of his majesty and 
 greatness. In exposing this objectionable 
 part of her writings, Bossuet beautifully apos- 
 trophizes the seraphs, and entreats them to 
 bring burning coals from the altar to purify 
 his lips, lest they should have been defiled by 
 the impurities which he had been obliged to 
 record.! 
 
 * Bossuet. 
 
 t See Butler's Life of F^nilon.
 
 ACCOUNT OF MADAME GQIOTST. 
 
 689 
 
 With respect to the distinguishing feature 
 of mysticism, the pure and disinterested love 
 of God. for his own sake, and without any 
 consideration of ie//", tliat the mind may, at 
 particular seasons, rise to this degree of holy 
 contemplation we believe to be possible ; but 
 we are persuaded that such a state of feeling 
 «innot be habitually sustained, and that it is 
 beyond the general standard and capacities 
 of human nature. God's love to us is re- 
 corded in the Scripture as the foundation of 
 our love to him : — " We love him, because 
 he first loved us." Even glorilied spirits, 
 whose devotion we may justly sup[)ose to 
 have attained its highest degree of perfection, 
 are represented as making their own salvation 
 the theme of adoring gratitude and praise. 
 " For tliou hast redeemed us to God by tiiy 
 blood, and hast made us unto our God kings 
 and priests." Besides, it is in the great work 
 of redemption that the divine attributes are 
 so gloriously displayed ; that the most affect- 
 ing appeals are made to our fears and iiopes; 
 and the most animating motives held forth 
 for our obedience. Man's personal interest 
 is therefore so interwoven with the display 
 of the divine perfections, that tiie former 
 can never be excluded without obscuring the 
 glory of the very attributes which mysticism 
 requires us to adore. 
 
 Again, the doctrine of the Mystics proposes 
 the utter suppression of the passions of hope 
 and fear ; tiie anniliilation, as it is called, of 
 all our natural feelings, and an entire ab- 
 straction from the world. 
 
 The annihilation of our natural feelings, 
 that the iieart may be wholly tilled with the 
 love and contemplation of the Deity, is not 
 possible, nor, if it were possible, would it be 
 desirable, as we should cease, in that case, 
 to be men, without acquiring the nature of 
 angels. It is not the suppression, but the 
 due control and consecration of our feelings 
 to the purest ends that the Bible proposes; 
 not the exclusion of what is human, but the 
 admixture of what is divine. The apostles, 
 though gificd with the Holy Ghost from 
 heaven, were still " men of like passions with 
 ourselves," and the Saviour wiio was trans- 
 figured on Mount Tabor, thirsted at the well 
 of Sychar, and wept at the grave of Lazarus. 
 
 Nor is it abstraction from the world, but 
 from its spirit, that the Bible enjoins as a 
 duty on tiie Clu-istian. " Let us open this 
 wonderful book," observes an elegant writer, 
 " where we may, we meet no mystical abstrac- 
 tion. We feel our rohole mind to be ad- 
 dressed at once ; no faculty, active or passive, 
 being left without its provision. Human 
 nature is everywhere made to furnisii the 
 machinery, which may work most effectually 
 on itself To withdraw the mind from sensi- 
 ble ideas while reading tiie Bible, is abso- 
 lutely impossible. It places real life before 
 
 us, in all its most interesting and most im- 
 pressive forms ; and obliges us to converse 
 with ' men of like passions with ourselves,' 
 even while it is teaching us the way of God 
 most- perfectly. 
 
 " Instead of abstracting us from the world, 
 it makes it a sciiool of wisdom to us ; and 
 teaches us, by example as well as precept, to 
 proceed in making it so daily to ourselves. 
 We discover that while it is the scene of the 
 devil's temptations, it is also the seethe of 
 God's providence ; and that, as on the former 
 account we must be ever vigilant against its 
 seductions, so, on the latter account, we can- 
 not but be deeply interested in its various 
 movements, past, present, and future. To 
 be regardless of these would be to overlook 
 the volume of prophecy, as well as that king- 
 dom of the Messiah upon earth, of whose 
 gradual advancement the prophetic oracles 
 chiefly treat, and in whose final triumph all 
 their brightest rays concentre. It is not, 
 therefore, a mystical escape from the world 
 to which the Christian is called. His voca- 
 tion is much more glorious; he is to keep him- 
 self ' unspotted from the world;' but he is to 
 remain in it, that he may maintain, as far aa 
 in him lies, his Lord's right to it, and pro- 
 mote his interest in it. He is taught this by 
 the Redeemer's last prayer for his followers : 
 ' I pray not that thou shouldest take them 
 out of the world, but that thou shouldest 
 keep them from the evil.' And he is still 
 more fully instructed by our Lord's own 
 example; who made every walk of human 
 life the scene of his beneficence, and turned 
 every object and occurrence into a means of 
 the most interesting and deepest instruction."* 
 
 There is one more feature in mysticism 
 entitled to be considered, because it was 
 subsequently adopted by Fenelon, viz., the 
 possibility of the soul acquiescing in its own 
 destruction, if such were the will of God, 
 from a profound submission to his will and 
 a desire to promote his glory. But this sup- 
 position involves a manifest absurdity, be- 
 cause a profound submission to the will of 
 God is a gracious principle, and how can the 
 soul, which is under gracious impressions, 
 ever be the object of perdition, or God be 
 glorified in its destruction? The case of 
 Moses, who prayed to be blotted out of the 
 book which God had written, if the Israelites 
 might be sparcd,f or that of St. Paul, who 
 wished that he migiit be accursed, for the 
 sake of his brethren, according to the flesh,J 
 — these passages might be quoted ; but they 
 arc to be considered as referring to the pres- 
 ent and not to tiie future life, in reference 
 
 * See " Remains of Alexander Knox, Esq." vol i. pp. 
 303, 304. t Exodus xxxii. 3-2. 
 
 X ScoU and Henry both a^free in this interpretation, viz,, 
 a willin'_;ni'ss to be treated as an anatliema, and to be cut 
 off from all church communion and privileges, but not 
 to be elcnially lost. 
 
 44
 
 690 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 to the latter of which they would be ob- 
 viously repugnant to the justice and good- 
 ness of God. 
 
 It is evident from what has been said, that 
 the religious views of Madame Guion, excel- 
 lent as they were in their principle, in so far 
 as they inculcated the supreme love of God, 
 profound submission to his will, the calm 
 retirement of the soul, and deadness to the 
 spirit of the world, were nevertheless too 
 overstrained to be suited to the character 
 and constitution of human nature. Wesley 
 translated her life, and observes, "Such an- 
 other Life as that of Madame Guion, I doubt 
 whether the world ever saw. It contains an 
 abundance of excellent things, uncommonly 
 excellent ; several things which are utterly 
 false and unscriptural ; nay, such as are dan- 
 gerously false. As to Madame Guion her- 
 self, I believe she was not only a good wo- 
 man, but good in an eminent degree ; deeply 
 devoted to God, and often fiivored with un- 
 common communications of his Spirit." 
 
 The persecutions in which she was thus 
 involved were unremitting and painful. Her 
 doctrines underwent a solemn inquiry at Issy, 
 before three commissioners appointed by 
 Louis XIV. for that purpose : viz. the Bishop, 
 of Meaux,the Bishop of Chartres, (afterwards 
 Cardinal de Noailles,) and J\I. Tronson, the 
 Superior of the Congregation of St. Sulpice. 
 After a discussion which lasted six months, 
 her writings received a formal condemnation, 
 in which 'Fenclon refused to concur. By this 
 apparent sanction of her principles, and still 
 more by his celebrated " Maxims of the 
 Saints," in which he incorporated the more 
 spiritual part of her system, he exposed him- 
 self to a series of painful reverses. He was 
 banished the court by Louis XIV., whc prob. 
 ably never read his book, nor comprehended 
 his principles, but who never forgave the 
 author of Telemachus. By the same author- 
 ity he was removed from the office of pre- 
 ceptor to the Dukes of Burgundy, Anjou, 
 and Berri ; and commanded to retire to Cara- 
 bray, which he embellished vv'ith his exalted 
 virtues. But a further scene of humiliation 
 awaited him. His powerful opponent, the 
 celebrated Bossuet, not content with attack- 
 ing his writings, endeavored to procure their 
 condemnation at the Court of Rome, which 
 led to a bon-mot of the Pope, that " Fcnelon 
 was in fault for too great love to God, and 
 his enemies equally in fault for too little love 
 of their neighbor." The Brief was at length 
 obtained, though not without considerable 
 delay and reluctance. Fcnclon received this 
 act of censure with calm serenity, and in 
 obedience to papal authority, ascended his 
 pulpit at Cambray with his Maxims in one 
 hand and the Brief in the other. He then 
 read the condemnation of his own book, 
 amidst the tears and admiration of his congre- 
 
 gation ; thus evincing a magnanimity which 
 rendered him greater in his defeat than his 
 enemies appeared in their triumph. 
 
 Madame Guion spent ten years in prison, 
 during which she composed many hymns, 
 with poems on various spiritual subjects, fill- 
 ing no less than five octavo volumes. Speak- 
 ing of the period of her imprisonment at 
 Vincennes, she observes, " I passed my time 
 in great peace, content to spend the rest of 
 my life there, if such were the will of God. 
 I sang songs of joy, which the maid who 
 served me learned by heart, as fast as I made 
 them : and we sang together thy praises, O 
 my God ! The stones of my prison looked 
 in my eyes like rubies. I esteemed them 
 more than all the gaudy brilliancies of a vain 
 world." We cannot state this fiict without 
 doing homage to the virtues of Madame 
 Guion. The piety that could convert a pris- 
 on into a sanctuary, and transform suffer- 
 ings into an occasion for joy and thanksgiv- 
 ing, must have been elevated and sincere, 
 however mingled with enthusiasm. Her doc- 
 trine of profound submission, under circum- 
 stances the most adverse, was no speculative 
 thesis ; it was evidently carried into the life 
 and practice. 
 
 Who is not reminded by this act of what 
 is recorded in the apostolical times ? " And 
 at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and 
 sang praises unto God." The rigor of her 
 persecutions, in our opinion, conveys a strong 
 censure against her zealous but misguided 
 opponents. But the case is by no means 
 solitary. The world is always indulgent to 
 the errors of our practice, but severe to the 
 errors of our creed. True policy and human- 
 ity would have suggested a different course. 
 Extravagances, when left to themselves, 
 generally work their own cure ; but, when 
 visited with persecution, acquire dignity and 
 importance, and never fail to awaken sym- 
 pathy for the sufferers. 
 
 After her long imprisonment, Madame 
 Guion lived a retired life for more than seven 
 years at Blois, where she died June 9, 1717, 
 in the seventieth year of her age, celebrated 
 for her misfortunes and devotion, though her 
 principles, which once convulsed France, and 
 awakened the thunders of the Vatican, are 
 now nearly forgotten. 
 
 The following selection from her poems, 
 executed by Cowper, is highly devotional, and 
 may be read with interest and edification. It 
 exhibits a happy specimen of her religious 
 views in their best form ; and Cowper has 
 given to them the charms of versification, 
 united with a taste and discrimination that 
 ensure their popularity. The poem on the 
 Nativity is a sublime and bold composition, 
 and proves that the piety which warms the 
 bsart, seldom faiW to enlarge and invigorate 
 ti .3 faculties of the mind.
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA MOTHE GUION. 
 
 THE NATIVITY. 
 
 'Tis folly all — let me no more he told 
 Of Parian porticos, and rools of gold ; 
 Delightful views of nature, dress'd by art, 
 Enchant no lonffcr this indiOerent heart; 
 The Lord of all things, in his humble birth, 
 Makes mean the proud magnificence of earth ; 
 The straw, the umnger. and the mouldering wall, 
 Eclipse its lustre; and I scorn it all. 
 
 Canals, and fountains, and delicious vales, 
 Green slopes and plains, whose plenty never 
 
 fails ; 
 Deep-rooted groves, whose heads sublimely rise, 
 Earth-born, and yet ambitious of the skies ; 
 The abundant foliage of whose gloomy shades, 
 Vainly the sun in all its power invades ; 
 Where warbled airs of sprightly birds resound, 
 Whose verdure lives while VV inter scowls around ; 
 Rocks, lotly mountains, caverns dark and deep, 
 And torrents raving down the rugged steep ; 
 Smooth downs, whose frfigrant herbs the spirits 
 
 cheer ; 
 Meads crown'd with flowers ; streams musical 
 
 and clear, 
 Wht)se silver waters and whose murmurs, join 
 Their artless charms to make the scene divine ; 
 The fruitful vineyard, and the t'urrow'd plain. 
 That seems a roiling sea of golden grain : 
 All. all have lost the charms tliey once possess'd ; 
 Ai\ infant God reigns sovereign in my breast ; 
 Prom Bethlehem's bosom I no more will rove ; 
 There dwells the Saviour, and there rests my love. 
 Ye mightier rivers, that, with sounding force, 
 Urge down the valleys your impetuous course ! 
 Winds, clouds, and lightnings ! and, ye waves, 
 
 whose heads, 
 Curl'd into monstrous forms, the seaman dreads ! 
 Horrid abyss, where all experience fails, [sails; 
 Spread with the wreck ot' planks and shatter'd 
 On whose broad back grim Death triumphant 
 
 rides. 
 While havoc floats on all thy swelling tides, 
 Thy shores a scene of ruin strew'd around 
 With vessels bulged, and boilies of the drown'd ! 
 Ye fish, that sport beneath the boundless 
 
 waves. 
 And rest, secure from man. in rocky caves: 
 Swill-darting sharks, and whales of hideous size. 
 Whom all the acjuatic world with terror eyes ! 
 Had I but faith imuioveahle and true, 
 I might defy the fiercest storm, like you : 
 The world, a more disturb'! and boisterous sea. 
 When Jesus shows a smile, affrights not me ; 
 
 He hides me, and in vain the billows roar. 
 Break harmless at my feet, and leave the shore. 
 
 Thou azure vault, where, through the gloom of 
 night, [light ! 
 
 Thick sown, we see such countless worlds of 
 Thou moon, whose car, encompassing the skies, 
 Restores lost nature to our wondering eyes ; 
 Again retiring, when the brighter sun 
 Be'Tins the course he seems in haste to run ! 
 Behold him where he shines ! His rapid rays, 
 Themselves unmeasured, measure all our days; 
 Nothing impedes the race he would pursue, 
 Nothing escapes his penetrating view, 
 A thousand lands confess his quickening heat, 
 And all he cheers are fruitful, fair, and sweet. 
 
 Far from enjoying what these scenes disclose, 
 I feel the thorn, alas ! but miss the rose : 
 Too well I know this aching heart requires 
 More solid gold to fill its vast desires ; 
 In vain they represent his matchless might, 
 Who call'd them out of deep primeval night; 
 Their Ibrm and beauty but augment my woe, 
 I seek the Giver of those channs they show : 
 Nor, Him beside, throughout the world he made, 
 Lives there in whom I trust for cure or aid. 
 
 Infinite God, thou great unrivall'd one! 
 Whose glory makes a blot of yonder sun ; 
 Compar'd with thine, how dim his beauty seems. 
 How quench'd the radiance of his golden beams ! 
 Thou art my bliss, the light by which I move ; 
 In thee alone dwells all that I can love. 
 All darkness flies when thou art pleased to appear, 
 A sudden spring renews the lading year ; 
 Where'er I turn I see thy power and grace 
 The watchful guardians of our heedless race; 
 Thy various creatures in one strain agree. 
 All, in all times and places, speak of thee ; 
 E'en I, with tremblinrr heart and stammering 
 
 tongue. 
 Attempt thy praise, and join the general song. 
 
 Ahnighty Former of this wondrous plan, 
 Faintly reflected in thine image, man — 
 Holy and just — the greatness of whose name 
 Fills and supports this universal frame, 
 Dill'usetl throughout the infinitude of space. 
 Who art thyself thine own vast dwelling place; 
 'Soul of our soul, whom yet no sense of ours 
 Discerns eluding our most active powers; 
 J-".ncirclin(X shades attend thine awful throne. 
 That Veil thy face, and keej) thee still unknown- 
 Unknown, though dwelling in our inmost part. 
 Lord of the thoughts, and Sovereign of the heart 
 
 Repeat the charming truth that never tires. 
 No God is like the God my soul desires ;
 
 692 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 He at whose voice heaven trembles, even He, 
 Great as he is, knows how to stoop to me — 
 Lo ! there he hes — that smiUng iniantsaid, 
 '■ Heaven, earth, and sea. exist !' and they ohey'd. 
 , E'en he, whose being swells beyond the skies, 
 Is born of woman, lives, and mourns, and dies ; 
 Eternal and immortal seems to cast 
 That glory from his brows and breathes his last. 
 Trivial and vain the works that man has 
 
 wrought, 
 How do they shrink and vanish at the thought ! 
 
 Sweet solitude, and scene of n)y repose ! 
 This rustic sight assuages all my woes — 
 That crib contains the Lord, whom I adore; 
 And earth's a shade that I pursue no more. 
 He is my firm support, my rock, my tower, 
 I dwell secure beneath his sheltering power. 
 And hold this mean retreat forever dear, 
 For all I love, my soul's delight is here. 
 I see the Almighty swathed in infant bands, 
 Tied helpless down the thunder-bearer's hands! 
 And, in this shed, that mystery discern. 
 Which faith and love, and they alone, can learn. 
 
 Ye tempests, spare the slumliers of your Lord ! 
 Ye zephyrs, all your whisper'd sweets afford 1 
 Confess the God that guides the rolling year ; 
 Heaven, do him homage ; and thou, earth revere ! 
 Ye shepherds, monarchs, sages, hither bring 
 Your hearts an offering, and adore your King ! 
 Pure be those hearts, and rich in faith and 
 
 love ; 
 Join, in his praise, the harmonious world above; 
 To Bethlehem haste, rejoice in his repose, 
 And praise him there for all that he bestows ! 
 
 Man, busy man, alas I can ill afford 
 To obey the summons, and attend the Lord; 
 Perverted reason revels and runs wild, 
 By glittering shows of pomp and wealth beguiled ; 
 And, blind to genuine excellence and grace. 
 Finds not her author in so mean a place. 
 Ye unbelieving ! learn a wiser part, 
 Distrust your erring sense, and search your heart ; 
 There soon ye shall perceive a kindling flame 
 Glow for that infant God, from whom it came ; 
 Resist not, quench not, that divine desire, 
 Melt all your adamant in heavenly fire! 
 ' Not so will I requite thee, gentle love! 
 
 Yielding and soil this heart shall ever prove; 
 And every heart beneath thy power should fall, 
 Glad to submit, could mine contain them all. 
 But I am poor, oblation I have none. 
 None for a Saviour, but himself alone : 
 Whate'er I render thee, from thee it came: 
 And, if I give my body to the flame, 
 My patience, love, and energy divine 
 Of heart, and soul, and spirit, all are thine. 
 Ah, vain attempt to expunge the mighty score 
 The more I pay, I owe thee still the more. 
 
 Upon my meanness poverty, and guilt. 
 The trophy of thy glory shall be built; 
 f My self-disdain shtiU be the unshaken base, 
 And my deformity its fairest grace ; 
 For destitute of good, and rich in ill. 
 Must be my state and my de.scription still. 
 
 And do I grieve at such an humbling lotl 
 Nay, but I cherish and enjoy the thought — 
 Vain pageantry and pomp of earth, adieu ! 
 I have no wish, no memory for you ; 
 The more I feel my misery, I adore 
 The sacred inmate of my soul the more ; 
 Rich in his love, I feel my noblest pride 
 Spring from the sense of having nought beside. 
 
 In thee I find wealth, comfort, virtue, mio-ht ; 
 My wanderings prove thy wisdom infinite; 
 All that I have I give thee; and then see 
 All contrarieties unite in thee ; 
 For thou hast join'd them, taking up our woe, 
 And pouring out thy bhss on worms below. 
 By filling with thy grace and love divine 
 A gulf of evil in S.i's heart of mine. 
 This is indeed, to bid the valleys rise. 
 And the hills sink — 'tis matching earth and skies; 
 I feel my weakness thank tliee, and deplore 
 An achinix heart, that throbs to thank thee more ; 
 The more I love thee, I the more rey)rove 
 A soul so lifeless, and so slow to love ; 
 Till on a delage of thy mercy toss'd, 
 I plunge into that sea, and there am lost. 
 
 GOD NEITHER KNOWN NOR LOVEu 
 BY THE WORLD. 
 
 Yr linnets, let us try beneath this grove, 
 Which shall be loudest in our Maker's praise I 
 In quest of some forlorn retreat I rove, [ways. 
 For all the world is blind, and wanders from his 
 
 That God alone should prop the sinking soul, 
 Fills them with rage against his empire now : 
 I traverse earth in vain from pole to pole, 
 To seek one simple heart, set free from all below. 
 
 They speak of love, yet little feel its sway, 
 While in their bosoms many an idol lurks; 
 Their base desires, well satisfied, obey, [works. 
 Leave their Creator's hand, and lean upon his 
 
 'Tis therefore I can dwell with man no more; 
 Your fellowship ye warblers ! suits me best : 
 Pure love has lost its price, though prized of yore, 
 Profaned by modern tongues, and slighted as a 
 jest. 
 
 My God, who form'd you for his praise alone, 
 Beholds his purpose well fulfill'd in you ; 
 Come let us join the choir before his throne. 
 Partaking in his praise with spirits just and true. 
 
 Yes, I will always love ; and as I ought. 
 Tune to the praise of love my ceaseless voice ; 
 Preferring love too vast for humnn thought, 
 In spite of erring men, who cavil at my choice. 
 
 Why have I not a thousand thousand hearts. 
 Lord of my soul ! that they might all be thine 1 
 If thou approve — the zeal thy smile imparts, 
 How should it ever fail ! can such a fire decUne 1 
 
 Love, pure and holy, is a deathless fire ; 
 Its object heavenly, it must ever blaze : 
 Eternal love a God must needs inspire, [praise. 
 When once he wins the heart, and fits it for his 
 
 Self-love dismiss'd — 'tis then we live indeed — 
 In her embrace, death, only death is found : 
 Come, then, one noble effort and succeed, 
 Cast off the chain of self with which thy soul 
 is bound ! 
 
 Oh ! I could cry, that all the world might hear, 
 Ye selt-tormentors, love your God alone ; 
 Let his unequall'd excellence be dear, [own, 
 Dear to your inmost souls, and make him all yout
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION, 
 
 693 
 
 They hear me not — alas ! how fond to rove 
 In endless chase of folly's specious lure ! 
 'Tis here alone, beneath this shady gro'^3, 
 I taste the sweets of truth — here only am secure. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 I AM fond of the swallow— I learn from her flight, 
 Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of love : 
 How seldom on earth do we see her alight! 
 She dwells in the skies, she is ever above. 
 
 It is on the wing that she takes her repose, 
 Suspendc-id and poised in the regions of air, 
 'Tis not in our fields that her sustenance grows, 
 It is wing'd like herself, 'tis ethereal fare. 
 
 She comes in the spring all the sunimer she stays, 
 And, dreading the cold, still lollows the sun — 
 So, true to our love, we should covet his rays, 
 And the place where he shines not immediately 
 shun. 
 
 Our light should be love, and our nourishment 
 
 prayer ; 
 It is dangerous food that we find upon earth ; 
 The fruit of this world is beset with a snare, 
 In itself it is hurtful, as vile in its birth. 
 
 'Tis rarely if ever she settles below. 
 And only when building a nest for her young; 
 Were it not for her brood, she would never bestow 
 A thought upon anything filthy as dung. 
 
 Let us leave it ourselves, ('tis a mortal abode,) 
 To bask every moment in infinite love ; 
 Let us fly the dark winter, and follow the road 
 That leads to the day-spring appearing above. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OP" HEAVENLY LOVE 
 DESIRED. 
 
 Ah ! reign, wherever man is found, 
 My spouse, beloved and divine ! 
 
 Then I am rich, and I abound, 
 When every human heart is thine. 
 
 A thousand sorrows pierce my soul, 
 To think tlint all are not thine own: 
 
 Ah ! be adored from pole to pole ; 
 
 Where is thy zeal 1 arise ; be known ! 
 
 All hearts arc cold, in every place, 
 
 Yet earthly good with warmth pursue ; 
 
 Dissolve them with a flash of grace, 
 Thaw these of ice, and cive us new ! 
 
 A FIGURATIVE DESCRIPTION OF THE 
 PROCEDURE OF DIVINE LOVE. 
 
 ■J* BRINGING A SOUL TO THE POINT OF SELK-RE- 
 NU.MCIATION AND ABSOLUTE ACaUIESCENCE. 
 
 'TwAs my purpose, on a day, 
 
 To embark, and sail away. 
 
 As I climb'd the vessel's side, 
 
 Love was sporting in the tide ; 
 
 " Come," he said — •■ ascend — make haste, 
 
 Launch into the boundless waste." 
 
 Many mariners were there. 
 Having each his separate care ; 
 They triat rowd us held their eyes 
 Fix'd upon the starry skies ; 
 Others steer'd, or turn'd the sails 
 To receive the shifting gales. 
 
 Love, with power divine supplied, 
 Suddenly my courage tried ; 
 In a moment it was night, 
 Ship and skies were out of sight; 
 On the briny wave I lay, 
 Floating rushes all my stay. 
 
 Did I with resentment burn 
 
 At this unexpected turn 1 
 
 Did I wish myself on shore, 
 
 Never to forsake it more 1 
 
 No—'- My soul," I cried, "be still; 
 
 If I must be lost, I will." 
 
 Next he hasten'd to convey 
 Both my frail supports away; 
 Seized my rushes ; bade the waves 
 Yawn into a thousand graves : 
 Down I went, and sunk as lead. 
 Ocean closing o'er my head. 
 
 Still, however, life was safe ; 
 And I saw him turn and laugh : 
 " Friend," he cried, " adieu ! lie low, 
 While the wintry storms shall blow; 
 When the spring has calm d the main. 
 You shall rise and float again." 
 
 Soon I saw him, with dismay, 
 Spread his plumes, and soar away; 
 Now I mark his rapid flight ; 
 Now he leaves my aching sight ; 
 He is gone whom I adore, 
 'Tis in vain to seek him more. 
 
 How I trembled then and fear'd, 
 When my love had disappear'd ! 
 " Wilt thou leave me thus," I cried, 
 " Whelm'd beneath the rolling tide 1" 
 Vain attempt to reach his ear! 
 Love was gone, and would not hear. 
 
 Ah ! return, and love me still. 
 
 See me subject to thy will ; 
 
 Frown with wrath, or smile with grace, 
 
 Only let me see thy face I 
 
 Evil I have none to fear, 
 
 All is good, if thou art near. 
 
 Yet he leaves me — cruel fate ! 
 Leaves me in my lost estate — 
 Have I sinn'd? Oh say wherein ; 
 Tell me, and forgive my sin ! 
 King, and Lord, whom I adore, 
 Shall I see thy face no more 1 
 
 Be not angrj' ; I resign, 
 
 Henceforth, all my will to thine: 
 
 I consent that thou depart. 
 
 Though thine absence breaks my hearty 
 
 Go then, and forever too : 
 
 All is right that thou wilt do. 
 
 This was just what Love intended, 
 He was now no more offended: 
 Soon as I became a child, 
 Love return'd to me and smiled : 
 Never strife shall more betide 
 'Twixt the bridegroom and his bnde.
 
 694 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 A CHILD OF GOD LONGING TO SEE 
 HIM BELOVED. 
 
 There's not an echo round me, 
 
 But I am glad should learn, 
 How pure a lire has found me, 
 
 The love with which I burn. 
 For none attends with pleasure 
 
 To what I would reveal ; 
 They slight me out of measure, 
 
 And laugh at all I feel. 
 
 The rocks receive less proudly 
 
 The story of my flame : 
 When I approach, they loudly 
 
 Reverberate his name. 
 I speak to them of sadness, 
 
 And comforts at a stand ; 
 They bid me look for gladness, 
 
 And better days at hand. 
 
 Far from all habitation, 
 
 I heard a happy sound ; 
 Big with the consolation, 
 
 That I have otten found. 
 I said, " My lot is sorrow. 
 
 My grief has no alloy ;" 
 The rocks replied — " To-morrow, 
 
 To-morrow brings thee joy." 
 
 These sweet and sacred tidings, 
 
 What bhss it is to hear ! 
 For, spile of all my chidings, 
 
 My weakness and my fear, 
 No sooner I receive them. 
 
 Than I forget my pain, 
 And, happy to believe them, 
 
 I love as much again. 
 
 I fly to scenes romantic. 
 
 Where never men resort ; 
 For in an age so frantic 
 
 Impiety is sport. 
 For riot and confusion 
 
 They barter things above ; 
 Condemning as delusion. 
 
 The joy of perfect love. 
 
 In this sequester'd cornei. 
 
 None hears what I express ; 
 Deliver'd from the scorner. 
 
 What peace do I possess ! 
 Beneath the boughs reclining, 
 
 Or roving o'er the wild, 
 I live as undesigning 
 
 And harmless as a child. 
 
 No troubles here surprise me, 
 
 I innocently play, 
 While Providence supplies me. 
 
 And guards me all the day : 
 My dear and kind defender 
 
 Preserves me safely here, 
 From men of pomp and splendor. 
 
 Who fill a child with fear. 
 
 ASPIRATIONS OF THE SOUL AFTER 
 GOD. 
 
 My Spouse ! in whose presence I live, 
 
 Sole object of all my desires, 
 Who know'st what a iflame I conceive, 
 
 And canst easily double its fires ! 
 
 How pleasant is all that I meet ! 
 
 From fear of adversity free ! 
 I find even sorrow made sweet ; 
 
 Because 'tis assign'd me by thee. 
 
 Transported I see thee display 
 
 Thy riches and glory divine ; 
 I have only my life to repay. 
 
 Take what I would gladly resign. 
 Thy will is the treasure I seek. 
 
 For thou art as faithful as strong ; 
 There let me, obedient and meek, 
 
 Repose myself all the day long. 
 
 My spirit and faculties fail ; 
 
 Oh finish what love has begun ! 
 Destroy what is sinful and frail, 
 
 And dwell in the soul thou hast won ! 
 Dear theme of my wonder and praise, 
 
 I cry. Who is worthy as thou 1 
 I can only be silent and gaze ! 
 
 'Tis all that is left to me now. 
 
 Oh glory in which I am lost. 
 
 Too deep for the plummet of thought; 
 On an ocean of Deity toss'd, 
 
 I am swallow'd, I sink into nought. 
 Yet, lost and absorb'd as I seem, 
 
 I chant to the praise of my King ; 
 And, though overwhelm'd by the theme, 
 
 Am happy whenever I sing. 
 
 GRATITUDE AND LOVE TO GOD. 
 
 All are indebted much to thee, 
 
 ]5ut I far more than all, 
 From many a deadly snare set free, 
 
 And raised from many a fall. 
 Overwhelm me, from above, 
 Daily, with thy boundless love. 
 
 What bonds of gratitude I feel 
 
 No language can declare; 
 Beneath the oppressive weight I reel, 
 
 'Tis more than I can bear : 
 Wiien shall I that blessing prove, 
 To return thee love for love 1 
 
 Spirit of charity, dispense 
 
 Thy grace to every heart ; 
 Expel all other spirits thence, 
 
 Drive self from every part ; 
 Charity divine, draw nigh. 
 Break the chains in which we lie ! 
 
 All selfish souls, whate'er they feign. 
 
 Have still a slavish lot; 
 They boast of liberty in vain. 
 
 Of love, and feel it not. 
 He whose bosom glows with thee. 
 He, and he aldhe, is free. 
 
 Oh blessedness, all bliss above. 
 When thy pure fires prevail ! 
 
 Love only teaches what is love 
 All other lessons fail : 
 
 We learn its name, but not its powers, 
 
 Experience only makes it ours. 
 
 HAPPY SOLITUDE— UNHAPPY MEN. 
 
 My heart is easy, and my burden light ; 
 
 I smile, though sad, when thou ait in my sighl
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 
 
 695 
 
 The nTjre my woes in secret I deplore, 
 I taste thy goodness, and I love thee more. 
 
 There, while a solemn stillness reigns around, 
 Faith, love, and hope within my soul abound ; 
 And, while the world suppose me lost in care, 
 The joys of angels, unperceived, I share. 
 
 Thy creatures wrong thee, O thou sovereign good ! 
 Thou art not loved, because not understood ; 
 This grieves me most, that vain pursuits beguile 
 Ungrateful men, regardless of thy smile. 
 
 Frail beauty and false honor are adored ; 
 While thee they scorn, and trifle with thy word ; 
 Pass, unconcern'd, a Saviour's sorrow by ; 
 And hunt their ruin witii a zeal to die. 
 
 LIVING WATER. 
 
 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 fill'd, 
 
 At evening they are dry. 
 
 TRUTH AND DIVINE LOVE REJECTED 
 BY THE WORLD. 
 
 O LOVE of pure and heavenly birth ! 
 O simple truth, scarce known on earth ! 
 Whom men resist with stubborn will ; 
 And, more perverse and daring still, 
 Smother, and quench with reasonings vain, 
 While error and deception reign. 
 
 Whence comes it, that, your power tke same 
 As his on high, from whence you came, 
 Ye rarely find a listening ear, 
 Or heart that makes you welcome here 1 — 
 Because ye bring reproach and pain, 
 Where'er ye visit, in your train. 
 
 The world is proud, and cannot bear 
 The scorn and calumny ye siiare ; 
 The praise of men the mark tliey mean. 
 They lly the place where ye are seen ; 
 Pure love, with scandal in the rear. 
 Suits not the vain ; it costs too dear. 
 
 Then, let the price be what it may, 
 Though poor, I am prepared to pav ; 
 Come shame, come sorrow ; spite of tears, 
 Weakness, and heart-oppressing fears ; 
 One soul, at least, shall not repine. 
 To give you room ; come, reign in mine ! 
 
 DIVINE JUSTICE AMIABLE. 
 
 Thou hast no li'^htnin'- s, O thou Just ! 
 
 Or I their i'ricc shovid know ; 
 And, if tho" strike mo into dust, 
 
 My soul approves ./le blow. 
 
 The h'"i't t' ct vf '■. es less its ease 
 Than it pdores t\y ways, 
 
 In thine avenging anger sees 
 A subject of his praise. 
 
 Pleased I could lie, conceal'd and lost, 
 In shades of central night ; 
 
 Not to avoid thy wrath thou know'st. 
 But lest I grieve thy sight. 
 
 Smite me, O thou, whom I provoke ! 
 
 And I will love thee still : 
 The well-deserved and righteous stroke 
 
 Shall please me, though it kill. 
 
 Am I not worthy to sustain 
 The worst thou canst devise ; 
 
 And dare I seek thy throne again, 
 And meet thy sacred eyes "? 
 
 Far from aiflicting, thou art kind ; 
 
 And, in my saddest hours, 
 An unction of thy grace I find, 
 
 Pervading all my powers. 
 
 Alas ! thou sparest me yet again ; 
 
 And, when thy wrath should move, 
 Too gentle to endure my pain. 
 
 Thou soothcst me with thy love. 
 
 I have no punishment to fear; 
 
 But, ah ! that smile from thee 
 Imparts a pang far more severe 
 
 Than woe itself would be. 
 
 THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS 
 HIM EVERYWHERE. 
 
 On thou, by long experience tried. 
 Near whom no grief can long abide ; 
 My love ! how full of sweet content 
 I pass my years of banishment ! 
 
 All scenes alike engaging prove 
 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. 
 
 While place we seek, or place we shun, 
 The soul finds happiness in none ; 
 But, with a God to guide our way, 
 'Tis equal joy to go or stay. 
 
 Could I be cast where thou art not. 
 That were indeed a dreadful lot ; 
 But regions none remote I call, 
 Secure of finding God in all. 
 
 My country. Lord, art thou alone ; 
 Nor other can I chiim or own ; 
 The point where all my wishes meet ; 
 My law, my love, life's only sweet 1 
 
 I hold by nothing here below ; 
 
 Appoint my journey and I go ; 
 
 Though pierced by scorn, oppress'd by pride 
 
 I feel thee good — feel nought beside. 
 
 No frowns of men can hurtful prove 
 To souls on fire with heavenly love ; 
 Though men and devils both condemn, 
 No gloomy days arise from them.
 
 696 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 Ah then ! to his embrace repair ; 
 My soul thou art no stranger there ; 
 There love divine shall be thy guard, 
 And peace and safety thy reward. 
 
 THE TESTIMONY OF DIVINE ADOP- 
 TION. 
 
 How happy are the new-born race, 
 Partakers of adopting grace ; 
 
 How pure the bliss they share ! 
 Hid from the world and all its eyes, 
 Within their heart the blessing lies. 
 
 And conscience feels it there. 
 
 The moment we believe, 'tis ours; 
 And if we love with all our powers 
 
 The God from whom it came ; 
 And if we serve with hearts sincere, 
 'Tis still discernible and clear, 
 
 An undisputed claim. 
 
 But, ah ! if foul and wilful sin 
 Stain and dishonor us within, 
 
 Farewell the joy we knew ; 
 Again the slaves of nature's sway, 
 In labyrinths of our own we stray, 
 
 Without a guide or clue. 
 
 The chaste and pure, who fear to grieve 
 The gracious Spirit they receive. 
 
 His work distinctly trace : 
 And, strong in undissembling love, 
 Boldly assert and clearly prove 
 
 Their hearts his dwelling place. 
 
 Oh messenger of dear delight, 
 Whose voice dispels the deepest night. 
 
 Sweet peace-proclaiming Dove ! 
 With thee at hand to soothe our pains, 
 No wish unsatisfied remains. 
 
 No task but that of love. 
 
 'Tis love unites what sin divides ; 
 The centre, where all bliss resides; 
 
 To which the soul once brought. 
 Reclining on the first great cause, 
 From his abounding sweetness draws 
 
 Peace passing human thought. 
 
 Sorrow foregoes its nature there. 
 And life assumes a tranquil air, 
 
 Divested of its woes ; 
 There sovereign goodness soothes the breast. 
 Till then incapable of rest. 
 
 In sacred sure repose. 
 
 DIVINE LOVE ENDURES NO RIVAL. 
 
 Love is the Lord whom I obey, 
 Whose will tran.sported I perform; 
 The centre of my rest, my stay. 
 Love's all in all to me, myself a worm. 
 
 For uncreated charms I burn, 
 
 Oppress'd by slavish fear no more. 
 
 For one in whom I may discern. 
 
 E'en when he frowns, a sweetness I adore. 
 
 He little love^ him who complains. 
 And finds him rigorous and severe ; 
 
 His heart is sordid, and he feigns, 
 Though loud in boasting of a soul sincere. 
 
 Love causes grief but 'tis to move 
 And stimulate the slumbering mind; 
 And he has never tasted love, 
 Who shuns a pang so graciously design'd. 
 
 Sweet is the cross, above all sweets, 
 To souls enamor'd with thy smiles ; 
 The keenest woe life ever meets. 
 Love strips of all its terrors, and beguiles. 
 
 'Tis just that God should not be dear 
 Where self engrosses all the thought, 
 And groans and murmurs make it clear, 
 Whatever else is loved, the Lord is not. 
 
 The love of thee flows just as much 
 As that of ebbing self subsides ; 
 Our hearts, their scantiness is such, 
 Bear not the conflict of two rival tides. 
 
 Both cannot govern in one soul ; 
 
 Then let self-love be dispossess'd ; 
 
 The love of God deserves the whole, 
 
 And will not dwell with so despised a guest. 
 
 SELF-DIFFIDENCE. 
 
 Source of love, and light of day, 
 Tear me from myself away; 
 Every view and thought of mine 
 Cast into the mould of thine ; 
 Teach. O teach this faithless heart 
 A consistent constant part ; 
 Or, if it must live to grov/ 
 More rebellious, break it now ! 
 
 Is it thus tliat I requite 
 Grace and goodness infinite 1 
 Every trace of every boon 
 Cancell'd and erased so soon ! 
 Can I grieve thee whom I love ; 
 Thee in whom I live and move"? 
 If my sorrow touch thee still. 
 Save me from so great an ill 1 
 
 Oh ! the oppressive, irksome weight, 
 Felt in an uncertain state ; 
 Comfort, peace, and rest, adieu. 
 Should I prove at last untrue ! 
 Still I choose thee, follow still 
 Every notice of thy will ; 
 But unstable, strangely weak, 
 Still let slip the good I seek. 
 
 Self-confiding wretch, I thought 
 I could serve thee as I ought. 
 Win thee, and deserve to feel 
 All the Icve thou canst reveal ; 
 Trusting self a bruised reed. 
 Is to be deceived indeed : 
 Save me from this harm and loss, 
 Lest my gold turn all to dross 1 
 
 Self is earthly — faith alone 
 Makes an unseen world our own ; 
 Faith relinquish'd, how we roam, 
 Feel our way. and leave our home 
 Spurious gems our hopes entice, 
 While we scorn the pearl of price ; 
 And preferring servants' pay. 
 Cast the children's bread away.
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 
 
 697 
 
 THE ACQUIESCENCE OF PURE LOVE, 
 
 Love! if tliy destined sacrifice am I, 
 Come, slciy thy victim, nnd prepare thy fires; 
 Plunged in thy depths or" mercy, let me die 
 The death which every soul that lives desires ! 
 
 I watch my hours and see them fieet away ; 
 TIic time is long that I have languish'd here ; 
 Yet all my thoughts thy purposes obey, 
 With no reluctance, cheerlul and sincere. 
 
 To me 'tis equal, whether love ordain 
 My life or death, appoint me pain or ease ; 
 Bly 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 tlie cross is thy command, 
 Die to the world, and live to self no more ; 
 Suffer, unmoved, beneath the rudest hand. 
 As pleased when shipvvreck'd as when safe on 
 shore. 
 
 REPOSE IN GOD. 
 
 Blest! who, far from all mankind, 
 This world's shadows letl behind, 
 Hears from heaven a gentle strain 
 Whispering love, and loves again. 
 
 Blest ! who. free from self-esteem, 
 Dives into the great Supreme, 
 All desire beside discards, 
 Joys inferior none regards. 
 
 Blest I who in thy bosom seeks 
 Rest that nothing earthly breaks, 
 Dead to self and worldly things, 
 Lost in thee thou King of kings ! 
 
 Ye that know my secret fire, 
 Softly speak and soon retire; 
 Favor my divine repose, 
 Spare the sleep a God bestows. 
 
 GLORY TO GOD ALONE. 
 
 On loved I but not enougli — t!iough dearer far 
 Than self and its most loved enjoyments are ; 
 None duly loves thee, but who. nobly free 
 From sensual objects, finds his all in thee. 
 
 Glory of God ! thou stranger here below, 
 Whom man nor knows, nor feels a wish to know ; 
 Our faith and reason are both shock'd to find 
 Man in the post of honor — Thee behind. 
 
 Reason exclaims — '• Let every creature fall. 
 Ashamed, abased before the Lord of all ;" 
 And faith, o'erwhelm'd with such a dazzling 
 
 lilaze, 
 Feebly describes the beauty she surveys. 
 
 Yet man, dim-sighted man. and rash as blind, 
 Deaf to the dictates of his better niind, 
 In frantic competition dares the skies, 
 And claims precedence of the Only-wise. 
 
 Oh lost in vanity, till once self-known I 
 Nothing is great, or good, but God alone ; 
 When thou shalt stand before his awful face, 
 Then, at the last, thy pride shall know his place. 
 
 Glorious, Almighty. First, and without end ! 
 When wilt thou melt the mountains and descend 1 
 When wilt thou shoot abroad thy conquering 
 rays, [praise 1 
 
 And teach these atoms, thou hast made, thy 
 
 Thy glory is the sweetest heaven I feel ; 
 And if I seek it with too fierce a zeal. 
 Thy love, triumphant o'er a selfish will. 
 Taught me the passion, and inspires it still. 
 
 My reason, all my faculties, unite. 
 To make thy glory their supreme delight; 
 Forbid it, fountain of my brightest days. 
 That I should rob thee, and usurp thy praise ! 
 
 My soul ! rest happy in thy low estate, 
 Nor hope, nor wish, to be esteem'd or great ; 
 To take the impression of a will divine. 
 Be that thy glory, and those riches thine. 
 
 Confess him righteous in his just decrees. 
 Love what he loves, and let his pleasure please ; 
 Die daily ; from the touch of sin recede ; [deed. 
 Then thou hast crown'd him, and he reigns in- 
 
 SELF-LOVE AND TRUTH INCOM- 
 PATIBLE. 
 
 From thorny wilds a monster came, 
 That fill'd my soul witli fear anil shame 
 The birds, forgetful of their mirth ; 
 DroopVI at the sight, and fell to earth; 
 When thus a sage address'd mine ear. 
 Himself unconscious of a fear: 
 
 '■ Whence all this terror and surprise. 
 Distracted looks and streaming eyes 1 
 Far from the world and its afl'airs, 
 The joy it boasts the pain it shares, 
 Surrender, without guile or art, 
 To God an undivided heart ; 
 The savage form, so fear'd before. 
 Shall scare your trembling soul no more; 
 For, loathsome as the sight may be, 
 'Tis but the love of self you see. 
 Fix all your love on GotI alone. 
 Choose but Ids will and hate your own: 
 No fear shall in your path be found. 
 The dreary waste .shall bloom around. 
 And you through all your happy days. 
 Shall bless his name, and sing his praise." 
 
 Oh lovely solitude, how sweet 
 The silence of this calm retreat! 
 Here Truth, the fair whom I pursue. 
 Gives all her beauty to jny view ; 
 The simple, unadorn'd display 
 Charms every pain and fear away. 
 Truth, whom millions proudly slight; 
 O Truth, my treasure and delight; 
 Accept this tribute to thy name. 
 And this poor heart from which it came ! 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD. THE END OF LIFE 
 
 SixcE life in sorrow must be spent, 
 So be it — I am well content,
 
 698 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 And meekly wait my la.»st remove, 
 Seeking only growth in love. 
 
 No bliss I seek, but to fulfil 
 In lite, in death, thy lovely will ; 
 No succors in my woes 1 want, 
 Save what thou art pleased to grant. 
 
 Our days are nuraber'd, let us spare 
 Our anxious hearts a needless care : 
 'Tis thine to number out our days ; 
 Ours to give them to thy praise. 
 
 Love is our only business here. 
 Love, simple, constant, and sincere ; 
 O blessed days thy servants see, 
 Spent, O Lord ! in pleasing thee ! 
 
 LOVE FAITHFUL IN THE ABSENCE OF 
 THE BELOVED. 
 
 In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys, 
 Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise ; 
 Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow. 
 Breathed forth in happier days, are irksome now ; 
 Denied that smile 'twas once my heaven to see. 
 Such scenes, such pleasures, are all past with me. 
 
 In vain he leaves me, I shall love him still ; 
 And though I mourn, not murmur at his will ; 
 I have no cause— an object all divine. 
 Might well grow weary of a soul like mine ; 
 Yet pity me great God ! forlorn, alone. 
 Heartless and hopeless, hfe and love all gone. 
 
 LOVE PURE AND FERVENT. 
 
 Jealous, and with love o'erflowing, 
 God demands a fervent heart ; 
 
 Giace and bounty still bestowing, 
 Calls us to a grateful part. 
 
 Oh, then, with supreme afl'ection 
 
 His paternal will regard ! 
 If it cost us some dejection. 
 
 Every sigh has its reward. 
 
 Perfect love has power to soften 
 Cares that might our peace destroy. 
 
 Nay, does more — translbrms them often, 
 Changing sorrow into joy. 
 
 Sovereign love appoints the measure, 
 And the number of our pains ; 
 
 And is pleased when we find pleasure 
 In the trials he ordains. 
 
 THE ENTIRE SURRENDER. 
 
 Peace has unveil'd her smiling face, 
 And wooes thy soul to her embrace, 
 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 forever thine : 
 Behold the path which I have trod, 
 My path, till I go home to God. 
 
 THE PERFECT SACRIFICE. 
 
 I PLACE an offering at thy shrine. 
 From taint and blemish clear, 
 
 Simple and pure in its design. 
 Of all that I hold dear. 
 
 I yield thee back thy gifls again, 
 Thy gifts which most 1 prize ; 
 
 Desirous only to retain 
 The notice of thine eyes. 
 
 But if, by thine adored decree. 
 
 That blessing be denied ; 
 Resign'd, and unreluctant, see 
 
 My every wish subside. 
 
 Thy will in all things I approve. 
 
 Exalted or cast down ; 
 Thy will in every state I love. 
 
 And even in thy frown. 
 
 GOD HIDES HIS PEOPLE. 
 
 To lay the soul that loves him low. 
 
 Becomes the Only-wise ; 
 To hide beneath a veil of woe. 
 
 The children of the skies. 
 
 Man, though a worm, would yet be great ; 
 
 Though feeble, would seem strong ; 
 Assumes an independent state, 
 
 By sacrilege and wrong. 
 
 Strange the reverse, which, once abased, 
 The haughty creature proves ! 
 
 He feels his soul a barren waste, 
 Nor dares affirm he loves. 
 
 Scorn'd by the thoughtless and the vain, 
 
 To God he presses near ; 
 Superior to the world's disdain. 
 
 And happy in its sneer. 
 
 Oh welcome, in his heart he says, 
 
 Humility and shame ! 
 Farewell the wish for human praise, 
 
 The music of a name ! 
 
 But will not scandal mar the good 
 
 That I might else perform "? 
 And can God work it, if he would, 
 
 By so despised a worm 1 
 
 Ah. vainly anxious ! — leave the Lord 
 
 To rule thee, and dispose ; 
 Sweet is the mandate of his word, 
 
 And gracious all he does. 
 
 He draws from human littleness 
 
 His grandeur and renown ; 
 And generous hearts with joy confess 
 
 The triumph all his own. 
 
 Down then with self-exalting thoughts; 
 Thy faith and hope employ,
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 
 
 699 
 
 To welcome all that he allots, 
 And suffer shame with joy. 
 
 No lonircr, then, thou wilt encroach 
 
 On his eternal right ; 
 And he shall smile at thy approach, 
 
 And make thee his delight. 
 
 THE SECRETS OF DIVINE LOVE ARE 
 TO BE KEPT. 
 
 Sun! stay thy course, this moment stay — 
 
 Suspend the o'erflowing tide of day, 
 
 Divulge not such a love as mine, 
 
 Ah ! hide the mystery divine ; 
 
 Lest man, who deems my glory shame, 
 
 Should learn the secret of my flame. 
 
 O night ! propitious to my views. 
 Thy sable awning wide diffuse ; 
 Conceal alike my joy and pain, 
 Nor draw thy curtain back again. 
 Though morning, by the tears she shows, 
 Seems to participate my woes. 
 
 Ye stars ! whose faint and feeble fires 
 
 Express my languishing desires, 
 
 Whose slender beams pervade the skies, 
 
 As silent as my secret sighs. 
 
 Those emanations of a soul. 
 
 That darts her fires beyond the Pole ; 
 
 Your rays, that scarce assist the sight, 
 That pierce, but not displace the night. 
 That shine indeed, but nothing show 
 Of all those various scenes below. 
 Bring no disturbance, rather prove 
 Incentives to a sacred love. 
 
 Tnou moon . whose never-failing course 
 
 Bespeaks a providential force. 
 
 Go, tell the lidinirs of my flame 
 
 To Him who calls the stars by name; 
 
 Whose absence kills, whose presence cheers; 
 
 Who blots, or brightens, all my years. 
 
 While, in the blue abyss of space, 
 Thine orb performs its rapid race; 
 Still whisper in his listening ears 
 The language of my sighs and tears ; 
 Tell him, I seek him, far below. 
 Lost in a wilderness of woe. 
 
 Ye thought-composing, silent hours, 
 Diffusing peace o'er all my powers ; 
 Friends of the pensive, who conceal, 
 In darkest shades the flames I feel; 
 To vou I trust, and safely may, 
 The love that wastes my strength away. 
 
 In sylvan scenes and caverns rude, 
 I taste the sweets of solitude ; 
 Retired indeed but not alone, 
 I share them with a spouse unknown, 
 Who hides me here from envious eyes, 
 From all intrusion and surprise. 
 
 Imbowering shades and dens profound ! 
 Where echo rolls the voice around ; 
 Mountains ! whose elevated heads 
 A moist and misty veil o'erspreads ; 
 Disclose a solitary bride 
 l"o him I love — to none beside. 
 
 Ye rills, that, murmuring all the way. 
 Among the polish'd pebbles stray ; 
 Creep silently along the ground, 
 Lest, drawn by that harmonious sound. 
 Some wanderer, whom I would not meet, 
 Should stumble on my loved retreat. 
 
 Enamell'd meads, and hillocks green. 
 And streams that water all the scene, 
 Ye torrents, loud in distant ears. 
 Ye tbuntains, that receive my tears. 
 Ah ! still conceal, with caution due, 
 A charge I trust to none but you ! 
 
 If, when my pain and grief increase 
 I seem to enjoy the sweetest peace, 
 It is because I rind so fair 
 The charming object of my care. 
 That I can sport and pleasure make 
 Of torment suffer'd for his sake. 
 
 Ye meads and groves, unconscious things ! 
 Ye know not whence my pleasure springs; 
 Ye know not, and ye cannot know, 
 The source from which my sorrows flow • 
 The dear sole cause of all I t'eel, — 
 He knows, and understands them well. 
 
 Ye deserts, where the wild beasts rove. 
 Scenes sacred to my hours of love ; 
 Ye forests, in whose shades I stray, 
 Benighted under burning day ; 
 Ah ! whisper not how blest am I, 
 Nor while I live, nor when I die. 
 
 Ye lambs, who sport beneath these shades, 
 
 And bound along the mossy glades ; 
 
 Be taught a salutary fear. 
 
 And cease to bleat when I am near ; 
 
 The wolf may hear your harmless cry, 
 
 Whom ye should dread as much as I. 
 
 How calm, amid these scenes, my mind ! 
 
 How perfect is the peace I find 1 
 
 Oh hush, be still, my every part. 
 
 My tongue, my pulse, my beating heart ! 
 
 That love, aspiring to its cause. 
 
 May suffer not a moment's pause. 
 
 Ye swifl-finn'd nations, that abide 
 In seas, as tathomless as wide ; 
 And, unsuspicious of a snare. 
 Pursue at large your pleasures there; 
 Poor sportive tools ! how soon does man 
 Your heedless ignorance trepan. 
 
 Away! dive deep into the brine. 
 Where never yet sunk plummet line; 
 Trust me, the vast leviatiian 
 Is merciful compared with man ; 
 Avoid his arts, forsake the beach. 
 And never play within his reach. 
 
 My soul her bondage ill endures 
 
 I pant for liberty like yours ; 
 
 I long tor that immense profound. 
 
 That knows no bottom and no bound ; 
 
 Lost in infinity, to prove 
 
 The incomprehensible of love. 
 
 Ye birds, that lessen as ye fly, 
 And vanish in the distant sky ; 
 To whom yon airy waste belongs. 
 Resounding with your cheerful songs; 
 Haste to escape from human sight ; 
 Fear less the vulture and the kite.
 
 700 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 How blest anil how secure am I, 
 When quitting earth. I soar on high; 
 When lost, like you I disappear, 
 And float in ti sublimer sphere ; 
 Whence falling, within human view, 
 I am ensnared, and caught like you ! 
 
 Omniscient God. whose notice deigns 
 To try the heart and search the reins, 
 Compassionate the numerous woes, 
 1 dare not. e'en to thee, disclose ; 
 Oh save me from the cruel hands 
 Of men, who fear not thy commands ! 
 
 Love, all-subduing and divine, 
 Care for a creature truely thine ; 
 Reign in a heart, disposed to own 
 No sovereign but thyself alone ; 
 Cherish a bride who cannot rove, 
 Nor quit thee for a meaner love ! 
 
 THE VICISSITUDES EXPERIENCED IN 
 THE CHRISTIAN LIFE. 
 
 I SUFFER fruitless anguish day by day. 
 Each moment, as it passes, marks my pain ; 
 Scarce knowing whither, doubtiully I stray, 
 And see no end of all that I sustain. 
 
 The more I strive the more I am withstood ; 
 Anxiety increasing every hour, 
 My spirit finds no rest, performs no good. 
 And nought remains of all my former power. 
 
 My peace of heart is fled. I know not where ; 
 My happy hours, like shadows pass'd away ; 
 Their sweet remembrance doubles all my care, 
 Night darker seems, succeeding such a day. 
 
 Dear faded joys and impotent regret. 
 What profit is there in incessant tears'? 
 Oh thou, whom, once beheld, we ne'er forget 
 Reveal thy love, and banish all my fears ! 
 
 Alas he flies me — treats me as his foe. 
 Views not my sorrows, hears not when I plead ; 
 Woe such as mine, despised neglected woe, 
 Unless it shortens life, is vain indeed. 
 
 Pierced with a tiiousand wounds, I yet survive ; 
 My pangs are keen, but no complaint transpires ; 
 And while in terrors of thy wrath I live, 
 Hell seems to loose its less tremendous fires. 
 
 Has hell a pain I would not gladly bear. 
 So thy severe displeasure might subsided 
 Hopeless of ease, I seem already there. 
 My life extinguish'd, and yet death denied. 
 
 Is this the joy so promised — this the love. 
 The unchanging love, so sworn in better days'? 
 Ah ! dangerous glories ! shown me, but to prove 
 How lovely thou, and I how rash to gaze. 
 
 Why did I see them1 had I still remain'd 
 Untaught, still ignorant how fair thou art, 
 My humbler wishes I had still obtain'd. 
 Nor known the torments of a doubting heart. 
 
 Deprived of all, yet feeling no desires. 
 Whence then I cry, the pangs that I sustain 1 
 Dubious and uninform'd my soul inquires, 
 Ought she to cherish or shake off her pain'? 
 
 Suffering, I suffer not — sincerely love, 
 Yet feel no touch of that enlivening flame; 
 As chance inclines me, unconcern'd I move, 
 All times, and all events, to me the same. 
 
 I search my heart, and not a wish is there 
 But burns with zeal that hated self may fall; 
 Such is the sad disquietude I share, 
 A sea of doubts, and self the source of all. 
 
 I ask not life, nor do I wish to die ; 
 And, if thine hand accomplish not my cure, 
 I would not purchase with a single sigh 
 A free discharge from all that I endure. 
 
 I groan in chains, yet want not a release; 
 Am sick, and know not the distemper'd part; 
 Am just as void of purpose as of peace ; 
 Have neither plan, nor fear, nor hope, nor heart, 
 
 My claim to life, though sought with earnest care, 
 No light within me, or without me, shows ; 
 Once I had faith, but now in self-despair 
 Find my chief cordial and my best repose. 
 
 My soul is a forgotten thing ; she sinks, 
 Sinks and is lost, without a wish to rise ; 
 Feels an indifference she abhors, and thinks 
 Her name erased forever from the skies. 
 
 Language affords not my distress a name, — 
 Yet it is real and no sickly dream ; 
 'Tis love inflicts it; though to feel that flame 
 Is all I know of happiness supreme. 
 
 When love departs, a chaos wide and vast, 
 And dark as hell, is open'd in the soul ; 
 When love returns, the gloomy scene is past. 
 No tempests shake her, and no fears control. 
 
 Then tell me why these ages of delay 1 
 Oh love, all excellent, once more appear: 
 Disperse the shades, and snatch me into day, 
 From this abyss of night, these floods of fear ! 
 
 No — love is angry, will not now endure 
 A sigh of mine, or suffer a complaint ; [cure ; 
 He smites me, wounds me, and withholds the 
 Exhausts iny powers, and leaves me sick and 
 faint. 
 
 He wounds, and hides the hand that gave the 
 
 blow ; 
 He flies, he re-appears, and wounds again — 
 Was ever heart that loved thee treated so '? 
 Yet I adore thee, though it seem in vain. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me, whom, when lost and 
 
 blind. 
 Thou did.st distinguish and vouchsafe to choose, 
 Before thy laws were written in my mind. 
 While yet the world had all my thoughts and 
 
 views '? 
 
 Now leave me, when, cnamor'd of thy laws, 
 I make thy glory my supreme delight ? 
 Now blot me iVom thy register, and cause 
 A taithful soul to perish from thy sight 1 
 
 What can have caused the change which I de- 
 Is it to prove me, if my heart be true 1 [plorct 
 Permit me then, while prostrate I adore, 
 To draw, and place its picture in thy view. 
 
 'Tis thine without resez-ve, most simply thine; 
 So given to thee, thr.< it is not my own ;
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION, 
 
 70J 
 
 A willing captive of thy grace divine ; 
 
 And loves, and seeks thee, for thyself alone. 
 
 Pain cannot move it. danger cannot scare ; 
 Pleasure and wealth, in its esteem are dust; 
 It loves thee, e'en when least inclined to spare 
 Its tenderest feelings, and avows thee just. 
 
 'Tis all thine own ; my spirit is so too, 
 An undivided offering at thy shrine ; 
 It seeks thy glory with no double view. 
 Thy glory with no secret bent to mine. 
 
 Love, holy love ! and art thou not severe, 
 To sliglit ine, thus devoted and thus fix'dl 
 Mine is an everlasting ardor, clear 
 From all self-bias, generous and unmix'd. 
 
 But I am silent, seeing what I see — 
 And fear with cause, that I am self-deceived; 
 Not e'en my faith is from suspicion free, 
 And that I love seems not to be believed. 
 
 Live thou, and reign forever, glorious Lord ! 
 My last, least offering I present thee now — 
 Renounce me. leave me and be still adored! 
 Slay me, my God, and I applaud the blow. 
 
 WATCHING UNTO GOD IN THE NIGHT 
 SEASON. 
 
 Sr.KEP at last has fled these eyes, 
 Nor do I regret his flight. 
 More alert my spirits rise, 
 And my heart is free and light. 
 
 Nature silent all around, 
 ■ Not a single witness near; 
 God as soon as sought is found , 
 And the flame of love burns clear. 
 
 Interruption, all day long, 
 Checks the current of my joys ; 
 Creatures press me with a throng. 
 And perplex me with their noise. 
 
 Undisturh'd I muse all night, 
 On the first Eternal F'air ; 
 Nothing there obstructs delight, 
 Love IS renovated there. 
 
 Life, with its perpetual stir, 
 Proves a foe to love and me ; 
 Fresh entanglements occur — 
 Comes the night and sets me free. 
 
 Never more, sweet sleep, suspend 
 My enjoyments, always new : 
 Leave me to possess my friend; 
 Other eyes and hearts subdue. 
 
 Hush the world that I may wake 
 To the taste of pure delights; 
 Oil the pleasures I partake — 
 God, the partner of my nights ! 
 
 David, for the selfsame cause, 
 Night preferr'd to busy day ; 
 Hearts whom heavenly beauty draws. 
 Wish the glaring sun away. 
 
 Sleep, self-lovers is for you — 
 Souls that love celestial know 
 Fairer scenes by night can view 
 Than the sun could ever show. 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 Seasom of my purest pleasure, 
 
 Sealer of observing eyes ! 
 When in larger, freer measure, 
 
 I can coiuniune with the skies; 
 While, beneath thy shade extended, 
 
 Weary man forgets his woes, 
 I, my daily trouble ended, 
 
 Find, in watching, my repose. 
 
 Silence all around prevailing, 
 
 Nature hush'd in sluaiber sweet, 
 No rude noise mine ears assailing, 
 
 Now my God and I can meet: 
 Universal nature slumbers. 
 
 And my soul partakes the calm, 
 Breathes her ardor out in numbers. 
 
 Plaintive song or lofty psalm. 
 
 Now my passion, pure and holy, 
 
 Shines and burns without restraint: 
 Which the day's fatigue and folly 
 
 Cause to languish, dim and faint . 
 Charming hours of relaxation! 
 
 How I dread the ascending sun! 
 Surely, idle conversation 
 
 Is an evil match'd by none. 
 
 Worldly prate and babble hurt me; 
 
 Unintelliiriblc prove; 
 Neither teach me nor divert me ; 
 
 I have ears for none but love. 
 Me they rude esteem and foolish, 
 
 Hearing my absurd replies; 
 I have neither art'.s fine polish, 
 
 Nor thi; knowledge of the wise. 
 
 Simple souls am] unpolluted 
 
 By conversinir with the great. 
 Have a mind and ta.ste ill suited 
 
 To their dignity and state ; 
 All their talking reading, writing, 
 
 Are but talents misapplied; 
 Infants' prattle I delight in, 
 
 Nothing human choose beside. 
 
 'Tis the secret tear of sinning 
 
 Checks my tongue, or I should say, 
 When I see the night beginning, 
 
 I am glad of parting day: 
 Love this gentle admonition 
 
 Whispers sotl within my breast: 
 "Choice befits not thy condition. 
 
 Acquiescence suits thee best." 
 
 Henceforth, the repose and pleasure 
 
 Night affords me I resign ; 
 And thy will shall be the measure. 
 
 Wisdom infinite ! of mine: 
 Wishing is but inclination 
 
 tiuarrrllinij with thy decrees; 
 Wayward nature finds the occasion — 
 
 'Tis her lolly and disease. 
 
 Night, with its sublime enjoyments, 
 
 Now no longer will I choose; 
 Nor the day, with its employments. 
 
 Irksome as they seem refuse; 
 Lessons of a God's inspiring 
 
 Neither time nor phice impedes; 
 From our wishing and desiring 
 
 Our unhappiness proceeds.
 
 702 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 Night ! how I love thy silent shades, 
 
 My spirits they compose ; 
 The bliss of heaven my soul pervades, 
 
 In spite of all my woes. 
 
 While sleep instils her poppy dews 
 
 In every slumbering eye, 
 I watch to meditate and muse, 
 
 In blest tranquillity. 
 
 And when I feel a God immense 
 
 Familiarly impart, 
 With every proof he can dispense 
 
 His favor to my heart. 
 
 My native meanness I lament, 
 
 Thousxh most divinely fiU'd 
 With alF the ineffable content 
 
 That Deity can yield. 
 
 His purpose and his course he keeps ; 
 
 Treads all my reasonings down ; 
 Commands me out of nature's deeps, 
 
 And hides me in his own. 
 
 When in the dust, its proper place, 
 
 Our pride of heart we lay : 
 'Tis then a deluge of his grace 
 
 Bears all our sins away. 
 
 Thou whom I serve, and whose I am, 
 Whose influence from on high 
 
 Refines, and still refines my flame, 
 And makes my fetters fly. 
 
 How wretched is the creature's state 
 Who thwarts thy gracious power; 
 
 Crush'd under sin's enormous weight. 
 Increasing every hour ! 
 
 The night, when pass'd entire with thee. 
 
 How luminous and clear ! 
 Then sleep has no delights for me. 
 
 Lest thou shouldst disappear. 
 
 My Saviour ! occupy me still 
 
 In this secure recess ; 
 Let reason slumber if she will. 
 
 My joy shall not be less. 
 
 Let reason slumber out the night ; 
 
 But if thou deign to make 
 My soul the abode of truth and light. 
 
 Ah, keep my heart awake ! 
 
 THE JOY OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Long plunged in sorrow, I resign 
 My soul to that dear hand of thine. 
 
 Without reserve or fear ; 
 That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes : 
 Or into smiles of glad surprise 
 
 Transform the falling tear. 
 
 My sole possession is thy love ; 
 
 In earth beneath, or heaven above, 
 
 I have no other store ; 
 And, though with fervent suit I pray, 
 And importune thee night and day, 
 
 I ask thee nothing more. 
 
 My rapid hours pursue the course 
 Prescribed them by love's sweetest force, 
 
 And I thy sovereign will. 
 Without a wish to escape my doom ; 
 Though still a sufferer from the womb, 
 
 And doom'd to suffer still. 
 
 By thy command, where'er I stray. 
 Sorrow attends me all my way, 
 
 A never-failing friend ; 
 And, if my sufferings may augment 
 Thy praise, behold me well content — ■ 
 
 Let sorrow still attend ! 
 
 It cost me no regret, that she. 
 
 Who foUow'd Christ, should follow me. 
 
 And though, where'er she goes, 
 Thorns spring spontaneous at her feet, 
 I love her, and extract a sweet 
 
 From all my bitter woes. 
 
 Adieu ! ye vain delights of earth, 
 Insipid sports, and childish mirth, 
 
 I taste no sweets in you ; 
 Unknown delights are in the cross, 
 All joy beside to me is dross ; 
 
 And Jesus thought so too. 
 
 The cross ! Oh ravishment and bliss — 
 How grateful e'en its anguish is ; 
 
 Its bitterness how sweet ! 
 There every sense, and all the mind, 
 [n all her faculties refined, 
 
 Tastes happiness complete. 
 
 Souls once enabled to disdain 
 Base sublunary joys, maintain 
 
 Their dignity secure ; 
 The fever of desire is pass'd. 
 And love has all its genuine taste, 
 
 Is delicate and pure. 
 
 Self-love no grace in sorrow sees. 
 Consults her own peculiar ease ; 
 
 'Tis all the bliss she knows ; 
 But nobler aims true Love employ; 
 In self-denial is her joy, 
 
 In suffering her repose. 
 
 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. 
 
 Jesus, avenger of our fall. 
 Thou faithful lover, above all 
 
 The cross has ever borne ! 
 Oh tell me,— life is in thy voice — 
 How much afflictions were thy choice. 
 
 And sloth and ease thy scorn ! 
 
 Thy choice and mine shall he the same 
 Inspirer of that holy flame. 
 
 Which must forever blaze ! 
 To take the cross and follow thee. 
 Where love and duty lead, shall be 
 
 My portion and my praise. 
 
 JOY IN MARTYRDOM. 
 
 Sw-JET tenants of this grove! 
 Who sing without design,
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 
 
 70S 
 
 A song of artless love, 
 
 In unison with mine : 
 These echoing sliades return 
 
 Full many a note of ours, 
 That wise ones cannot learn, 
 
 With all their boasted powers. 
 
 thou! whose sacred charms 
 
 These hearts so seldom love, 
 Although thy beauty warms 
 
 And blesses all above; 
 How slow are human tilings, 
 
 To clioosc their happiest lot ! 
 All-glorious King of kings, 
 
 Say why we love thee not 1 
 
 This heart that cannot rest, 
 
 Shall thine forever prove ; 
 Though bleeding and distress'd, 
 
 Yet joyful in thy love: 
 'Tis happy though it breaks 
 
 Beneath thy chastening hand ; 
 And speechless, yet it speaks. 
 
 What thou canst understand. 
 
 SIMPLE TRUST. 
 
 Stii.t.. still, without ceasing, 
 
 I feel it increasing. 
 This t^rvor of holy desire ; 
 
 And often exclaim, 
 
 Let me die in tlie fhime 
 Of a love that can never expire ! 
 
 Had I words to explain 
 
 What she must sustain 
 Who dies to the world and its ways; 
 
 How joy and affright. 
 
 Distress and delight, 
 Alternately chequer her days : 
 
 Thou, sweetly severe ! 
 
 I would make thee appear. 
 In all thou art pleased to award, 
 
 Not more in the sweet 
 
 Than tlie bitter I meet 
 My tender and merciful Lord. 
 
 This faith, in the dark, 
 
 Pursuing its mark, 
 Through many shar[) trials of love. 
 
 Is the sorrowful waste 
 
 Tliat is to be ])ass'd 
 On the way to the Canaan above. 
 
 THE NECESSITY OF SELF-ABASEMENT. 
 
 Source of love, my brighter sun. 
 Thou alone my comfort art ; 
 Sec, my race is almost run: 
 Hast thou letl this trembling heart 1 
 
 In my youth thy charming eyes 
 Drew me from the ways of men ; 
 Then I drank unininglid joys ; 
 Frown of thine saw never then. 
 
 Spouse of Christ was then my name ; 
 And, devoted all to thee, 
 Strangely jealous I became, 
 Jealous of this self in me. 
 
 Thee to love, and none beside, 
 Was my darling, sole employ • 
 While alternately I died. 
 Now of grief and now of joy. 
 
 Throuo-h the dark and silent night 
 On thy radiant smiles I dwelt; 
 And to see the dawning light 
 Was the keenest pain I felt. 
 
 Thou my gracious teacher wert ; 
 And thine eye, so close applied. 
 While it watch'd thy pupil's heart, 
 Seem'd to look at none beside. 
 
 Conscious of no evil drift. 
 This, I cried, is love indeed — 
 'Tis the giver, not the gift, 
 Whence the joys I feel proceed. 
 
 But. soon humbled and laid low, 
 Stript of all thou hadst conferr'd. 
 Nothing left but sin and woe, 
 I perceived how I had crr'd. 
 
 Oh, the vain conceit of man, 
 Dreaming of a good his own. 
 Arrogating all he can, 
 Thoucrh the Lord is iTood alone ! 
 
 He the graces thou hast wrought 
 Makes subservient to his pride ; 
 Ignorant that one such thought 
 Passes all his sin beside. 
 
 Such his lolly — proved, at last 
 By the loss of that repose, 
 Self-complacence cannot taste, 
 Only love divine bestows. 
 
 'Tis by this reproof severe. 
 And by this reproof alone. 
 His defects at last appear, 
 Man is to himself made known. 
 
 Learn, all earth ! that feeble man. 
 Sprung from this terrestrial clod, 
 Nothing is. and nothing can ; 
 Lite and power are all in God. 
 
 LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING. 
 
 " I LOVK the Lord," is still the strain 
 
 This heart delights to sing: 
 But I reply — your thoughts arc vain, 
 
 Perhaps 'tis no such thing. 
 
 Before the power of love divine 
 
 Creation fades away ; 
 Till only God is seen to shine 
 
 In all that we survey. 
 
 In gulfs of awful night we find 
 
 The God of our desires ; 
 'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind, 
 
 And doubles all its fires. 
 
 Flames of encircling love invest, 
 And pierce it sweetly through; 
 
 'Tis fdled with sacred joy, yet press'd 
 With sacred sorrow too. 
 
 Ah love ! my heart is in the right — 
 Amidst a thousand woes,
 
 •704 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 To thee, its ever new delight, 
 And all its peace it owes. 
 
 Fresh causes of distress occur 
 
 Where'er I look or move ; 
 The comforts I to all prefer 
 
 Are solitude and love. 
 
 Nor exile I nor prison fear ; 
 
 Love makes my courage great ; 
 I find a Saviour everywhere, 
 
 His grace in every state. 
 
 Nor castle walls, nor dungeons deep, 
 Exclude his quickening beams ; 
 
 There I can sit. and sing, and weep. 
 And dwell on heavenly themes. 
 
 There sorrow, for his sake, is found 
 
 A joy beyond compare ; 
 There no presumptuous thoughts abound, 
 
 No pride can enter there. 
 
 A Saviour doubles all my joys, 
 
 And sweetens all my pains, 
 His strength in my defence employs, 
 
 Consoles me and sustains. 
 
 I fear no ill, resent no wrong ; 
 
 Nor feel a passion move. 
 When malice whets her slanderous tongue ; 
 
 Such patience is in love. 
 
 SCENES FAVORABLE TO MEDITATION. 
 
 Wilds horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees. 
 
 Rocks that ivy and briers infold, 
 Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees. 
 
 But I with a pleasure untold ; 
 
 Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude, 
 I am charmd with the peace ye afford ; 
 
 Your shades are a temple where none will intrude, 
 The abode of my lover and Lord. 
 
 I am sick of thy splendor, O fountain of day, 
 And here I am hid from its beams, 
 
 Here safely contemplate a brighter display 
 Of the noblest and holiest of themes. 
 
 Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose, 
 Where stillness and solitude reign. 
 
 To you I securely and boldly disclose 
 The dear anguish of which I complain. 
 
 Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot 
 By the world and its turbulent throng, 
 
 The birds and the streams lend me many a note 
 That aids meditation and song. 
 
 Here, wand ering in scenes that are sacred to night, 
 Love wears me and wastes me away, 
 
 And often the sun has spent much of his light 
 Ere yet I perceive it is day. 
 
 While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere 
 
 My sorrows are sadly rehearsed, 
 To me tiie dark hours are all equally dear, 
 
 And the last is as sweet as the first. 
 
 Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree. 
 Mankind are the wolves that I fear, 
 
 They grudge me my natural right to be free, 
 But nobody questions it here. 
 
 Though little is found in this dreary abode 
 
 That appetite wishes to find, 
 My spirit is soothed by the presence of God, 
 
 And appetite wholly resign'd. 
 
 Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led, 
 
 My life I in praises employ, [shed 
 
 And scarce know the source of the tears that I 
 Proceed they from sorrow or joy. 
 
 There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern, 
 
 I feel out my way in the dark, 
 Love reigns in my bosom I constantly burn. 
 
 Yet hardly distinguish the spark. 
 
 I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead. 
 
 Such a riddle is not to he found, 
 I am nourish d without knowing how I am fed, 
 
 I have nothing, and yet I abound. 
 
 Oh love ! who in darkness art pleased to abide, 
 
 Though dimly, yet surely I see 
 That these contrarieties only reside 
 
 In the soul that is chosen of thee. 
 
 Ah ! send me not back to the race of mankind. 
 
 Perversely by folly beguiled. 
 For where, in the crowds I have left, shall I find 
 
 The spirit and heart of a child 1 
 
 Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free ; 
 
 A little one whom they despise, 
 Though lost to the world, if in union with thee^ 
 
 ShfUl be holy, and happy, and wise.
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON. 
 
 ELEGY I. 
 
 TO CHARLES DEODATI. 
 
 At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, 
 Charged with thy kindness, to their destined 
 
 home ; 
 They come, at length, from Deva's Western side, 
 Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. 
 Trust me, my joy is great tliat thou shouldst be, 
 Though born of foreign race, yet born for me. 
 And that my sprigiitly friend, now free to roam. 
 Must seek again so soon his wonted home, 
 I well content, where Thames with influent tide 
 My native city laves, meantime reside. 
 Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel 
 To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. 
 Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, 
 That to the musing bard all shade deny. 
 'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain. 
 And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. 
 If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent 
 Beneath my father's roof be banishment. 
 Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse 
 A name expressive of the lot I choose. 
 I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore, 
 Rome's hapless bard had sufTer'd nothing more. 
 He then had equall'd even Homer's lays, 
 And, Virgil ! thou hadst won but second praise: 
 For here I woo the muse, with no control. 
 And here my books — my life — absorb me whole. 
 Here too I visit, or to smile or weep, 
 The winding theatre's majestic sweep ; 
 The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits 
 My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits ; 
 Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir. 
 Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there, 
 Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause, 
 Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws. 
 The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire. 
 And, artful, speeds the enamor'd son's desire. 
 There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove, 
 What love is know not, j'ct, unknowing, love. 
 Or, if impas;iion'd tragedy wield high 
 The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly, 
 Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye, 
 I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief. 
 At times, e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief, 
 As, when from bliss untasted torn away, 
 Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day ; 
 Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below. 
 Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe; 
 
 When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords, 
 Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. 
 Nor always city-pent, or pent at home, 
 I dwell ; but, when spring calls me forth to roam, 
 Expatiate in our proud suburban shades 
 Of branching elm that never sun pervades. 
 Here many a virgin troop I may descry. 
 Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. 
 Oh forms divine ' oh looks that might inspire 
 E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire, 
 Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes. 
 Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies ; 
 Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd 
 By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road ! [low, 
 
 Bright locks, love's golden snare ! these falling 
 Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow ! 
 Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after 
 
 shower 
 Adonis turn'd to Flora's favorite flower ! 
 Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the 
 
 embrace 
 Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place 1 
 Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast ! 
 And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast ! 
 Submit, ye nymphs of Greece ! ye, once the 
 
 bloom 
 Of Ilion ! and all ye, of haughty Rome, 
 Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains 
 Redundant, and still live in classic strains! 
 To British damsels beauty's pahii is due ; 
 .Aliens : to follow them is fame for you. 
 Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands, 
 Whose towering front the circling realm com- 
 mands, 
 Too blest abode ! no loveliness we see 
 In all the earth, but it abounds in thee. 
 The virgin multitude that daily meets. 
 Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, 
 Outnumbers all her train of starry fires 
 With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. 
 Fame says that, wafted hither by her doves. 
 With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, 
 Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more, 
 Has fix d her empire on thy nobler shore. 
 But, lest the sightless boy enforce my stay, 
 I leave these happy walls while yet I may. 
 Immortal Moly shall secure my heart 
 From all the sorcery of Circacan art, 
 And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools. 
 To face once more the warfare of the schools. 
 Meantime accept this trifle ! rhymes though few 
 Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true 
 45
 
 706 
 
 COWPER'S WORKo. 
 
 ELEGY II. 
 
 >N THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY 
 BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Thee, whose refulgent staff and summons clear 
 Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey, 
 
 Although thyself a herald, famous here, 
 
 The last of heralds, death, has snatch'd away. 
 
 He calls on all ahke, nor even deigns 
 
 To spare the office that himself sustains. 
 
 Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd 
 By Leda's paramour in ancient time ; 
 
 But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd, 
 Or, ^Eson-likc, to know a second prime. 
 
 Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won 
 
 New life, oft kneeling to Apolk)'s son. 
 
 Commission'd to convene with hasty call [stand ! 
 
 The o-owned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou 
 So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall. 
 
 Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command 1 
 And so Eurybates, when he address'd 
 To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest. 
 
 Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws 
 And watchful eyes run through the realms 
 
 Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause ! [below, 
 Too often to the muse not less a foe ! 
 
 Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim 
 
 Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its 
 shame ! 
 
 Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye. 
 All ye disciples of the muses, weep ! 
 
 Assembhng all in robes of sable dye, 
 
 Around his bier lament his endless sleep ! 
 
 And let complaining Elegy rehearse 
 
 In every school her sweetest, saddest verse. 
 
 ELEGY in. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF 
 WINCHESTER. 
 
 Silent I sat, dejected and alone, 
 
 Making, in thought, the public woes my own, 
 
 When first arose the image in my breast 
 
 Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest 1 
 
 How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in 
 
 hand. 
 Entering the lordliest mansions of the land, 
 Has laid the gem-illumined palace low. 
 And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow. 
 I next deplored the famed paternal pair. 
 Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air ! 
 The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies, 
 All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs ; 
 But the'e far most I mourn'd, regretted most, 
 Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest 
 
 boast ! 
 Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said : 
 " Death, next in power to Him who rules the 
 
 dead ! 
 Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield 
 To thy fell force, and every verdant field ; 
 That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine. 
 And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine; 
 That oaks themselves, although the running rill 
 Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will ; 
 That all the winged nations, even those 
 Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows, 
 
 And all the beasts that in dark forests stray. 
 And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey. 
 Ah envious ! arm'd with powers so unconfined ! 
 Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind ! 
 Why take delight, with darts that never roam, 
 To chase a heaven-born spirit from her home V 
 While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening 
 stood. 
 Now newly risen above the western flood, 
 And Phoebus from his morning goal again 
 Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. 
 I wish'd repose, and, on my couch rechned. 
 Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd : 
 When — oh for words to paint what I beheld ! 
 I seem'd to wander in a spacious field. 
 Where all the champaign glow'd with purple 
 
 light, 
 Like that of sunrise on the mountain height ; 
 Flowers over all the field, of every hue 
 That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. 
 Nor Chloris, with whom amorous Zephyrs play, 
 E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. 
 A silver current, like the Tagus, roU'd 
 O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold ; 
 With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers, 
 With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers. 
 Such, poet's feign, irradiated all o'er 
 The sun's abode on India's utmost shore. 
 
 While I that splendor, and the mingled shade 
 Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey'd. 
 At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, 
 The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
 His snowy vesture's hem descending low. 
 His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow 
 New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow. 
 Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound 
 Of gladness shook the flowery scene around : 
 Attendant angels clap their starry wings. 
 The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings; 
 Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, 
 And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest : 
 " Ascend, my .son ! thy Father's kingdom share ! 
 My son ! henceforth be freed from every care!" 
 
 So spake the voice, and at its tender close 
 With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose ; 
 Then night retired, and, chased by dawning 
 
 day. 
 The visionary bliss pass'd all away. 
 I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern ; 
 Frequent to me may dreams like this return ! 
 
 ELEGY IV. 
 
 TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG, 
 
 CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT 
 HAMBURGH. 
 
 Hence, my epistle — skim the deep— fly o'er 
 Yon smooth expanse to the Tuetonic shore ! 
 Haste— lest a friend should grieve for thy delay— 
 And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy 
 
 way ! 
 I will myself invoke the king who binds 
 In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds. 
 With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng 
 Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along. 
 But rather, to ensure thy happier haste, 
 Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou mayst ; 
 Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore 
 Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore.
 
 The sands that Hne the German coast descried, 
 
 To opulent Hamburga turn aside ! 
 
 So call'd, if leg.endary fame be true, 
 
 From Hama. whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew ! 
 
 There lives, deep learn'd and primitively just, 
 
 A laiihlul steward of his Christian trust, 
 
 My friend, and favorite inmate of my heart. 
 
 That now is forced to want its better part ! 
 
 What mountains now, and seas, alas ! how wide ! 
 
 Prom me this other, dearer self divide, 
 
 Dear as the sage renown'd for moral truth 
 
 To the prime spirit of the Attic youth ! 
 
 Dear as the Stasryritc to Amnion's son, 
 
 His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won ! 
 
 Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine 
 
 In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine. 
 
 First led by him through sweet Aonian shade. 
 
 Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey'd ; 
 
 And, favor'd by the muse, whom I implored, 
 
 Thrice on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd. 
 
 But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roH'd 
 
 To Aries, has new tinged his fleece with gold, 
 
 And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows 
 
 gay, 
 
 And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away, 
 Since last delighted on his looks I hung 
 Or my ear drank the music of his tongue : 
 Fly, therefore, and sur[)ass the tempest's speed ; 
 Aware thyself that there is urgent need ! 
 Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see 
 Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee ; 
 Or turning, page by page, with studious look. 
 Some bulky father, or God's holy book ; 
 Or ministering (which is his v/eightiest care) 
 To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare. 
 Give him, whatever his employment be. 
 Such gratulation as he claims from me ! 
 And, with a downcast eye, and carriage meek, 
 Addressing him, forget not thus to speak : 
 
 "If compass'd round with arms thou canst at- 
 tend 
 To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend. 
 Long due, and late. I left the English shore ; 
 But make me welcome for that cause the more ! 
 Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer, 
 The slow epistle came, though late, sincere. 
 But wherefore this 1 why palliate 1 the deed 
 For which the culprit's self could hardly plead 1 
 Self-charged, and self-condemned, his proper part 
 He feels neglected, with an aching heart; 
 But thou forgive — delinquents, who coniess, 
 And pray forgiveness, mrrit anger less ; 
 From timid foes the lion turns away, 
 Nor yawns upon or rends a croucliing prey. 
 E'en pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare. 
 Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer; 
 And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands 
 By a cheap victim and upliiled hands 
 Long had he wished to write, but was withheld. 
 And writes at last, by love alone compcll'd. 
 For fame, too often true, when she alarms 
 Reports thy neighboring lields a scene of arms; 
 The city against fierce besiegers barr'd. 
 And all the Saxon chiefs for figiit prepared. 
 Enyo wastes thy country wide around, 
 And saturates with blood the tainted ground ; 
 Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more. 
 But goads his steeds to fields of German gore, 
 The ever verdant olive fades and dies, 
 And Peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies. 
 Flies from that cartli which justice long had left, 
 And leaves the world of its last guard bereft." 
 
 Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime 
 alone 
 Thou dwell'st, and helpless, in a soil unknowa 
 Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand 
 The aid denied thee in thy native land. 
 Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more 
 Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore ! 
 Leavest thou to foreign care the worthies given 
 By Providence to guide thy steps to heaven 1 
 His ministers, commissioned to proclaim 
 Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name ! 
 Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed, 
 In Stygian night to lie forever dead ! 
 So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd 
 An exiled fugitive from shade to shade, 
 When, flying Ahab and his fury wife, 
 In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd life ; 
 So from Philippa wander'd forth forlorn, 
 Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn ; 
 And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more 
 The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore. 
 
 But thou take courage ! strive against despair 
 Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care 
 Grim war indeed on every side appears, 
 And thou art menaced by a tiiousand spears; 
 Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offenj 
 E'en the defenceless bosom of my friend. 
 For thee the ^gis of thy God shall hide, 
 Jehovah's self shall coml)at on thy side. 
 The same who vanquish'd under Sion's towers 
 At silent midnight all Assyria's powers, 
 The same who overtlirew in ages past 
 Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste ! 
 Their king he fiU'd and them with fatal fears, 
 By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears. 
 Of hoofs, and wiieels, and neighings from afar, 
 Of clashing armor, and the din of war. 
 
 Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may), 
 Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day ! 
 Look forth, expecting happier times to come. 
 And to enjoy, once more, thy native home ! 
 
 ELEGY V. 
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 Time, never wandering trom his annual round, 
 Bids zephyr bi-eathe the spring, and thaw the 
 
 ground ; 
 Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, 
 And earth assumes her transient youth arrain. 
 Dream I, or also to the spring belong 
 Increase of genius, and new powers of song 1 
 Spring gives them, ami, how strange soe'er it 
 
 seems, 
 Impels me now to some harmonious themes. 
 Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill 
 By day, by night, my raptured fancy fill ; 
 My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within 
 A sacred sound that prompts me to begin. 
 Lo ! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair he 
 
 blends 
 The radiant laurel wreath ; Phosbus descends I 
 I mount, and undepress'd by cumbrous clay, 
 Through cloudy regions win my easy way ; 
 Rapt tiirough poetic shadowy haunts I fly : 
 The shrines all open to my dauntless eye, 
 My spirit searches all I lie realms of light. 
 And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight. 
 Hut this ecstatic trance — tiiis glorious storm 
 Of inspiration — what will it perlbrm 1
 
 ro8 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 Spring claims the verse that with his influence 
 glows, 
 
 And shall be paid with what himself bestows. 
 Thou, veil'd With opening foliage, lead'st the 
 throng 
 
 Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel ! in song ; 
 
 Let us, in concert, to the season sing, 
 
 Civic and sylvan heralds of the spring ! 
 
 With notes triumphant spring's approach de- 
 clare ! 
 
 To spring, ye muses, annual tribute bear! 
 
 The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains, 
 
 The sun now northward turns his golden reins ; 
 
 Night creeps not now ; yet rules with gentle 
 sway, 
 
 And drives her dusky horrors swift away ; 
 
 Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain 
 
 Bootes follows his celestial wain ; 
 
 And now the radiant sentinels above. 
 
 Less numerous, watch around the courts of Jove. 
 
 For with the night, force, ambush, slaughter 
 
 fly' 
 
 And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. 
 Now, haply says some shepherd, while he views. 
 Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews, 
 This night, this, surely, Phcebus miss'd the fair. 
 Who stops his chariot by her amorous care. 
 Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow. 
 Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow; 
 Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear. 
 Blesses his aid, who shortens her career. 
 Come — Phoebus cries — Aurora come — too late 
 Thou lingerest, slumbering, with thy wither'd 
 
 mate ; 
 Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair ! 
 Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. 
 The goddess with a blush her love betrays, 
 But mounts, and, driving rapidly, obeys. 
 Earth now desires thee, Phoebus ! and, to engage 
 Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age ; 
 Desires thee, and deserves ; for who so sweet 
 When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat 1 
 Her breath imparts to every breeze that Klows 
 Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose. 
 Her lofty front she diadems around 
 With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd 
 Her dewy locks with various flowers new blown 
 She interweaves, various, and all her own ; 
 For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired, 
 Taenarian Dis himself with love inspired. 
 Pear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse ! 
 Herself with all her sighing zephyrs, sues ; 
 Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wincr, 
 And all her groves with warbled wishes rin"'. 
 Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires 
 The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires. 
 But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim, 
 Divine Physician ! to that glorious name. 
 If splendid recompense, if gifts, can move 
 Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,) 
 She offers all the wealth her mountains hide. 
 And all that rests beneath the boundless tide. 
 How oft, when headlong from the heavenly 
 
 steep 
 She sees thee playing in the western deep, 
 How oft she cries — '• Ah Phoebus, why repair 
 Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there 1 
 Can Tethys win thee 1 wherefore shouldst thou 
 
 lave 
 A face so fair in her unpleasant wave 1 
 Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose 
 To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews. 
 
 The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest; 
 Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast. 
 And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose. 
 Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose ! 
 No fears I feel like Semele to die. 
 Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh. 
 For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest, 
 And lay thy evening glories on my breast !" 
 Thus bretvthes the wanton Earth her amorous 
 
 flame. 
 And all her countless offspring feel the same ; 
 For Cupid now through every region strays, 
 Brightening his faded fires with solar rays ; 
 His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier 
 
 sound. 
 And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound ; 
 Ni)r Dian's self escapes him now untried. 
 Nor even Vesta at her altar-side ; 
 His mother too repairs her beauty's wane, 
 And seems sprung newly from the deep again. 
 Exulting youths the hymeneal sing, 
 With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys 
 
 ring ; 
 He, new-attired, and by the season drest. 
 Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest. 
 Now many a goklen-cinctured virgin roves 
 To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, 
 All wish, and each alike, some favorite youth 
 Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth. 
 Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again, 
 Nor Phillis wants a song that suits the strain; 
 With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere, 
 And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear ; 
 Jove feels himself the season, sports again 
 With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train. 
 Now too the satyrs, in the dusk of eve, 
 Their mazy dance through flowery meadows 
 
 weave. 
 And, neither god nor goat, but both in kind, 
 Silvanus. wreathed with cypress, skips behind. 
 The dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells 
 To roam the banks and solitary dells ; 
 Pan riots now ; and from his amorous chafe 
 Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe, 
 And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize. 
 In chase of some enticing oread flies ; 
 She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound, 
 And hidden lies, but wishes to be found. 
 Our shades entice the immortals from above, 
 And some kind power presides o'er every grove ; 
 And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside, 
 For all is safe, and blest, where ye abide ! 
 Return, O Jove ! the age of gold restore — 
 Why choose to dvi^ell where storms and thunder 
 
 roar 1 
 At least thou. Phoebus ! moderate thy speed ! 
 Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed. 
 Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole 
 Too soon to niirht's encroaching, long control ! 
 
 ELEGY VI. 
 
 TO CHARLES DEODATI, 
 
 Who, while he spent his Christmas in the countr)-, sent 
 tlie Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested 
 that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be ex- 
 cused on account of the many feasts to which his fr-^nda 
 invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to 
 fkiish them as he wished. 
 
 With no rich viands overcharged, I send [friend. 
 Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 
 
 709 
 
 But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away 
 From v/hat she loves, from darkness into day 1 
 Art thou desirous to be told how well 
 I love thee, and in verse 1 verse cannot tell. 
 For verse has bounds, and must in measure 
 
 move ; 
 But neither hounds nor measure knows my love. 
 How pleasant, in tiiy lines described, appear 
 December's hanidess sports and rural cheer! 
 French spirits kindling with caerulean fires. 
 And all such gambols as the time inspires! 
 
 Tliink not that wine against good verse oflends, 
 The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends ; 
 Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found 
 With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd. 
 The Nine themselves olltimes have join'd the 
 
 song 
 And revels of the Bacchanalian throng ; 
 Not even Ovid could in Scythian air [there. 
 
 Sing sweetly — why? — no vine would flourish 
 What ill brief numbers sung Anacreoa's muse "] 
 Wine, and tiie rose that sparkling wine bedews. 
 Pindar witii Bacchus glows — his every line 
 Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine. 
 While, with loud crash o'erturned, the chariot lies, 
 And brown with dust the fiery courser flies. 
 The Roman lyrist steej)'d in wine his lays 
 So sweet in Glycera's and Cliloc's praise. 
 Now too the plenteous least and mantling bowl 
 Nourish the vigor of thy sprightly soul ; 
 The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow. 
 And casks not wine alone but verse bestow. 
 Thus Phoebus favors, and the arts attend, 
 W^hom Bacchus and whom Ceres both befriend. 
 What wontler, then, thy verses are so svs'eet. 
 In which these triple powers so kindly meet ! 
 The lute now also sounds with gold inwrought, 
 And, touch'd with flying fingers nicely taught, 
 In tapestried halls, high roof 'd. tlie sprightly lyre* 
 Directs tlie dancers of the virgin choir. 
 If dull repletion fright the muse away, 
 Sights gay as these may more invite her stay; 
 And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound, 
 Fair damsels sport, and perfume steam around, 
 Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame. 
 Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame, 
 And all the muse shall rush into thy breast, 
 By love and music's blended powers possest. 
 For numerous powers light Elegy befriend. 
 Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend ; 
 Her, Bacchus. Ceres, Venus, all approve, 
 And, with his blushing mother, gentl.; Love. 
 Hence to such bards wc grant the copious use 
 Of banquets and the vine's delicious juice. 
 Bat they who demigods and heroes praise, 
 And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days, 
 Who now the counsels of high heaven explore, 
 Now shades that echo the Cerbcrcan roar, 
 Simply let these, like him of Samos, live. 
 Let lierbs to them a bloodless banquet give ; 
 In beechen goblets let their beverage shine, 
 Cool from the crystal spring, their sober wine ! 
 Their vouth should pass in innocence secure 
 From stain licentious, and in manners pure, 
 Pure as the priest, when robed in white he stands, 
 The fresh lustration ready in his hands. 
 Thus Linus livcil, and thus, as poets write, 
 Tiresias, wiser lor his loss of sight ; 
 Thus exiled Chalcas. thus the Bard of Thrace, 
 Melodious tamer of the savage race ; 
 Thus train'd by temperance, Homer led, of yore. 
 His chief of Ithaca froiL 'bore to shore, 
 
 Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign, 
 And shoals insidious with the syren train ; 
 And through the realms where grizzly spectres 
 
 dwell. 
 Whose tribes he fetter'd in a gory spell ; 
 For these are sacred bands, and from above 
 Drink large uifusions from the mind of Jove. 
 
 Wouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine 
 ear,) 
 Wouldst thou be told my occupation here 1 
 The promised King of Peace employs my pen. 
 The eternal covenant made for guilty men, 
 The new-born Deity with infant cries 
 Filling the sordid hovel where he lies ; 
 The hymning angels, and the herald star, 
 That led the wise, who sought him from afar. 
 And idols on their own unhallow'd shore 
 Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more, 
 
 This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse : 
 The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse; 
 Verse that, reserved in secret, shall attend 
 Thy candid voice, my critic and my friend ! 
 
 ELEGY VII. 
 
 As yet a stranger to the gentle fires 
 
 That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires, 
 
 Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts, 
 
 And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts. 
 
 " Go, child," I said, '' transfix the timorous dove I 
 
 An easy conquest suits an infant love ; 
 
 Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be 
 
 Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee ! 
 
 Why aim thy idle arms at human kind 1 
 
 Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind." 
 
 The C^'prian heard, and, kindling into ire, 
 (None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire. 
 
 It was the spring, and newly risen day 
 Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May ; 
 My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light, 
 Still sought the shelter of retiring night, 
 When Love approach'd, in painted plumes 
 
 array'd. 
 The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd. 
 Nor less his infant features, and the sly. 
 Sweet intimations of his threatening ej'e. 
 
 Such the Sigcian boy is seen above, 
 Filling the goblet for imperial Jove ; [charms, 
 Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd their 
 Hylas, who perish'd in a naiad's arms. 
 Angry he sccm'd, yet graceful in his ire, 
 And added threats not destitute of fire. 
 " My power," he said, " by others' pain alone, 
 'Twere best to learn ; now learn it iiy thy ovs'n ! 
 With those that feel my povv'cr. that power attest 
 And in thy anguish be my sway contest I 
 I vanquish'd Phoebus, though returning vain 
 From his new triumph o'er the Python slain, 
 And, when he thinks on Daphne, even he 
 Will yield the prize of archery to mc. 
 A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped. 
 Behind him kill'd, and conqucr'd as he fled: 
 Less true the expert Cydonian, and less true 
 The youth whose shall his latent Procris slew. 
 Vanquish'd by me sec huge Orion bend, 
 By me Alcides. and Alcides' friend. 
 At me should Jove himself a bolt design. 
 His bosom first should bleed, transfix'd by mine 
 But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain, 
 Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain.
 
 710 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Thy muse, vain youth ! shall not thy peace en- 
 
 sure. 
 
 Nor Phcebus' serpent yield thy wound a cure." 
 He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air, 
 Sought the warm hosom of the Cyprian fair. 
 That thus a child should bluster in my ear, 
 Provoked my laughter more than moved my fear. 
 I shunn'd not, tlierefore, public haunts, but 
 
 stray 'd 
 Careless in city or suburban shade. 
 And, passing and repassing nymphs, that moved 
 With grace divine, beheld where'er I roved. 
 Bright shone the vernal day with double blaze 
 As beauty gave new force to Phcebus' rays. 
 By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed 
 The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide. 
 And many a look of many a fair unknown 
 Met full, unable to control my own. 
 But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,) 
 One — Oh how far superior to the rest ! 
 What lovely features ! Such the Cyprian queen 
 Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien. 
 The very nymph was she, whom, when I dared 
 His arrows. Love had even then prepared ! 
 Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied 
 With torch well trimm'd and quiver at his side ; 
 Now to her lips he clung, her eyelids now. 
 Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow ; 
 And with a thousand wounds from every part 
 Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart. 
 A fever, new to me, of fierce desire 
 Now seized my soul, and I was all on fire ; 
 But she, the while, whom only I adore, 
 W^as gone, and vanished, to appear no more. 
 In silent sadness I pursue my way ; 
 1 pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay. 
 And while I follow her in thought, bemoan 
 With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown. 
 When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast, 
 So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost. 
 And so CEclides, sinking into night. 
 From the deep gulf looked up to distant light. 
 
 Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, 
 Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain 1 
 O could I once, once more, behold the fair. 
 Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear ; 
 Perhaps she is not adamant ; would show, 
 Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe. 
 Oh inauspicious flame — 'tis mine to prove 
 A matchless instance of disastrous love. 
 Ah, spare me, gentle power! — If such thou be, 
 Let not thy deeds and nature disagree. 
 Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine 
 With vow and sacrifice, save only thine. 
 Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts : 
 Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. 
 Remove ! no — grant me still this raging woe ! 
 Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know : 
 But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see 
 One destined mine) at once both her and me. 
 Such were the trophies that, in earlier days, 
 By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise ; 
 Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth, 
 That worst of teachers, from the ways of truth ; 
 Till Learning taught me in his shady bower 
 To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. 
 Then, on a sudden the fierce flame supprest, 
 A frost continual settled on my breast. 
 Whence Cupid fears his flame extinct to see, 
 And Venus dreads a Diomede in me. 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS. 
 
 Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won, 
 Who stole etherial radiance from the sun; 
 But greater he, whose bold invention strove 
 To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove. 
 
 [The poems on the subject of tho Gunpowder Treason 
 1 have not transliiteil, both because the matter of them is 
 unpleasant, and because they ai-e written with an asper- 
 ity, winch, however it might be warranted in Milton's 
 day, would be extremely tinseasonablc now.] 
 
 TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.* 
 
 Another Leonora once inspired 
 Tasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired ; 
 But how iriuch happier, lived he now, were he, 
 Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee ! 
 Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine, 
 With Adriana's lute of sound divine, 
 Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll, 
 Or idiot apathy benumb his soul. 
 You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer 
 His senses wandering in a blind career ; 
 And, sweetly breathing through his wounded 
 breast, [rest. 
 
 Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Naples, too credulous, ah ! boast no more 
 
 The sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore, 
 
 That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave 
 
 Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave. 
 
 For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse 
 
 Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course, 
 
 Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains 
 
 Of magic song both gods and men detains. 
 
 THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court, 
 Presenting pippins of so rich a sort, 
 That he, displeased to have a part alone, 
 Removed the tree, that all might be his own. 
 The tree, too old to travel, though before 
 So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. 
 The 'squire, perceiving all his labor void, 
 Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly employ'd. 
 And, " Oh," he cried, ' that I had lived contem 
 With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant.' 
 My avarice has expensive proved to me. 
 Has cost me both my pippins and my tree." 
 
 TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, 
 WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE. 
 
 Christina, maiden of heroic mien! 
 Star of the North ! of northern stars the queen 
 Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how 
 The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow, 
 
 « I have transl-afed only two of the three poetical com- 
 pliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to ml 
 far superior to what I have omitted.
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 
 
 71i 
 
 While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil 
 The dictates of a hardy people's will. 
 But sotlen'd in thy sight my looks appear, 
 Not to all queens or kings alike severe. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHAN- 
 CELLOR, A PHYSICIAN. 
 
 LEAR^f, ye nations of the earth. 
 The condition of your birth, 
 Now be taught your feeble state ! 
 Know, that all must yield to fate ! 
 
 If the mournful rover, Death, 
 
 Say but once, — " Resign your breath !" 
 
 Vainly of escape you dream. 
 
 You must pass the Stygian stream. 
 
 Could the stoutest overcome 
 Death's assault, and baffle doom, 
 Hercules had both withstood, 
 Undiseased by Nessus' blood. 
 
 Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain 
 By a trick of Pallas slain. 
 Nor the chief to Jove allied 
 By Achilles' phantom died. 
 
 Could enchantments life prolomr, 
 Circe, saved by magic song, 
 Still had lived, and equal skill 
 Had preserved Medea still. 
 
 Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power 
 To avert man's destined hour, 
 Learn'd Machaon should have known 
 Doubtless to avert his own : 
 
 Chiron had survived the smart 
 Of the hydra-tainted dart, 
 And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, 
 Foil'd by Asclepiades. 
 
 Thou too, sage ! of whom forlorn 
 Helicon and Cirrha mourn, 
 Still hadst till'd thy princely place, 
 Regent of the rjowned race : 
 
 Hadst advanced to higher fame 
 Still thy much ennobled name, 
 Nor in Charon's skill explored 
 The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd. 
 
 But resentful Proserpine, 
 Jealous of thy skill divine, 
 Snapping short thy vital thread, 
 Thee too number'd with the dead. 
 
 Wise and good ! untroubled be 
 The green turf that covers thee ! 
 Thence, in gay profusion arow 
 All the sweetest flowers that blow ! 
 
 Pluto's consort bid thee rest ! 
 jEacus pronounce thee blest ! 
 To her home thy shade consign ! 
 Make Elysium ever thine ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF 
 ELY. 
 
 My lids with grief were tumid yet, 
 And still my sullied cheek was wet 
 With briny dews profusely shed 
 For venerable Winton dead : 
 
 When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, 
 
 Alas ! are ever truest found, 
 
 The news through all our cities spread « 
 
 Of yet another mitred head 
 
 By ruthless fate to death consign'd, 
 
 Ely, the honor of his kind ! 
 
 At once a storm of passion heaved 
 My boiling bosom, much I grieved ; 
 But more I raged, at every breath 
 Devoting Death himself to death. 
 With less revenge did Naso teem 
 When hated Ibis was his theme ; 
 With less Archilochus denied 
 The lovely Greek his promised bride. 
 
 But lo ! while thus I execrate. 
 Incensed, the minister of fate. 
 Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear, 
 Wafted on the gale I hear. 
 
 " Ah, much deluded ! lay aside 
 Thy threats and anger misapplied . 
 Art not afraid with sounds like these 
 To offend, where thou canst not appease 1 
 Death is not (^wherefore dream'st thou thus 1 ] 
 The son of Night and Erebus : 
 Nor was of fell Erynnis born 
 On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn ; 
 But sent from God, his presence leaves, 
 To gather home his ripen'd sheaves. 
 To call encumbcr'd souls away 
 From fleshy bonds to boundless day, 
 (As when the winged hours excite. 
 And summon forth the morning light,) 
 And each to convoy to her place 
 Before the Eternal Father's face. 
 But not the wicked — them, severe 
 Yet just, from all their pleasures here 
 He hurries to the realms below, 
 Terrific realms of penal woe ! 
 Myself no sooner heard his call. 
 Than, 'scaping through my prison wall, 
 I bade adieu to bolts and bars, 
 And soared, with angels, to the stars, 
 Like him of old, to whom 'twas given 
 To mount on fiery wheels to heaven. 
 Bootes' wagon, slow with cold, 
 Appall'd me not ; nor to behold 
 The sword that vast Orion draws, 
 Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws. 
 Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly, 
 And far beneath my lect descry 
 Night's dread goddess, seen with awe, 
 Whom her winged dragons draw. 
 Thus, ever wondering at my speed, 
 Augmented still as I proceed, 
 I pass the planetary sphere, 
 Tlie milky way — and now appear 
 Heaven's crystal battlements, her door 
 Of massy pearl, and emerald floor. 
 
 " But here I cease. For never can 
 The tongue of once a mortal man 
 In suitable description trace 
 The pleasures of that happy place ; 
 Suffice it, that those joys divine 
 Are all, and all forever, mine 1" 
 
 NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME. 
 
 An, how the human mind wearies herself 
 With her own wanderings, and, involved in 
 
 gloom 
 Impenetrable, speculates amisa t
 
 712 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Measuring in her folly things divine 
 By human ; laws inscribed on adamant 
 By laws of man's device ; and counsels fix'd 
 Forever, by the hours that pass and die. 
 
 How "?— shall the face of nature then be 
 plough 'd 
 Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 
 On the great parent fix a sterile curse /? 
 Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 
 And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows 1 
 Siiall foul antiquity with rust, and drought, 
 And famine, vex the radiant worlds above '? 
 Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf 
 The very heavens, that regulate his flight'? 
 And was the sire of all able to fence 
 His works, and to uphold the circling worlds, 
 But, through improvident and heedless haste 
 Let slip the occasion 1 — so then — all is lost— 
 And in some future evil hour, yon arch [poles 
 Shall crumble, and come tliundering down, the 
 Jar in collision , the Olympian king. 
 Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth 
 The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain. 
 Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd 
 Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven. 
 Thou also, with precipitated wheels, 
 Phoebus ! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, 
 With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep 
 Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, 
 At the extinction of the lamp of day. 
 Then too shall Hfemus, cloven to his base. 
 Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills, 
 Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed 
 In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. 
 
 No. The Almighty Father surer laid 
 His deep foundations, and providing well 
 For the event of all, the scales of fate 
 Suspended in just equipoise, and bade 
 His universal works, from age to age. 
 One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturb'd. 
 
 Hence the prime mover wheels itself about 
 Continual, day by day, and with it bears 
 In social measure swift, the heavens around. 
 Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, 
 Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. 
 Phoebus, his vigor unimpair'd, still shows 
 The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god 
 A downward course, that he may warm the vales ; 
 But, ever rich in influence, runs his road, 
 Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. 
 Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star 
 From odoriferous Ind, whose office is 
 To gather home betimes the ethereal flock, 
 To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, 
 And to discriminate the night and day. 
 Still Cynthia's change I'ul horn waxes and wanes 
 Alternate, and with arms extended still 
 She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. 
 Nor have the elements deserted yet 
 Their functions ; thunder with as loud a stroke 
 As erst smites through the rocks and scatters 
 
 them. 
 The east still howls ; still the relentless north 
 Invades the shuddering .Scythian, still he breathes 
 The winter, and still rolls the storms along. 
 The king of ocean, with his wonted Ibrce, 
 Beats on Pelorus ; o'er the deep is heard 
 The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell; 
 Nor swim the monsters of the ^Egean sea 
 In shallows, or beneath diminished waves. 
 Thou too, thy ancient vegetative power 
 Enjoy'st, O Earth I Narcissus still is sweet; 
 
 And Phoebus ! still thy favorite, and still 
 Thy favorite Cytherea ! both retain 
 Their beauty ; nor their mountains, ore-enrichVl 
 For punishment of man, with purer gold 
 Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep. 
 
 Thus in unbroken series all proceeds; 
 And shall, till wide involving either pole, 
 And the immensity of yonder heaven, 
 The final flames of destiny absorb 
 The world, consumed in one enormous pyre ! 
 
 ON THE PLATONIC IDEA AS IT WAS 
 UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE. 
 
 Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves 
 Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, 
 Mnemosyne ! and thou who, in thy grot 
 Immense, reclined at leisure, hast in charge 
 The archives and the ordinances of Jove, 
 And dost record the festivals of heaven, 
 Eternity ! — inlbrm us who is He, 
 That great original, by nature chosen 
 To be the archetype of human kind. 
 Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles 
 Themselves coeval, one. yet everywhere. 
 An image of the God who gave him being 1 
 Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove, 
 He dwells not in his lather's mind, but, though 
 Of common nature with ourselves, exists 
 Apart, and occupies a local home — • 
 Whether companion of the stars, he spend 
 Eternal ages, roaming at his will [dwell 
 
 From sphere to sphere, the tentbld heavens, or 
 On the moon's side that nearest neighbors earth, 
 Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit 
 Among the multitude of souls ordain'd 
 To flesli and blood ; or whether (as may chance) 
 That vast and giant model of our kind 
 In some far distant region of this globe 
 Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high 
 O'ertowering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest 
 The stars, terrific even to the gods. 
 Never the Theban seer, whose bhndness proved 
 His best illumination, him beheld 
 In secret vision ; never him the son 
 Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night 
 Descending to the prophet choir reveal'd ; 
 Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet 
 The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles. 
 And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd ; 
 Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd 
 So deep in mystery, to the worshippers 
 Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him. 
 
 And thou, who hast immortahzed the shades 
 Of Academus, if the schools received 
 This monster of the fancy first from thee. 
 Either recall at once thy banish'd bards 
 To thy republic, or thyself, evinced 
 A wilder fabulist, go also forth. 
 
 TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 Oh that Pieria's spring would through my breast 
 Pour its inspiring influence, and rush 
 No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ; 
 That, for my venerable father's sake [wings 
 
 All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on 
 Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain ! 
 For thee, my father ! howsoe'er it pit ase, 

 
 She frames this slender work ; nor know I aught 
 That may thy gifts more suitably requite : 
 Though to requite them suitably would ask 
 Returns much nobler, and surpassing far 
 The meagre stores of verbal gratitude : 
 But, such as I possess, I send tlice all. 
 This page presents thee in theii- full amount 
 With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought; 
 Nought, save the riches that from airy dream 
 In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers, 
 I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. 
 
 Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
 Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more) 
 Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
 Some scintillations of Promethean fire, 
 Bespeaks him animated from above. 
 The gods love verse; the infernal powers them- 
 selves 
 Confess the influence of verse, which stirs 
 The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
 Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. 
 In verse the Delphic priestess and the pale 
 Tremulous sybil ;aake the future known; 
 And he who sacrifices, on the shrine 
 Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening 
 
 bull 
 And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide 
 To scrutinize the fates enveloped there. 
 We too, ourselves, what time we seek again 
 Our native skies, and one eternal now 
 Shall be the only measure of our being, 
 Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the'lyre 
 Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above. 
 And make the starry firmament resound. 
 And, even now, the fiery spirit ])ure 
 That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself 
 Their mazy dance witix melody of verse 
 Unutterable, iaimortal. hearing which 
 Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd ; 
 Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, 
 And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. 
 Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet 
 Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf 
 Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere 
 Lj'iEus deluged yet the temperate board. 
 Then sat the bard a customary guest 
 To share the banquet, and, his length of locks 
 With beechen honors bound, proposed in verse 
 The characters of heroes and their deeds, 
 To imitation ; sang of chaos old. 
 Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search 
 Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt 
 Not yet produced troin .Etna's fiii-y cave. 
 And what avails, at last tune without voice, 
 Devoid of matter ! Such may suit |)erhaps 
 The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song 
 Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, 
 And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone 
 Well touch'd, but by resisth'ss accents more. 
 To sympathetic tears the gho.sts themselves 
 He moved ; these praises to his verse he owes. 
 
 Nor thou persist. I pray thee, still to slight 
 The sacred Nine, and to iimigine vain 
 And useless powers, by whom ins|)ired, thyself 
 Art skilful to associate verse with airs 
 Harmonious, and to give the human voice 
 A thousand modulations, heir by right 
 Indisputable of Vrion's fame. 
 Now say, wiiat wonder is it, if a son 
 Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd 
 In close atnnity, we sympathize 
 In social arts and kindred studies sweet 1 
 
 Such distribution of himself to us 
 Was Phoebus' choice ; thou hast thy gift, and I 
 Mine also, and between us we receive, 
 Father and son. the whole inspiring God. 
 
 No ! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume 
 Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse, 
 My father ! lor thou never badest me tread 
 The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on 
 To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son 
 To the insipid clamors of the bar, 
 To laws voluminous, and ill observed ; 
 But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 
 My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away 
 From city din to deep retreats, to banks 
 And streams Aonian, and. with free consent, 
 Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 
 I speak not now, on more important themes 
 Intent, of common benefits, and such 
 As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts. 
 My father ! who, when I had open'd once 
 The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd 
 The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, 
 Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove, 
 Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers 
 That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the 
 
 smooth 
 Italian his degenerate speech adorns. 
 That witnesses his mixture with the Goth; 
 And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. 
 To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains, 
 The earth beneath it, and the air between. 
 The rivers and the restless deep, may all 
 Prove intellectual '^iin to me, my wish 
 Concurring with tliy will; science herself. 
 All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, 
 And otfers me the lip if dull of heart, 
 I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. 
 
 Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds 
 That covet it ; what could my father more "* 
 What more could Jove himself unless he gave 
 His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns 1 
 ]More eligible gifts than these were not 
 Apollo s to his son, had they been sate 
 As they were insecure, who made the boy 
 The -..orld's vice luminary, bade him rule 
 The radiant chariot of the day. and bind 
 To his 3'oung brows his own all-dazzling wreath. 
 I therefore, although last and least, my place 
 Among the learned in the laurel grove 
 Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, 
 Hencetbrth exempt from tiie unletter'd throng 
 Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 
 Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away. 
 And envy, with thy 'jealous leer malign!'' 
 Nor let tile monster calumny shoot tbrth 
 Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes ' 
 Ye all are impotent against my peace. 
 For I am privileged, and bear my breast 
 Sate, and too high for your viperean wound. 
 
 But thou, my father, since to render thanks 
 Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
 Tliy liberality, exceeds my power, 
 Siilfire it, that I thus record thy gifts. 
 And bear them treasured in a grateful mind! 
 Ye, too, the t'avorite pastime of my youth. 
 My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
 To hope longevity, and to survive 
 Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
 In tiie oblivious Lethrean gulf. 
 Shall to luturity perhaps convey 
 This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
 Improve the fathers of a distant age !
 
 TO SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, MUCH 
 INDISPOSED. 
 
 The original is written in a measure called Scazon, 
 which signifies limping, and the measure is so denomi- 
 nated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it ter- 
 minates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more 
 tardy movement. 
 
 The reader will immediately see that this property of 
 the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English. 
 
 My halting muse, that dragg'st by choice along 
 Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, 
 And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, 
 Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, [tread 
 When in the dance she beats with measured 
 Heaven's floor, in front of .Juno's golden bed ; 
 Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine 
 Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. 
 Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er 
 From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, 
 Where Eurus, fiercest of the iEolian band, 
 Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land, 
 Of late to more serene Ausonia came 
 To view her cities of illustrious name, 
 To prove himself a witness of the truth. 
 How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. 
 Much good, Salsillus ! and a body free 
 From all disease, that Milton asks for thee. 
 Who now endurest the languor and the pains 
 That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins ; 
 Relentless malady ! not moved to spare 
 By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air! 
 
 Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, 
 And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, 
 Pythius, or Paean, or what name divine 
 So'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine ! 
 Ye groves of Faunus, ani! ye hills that melt 
 With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt ! 
 If aught salubrious in your confines grow. 
 Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, 
 That, render'd to the muse, he loves, again 
 He may enchant the meadow with his strain. 
 Numa, reclined in everlasting ease 
 Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, 
 Viewing with eyes of unabated fire 
 His loved ^Egeria, shall that strain admire : 
 So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere 
 The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year. 
 Shall curb his waters with a friendly reign, 
 And guide them harmless, till they meet the main. 
 
 TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO, 
 
 MARaUIS or VILLA. 
 
 Milton's account of manso. 
 
 Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian 
 nobleman of the higliest estimation among his country- 
 men, for genius, literature, and military acomplishmenta. 
 To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on 
 Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who 
 has also celebrated him among the other princes of his 
 comitiy, in his poem eulillecl, Gerusulemme Conquis- 
 tata, book x.x. 
 
 Fra cavalier raagnanlmi,,e cortesi, 
 Risplende il Manso. 
 
 During the author's stay at Naples, h^ received at, the 
 hands of the marquis a thousand kind offices and civil- 
 ities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, seat him 
 this poem a short time before his departure from that 
 city. 
 
 These verses also to thy praise, the Nine. 
 O Manso ! happy in that theme, design, 
 
 For, Gallus and Maecenas gone, they see 
 None such besides, or whom they love as thee ; 
 And if my verse may give the meed of fame, 
 Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. 
 Already such, it shines in Tasso's page 
 (For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age, 
 And, next, the muse consign'd (not unaware 
 How high the charge) Marino to thy care. 
 Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise. 
 Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. 
 To thee alone the poet would entrust 
 His latest vows, to thee alone his dust ; 
 And thou with punctual piety hast paid. 
 In labor'd brass, thy tribute to his shade. 
 Nor this contented thee — but lest the grave 
 Should aught absorb of theirs which thou couldst 
 
 save. 
 All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach 
 The life, lot, genius, character of each. 
 Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true 
 To his great theme, the fife of Homer drew. 
 I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who 
 come [home, 
 
 Chill'd by rude blasts that freeze my northern 
 Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim. 
 And thine, tor Phoebus' sake, a deathless name. 
 Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye 
 A muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky, 
 Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young, 
 To seek in Latin hearers of her song. 
 We too, where Thames with its unsullied waves 
 The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves. 
 Hear oil by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear 
 O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling 
 
 clear ; 
 And we could boast a Tityrus of yore 
 Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. 
 Yes — dreary as we own our northern clime, 
 E'en we to Phrabus raise the polish'd rhyme, 
 We too serve Phoebus ; Phcebus has received 
 (If legends old may claim to be believed) 
 No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear, 
 The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year, 
 The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane. 
 Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train ; 
 Druids, our native bards in ancient time, 
 Who gods and heroes praised inhallow'd rhyme' 
 Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround 
 Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound, 
 Tney named the virgins who arrived of yore 
 With British oflerings on the Delian shore, 
 Loxo, from giant Corincus sprung, 
 Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung. 
 And Hacaerge, with the golden hair, 
 All deck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bo- 
 soms bare. 
 Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever chme 
 Shall ring with Tasso's praise in after time. 
 Or with Marino's, shalt be known their friend, 
 And with an equal flight to fame ascend. 
 The world shall hear how Phoebus and the Nine 
 Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. 
 Yet Phoebus, when of old constrain'd to roam 
 The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, 
 Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door. 
 Though Hercules had ventured there before. 
 But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene 
 Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green, 
 And thither, oft as respite he required, 
 From rustic clamors loud, the god retired. 
 There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclined 
 At some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined,
 
 Won by his hospitable friend's desire, 
 
 He soothed his pains of exile witli the lyre. 
 
 Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' 
 
 shore, 
 Nor (Eta felt his load of forest more ; 
 The upland elms descended to the plain. 
 And soften'd lynxes wonder'd at that strain. 
 Well may we think, Oh, dear to all above ! 
 Thy birth distinguish'd by the smile of Jove, 
 And that Apollo shed his kindliest power, 
 And Maia's son, on that propitious hour. 
 Since only minds so born can comprehend 
 A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. 
 Hence on thy yet untaded cheek appears 
 The lingering treshness of thy greener years* 
 Hence in thy front and features we admire 
 Nature unwither'd and a mind entire. 
 
 might so true a friend to me belong. 
 So skill'd to grace the votaries of song, 
 Should I recall hereafter into rhyme 
 The kings and heroes of my native clime, 
 Arthur the chief, who even now prepares, 
 In subterraneous being future wars. 
 With all his martial knights to be restored 
 Each to his seat around the federal board ; 
 And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse 
 
 Our Saxon plunderers in triumph verse! 
 Then, after all, when, with ihe past content, 
 A life I finish, not in silence spent ; 
 Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deathbed bend, 
 
 1 shall but need to say " Be yet my friend !" 
 He too, perhaps shall bid the marble breathe 
 To honor me, and with the graceful wreath 
 Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle 
 
 Shall bind my brows — but I shall rest the while. 
 Then also, if the fruits of faith endure. 
 And virtue's promised recompense be sure, 
 Born to those seats to which the blest aspire 
 By purity of soul and virtuous fire, 
 These rites, as fate permits, I shall survey 
 With eyes illumined by celestial day. 
 And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven, 
 Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DAMON. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and iioifjhbori*, had al- 
 ways pursued the same studies, and had, Croin their 
 earliest days, been united in the closest friend.'ship. 
 Thyrsis, wiiile travelling for improvement, received 
 inlt^Uigence of the death of Damon, and, after a time, 
 returning and finding it true, deplores himself and his 
 solitiU'y condition, in this poem. 
 
 By Damon is to be understood Charles Deodati, con- 
 nected with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's 
 side, in other respect.s an Englishrajui ; a youth of im- 
 coninion genius, erudition, and virtue. 
 
 Ye Nymphs of Himcra, (for ye have shed 
 
 Erewhile for Daphnis, and for Hylas dead, 
 
 And over Bion's long-lamented bier. 
 
 The fruitless meed of many n. sacred tear,) 
 
 Now through the villas laved by Thames rehearse 
 
 The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse, 
 
 What sighs he heaved, and how with groans 
 
 ])ro found 
 He made the woods and hollow rocks resound 
 Youno- Damon dead ; nor even ceased to pour 
 His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. 
 
 The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, 
 And ffolden harvest twice enrich'd the year, 
 
 Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air, 
 The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there : 
 For he, enamoured of the muse, remain'd 
 In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd, 
 But, stored at length with all he wish'd to leara 
 For his flock's sake, now hasted to return ; 
 And when the shepherd had resumed his seat 
 At the elm's root, within his old retreat, 
 Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know, 
 And from his burden'd heart he vented thus his 
 
 woe : 
 " Go seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Alas ! what deities shall I suppose 
 In heaven, or earth, concerned lor human woeS; 
 Since, oh my Damon ! their severe decree 
 So soon condemns me to regret of thee ! 
 Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid 
 With fame and honor, like a vulgar shade 1 
 Let him ibrbid it. whose bright rod controls, 
 And separates sordid from illustrious souls, 
 Drive far the rabble, and to thee assign 
 A happier lot with spirits worthy thine ! 
 
 " Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts 
 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Whate'er betall, unless by cruel chance 
 The wolf first give me a ibrbidding glance. 
 Thou shalt not moulder undeplored. but long 
 Thy praise shall dwell on every shepiierd's tongue, 
 To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay, 
 And, after him, to thee the votive lay. 
 While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love. 
 Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove; 
 At least, if ancient piety and truth, 
 With all the learned labors of thy youth. 
 May serve thee aught, or to have left behind 
 A sorrowing Iriend, and of the tuneful kind. 
 " Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Who now my pains and perils shall divide, 
 As thou wast wont, for ever at my side. 
 Both when the rugged I'rost annoy d our feet, 
 And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat ; 
 Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent. 
 Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went; 
 Whose converse now shall calm my stormy day. 
 With charming song who now beguile my way ? 
 '' Go, seek your home, my Iambs ; my thoughts 
 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 In whom shall I confide 1 Whose counsel find 
 A balmy medicine for my troubled mind 1 
 Or whose discourse with innocent delight 
 Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night, 
 While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear. 
 And blackening chestnuts start and crackle there, 
 While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, 
 And the wind thunders through the neighboring 
 
 elm 1 
 '■ Go seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Or who, when summer suns their summit reach, 
 And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech, 
 When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the 
 
 sedge, 
 And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge., 
 Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein 
 Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again 1
 
 716 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 " Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown 
 With tangled boughs, I wander now alone. 
 Till night descend, while blustering wind and 
 
 shower 
 Beat on my temples through the shatter'd bower. 
 
 " Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Alas ! what rampant weeds now shame my fields. 
 And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields ; 
 My rambling vines unwedded to the trees. 
 Bear shrivelPd grapes ; my myrtles fail to please ; 
 Nor please me more my flocks ; they, shghted 
 
 turn 
 Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. 
 
 " Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 .^gon invites me to the hazel grove, 
 Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove, 
 And young Alphesibceus to a seat 
 Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat. 
 ' Here fountains spring — here mossy hillocks 
 
 rise ; 
 Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies,' — 
 Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call, 
 I gain the thickets, and escape them all. 
 
 " Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
 are due 
 To other cares than those of feeding you. 
 Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well 
 The voice of birds, and what the stars foretell, 
 For he by chance had noticed my return.) 
 ' What means thy sullen mood, this deep con- 
 cern '? 
 Ah. Thyrsis. thou art either crazed with love. 
 Or some sinister influence from above ; 
 Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue ; 
 His leaden shaft oblique has pierc'd thee through.' 
 
 " Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are, 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 The nymphs, amazed, my melancholy see. 
 And, ' Thyrsis !' cry — ■ what will become of theel 
 What wouldst thou, Thyrsis 1 such should not 
 
 appear 
 The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe ; 
 Brisk youth should laugh and love — ah, shun the 
 fate [late !' 
 
 Of those, twice wretched mopes ! who love too 
 
 ■' Go. go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 Mgle with Hyas came, to soothe my pain, 
 And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain. 
 Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat 
 Known tar and near, and for her selt-conceit ; 
 Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands 
 That skirt the Idumanian current stands ; 
 But all in vain they came, and but to see 
 Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. 
 
 " Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are ; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 Ah blest indifference of the playful herd, 
 None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd ! 
 No bonds of amity the flocks intlirul, 
 But each associates, and is p' eased with all ; 
 So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves, 
 And all his kind alike the zebra loves ; 
 That same law governs, where the bi.Iows roar. 
 And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore ; 
 
 The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race. 
 
 His fit companion finds in every place, 
 
 With whom he picks the grain that suits him 
 
 best, 
 Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest, 
 And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey, 
 Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay, 
 For no such loss the gay survivor grieves, 
 New love he seeks, and new delight receives. 
 We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice. 
 Scorning all others, in a single choice. 
 We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind, 
 And if the long-sought good at last we find. 
 When least we tear it, Death our treasure steals, 
 And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals. 
 
 " Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are ; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks, 
 To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks ! 
 What need so great had I to visit Rome, 
 Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb 1 
 Or had she flourish'd still, as when of old. 
 For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold. 
 What need so great had I to incur a pause 
 Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause. 
 For such a cause to place the roaring sea, 
 Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend 
 
 and me 1 
 Else had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composed 
 Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eyelids closed, 
 And, at the last, had said — '■ Farewell — ascend — 
 Nor even in the skies forget thy friend !' 
 
 "Go, go, m}^ lambs, untended homeward fare; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains ! 
 My mind the memory of your worth retains. 
 Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn 
 My Damon lost. — He too was Tuscan born, 
 Born in your Lucca, city of renown! 
 And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own. 
 Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd beside 
 The murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide, 
 Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours. 
 Now cropping myrtles and now vernal flowers, 
 And hearing, as I lay at ease along. 
 Your swains contending for the prize of song ! 
 I also dared attempt (and, as it seems, 
 Not much displeased attempting) various themes 
 For even I can presents boast from you, 
 The shepherd's pipe and ozier basket too. 
 And Dati and Francini both have made 
 My name familiar to the beechen shade. 
 And they are learn'd, and each in every place 
 Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian race. 
 
 " Go, go. my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 While bright the dewy grass with moonbeam? 
 
 shone, 
 And I stood hurdling in my kids alone. 
 How often have I said (but thou hadst found 
 Ere then thy dark cold lodgment underground) 
 Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares, 
 Or wickerwork for various use prepares ! 
 How oft, indulging fancy, have I plann'd 
 New scenes of pleasure that I hoped at hand, 
 Caird thee abroad as I was wont, and cried — 
 ' What, boa ! my friend— come lay thy task 
 
 aside ; 
 Haste, let us forth togetlier, and beguile 
 The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile^ 
 Or an the margin stray of Colne's clear flood, 
 Or where Cassibelan's grey turrets stood !
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 
 
 7n 
 
 There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach 
 
 Thy friend tlie name and healincr powers of each, 
 
 From the tall bluebell to the dwarfish weed, 
 
 What the dry land, and what the marshes breed. 
 
 For all their kinds alike to thee are known, 
 
 And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' 
 
 Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd be 
 
 The useless herbs that gave not health to thee ! 
 
 Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream, 
 
 I meditating sat some statelier theme. 
 
 The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though new. 
 
 And uncssay'd before, than wide they flew. 
 
 Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain 
 
 The deep-toned music of the solemn strain ; 
 
 And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell 
 
 How proud a theme I chose — ye groves, farewell. 
 
 • Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 Of Brutus, Dardan chief my song shall be. 
 How with his barks he plough 'd tiie British sea, 
 First froiP Rutupia's towering headland seen, 
 And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen ; 
 Of Brennus and Belinus, ])rothers bold, 
 And of Arviragus, and how of old 
 Our hardy sires the Arinorican controll'd. 
 And of the wife of Gorlois, who, surprised 
 By Uther, in her husband's form disguised, 
 (Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became 
 Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame. 
 These themes I now revolve — and Oh — if Fate 
 Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date, 
 Adieu my shepherd's reed — yon pine tree bough 
 Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou 
 Forgotten and disused, unless ere long 
 Thou change thy Latin for a British song: 
 A British 1 — even so — the powers of man 
 Are bounded ; little is the most he can ; 
 And it shall well suffice me, and shall be 
 Fame and proud recompense enough for me, 
 If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, 
 If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn. 
 Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd 
 
 stream, 
 Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, 
 Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these, 
 The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades. 
 
 •• Go, go, my Iambs, untended homeward fare; 
 My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
 All this I kept in leaves of laurel rind 
 Enfolded safe, and tor thy view design'd. 
 This — and a gift troin Manso's hand beside, 
 (Manso, not least his native city's pride.) 
 Two cups that radiant as their giver shown, 
 Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. 
 The spring was graven there; here slowly wind 
 The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined ; 
 Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs 
 The sacred, solitary phccnix shows, 
 And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head 
 To see Aurora leave her watery bed. 
 — In other part, the expansive vault above, 
 And there too, even there, the god of love; 
 With quiver arm'd he mounts, nis torch displays 
 A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze. 
 Arouiid his bright and flery eyes he rolls. 
 Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls, 
 Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high, 
 Sends every arrow to the lotty sky; 
 Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn 
 The power of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. 
 
 • Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear 
 That hope delusive,) thou art also there; 
 
 For whither should simplicity like thine 
 Retire, where else should spotless virtue shine t 
 Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades? 
 
 below. 
 Nor tears suit thee — cease then, my tears, ta 
 
 flow. 
 Away with grief; on Damon ill bestow'd ! 
 Who, pure iiimself, has found a pure abode. 
 Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides 
 With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides 
 Quafl's copious immortality and joy 
 With hallow'd lips ! — Oh! blest without alloy, 
 And now cnrich'd with all that faith can claim. 
 Look down, entreated by whatever name. 
 If Damon please thee most (that rural sound 
 Shall oft with echoes fill the groves around) 
 Or if Deodatus, by which alone 
 In those ethereal mansions thou art known. 
 Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste 
 Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste. 
 The honors, therefore, by divine decree 
 The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee : 
 Thy brows encircled with a radiant band. 
 And the green palm branch waving in thy hand, 
 Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, 
 And join with seraphs thy according voice, 
 Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre 
 Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire." 
 
 AN ODE ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN 
 ROUSE, 
 
 LIBRARIAN OP THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 
 
 On a lost Volume of my Poems, which he desired me to 
 replace, thiil he misjlit add them to my other Works 
 deposited in the fjibriiry. 
 
 This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it mi?ht 
 more adequately represent the original, which, as Miltoa 
 himself informs lis, is of no certain Measure. It may 
 possibly for this reason disappoint tlie reador, though it 
 cost the writer more labor than the translation of any 
 other piece in the whole collection. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 My twofold book! single in show 
 
 But double in contents. 
 Neat but not curiously adorn'd, 
 
 Which, in his early youth, 
 A poet gave, no lofty one in truth. 
 Although an earnest wooer of the muse — 
 Say, while in cool Ausonian shades 
 
 Or ]5ritish wilds he roam'd, 
 Striking by turns his native lyre. 
 
 By turns the Daunian lute, 
 
 And stepp'd almost in air — 
 
 ANTISTROPIIE. 
 
 Say, Uttle book, what furtive hand 
 Thee from thy fellow books convey'd. 
 What time, at the repeated suit 
 Of my most learned t'riend, 
 I sent thee forth an honor'd traveller. 
 From our great city to the source of Thames, 
 
 Cajrulean sire ! 
 Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring 
 Of the Aonian choir. 
 Durable as yonder spheres. 
 And through the endless lapse of years 
 Secure to be admired'?
 
 718 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 STROPHE II. 
 
 Now what god, or demi-god, 
 For Britain's ancient genius moved, 
 
 (If our afflicted land 
 Have expiated at length the guilty sloth 
 Of lier degenerate sons) 
 Shall terminate our impious feuds, 
 And discipline with hallow'd voice recall 1 
 Recall the muses too, 
 Driven from their ancient seats 
 In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, 
 And. with keen Phoebean shatls 
 Piercing the unseemly birds, 
 Whose talons menace us. 
 Shall drive the Harpy race from Helicon afar 1 
 
 ANTISTROPHK. 
 
 But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, 
 Whether by treachery lost, 
 Or indolent neglect thy bearer's fault. 
 From all thy kindred books, 
 To some dark cell or cave forlorn. 
 
 Where thou endurest, perhaps, 
 The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand. 
 Be comforted — 
 For lo ! again the splendid hope appears 
 
 That thou mayst yet escape 
 The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings 
 Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove ! 
 
 STROPHE III. 
 
 Since Rouse desires thee, and complains 
 That, though by promise his. 
 Thou yet appear'st not in thy place 
 Among the literary noble stores 
 
 Given to his care, 
 But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. 
 He, therefore, guardian vigilant 
 Of that unperishing wealth, 
 Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, 
 Where he intends a richer treasure far 
 That Ion kept (Ion, Erectheus' son 
 Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born) 
 In the resplendent temple of his god, 
 Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE. 
 
 Haste, then, to the pleasant groves. 
 The muses' favorite haunt ; 
 Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, 
 
 Dearer to him 
 Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill ! 
 
 Exulting go. 
 Since now a splendid lot is also thine, 
 And thou art sought by my propitious friend ; 
 For there thou shalt be read 
 With authors of exalted note. 
 The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. 
 
 EPODE. 
 
 Ye, then, my works, no longer vain, 
 
 And worthless deem'd by me ! 
 Whate'er this sterile genius has produced, 
 Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent, 
 An unmolested happy home. 
 Sift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, 
 Where never flippant tongue profane 
 Shall entrance find, 
 
 And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude 
 
 Shall babble far remote. 
 Perhaps some future distant age, 
 Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, 
 
 Shall furnish minds of power 
 
 To judge more equally. 
 Then, malice silenced in the tomb, 
 
 Cooler heads and sounder hearts, 
 
 Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise 
 I merit, shall with candor weigh the claim. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OY THE ITALIAN POEMS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Fair Lady ! whose harmonious name the Pchine, 
 Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, 
 Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear 
 
 To love a spirit elegant as thine, 
 
 That manifests a sweetness all divine. 
 
 Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, 
 And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, 
 
 Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. 
 
 When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay 
 Such strains as might the senseless forest move, 
 
 Ah then — turn each his eyes and ears away, 
 Who feels himself unworthy of thy love ! 
 
 Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart 
 
 Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 As on a hill-top rude, when closing day 
 
 Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair 
 Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, 
 Borne from its native genial airs away, 
 That scarcely can its tender bud display. 
 
 So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare. 
 Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. 
 While thus, O sweetly scornful ! I essay 
 
 Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, 
 And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain ; 
 So love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has 
 
 shown, 
 That what he wilU, he never wills in vain — 
 Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be 
 To Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free ! 
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 They mock my toil — the nymphs and amorous 
 
 swains — 
 And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, 
 Love-songs in language that thou Uttle know'st 1 
 How darest thou risk to sing these foreign 
 
 strains 1 
 Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd. 
 And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die 1 
 Then with pretence of admiration high — 
 Thee other shores expect, and other tides, 
 Rivers, on whose grassy sides 
 Her deathless laurel leaf with which to bind 
 Thy flowing locks already Fame provides ; 
 Why then this burden, better far declin'd 1
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 
 
 713 
 
 Speak, muse ! for me — the fair one said, who 
 (Tuides 
 My williiicr heart, and all my fancy's flights, 
 " This is the language in which Love delights." 
 
 SONNET, TO CHARLES DEODATI. 
 
 CiiARLKS — and I say it wondering — thou must 
 know 
 That I, who once assumed a scornful air 
 And scoff d at Love, am fallen in his snare, 
 (Full nKinj' an upright man has fallen so:) 
 Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow 
 Of golden locks, or damask check ; more rare 
 The heartfelt beauties of my foreign lair; 
 A mien majestic, with dark brows that show 
 The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind ; 
 Words cxqijisite, of idioms more than one, 
 And song whose fascinating power might bind, 
 And from her sphere draw down the laboring 
 
 moon ; 
 With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fill 
 My ears with wax, she would enchant me still. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Lady ! It cannot be but that thine eyes 
 
 Must bo my sun, such radiance they display, 
 And strikf^ me e'en as Phnebus him whose way 
 
 Througli horrid Libya's sandy desert lies. 
 
 Meantime, on that side steamy vapors rise 
 
 Whore most I sulTer. Of what kind are they. 
 New MS to me they are. I cannot say. 
 
 But deem them, in the lover's language — sighs. 
 
 Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, 
 
 Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend 
 
 To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals. 
 
 While others to my tearful eyes ascend, 
 
 Wl ence my sad nights in showers are ever 
 drown'd, 
 
 n my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound. 
 
 i SONNET. 
 
 Enamor'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, 
 Uncertain whither from myself to fly ; 
 To thee, dear Lady with an humble sigh 
 Let me devote my heart, which I have found 
 By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound. 
 Good, and addicted to conceptions high : [sky, 
 When tempests shake the world, and fire the 
 It rests in adamant self-wrapt around. 
 As safe from envy as from outrage rude. 
 From hopes and tears that vulgar minds abuse, 
 As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude. 
 Of the resounding lyre am,! every muse. 
 Weak you will find it in one only part, 
 Now pierced by love's immedicable dart. 
 
 SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST. 
 
 ' So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds 
 Ascending,' &c. 
 
 Q,OALKs aerii mentis de vertice nubes 
 
 Cum surgunt, et jam Borere tumida ora quierunt, 
 
 Coelum hilares abdit. spissj, caligine. vultus ■ 
 
 Turn, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore. 
 
 Et croceo montes et pascua lumino tingat, 
 
 Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent conccntilnis agros 
 
 Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM 
 ON MILTON. 
 
 Trks tria, sed longo distantia. saBcula vates 
 Ostentant tribus o gentibus eximios. 
 
 Grrecia sublimem, cum m:ijestate disertura 
 Roma tulit. felix Anglia uti-ique parem. 
 
 Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, 
 Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos. 
 
 July, 1730. 
 
 ■V/VS ^ ^ ---S N.'S/^^ N ^ . --^ %. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 
 
 I. THE GLOWWORM. 
 
 BENiiTii the hedge, or near the stream, 
 
 A worm is known to stray, 
 That shows by night a lucid beam 
 
 \Vhich disappears by day. 
 
 Disputes have been, and still prevail, 
 From whence his rays proceed ; 
 
 Some give that honor to his tail, 
 Aid others to his head. 
 
 But this is sure — the hand of night 
 
 That kindles up the skies. 
 Gives \\uu a modicum of light 
 
 Proportion'd to his size. 
 
 Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, 
 By such a lamp bestow'd, 
 
 To bid the traveller, as he went. 
 Be careful where he trod : 
 
 Nor crush a worm, whose useful light 
 Might serve, however siiuill. 
 
 To show a stumbling stone by night. 
 And save him from a fall. 
 
 Whate'er she meant, this truth divine 
 
 Is legible and plain. 
 'Tis power almighty bids him shine, 
 
 Nor bills him shine in vain. 
 
 Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme 
 Teach humbler thoughts to you, 
 
 Since such a reptile has its gem, 
 And boasts its splendor too.
 
 720 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 II. THE JACKDAW. 
 
 There is a bird who, by his coat 
 And by the hoarseness of his note, 
 
 Might be supposed a crow ; 
 A great frequenter of the church, 
 Where, bishop-hke, lie finds a perch, 
 
 And dormitory too. 
 
 Above the steeple shines a plate. 
 That turns and turns, to indicate 
 
 From what point blows the weather. 
 Look up — your brains begin to swim, 
 'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him, 
 
 He chooses it the rather. 
 
 Fond of the speculative height, 
 Thither he wings his airy flight. 
 
 And thence securely sees 
 The bustle and the rareeshow. 
 That occupy mankind below, 
 
 Secure and at his ease. 
 
 You think, no doubt, he sits and muses 
 On future broken bones and bruises, 
 
 If he should chance to fall. 
 No ; not a single thought like that 
 Employs his philosophic pate, 
 
 Or troubles it at all. 
 
 He sees that this great roundabout, 
 The world, with all its motley rout. 
 
 Church, army, physic, law, 
 Its customs and its businesses, 
 Is no concern at all of his, 
 
 And says — what says he 1 — Caw. 
 
 Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 
 Much of the vanities of men ; 
 
 And, sick of having seen 'em, 
 Would cheerfully these limbs resign 
 For such a pair of wings as thine 
 
 And such a head between 'em. 
 
 III. THE CRICKET. 
 
 Little inmate, full of mirth. 
 Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
 Wheresoe'er be thine abode. 
 Always harbinger of good, 
 Pay me for thy warm retreat 
 With a song more soft and sweet ; 
 In return thou shalt receive 
 Such a strain as I can give. 
 
 Thus thy praise shall be express'd, 
 Inoffensive, welcome guest ! 
 While the rat is on the scout, 
 And the mouse with curious snout, 
 With what vemiin else infest 
 Every dish, and spoil the best; 
 Frisking thus before the fire, 
 Thou hast all thine heart's desire. 
 
 Though in voice and shape they be 
 Form'd as if akin to thee. 
 Thou surpassest, happier far. 
 Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 
 Theirs is but a summer's song, 
 Thine endures the winter long, 
 Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 
 Melody throughout the year. 
 
 Neither night nor dawn of day 
 Puts a period to thy play : 
 Sing, then — and extend thy spa-« 
 Far beyond the date of man. , 
 Wretched man, whose years are spent 
 In repining discontent, 
 Lives not, aged though he be. 
 Half a span, compared with thee. 
 
 IV. THE PARROT. 
 
 In painted plumes superbly dress'd, 
 A native of the gorgeous east, 
 
 By many a billow toss'd ; 
 Poll gains at length the British shore, 
 Part of the captain's precious store, 
 
 A present to his toast. 
 
 Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd. 
 To teach him now then a word, 
 
 As Poll can master it ; 
 But 'tis her own important charge, 
 To qualify him more at large, 
 
 And make him quite a wit. 
 
 Sweet Poll ! his doting mistress cries. 
 Sweet Poll ! the mimic bird replies. 
 
 And calls aloud for sack. 
 She next instructs him in the kiss ; 
 'Tis now a little one, like Miss, 
 
 And now a hearty smack. 
 
 At first he aims at what he hears ; 
 And, listening close with both his ears, 
 
 Just catches at the sound ; 
 But soon articulates aloud. 
 Much to the amusement of the crowd, 
 
 And stuns the neighbors round. 
 
 A querulous old woman's voice 
 His humorous talent next employs. 
 
 He scolds, and gives the lie. 
 And now he sings, and now is sick, 
 Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, 
 
 Poor Poll is like to die ! 
 
 Belinda and her bird ! 'tis rare 
 
 To meet with such a well match'd pair. 
 
 The language and the tone. 
 Each character in every part 
 Sustain'd with so much grace and art, 
 
 And both in unison. 
 
 When children first begin to spell. 
 And stammer out a syllable. 
 
 We think them tedious creatures ; 
 But difliculties soon abate, 
 When birds are to be taught to prate, 
 
 And women are the teachers. 
 
 THE THRACIAN. 
 
 Thracian parents, at his birth, 
 
 iV[ourn their babe with many a tcKf, 
 
 But, with undissembled mirth, 
 Place him breathless on his bier, 
 
 Greece and Rome, with equal scom, 
 " O the savages !" exclaim, 
 
 " Whether they rejoice or mourn, 
 Well entitled to the name !"
 
 f.GQbtrt. roii . 
 
 T M IR IP A M i,R O T .,
 
 I
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 
 
 721 
 
 But the cause of this concern 
 
 And this pleasure would they trace, 
 
 Even they might somewhat learn 
 From the savages of Thrace. 
 
 RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY 
 LAW OF NATURE. 
 
 Androcles, from his injured lord, in dread 
 Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled, [heat, 
 Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with 
 He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat ; 
 But scarce had given to rest his weary frame. 
 When, hugcst of his kind, a lion came : 
 He roar'd approaching : but the savage din 
 To plaintive murmurs changed — arrived within, 
 And with expressive looks, his lifted paw 
 Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. 
 The fugitive, through terror at a stand. 
 Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand ; 
 But bolder grown, at length inherent found 
 A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
 The cure was wrought ; he wiped the sanious 
 
 blood. 
 And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
 Again he seeks tlie wilds, and day by day 
 Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
 Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared, 
 Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. 
 But thus to live— still lost— sequester'd still- 
 Scarce seem'd his lord's revenije a heavier ill. 
 Home ! native home ! O might he but repair ! 
 He must— he will, though death attends him 
 
 there. 
 He goes, and, doom'd to perish, on the sands 
 Of the full theatre unpitied stands : 
 When lo ! the selfsame lion from his cage 
 Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. 
 He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey 
 The man, his healer, pauses on his way, 
 And, soilen'd by remembrance into sweet 
 And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 
 
 Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze : 
 But wliy, ye Romans'? Whence your mute 
 
 amaze 1 
 All this is natural : nature bade him rend 
 An enemy : she bids him spare a friend. 
 
 A MANUAL, 
 
 MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OP PRINTING, AND 
 NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE. 
 
 There is a book, which we may call 
 
 (Its excellence is such) 
 Alone a library, though small ; 
 
 The ladies thumb it much. 
 
 Words none, things numerous it contains : 
 And things with words compared, 
 
 Wto needs be told, that has his brains, 
 Which merits most reirard 1 
 
 Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue 
 
 A golden edging boast ; 
 And open'd, it displays to view 
 
 Twelve pages at the most. 
 
 Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind, 
 Adorns its outer part j 
 
 But all within, 'tis richly lined, 
 A magazine of art. 
 
 The whitest hands that secret hoard 
 
 Oft visit : and the fair 
 Preserve it in their bosoms stored 
 
 As with a miser's care. 
 
 Thence implements of every sac, 
 
 And form'd for various use, 
 (They need but to consult their eyes), 
 
 They readily produce. 
 
 The largest and the longest kind 
 
 Possess the foremost page ; 
 A sort most needed by the blind, 
 
 Or nearly such, from age. 
 
 The full charg'd leaf which next ensues. 
 
 Presents in bright array 
 The smaller sort, which matrons use, 
 
 Not quite so blind as they. 
 
 The third, the fourth, the fifth supply 
 
 What their occasions ask. 
 Who with a more discernincr eye 
 
 Perlbrm a nicer task. 
 
 But still with regular decrease, 
 
 From size to size they fall, 
 In every leaf grow less and less ; 
 
 The last are least of all. 
 
 O ! what a fund of genius, pent 
 
 In narrow space is here ! 
 This volume's method and intent 
 
 How luminous and clear ! 
 
 It leaves no reader at a loss 
 
 Or posed, whoever reads: 
 No commentator's tedious gloss, 
 
 Nor even index needs. 
 
 Search Bodley's many thousands o'er! 
 
 No book is treasured there, 
 Nor yet in Granta's numerous store, 
 
 That may with this compare. 
 
 No !— rival none in either host 
 
 Of this was ever seen, 
 Or, that contents could justly boast, 
 
 So brilliant and so keen. 
 
 AN ENIGMA. 
 
 A NEEDLE, small as small can be, 
 In bulk and use surpasses me. 
 
 Nor is my purchase dear; 
 For little, and almost for nought. 
 As many of my kind are bought 
 
 As days are in the year. 
 
 Yet though but little use we boast, 
 And are procured at little cost 
 
 The labor is not light ; 
 Nor few artificers it asks, 
 All skilful in their several tasks, 
 
 To f:ishion us aright. 
 
 One fuses metal o'er the fire, 
 A second draws it into wire, 
 
 The shears another plies ; 
 W' ho clips in length the brazen thread 
 From him who, chafing every shred, 
 
 Gives all an equal size. 
 46
 
 722 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS, 
 
 A fifth prepares, exact and round, 
 
 The knob with wliicn it must be crown'd ; 
 
 His follower makes it fast : 
 And with his mallet and his file 
 To shape the point, employs awhile 
 
 The seventh and the last. 
 
 Now, therefore, CEdipus ! declare 
 What creature, wonderful, and rare, 
 
 A process that obtains 
 Its purpose with so much ado 
 At last produces ! — tell me true. 
 
 And take nx* for your pains ! 
 
 SPARROWS SELF-DOxMESTICATED IN 
 TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 None ever shared the social feast. 
 Or as an inmate or a guest. 
 Beneath the celebrated dome 
 Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
 Who saw not (and with some delight 
 Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) 
 How numerous at the tables there, 
 The sparrows beg their daily fare. 
 For there in every nook and cell 
 Where such a family may dwell, 
 Sure as the vernal season comes 
 Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs, 
 Which kindly given, may serve with food 
 Convenient their unfeather'd brood ; 
 And oft as with its .«uin.iions clear 
 The warning bell salutes their ear, 
 Sagacious listeners to the sound. 
 They flock from all the fields around, 
 To reach the hos itable hal! 
 None more attentive to thi; call. 
 Arrived, the pensionary ba'id. 
 Hopping and chirping, cloL>t -.t hand. 
 Solicit what they soon rective. 
 The sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
 Thus is a multitude, though large, 
 Supported at a trivial charge ; 
 A single doit would overpay 
 The expenditure of every day. 
 And who can grudge so small a grace 
 To suppliants, natives of the place 1 
 
 FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS. 
 
 As in her ancient mistress' lap 
 
 The youthful tabby lay. 
 They gave each other many a tap, 
 
 Alike disposed to play. 
 
 But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm. 
 And with protruded claws 
 
 Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, 
 Mere wantonness the cause. 
 
 At once, resentful of the deed. 
 She shakes her to the ground 
 
 With many a threat that she shall bleed 
 With stilt a deeper wound. 
 
 But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest : 
 It was a venial stroke : 
 ' Fit she that will with kittens jest 
 Should bear a kitten's joke. 
 
 INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. 
 
 Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains — 
 
 And seldom another it can — 
 To seek a retreat while he reigns 
 
 In the well-shelter'd dwelhngs of man. 
 Who never can seem to intrude, 
 
 Though in all places equally free. 
 Come oft as the season is rude. 
 
 Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 
 
 At sight of the first feeble ray 
 
 That pierces the clouds of the east, 
 To inveigle thee every day 
 
 My windows shall show thee a feast, 
 For, taught by experience, I know, 
 
 Thee mindful of benefit long ; 
 And that, thankful for all I bestow. 
 
 Thou wilt pay me with many a song. 
 
 Then, soon as the swell of the buds 
 
 Bespeaks the renewal of spring. 
 Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods. 
 
 Or where it shall please thee to sing : 
 And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost, 
 
 Come again to my window or door, 
 Doubt not an affectionate host. 
 
 Only pay as thou paid'st me before. 
 
 This music must needs be confess'd 
 
 To flow from a fountain above ; 
 Else how should it work in the breast 
 
 Unchangeable friendship and love 1 
 And who on the globe can be found, 
 
 Save your generation and ours. 
 That can be delighted by sound. 
 
 Or boasts any musical powers 1 
 
 STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 The shepherd tquch'd his reed ; sweet Philome 
 Essay'd, and oft essay'd to catch the strain, 
 
 And treasuring, as on her ear they fell. 
 The numbers, echo'd note for note again. 
 
 The peevish youth, '.viio ri;^'(:r had found before 
 A rival of his skii!, infi'gnant heard. 
 
 And soon (for variou.< .v;!- !iis tuneful store) 
 In loftier tones defied ui?. simple bird. 
 
 She dared the task, and rising as he rose. 
 With all the force that passion gives inspired, 
 
 Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close 
 Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired. 
 
 Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fetal strife 
 By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun ; 
 
 And, O sad victory, which cost thy fife. 
 And he may wish that he had never won ! 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, 
 
 WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON 
 HER BIRTHDAY, 1728. 
 
 Ancient dame, how wide and vast 
 
 To a race hke ours appears, 
 Rounded to an orb at last. 
 
 All thy multitude of years ! 
 
 We, the herd of human kind. 
 Frailer and of feebler powers ; 
 
 I 
 
 J 
 
 ■ 
 
 I
 
 TRAN!v:LATIONS from VINCENT BOURNP]. 
 
 723 
 
 We, to narrow bounds confined, 
 Soon exhaust the sum cf ours. 
 
 Death's delicious banquet — we 
 Perish even from the womb, 
 
 Swifter than a shadow flee, 
 Nourish'd but to feed the tomb. 
 
 Seeds of merciless disease 
 
 Lurk in all that we enjoy ; 
 Some that waste us by degrees, 
 
 Some that suddenly destroy. 
 
 And, if life o'erleap the bourn 
 Common to the sons of men, 
 
 What remains, but that we mourn. 
 Dream, and dote, and drivel then 1 
 
 Fast as moons can wax and wane 
 Sorrow comes; and, while we groan. 
 
 Pant with anguish, and complain, 
 Half our years are fled and gone. 
 
 If a few (to few 'tis given), 
 
 Lingering on this earthly stage, 
 
 Creep and halt with steps uneven 
 To the period of an age, 
 
 Wherefore live they, but to sec 
 Cunning, arrogance and force, 
 
 Sights lamented much by thee. 
 Holding their accustoiii'd course 1 
 
 Oft was seen, in ages past, 
 
 All that we with wonder view ; 
 
 Often shall be to the last ; 
 Earth produces nothing new. 
 
 Thee we gratulate, content 
 
 Should propitious Heaven design 
 
 Life for us as calmly spent, 
 Though but half the length of thine. 
 
 THE CAUSE WON. 
 
 Two neighbors furiously dispute ; 
 
 A field — the subject of the suit. 
 
 Trivial the spot, yet such the rage 
 
 With which the combatants engage, 
 
 'Twere hard to tell who covets most 
 
 'J'he prize — at whatsoever cost. 
 
 The pleadings swell. Words still suffice : 
 
 No single word but has its price. 
 
 No term but yields some fair pretence 
 
 For novel and increased expense. 
 
 Defendant thus becomes a name, 
 Which he that bore it may disclaim. 
 Since both in one description blended. 
 Are plaintifls — when the suit is ended. 
 
 THE SILKWORM. 
 
 The beams of April, ere it goes, 
 A worm, scarce visible, disclose ; 
 All winter long content to dwell 
 The tenant of his native shell. 
 The same prolific season gives 
 The sustenance by which he lives, 
 The mulberry leaf, a simple store. 
 That serves him— till he needs no more ! 
 For, his dimensions once complete, 
 Thenceforth none ever sees him eat ; 
 
 Though till his growing time be past 
 
 Scarce ever is he seen to fast. 
 
 That hour arrived, his work begins. 
 
 He spins and weaves, and weaves an:: spins) 
 
 Till circle upon circle, wound 
 
 Careless around him and around. 
 
 Conceals him with a veil, though slight, 
 
 Impervious to the keenest sight. 
 
 Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask. 
 
 At length he finishes his task : 
 
 And, though a worm when he was lost, 
 
 Or caterpillar at the most. 
 
 When next we see him, wings he wears, 
 
 Ami in papilio pomp appears ; 
 
 Becomes oviparous ; supplies 
 
 With future worms and future flies 
 
 The next ensuing year — and dies ! 
 
 Well were it for the world, if all 
 
 Who creep about this earthly ball. 
 
 Though shorter-lived than most he be, 
 
 Were useful in their kind as he. 
 
 THE INNOCENT THIEF. 
 
 Not a flower can be lound in the fields. 
 Or the spot that we till lor our pleasure, 
 
 From the largest to the least, but it yields 
 The bee, never wearied, a treasure 
 
 Scarce any she quits unexplored 
 With a dilligence truly exact ; 
 
 Yet, steal what she may for her hoard 
 Leaves evidence none of the ftjct. 
 
 Her lucrative task she pursues. 
 And pilfers with so much address. 
 
 That none of their odor they lose, 
 Nor charm by their beauty the less. 
 
 Not thus inoffensively preys 
 
 The cankerworm, in-dwelling foe ! 
 
 His voracity not thus allays 
 
 The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. 
 
 The worm, more expensively fed, 
 The pride of the garden devours; 
 
 And birds peck the seed from the bed. 
 Still less to be spared than the flowers. 
 
 But she with sucli delicate skill 
 Her pillage so fits for her use, 
 
 That the chemist in vain with his still 
 Would labor the like to produce. 
 
 Then grudge not her temperate meals, 
 Nor a liencfit blame as a thetl; 
 
 Since, stole she not all that she steals, 
 Neither honey nor wax would be lefl. 
 
 DENNEirs OLD WOMAN. 
 
 In this mimic form of a matron in years. 
 How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! 
 The matron herself in whose old age we see 
 Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! 
 No dhnncss of eye, and no cheek hanging low, 
 No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd fVown on the brow ! 
 Her forehead indeed is here circled around 
 With locks like the ribbon rfilh which they are 
 
 bound ; 
 While glossy and smootii. and as soft as the skin 
 Of a delicat:- petich, ia the down of her chin;
 
 724 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 But nothing unpleasant, or saJ, or severe, 
 Or that indicates hfe in its winter — is here. 
 Yet all is express'd with fidelity due. 
 Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd trom the view. 
 
 Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a 
 taste 
 For the labors of art, to tlie spectacle haste. 
 The youths all agree, that could old age inspire 
 The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, 
 And the matrons with pleasure confess that 
 
 they see 
 Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee, [decline, 
 The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a 
 O wonderful woman ! as placid as thine, [engage 
 
 Strange magic of art ! which the youth can 
 To pursue, half enamour'd, the features of age ; 
 And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, 
 That she when as old shall be equally fair ! 
 How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd. 
 Since Apclles not more for his Venus obtain'd. 
 
 THE TEARS OF A PAINTER. 
 
 Apelles, hearing that his boy 
 Had just expired — his only joy ! 
 Although the sight with anguish tore him, 
 Bade place his dear remains before him. 
 He seized his brush, his colors spread ; 
 And — " Oh ! my child, accept," — he said, 
 " ('Tis all that I can now bestow,) 
 This tribute of a father's woe !" 
 Then, faithful to the twofold part, 
 Both of his feelings and his art, 
 He closed his eyes with tender care, 
 And form'd at once a fellow pair. 
 His brow with amber locks beset, 
 And hps he drew not livid yet, 
 And shaded all that he had done 
 To a just image of his son. 
 
 Thus far is well. But view again 
 The cause of thy paternal pain! 
 Thy melancholy task fulfil ! 
 It needs the last, last touches still. 
 Again his pencil's powers he tries, 
 For on his lips a smile he spies : 
 And still his cheek unfaded shows 
 The deepest damask of the rose. 
 Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, 
 With fondest eagerness he stole, 
 Till scarce himself distinctly knew 
 The cherub copied from the true. 
 Now, painter cease ! Thy task is done. 
 Long lives this image of thy son ; 
 Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove 
 Or of thy labor or thy love. 
 
 THE MAZE. 
 
 From right to left, and to and fro, 
 
 Caught in a labyrinth you go, 
 
 And turn, and turn, and turn again, 
 
 To solve the mystery, but in vain : 
 
 Stand still, and breathe, and take from me 
 
 A clue, that soon shall set you free ! 
 
 Not Ariadne, if you met her, 
 
 Herself could serve you with a better. 
 
 You enter'd easily — find where — 
 
 And make with ease your exit there ! 
 
 NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUF- 
 FERER. 
 
 The lover, in melodious verses, 
 His singular distress rehearses ; 
 Still closing with a rueful cry, 
 " Was ever such a wretch as I !" 
 Yes! thousands have endured before 
 All thy distress ; some, haply, more. 
 Unnumber'd Corydons complain, 
 And Strephons, of the like disdain ; 
 And if thy Chloe be of steel. 
 Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel ; 
 Not her alone that censure fits, 
 Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits. 
 
 THE SNAIL. 
 
 To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall. 
 The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
 As if he grew there, house and all 
 Together. 
 
 Within that house secure he hides, 
 When danger imminent betides 
 Of storm, or other harm besides 
 
 Of weather. 
 
 Give but his horns the slightest touch, 
 His self-collecting power is such, 
 He shrinks into his house with much 
 
 Displeasure. 
 
 Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, 
 Except himself has chatties none, 
 Well satisfied to be his own 
 
 Whole treasure. 
 
 Thus, hermit-hke, his life he leads, 
 Nor partner of his banquet needs, 
 And if he meets one, only feeds 
 
 The faster. 
 
 Who seeks him must be worse than blind 
 (He and his house are so combined,) 
 If, finding it, he fails to find 
 
 Its master. 
 
 THE CANTAB. 
 
 With two spurs or one, and no great mattei 
 which, [switch, 
 
 Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a 
 Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast, 
 Paid part into hand ; — you must wait for the rest. 
 Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse, 
 And out they both sally for better or worse ; 
 His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather ; 
 And in violent haste to go not knowing whither. 
 Through the fields and the towns ; (see !) he 
 scampers along : [young, 
 
 And is look'd at and laugh'd at by old and by 
 Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear'd 
 
 with blood, 
 Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud. 
 In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route 7 
 Oh ! scandalous fate ! he must do it on foot. 
 
 Young gentlemen, hear ! — I am older than you 
 The advice that I give I have proved to be true, 
 Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, 
 The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS. 
 
 A Spartan, his companion slain, 
 
 Alone from battle fled ; 
 His mother, kind ling with di.sdain 
 
 That she had borne him, struck him dead ; 
 For courage, and not birth alone, 
 In Sparta, testifies a son ! 
 
 ON THE SAME BY PALLADAS. 
 
 A Spartan 'scaping from the fight, 
 
 His mother met him in his flight. 
 
 Upheld a falchion to his breast. 
 
 And thus the fugitive address'd : 
 
 " Thou canst but live to blot with shame 
 
 Indelible thy mother's name. 
 
 While every breath that thou shalt draw 
 
 Offends against thy country's law ; 
 
 But if thou perish by tbis hand, 
 
 Myself indeed, throughout the land, 
 
 To my dishonor, shall be known 
 
 The mother still of such a son ; 
 
 But Sparta will be safe and free 
 
 And that shall serve to comfort me." 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 My name — my country — what are they to thee ! 
 What, whether base or proud my pedigree? 
 Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — 
 Perhaps I fell below them all— what then "? 
 SuflSce it, stranger ! that thou seest a tomb — 
 Thou know'st its use — it hides — no matter whom. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Takk to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain 
 With much hard labor in thy service worn ! 
 He set the vines that clothe j-on ample plain. 
 And he these olives that the vale adorn. 
 He fiird with grain the glebe ; the rills he led 
 Through tliis green herbage, and those fruitful 
 
 bowers ; 
 Thou, therefore, earth ! lie lightly on his head. 
 His hoary head, and deck his grave with flowers. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Painter, this likeness is too strong, 
 And we shall mourn the dead too long. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 At threescore winters' end I died 
 A cheerless being sole and sad ; 
 The nuptial knot I never tied, 
 And wish my father never had. 
 
 BY CALLIMACHUS. 
 
 At morn we placed on his funeral bier 
 V'oung Melanippus ; and, at eventide, 
 
 Unable to sustain a loss so dear, 
 By her own hand his blooming sister died. 
 Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race. 
 Annihilated by a double blow, [brace, 
 
 Nor son could hope nor daughter more to em- 
 And all Gyrene sadden'd at his woe. 
 
 ON MILTIADES. 
 
 MiLTiADKs ! thy valor best 
 (Although in every region known) 
 The men of Persia can attest. 
 Taught by thyself at Marathon. 
 
 ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Bewail not much, my parents ! me, the prey 
 Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here. 
 An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, 
 He found all sportive, innocent, and gay. 
 Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew 
 Not many joys, my griefs were also few 
 
 BY HERACLIDES. 
 
 In Cnidus born, the consort I became 
 Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name. 
 His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride, 
 But bore two children at a birth, and died. 
 One child 1 leave to solace and uphold 
 Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old. 
 And one, for his remembrance' sake, I bear 
 To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there. 
 
 ON THE REED. 
 
 I WAS of late a barren plant, 
 Useless, insignificant. 
 Nor fig, nor gripe, nor apple bore, 
 A native of the marshy shore ; 
 But, gather'd for poetic use, 
 And plunged into a sable juice. 
 Of which my modicum I sip 
 With narrow mouth and slender lip, 
 At once, although by nature dumb. 
 All eloquent I have becoaie. 
 And speak with fluency untired, 
 As if by Phoebus' self inspired. 
 
 TO HEALTH. 
 
 Eldest born of powers divine! 
 Bless'd Hvoreia ! be it mine 
 To enjoy what thou canst give, 
 And henceforth with thee to live : 
 For in power if pleasure be, 
 Wealth or numerous progeny, 
 Or in amorous embrace. 
 Where no spy infests the place j
 
 726 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Or in aught that Heaven bestows 
 To alleviate human woes, 
 When the wearied heart despairs 
 Of a respite from its cares ; 
 These and every true delight 
 Flourish only in thy sight ; 
 And the sister graces three 
 Owe, themselves, their youth to thee 
 Without whom we may possess 
 Much, but never happiness. 
 
 ON INVALIDS. 
 
 Far ha-jpier are the dead, mcthinks, than they 
 Who look for death, and fear it every day. 
 
 ON THE ASTROLOGERS. 
 
 TuE astrologers did all alike presage 
 My uncle's dying in extreme old age ; 
 One only disagreed. But he was wise. 
 And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries. 
 
 ON AN OLD WOMAN, 
 
 Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said : 
 
 But 'tis a foul aspersion; 
 She buys them hlack ; they therefore need 
 
 No subsequent immersion. 
 
 ON FLATTERERS. 
 
 No mischief worthier of our fear 
 
 In nature can be found 
 Than friendship, in ostcnt sincere, 
 
 But liollow and unsound. 
 For luU'd into a dangerous dream 
 
 We close infold a foe, 
 Who strikes, when most secure we seem, 
 
 The inevitable blow. 
 
 ON A TRUR FlliENU. 
 
 Hast thou a friend 1 thou hast indeed 
 
 A rich an-i If.rge sup^'ly, 
 'ireasure to serve your eve i-y need, 
 
 Well managed, till you die. 
 
 ON THE SWALI-OW. 
 
 Attic maid! with honey fed, 
 
 Bear'st thou to thy callow brood 
 
 Yonder locust from the mead. 
 
 Destined their delicious food 1 
 
 Ye have kindred voices clear. 
 
 Ye alike unfold the wing. 
 Migrate hither, sojourn here, 
 
 Both attendant on the spring ! 
 
 Ah, for pity drop the prize ; 
 
 Let it not with truth be said 
 That a songster gasps ar.d dies, 
 
 That a songster may bo fed. 
 
 ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH. 
 
 Poor in my youth, and in hfe's later scenes 
 Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour. 
 
 Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the 
 
 means ; [power. 
 
 And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the 
 
 ON A BATH, BY PLATO, 
 
 Did Cytherea to the skies 
 
 From this pellucid lymph arise 1 
 
 Or was it Cytlierea's touch. 
 
 When bathing here, that made it suci 1 
 
 ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS. 
 
 With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air, 
 Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare. 
 No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss 
 Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bhss. 
 Thrice thirty years he lived, and to his heirs 
 His seeds bequeath'd, his birdlime, and his snarcj 
 
 ON NIOBE. 
 
 Charon ! receive a family on board. 
 Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl, 
 
 Apollo and Diana, for a word 
 
 By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. 
 
 ON A GOOD MAN. 
 
 Traveller, regret not me ; for thou shalt find 
 
 Just cause of sorrow none in my decease. 
 Who, dying, children's children letl behind, 
 
 And with one wife lived many a year in peace : 
 Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters 
 three, 
 
 And otl their infants in my bosom lay, 
 Nor saw I one of all derived from me, 
 
 Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away. 
 Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow'd. 
 
 And me, by blameless manners fitted well 
 To seek it, sent to the serene abode 
 
 Where shades of pious men forever dwell. 
 
 ON A MISER. 
 
 They call thee rich — I deem thee poor, 
 Since, if thou darest not use thy store, 
 But savest it only for thine heirs, 
 The treasure is not thine, but theirs. 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 A MISER traversing his house. 
 
 Espied, unusual there, a mouse. 
 
 And thus his uninvited guest 
 
 Briskly inquisitive address'd : 
 
 " Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it 
 
 I owe this unexpected visit ]" 
 
 The mouse her host obliquely eyed, 
 
 And, smiling, pleasantly replied: 
 
 " Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard ! 
 
 I come to lodge, and not to board." 
 
 ANOTHER. 
 
 Art thou some individual of a kind 
 Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind 1 
 Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such, 
 Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too 
 much. [breast 
 
 But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy 
 This lust of treasure— folly at the best ! 
 For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb, 
 To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom 1
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 72n 
 
 ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY. 
 
 Ricn, thou hadst many lovers — poor, hast none, 
 So surely want extinguishes the flame, 
 
 And she who call'd thee once her pretty one. 
 And her Adonis, now inquires thy name. 
 
 Where wast thou born, Socicrates, and where, 
 In what strange country can thy parents live. 
 
 Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware 
 That want's a crime no woman can foriiive 1 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 Happy songster, perch'd above, 
 On the summit of the grove, 
 Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing 
 With the freedom of a king. 
 From thy perch survey the fields 
 Where prolific nature yields 
 Nought that, willingly as she, 
 Mixn surrenders not to thee. 
 For hostiUty or hate 
 None thy pleasures can create. 
 Thee it satisfies to sing 
 Sweetly the return of spring. 
 Herald of the genial hours, 
 Harming neither herbs nor flowers. 
 Therefore man thy voice attends 
 Gladly — thou and he are friends; 
 Nor tliy never-ceasing strains, 
 Phoebus or the muse disdains 
 As too simple or too lomr, 
 For themselves inspire the song. 
 Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying. 
 Ever singing, sporting, playing 
 What has nature else to show 
 Godlike in its kind as thou 1 
 
 ON HERMOCRATIA. 
 
 Hermocratia named — save only one — 
 Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none; 
 For neither Phosbus pierced my thriving joys, 
 Nor Dian — she my girls, or he my boys. 
 But Dian rather, when my daughters lay 
 In parturition, chased their pangs away. 
 And all my sons, by Plufibus' bounty, shared 
 A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair'd. 
 O Niobe ! far less prolific ! see 
 Thy boast against Latona shamed by me ! 
 
 FROM MENANDER. 
 
 Fond youth ! who dream'st that hoarded gc Id 
 
 Is needful not alone to pay 
 For all thy various items sold. 
 
 To serve the wants of every day ; 
 
 Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat, 
 For savory viands season'd hiirh ; 
 
 But somewhat more important yet — 
 I tell thee what it cannot buy. 
 
 No treasure hadst thou more amass'd 
 Than tame to Tantalus a.ssign'd, 
 
 Would save thee from a tomb at last, 
 But thou must leave it all behind. 
 
 I give thee, therefore, counsel wise; 
 
 Confide not vainly in thy store. 
 However large — much less despise 
 
 Others comparatively poor ; 
 
 But in thy more exalted state 
 
 A just and equal temper show 
 That all who see thee rich and great, 
 
 May deem thee worthy to be so, 
 
 ON PALLAS BATHING, FROM A HYMN 
 OF CALLIMACHUS, 
 
 Nor oils of balmy scent produce, 
 No^ mirror for Minerva's use. 
 Ye nymphs who lave her ; she, array'd 
 In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. 
 Not even when they lefl; the skies, 
 To seek on Ida's head the prize 
 From Paris' hand, did Juno deign, 
 Or Pallas in the crystal plain 
 Of Simois' stream her locks to trace. 
 Or in the mirror's polished face, 
 Though Venus oft with anxious care 
 Adjusted twice a single hair. 
 
 TO DEMOSTHENES. 
 
 It flatters and deceives thy view, 
 This mirror of ill-polish'd ore ; 
 
 For, were it just, and told thee true, 
 Thou wouldst consult it never more. 
 
 ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER. 
 
 You give your cheeks a rosy stain, 
 
 With washes dye your hair; 
 But paint and washes both are vain 
 
 To give a youthful air. 
 
 Those wrinkles mock your daily toil. 
 
 No labor will efface 'em, 
 You wear a mask of smoothest oil, 
 
 Yet still with ease we trace 'em. 
 
 An art so fruitless then forsake. 
 Which though you much excel in. 
 
 You never can contrive to make 
 Old Hecuba young Helen. 
 
 ON AN UGLY FELLOW. 
 
 Beware, my friend ! of crystal brook, 
 Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, 
 
 Thy nose, thou chance to see ; 
 Narcissus' t'atc would then be thine. 
 And self-detcstcd thou wouldst pine, 
 
 As selt-enamour'd he. 
 
 ON A BATTERED BEAUTY. 
 
 Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy, 
 
 A multifarious store ! 
 A mask at once would all supply 
 
 Nor would it cost you more. 
 
 ON A THIEF. 
 
 When Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize 
 Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies, 
 Hermes. Arcadia's king, the thief divine. 
 Who when an infant stole Apollo's kine. 
 And whom, as arbiter and overseer 
 Of our gymnastic sports, we pjanted here ; 
 " Hermes," he cried, " you meet no new disaster^ 
 Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond the master."
 
 728 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ON PEDIGREE. 
 
 FROM EPICHARMUS. 
 
 My mother ! if thou love me, name no more 
 My noble birth ! Sounding at every breath 
 My noble birth, thou kilTst ine. Thither fly, 
 As to their only refuge, all from whom 
 Nature withholds all good besides ; they boast 
 Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
 Of their forefathers, and, from age to age 
 Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race : 
 But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name. 
 Derived from no forefathers 1 Such a man 
 Lives not ; for how could such be born at all 1 
 And, if it chance that, native of a land 
 Far distant, or in infancy deprived 
 Of all his kindred, one. who cannot trace 
 His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
 Prom baser ancestry than theirs who can "? 
 My mother ! he whom nature at his birth 
 Endow'd with virtuous qualities, although 
 An iEthiop and a slave, is nobly born. 
 
 ON ENVY. 
 
 Pity, says the Theban bard, 
 From my wishes I discard ; 
 Envy, let me rather be. 
 Rather far, a theme for thee. 
 Pity to distress is shown, 
 Envy to the great alone — 
 So the Theban — But to shine 
 Less conspicuous be mine ! 
 I prefer the golden mean. 
 Pomp and penury between ; 
 For alarm and peril wait 
 Ever on the loftiest state 
 
 And the lowest to the end 
 Obloquy and scorn attend. 
 
 BY MOSCHUS. 
 
 I SLEPT when Venus enter'd : to my bed 
 A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, 
 A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said : 
 
 " Shepherd, receive my little one ! I bring 
 An untaught love, whom thou must teach tc 
 
 sing." 
 She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought. 
 Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught. 
 How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound. 
 How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound, 
 How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire 
 Of Phoebus owe to Phcebus' self the lyre. [he, 
 Such were my themes ; my themes nought heeded 
 But ditties sang of amorous sort to me. 
 The pangs that mortals and immortals prove 
 From Venus' influence and the darts of love. 
 Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; 
 His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot. 
 
 BY PHILEMON. 
 
 Opt we enhance our ills by discontent. 
 And give them bulk beyond what nature meant 
 A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry — 
 '• He's dead indeed, but he was born to die"— 
 Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
 And burden of the loss ; is just and wise. 
 But to exclaim. " Ah ! wherefore was 1 born, 
 Thus to be left forever thus forlorn V 
 Who thus laments his loss invites distress, 
 And magnifies a woe that might be less, 
 Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd, 
 And leaving reason's remedy behind. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY. 
 
 LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS. 
 
 Lusus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit, 
 
 Simphce ni nexus foedere, lusus amor. 
 Incerto genitore puer, non sspe paternae 
 
 Tutamen novit, deliciasque domus : 
 Q.uique sibi fidos fore multos sperat, amicus 
 
 Mirum est huic misero si ferat ullus opem. 
 Comis erat, mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus 
 
 Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus. 
 lile, quot in sylvis et quot spatiantur in agris 
 
 Gtuadrupedes, norat conciliarc sibi ; 
 Etquisqueinnocuo invit >quelacesscrequenquam 
 
 Labra tenus saltern fidus amicus erat. 
 Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit, 
 
 Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens, 
 Venatorum audit clangores pone sequentem, 
 
 Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit. 
 Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigitaures, 
 
 Respicit, et scntit jam prope adesse necem. 
 Utque canes fallat late cireumvagus, illuc, 
 
 tJnde abiit, mira calliditate redit ; 
 
 Viribus at fracfis tandem se projicit ultro 
 In media miseruin semianimemque via. 
 Vix ibi stratus, equi sonitum pedis audit, et, oh spa 
 
 Q,uam laeta adventu cor agitatur equi ! 
 Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, 
 tuoque 
 Auxiho nares fallere, vimque canum. 
 Me mens, ut nosti. pes prodit — fidus amicus 
 Fert quodcunque, lubens, nee grave sentit, 
 onus. 
 Belle, miselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) amara 
 
 Omnia quae tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi. 
 Verum age — sume animos — multi, me pone, 
 bonique 
 Adveniunt, quorum sis cito salvus ope. 
 Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatus 
 
 Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat: 
 Q,uando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullua 
 amicum 
 Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, 
 Libertate sequus, quam cedit amicus amico, 
 i Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam;
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM OWEN. 
 
 729 
 
 Hinc 
 
 Juxta istum messis 
 
 me mandat amor, 
 acervuin 
 
 Me mea, proe cunctis chara, juvenca manet ; 
 Et quis non ultro quaecunque negotia linquit, 
 
 Pareat ut domina; cum vocat ipsa suae I 
 Nee me crudeleui dicas — discedo — sed hircus, 
 
 Cujus ope crt'ugias integer, hircus adest. 
 Febrem (ait hircus) habes. Heu, sicca ut lumina 
 languent ! 
 
 Utque caput, colic deficiente, jacet ! 
 Hirsutum mihi tcrguin ; et Ibrsan liEserit ffigrum, 
 
 Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit. 
 Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit, anhelans 
 
 Sustineo lanaj pondera tanta meae ; 
 Me nee velocern nee fortem jacto, solentque 
 
 Nos etiam sxvi dilacerare canes. 
 Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur, 
 
 Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. 
 Remne ergo, respondct vitulus, suscepero tantam, 
 
 Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri ] 
 Te, quern maturi canibus validique relinquunt, 
 
 Incolumem potero rediiere parvus ego ! 
 Praeterea tollens queiu illi avcrsantur, amicis 
 
 Forte parum videar consuluisse meis. 
 Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissociantur 
 
 Corda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum. 
 Ecce autem ad calces canis est ! te quanta 
 pcrempto 
 
 Tristitia est nobis ingruitura ! — Vale ! 
 
 AVARUS ET PLUTUS. 
 
 IcTA fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus 
 
 Ex somno trcpidus surgit opumque memor. 
 Lata silenter huini ponit vestigia, quemque 
 
 Respicit ad sonitum, respiciensque tremit ; 
 Angustissima quaeque foramina lampade visit, 
 
 Ad vectes. obices, fertque refertque manum. 
 Dein rcserat crebris junctam compugibus arcam 
 
 Exultan.sque omnes conspicit intus opes. 
 Sed tandein furiis ultricibus actus ob artes 
 
 Quels sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum. 
 Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora 
 pulsans 
 
 Auruin execratur, perniciemque vocat ; 
 mihi, ait, misero mens quain tranquilU fuisset, 
 
 Hoc ceiasset adhuc si modo terra maluui ! 
 
 Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum 
 
 Quid contra vitii tormina saeva valet 1 
 O inimicum aurum ? O honiini infestissima pestis ; 
 
 Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas 1 
 Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid hon- 
 estum est, 
 
 Et praeter notnen nil retinere boni. 
 Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit ; 
 
 Aurum nocturnis turibus arma dedit. 
 Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessinia ducit, 
 
 Fcedifragas artes, multiplicesque doles, 
 Nee vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum 
 
 Ex malesuada auri sacrilegilque fame. 
 Dixit, et ingemuit ; Plutusque suum sibi numen 
 
 Ante oculos, ira fervidus, ipse stetit. 
 Arcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis 
 
 Ostendens ; tremulum sic Deus increpuit. 
 Questibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis 
 auresi 
 
 Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit. 
 Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe'? 
 Culpa, 
 
 Dum rapis, et captas omnia, culpa tua est. 
 Mene execrandum cense.s, quia tarn pretiosa 
 
 Criminibus liunt perniciosa tuis 1 
 Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus 
 
 Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit. 
 Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum 
 
 Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium. 
 Hinc, nimiuin dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam. 
 
 Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax. 
 Nutrit avaritiam et fastum. suspendere adunco 
 
 Suadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet. 
 Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar 
 
 Roris dilapsi ex aethere cuncta beat : 
 Turn, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat 
 orbos, 
 
 Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat. 
 Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus, 
 
 Aurum aniinae pretiuin qui cupit atque capit 1 
 Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atrox 
 
 Caeso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reum. 
 
 PAPILIO ET LIMAX. 
 
 Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit, 
 Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur, olet. 
 
 EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. 
 
 ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT. 
 
 Thou mayst of double ignorance boast, 
 Who knowr'st not that thou nothing know'st. 
 
 PRUDENT SIMPLICITY. 
 
 That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be, 
 And serpent-like, that none may injure thee ! 
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
 
 Co>JTKMPLATE, when the sun declines, 
 Thy death with deep reflection! 
 
 And when again he rising shines, 
 The day of resurrection ! 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. 
 
 I WISH thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend ; 
 For when at worst, they say, things always mend. 
 
 RETALIATION. 
 
 Thk works of ancient bards divine, 
 
 Aulus. thou scorn 'st to read ; 
 And should posterity read thine, 
 
 It would be strange indeed ! 
 
 When little more than boy in age, 
 I deem'd myself almost a sage: 
 But now seem worthier to be styled 
 For ignorance, almost a child.
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND HOMER. 
 
 THE SALAD BY VIRGIL. 
 
 The winter night now well nigh worn away 
 The wakeful cock proclaim'd approachincr day, 
 When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm 
 Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, 
 Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to pro- 
 vide 
 Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, 
 By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook. 
 And, poking in the dark, explored the nook 
 Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around. 
 And with burnt fingers' ends the treasure found. 
 
 It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose, 
 Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose ; 
 When, trimming with a pin the encrusted tow. 
 And stooping it towards the coals below. 
 He toils with cheeks distended, to excite 
 The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. 
 With prudent heed he spreads his hand before 
 The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door. 
 Small was his stock, but taken for the day 
 A measured stint of twice eight pounds away, 
 With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, 
 Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand : 
 Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat 
 He girds, the rough exuvias of a goat : 
 And with a rubber, for that use design'd. 
 Cleansing his mill within — begins to grind ; 
 Each hand has its employ ; laboring amain, 
 This turns the winch, while that supplies the 
 
 grain. 
 The stone, revolviwg lapidly, novir glows. 
 And the bruised corn a mealy current flows ; 
 While he, to make his heavy labor light, 
 Tasks oft his lefl hand to relieve his right; 
 And chants with rudest accent, to beguile 
 His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. 
 And now, " Dame Cybale, come forth !" he cries ; 
 But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies. 
 
 From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, 
 Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd. 
 With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin. 
 Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin. 
 Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, 
 Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. 
 Such, summon'd oft. she came ; at his command 
 Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd. 
 And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, 
 Replenish 'd newly from the neighboring stream. 
 
 The labors of the mill perform'd, a sieve 
 The mingled flour and bran must next receive, 
 Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined, 
 And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. 
 
 This done, at once his future plain repast 
 Unleaven'd on a shaven board he cast. 
 With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all, 
 Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, 
 And spreading it again with both hands wide, 
 With sprinkled salt the stiffen'd mass supplied ; 
 At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought, 
 Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it 
 
 ought. 
 Becomes an orb — and quarter'd into shares. 
 The faithful mark of just division bears. 
 Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, 
 For Cybale before had swept the place. 
 And there, with tiles and embers overspread, 
 She leaves it — reeking in its sultry bed. 
 
 Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus alone 
 His part pertbrm'd, proves heedless of his own. 
 But sedulous, not merely to subdue 
 His hunger, but to please his palate too. 
 Prepares more savory food. His chimney side 
 Could boast no gammon, salted well and dried 
 And hook'd behind him ; but sufficient store 
 Of bundled anise and a cheese it bore ; [strung 
 A broad round cheese, which, through its centre 
 With a tough broom twig, in the corner hung ; 
 The prudent hero, therefore, with address 
 And quick despatch, now seeks another mess. 
 
 Close to his cottage lay a garden ground, 
 With re^s and osiers sparely girt around ; 
 Small was the spot, but liberal to produce, 
 Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use ; 
 And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow 
 
 thence, 
 Although its tillage was its sole expense. 
 For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased, 
 Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, 
 His debt of culture here he duly paid. 
 And only left the plough to wield the spade. 
 He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, 
 To drill the ground and cover close the seeds ; 
 And could with ease compel the wanton rill 
 To turn and wind obedient to his will. [beet, 
 There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching 
 The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet. 
 The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind. 
 The noxious poppy — quencher of the mind ! 
 Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board. 
 The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd ; 
 But these (for none his appetite controH'd 
 With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold ; 
 With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, 
 He bore them ever to the public mart : 
 Whence laden still, but with a lighter load. 
 Of cash well earn'd, he tookliis homeward road,
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL. 
 
 731 
 
 Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, 
 His gains in flesh meat for a feast at home. 
 There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red, 
 Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf he fed : 
 On scallions sliced, or, with a sensual gust, 
 On rockets — foul provocatives of lust ! 
 Nor ever shunn'd with smarting gums to press 
 Nasturtium — pungent face-distorting mess ! 
 
 Some such regale now also in his thought, 
 With hasty steps his garden ground he sought; 
 There, delving with his hands, he first displaced 
 Four plants of garliek, large, and rooted fast ; 
 The tender tops of parsley next he culls, 
 Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls ; 
 And coriander last to these succeeds, [seeds. 
 
 That hangs on slightest threads her trembhng 
 
 Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands 
 The mortar at his sable servant's hands ; 
 When, stripping all his garliek first, he tore 
 The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, 
 Then cast away with like contempt the skin. 
 Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. 
 These, search'd, and perfect found, he one by one 
 Rinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone. 
 Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, 
 With his injected herbs he cover'd these. 
 And, tucking with his left his tunic tight. 
 And seizing fast the pestle with his right. 
 The garliek bruising first he soon express'd, 
 And mixed the various juices of the rest. 
 He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below, 
 Lost in each other, their own powers forego. 
 And with the cheese in compound, to the sight 
 Nor wholly green appear nor wholly white. 
 His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent. 
 He cursed full ofl his dinner for its scent; 
 Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spoke 
 The trickling tears, cried, " Vengeance on the 
 
 stnoke !" 
 The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now 
 The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow ; 
 With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills. 
 Some drops of olive oil he next instils, 
 Then vinegar with caution scarcely less. 
 And gathering to a ball the medley mess. 
 Last, with two fingers frugally applied. 
 Sweeps the small remnant troin tlie mortar's side. 
 And, thus complete in figure and in kind, 
 Obtains at lengtli tlic salad he dosign'd. 
 
 And now black Cybale before him stands. 
 The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands, 
 He glads receives it, chasing far away 
 All fears of famine for the passing day ; 
 His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head 
 In its tough casque of leather, forth he led 
 And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair. 
 Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed 
 share. 
 June, 1799. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 
 
 JENEID, BOOK VIII. LINE 18. 
 
 Thus Italy was moved — nor did the chief 
 iEneas in his mind less tumult feel. 
 On every side his anxious thought he turns, 
 Restless, unfix'd, not knowing which to choose. 
 And as a cistern that in brim of bra.ss 
 Confines the crystal flood, if chance the sun 
 Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb. 
 
 The quivering light now flashes on the walls, 
 Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof: 
 Such were the wavering motions of his mind. 
 'Twas night — and weary nature sunk to rest. 
 The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no 
 
 more. 
 At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp 
 And dewy vault fast by the river's brink, 
 The father of his country sought repose. 
 When lo ! among the spreading poplar boughs. 
 Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious rose 
 The god of Tiber: clear transparent gauze 
 Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are 
 
 crown'd : 
 And these his gracious words to soothe his care : 
 '' Heaven-born, whobrimr'st our kindred home 
 
 again. 
 Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy, 
 Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains 
 Expected thee ; behold thy fix'd abode. 
 Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past. 
 The gods appeased. For proof that what thou 
 
 hear'st 
 Is no vain forgery or delusive dream. 
 Beneath the grove that borders my green bank, 
 A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young. 
 Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the 
 
 place ; 
 For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils: 
 There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's walls 
 Shall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand. 
 Thus shall it be — now listen, while 1 teach 
 The means to accomplish these events at hand. 
 The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung, 
 Following Evander's standard and his fate. 
 High on these mountains, a well chosen spot. 
 Have built a city, tor their grandsire's sake 
 Named Pallanteum. These perpetual war 
 Wage with the Latians : join'd in fliitiiful league 
 And arms confederate, add them to your camp. 
 Myself between my winding banks will speed 
 Your well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide. 
 Rise, goddess born, arise ; and with the first 
 Declining stars seek Juno m thy prayer, 
 And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows. 
 W'hen conquest crowns ttiec, then remember me. 
 I am the Tiber, whose cceruleun stream 
 Heaven favors ; I with copious flood divide 
 These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads. 
 My mansion, this — and lofty cities crown 
 My fountain head." — He spoke and sought the 
 
 deep, 
 And plunged his form beneath the closing flood. 
 iEneas at the morning dawn awoke. 
 And, rising, with uplifted eye beheld 
 The orient sun, then dipped his palms, and 
 
 scoop'd 
 The brimming stream, and thus address'd the 
 
 skies : 
 " Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the 
 
 source 
 Of many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood, 
 O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford, 
 At length afford, a shelter from my woes. 
 Where'er in secret cavern under ground 
 Tliy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light. 
 Since thou hast pity tor a wretch like me. 
 My offerings and my vows shall w;ut thee still : 
 Great horned Father of Hesperian floods. 
 Be gracious now, and ratify tliy word." 
 He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet, 
 Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arma
 
 732 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 When lo ! astonishing and pleasing sight, 
 The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood, 
 Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove. 
 To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee 
 Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed. 
 That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood, 
 And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to stand 
 Motionless as a pool, or silent lake. 
 That not a billow might resist their oars. 
 With cheerful sound of exhortation soon 
 Their voyage they begin ; the pitchy keel 
 Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream 
 Admires the unwonted burden that it bears, 
 Well poUsh'd arms, and vessels painted gay. 
 Beneath the shade of various trees, between 
 The umbrageous branches of the spreading 
 
 groves. 
 They cut their liquid way, nor day nor night 
 They slack their course, unwinding as they go 
 The long meanders of the peaceful tide. 
 
 The glowing sun was in meridian height, 
 When from afar they saw the humble walls, 
 And the few scatter'd cottages, which now 
 The Roman power has equall'd with the clouds ; 
 But such was then Evander's scant domain. 
 They steer to shore, and hasten to the town. 
 
 It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day. 
 Before the walls, beneath a shady grove, 
 Was celebrating high, in solemn feast, 
 Alcides and Ill's tutelary gods. 
 Pallas, his son. was there, and there the chief 
 Of all his youth ; with these, a worthy tribe. 
 His poor but venerable senate, burnt [blood. 
 Sweet incense, and their altars smoked with 
 Soon as they saw the towering masts approach, 
 Shding between the trees, while the crew rest 
 Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose. 
 Not without fear, and all forsook the feast. 
 But Pallds undismay'd, his javelin seized, 
 Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground 
 Forbade them to disturb the sacred rites. 
 " Ye stranger youth ! What prompts you to 
 
 explore 
 This untried way 1 and whither do ye steer 1 
 Whence, and who are vc '' Bring ye peace or 
 
 vtixtV 
 .Eneas from his lofty deck holds forth 
 The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies : 
 " Trojans and' enemies to the Latian state, 
 Whom they with unprovoked hostilities [der — 
 Have driven away, thou seest. We seek Evan- 
 Say this — and say Leside, the Trojan chiefs 
 Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid." 
 Pallas with wonder heard that awful name. 
 And " Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, " come forth : 
 Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear. 
 And be a welcome guest beneath our roof." 
 He said, and ress'd the stranger to his breast: 
 Then led him from the river to the grove. 
 Where, courteous, thus iEneas greets the king: 
 " Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow 
 (So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth 
 In sign of amity this peaceful branch, 
 I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee well 
 A Grecian leader, born in Arcady, 
 And kinsman of the Atridae. Me my virtue, 
 That means no wrong to thee — the Oracles, 
 Our kindred families allied of old. 
 And thy renown diil'used through every land, 
 Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee, 
 And send me not unwilling to thy shores. 
 Dardanus, author of the Trojan state, 
 
 (So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son ; 
 Electra boasted Atlas for her sire, 
 Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs. 
 Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore. 
 Sweet Maia, on Cylene's hoary top. 
 Her, if we credit aught tradition old. 
 Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'd 
 His daughter. Thus united close in blood. 
 Thy race and ours one common sire confess. 
 With these credentials fraught, I would not send 
 Ambassadors with artful phrase to sound 
 And win thee oy degrees — but came myself — 
 Me, therefore, me thou seest ; my hfe the stake: 
 'Tis I, jEneas, who implore thine aid. 
 Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee. 
 Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think. 
 Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs, 
 All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea. 
 Take then our friendship, and return us thine. 
 We too have courage, we have noble minds, 
 And youth well tried, and exercised in arms." 
 
 Thus spoke jEneas. — He with fixd regard 
 Survey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien. 
 Then briefly thus — " Thou noblest of thy name, 
 How gladly do I take thee to my heart. 
 How gladly thus confess thee for a friend ! 
 In thee I trace Anchises ; his thy speech. 
 Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well remember 
 Many a day since, when Priam journey'd forth 
 To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt 
 Hesione, his sister, he push'd on 
 E'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then 
 The bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek ; 
 Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and much 
 Their king, the son of great Laomedon, 
 But most Anchises, towering o'er them all. 
 A youthful longing seized me to accost 
 The hero, and embrace him; I drew near, 
 And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus. 
 Departing, he distintinguis'd me with gifts, 
 A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, 
 A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'd 
 Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now. 
 The friendly league thou hast solicited 
 I give thee, therefore, and to-morrow all 
 My chosen youth shall wait on your return. 
 Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come, 
 Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate 
 These annual rites, which may not be delay'd, 
 And be at once familiar at our board." 
 
 He said, and bade replace the feast removed ; 
 Himself upon a grassy bank disposed 
 The crew ; but lor ^Eneas order'd forth 
 A couch spread with a lion's tawny shag. 
 And bade him share the honors of his throne. 
 The appointed youth with glad alacrity 
 Assist the laboring priest to load the board 
 With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves. 
 Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well 
 
 pleased, 
 jEneas and the Trojan youth regale 
 On the huge length of a well pastured chine. 
 
 Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd, 
 Thus spake Evander : '■ Superstition here. 
 In this old solemn feasting, has no part. 
 No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved, 
 In gratitude this worship we renew. 
 Behold that rock which nods above the vale. 
 Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around, 
 How desolate the shatter'd cave appears, 
 And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain. 
 Within this pile, but far within, was once
 
 The den of Cacus ; dire his hateful form 
 That shunn'd theday, halfmonsterand half man. 
 Blood newly shed streamed ever on the ground 
 Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan 
 Nail'd at his gale, hung hideous to tlie sight. 
 Vulcan begot the brute : vast was his size, 
 And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires. 
 But the day came that brought us what we 
 
 wish'd, 
 The assistance and the presence of a God. 
 Flush'd with his victory, and the spoils he won 
 I<rom triple-form'd Geryon lately slain, 
 The great avenger, Hercules, ajjpear'd. 
 Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd 
 His herds along the vale. But the sly thief 
 Cacus, that nothing might escape his hand 
 Of villainy or fraud, drove from the stalls 
 Four of tlie lordliest of his bulls, and four 
 The fairest of his heifers : by the tail 
 He dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd, 
 No footsteps might betray the dark abode. 
 And now, his herd with provender sufficed, 
 Alcides would be gone ; they as they went 
 Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods 
 And distant hills resound : when, hark ! one ox, 
 Imjjrison'd close within the vast recess, 
 Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope. 
 Then fury seized Alcides, and his breast 
 With indignation heaved ; grasping his club 
 Of knotted oak, swill to the mountain top 
 He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen 
 To tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears. 
 Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den. 
 And dread, increasing, wing'd him as he went. 
 Drawn up in h'on slings above the gate, 
 A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste. 
 He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door. 
 Then grappled it with iron work within 
 Of bolls and bars by Vulcan's art contrived. 
 Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge, 
 Came Hercules ; he gnash'd his teeth with rage. 
 And quick as hghtning glanced his eyes arnund 
 In quest of entrance. Fiery .rod and stung 
 With indignation, thrice he wbecl'd his course 
 About the mountain; thrice, but thrice in vain. 
 He strove to force the quarry at the gate. 
 And thrice sat down, o'erwearied in. the vale. 
 There stood a pointed n)ck abrupt and rude, 
 That high o'ovlook'd the rest, close at the back 
 Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene 
 Of ominous note resorted, choughs and dawb. 
 This, as it Ican'd obliquely to the left, 
 Threatening the stream below, he from the right 
 Push'd with his utmost strength, and to and fro 
 He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base ; 
 Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile ; 
 Sky thuiider'd at the fall ; the banks give way, 
 The aflrighted stream flows upward to his source. 
 Behold the kennel of the brute exposed, 
 The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance 
 Earth yawning to the cencre siiould disclose 
 The mansions, the pal;"- mansions of the dead, 
 L lathed by the gods, such woulil the gulf appear. 
 And the gh()sts trei;:!:!? at the sight of day. 
 The monster braying with unusual din 
 Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed 
 To see such sudden inroads of the light, 
 Alcides press'd him close v/ith wh.at at hand 
 Lay readiest, stumps oi'trces, and fragments huge 
 Of millstone size. He, (for cscap3 was none), 
 Wondrous to tell ! forth from his gorge discharged 
 . sinoky cloud that darken'd all the den ; 
 
 Wreath after wreath he vomited amain, 
 The smothering vapor mix'd with fiery sparks. 
 No sight could penetrate the veil obscure. 
 The hero, more provoked, endured not this, 
 But with a headlong leap he rush'd to where 
 The thickest cloud enveloped his abode. 
 There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires, 
 Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster shows 
 His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard, 
 And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears 
 
 down 
 The barricade of rock, the dark abyss 
 Lies open ; and the imprison'd bulls, the theft 
 He had with oaths denied, are brought to light ; 
 By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth, 
 His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast 
 Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws 
 Ai'e view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd. 
 Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence 
 This festal day Potitius first enjoin'd 
 Posterity : these solemn rites he first, 
 With those who bear the great Pinarian name, 
 To Hercules devoted ; in the grove 
 This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest 
 By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd. [brows 
 Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful 
 In praise of such deliverance, and hold forth 
 The brimming cup ; your deities and ours 
 Are now the same, then drink, and freely too." 
 
 So saying, he twisted round his reverend locks 
 A variegated poplar wreath, and lill'd 
 His right hand with a consecrated bowl. 
 At once all pour libations on the board. 
 All offer prayer. And now, the radiant sphere 
 Of day descending, eventide drew near. 
 When first Potitius with the priests advanced. 
 Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands. 
 High piled with meats of savory taste, they 
 
 ranged 
 The chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast. 
 Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too. 
 Circling the blazing altars; here tlie youth 
 Adva; ced, a choir harmonious, there were heard 
 The reverend seers responsive ; praise they sung, 
 Much praise in honor of Alcides' deeds ; 
 How first with infant gripe two serpents huge 
 He strangled, sent from Juno ; next they sung, 
 How Troia and ;lu;halia he destroy 'd. 
 Fair citie3 both, and liiany a toilsome task 
 BeneaCh Earystheus (so his stepdarae will'd) 
 Aciiieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair, 
 Hylaeus fierce and Pholus. monstrous twins, 
 Thou slew'si the minotaur, the plague of Crete, 
 And tlie vast lion of the Nemean rock. 
 Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd, 
 Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones. 
 Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vast 
 Typhoeus could appal, though clad in arms. 
 Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the gods 
 At length enroU'd, nor least illustrious thou, 
 Haste thee propitious and approve our songs. 
 Thus hymn'd the chorus; above all they sing 
 The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed 
 The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound. 
 
 Tlic rites pcrform'd, all hasten to tlie town. 
 The king, bending with age, held as he went 
 -I'^neas and his Pallas by the hand. 
 With much variety of pleasing talk 
 Shortening the way. ^Eneas, with a smile, 
 Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful 
 
 scene. 
 And many a question asks, and much he learna
 
 734 
 
 COWPER S WORKS. 
 
 Of heroes far renown'd in au'jient times. 
 
 Then spake Evander. These extensive groves, 
 
 Were once inhabited by fauns and nymplis, 
 
 Produced beneath their shades, and a rude race 
 
 Of men, the progeny uncouth of ehns 
 
 And knotted oaks. They no refinement knevy 
 
 Of laws or manners civilized, to yoke 
 
 The steer, with forecast provident to store 
 
 The hoarded grain, or manage what they had, 
 
 But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs. 
 
 Or fed voracious on their hunted prey. 
 
 An exile fro.ii Olympus, and expell'd 
 
 His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove, 
 
 First Saturn came. He from the mountains 
 
 drew 
 This herd of men untractable and fierce, 
 And gave them laws : and call'd his hiding-place, 
 This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peace 
 His land possess'd, the golden age was then. 
 So famed in story ; till by slow degrees 
 Far other times, and of far different hue, 
 Succeeded, thirst of gold and tiiirst of blood. 
 Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts 
 From Sicily, and Latium often changed 
 Her master and her name. At length arose 
 Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form 
 Was chief: and we Italians since have call'd 
 The river by his name ; thus Albula 
 (So was the country call'd in ancient days) 
 Was quite forgot. Me from my native land 
 An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven, 
 Resistless fortune and relentless fate 
 Placed where thou seest me. Phcebus, and 
 The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care 
 Attendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here. 
 
 [Ten lines omitted.] 
 
 He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock, 
 And the rude spot where now the Capitol 
 Stands all magnificent and bright with gold, 
 Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en then 
 The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe ; 
 The grove, the rock, inspired religious fea'" 
 This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty top 
 Of this fair hill, some deity, we know, 
 Inhabits, but what deity we doubt. 
 The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself 
 That they have often seen him, shaking here 
 His gloomy jEgis, while the thunder storms 
 Came rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes, 
 Behold that ruin : those dismantled walls, 
 
 Where once two towns, Janiculum , 
 
 By Janus this, and that by Saturn built, 
 Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath 
 The roof of poor Evander; thence they saw. 
 Where now the proud and stately forum stands. 
 The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field. 
 Soon as he enter'd — Hercules, he said, 
 Victorious Hercules, on this threshold trod, 
 These walls contain'd him, humble as they are. 
 Dare to despise magnificence, my friend. 
 Prove thy divine descent by worth divine. 
 Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode. 
 So saying, he led iEneas by the hand. 
 And placed him on a cushion stuff'dwith leaves, 
 Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear. 
 
 [The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.] 
 
 While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd, 
 Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day, 
 A^nd the shrill song f birds beneath the eaves 
 Of his low mansion, old Evander rose. 
 
 His tunic, and the sandals on his feet, 
 And his good sword well girded to his side, 
 A panther's skin dependent from his left. 
 And over his right shoulder thrown aslant. 
 Thus was he clad. Two mastitfs follow'd Litn, 
 His whole retinue and his nightly guard. 
 
 OVID, TRIST. BOOK V. ELEG. XII. 
 
 Scribis, ut oblectem. 
 
 YoTj bid me write to amuse the tedious hours 
 
 And save from withering my poetic powers ; 
 
 Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flo»» 
 
 From the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe; 
 
 Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost. 
 
 Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most. 
 
 Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain, 
 
 Or childless Niobe from tears refrain. 
 
 Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train 1 
 
 Does grief or study most befit the mind 
 
 To this remote, this barbarous nook confined 1 
 
 Could you impart to my unshaken breast 
 
 The fortitude by Socrates possess'd. 
 
 Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine, 
 
 For what is human strength to wrath divine 1 
 
 Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so, 
 
 My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low. 
 
 Could I forget my country, thee and all. 
 
 And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall, 
 
 Yet fear alone would freeze that poet's vein, 
 
 While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain. 
 
 Add that the fatal rust of long disuse 
 
 Unfits me for the service of the muse. 
 
 Thistles and weeds are all we can expect 
 
 From the best soil impoverish'd by neglect ; 
 
 Unexercised, and to his stall confined, 
 
 The fleetest racer would be left behind ; 
 
 The best built bark ihc.t cleaves the watery way. 
 
 Laid useless by, would moulder and decay — 
 
 No hope remains that time shall me restore 
 
 Mean as I was, to what I was before. 
 
 Think how a series of desponding cares 
 
 Benumbs the genius and its force impairs. 
 
 How ofl, as now, on this devoted sheet, 
 
 My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet, 
 
 Reluctant and laborious limps along. 
 
 And proves itself a wretched exile's song. 
 
 What is it tunes the most melodious lays 1 
 
 'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise, 
 
 A noble thirst, and not unknown to me. 
 
 While smoothly wailed on a calmer sea. 
 
 But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame 1 
 
 No, rather let the world forget my name. 
 
 Is it because that world approved my strain, 
 
 You prompt me to the same pursuit again 1 
 
 No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse, 
 
 I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse, 
 
 And like Perilluj, meet my just desert. 
 
 The victim of my own pernicious art: 
 
 Fool that I was to be so v/arn'd in vain. 
 
 And, shipwrecked once, to tempt the deep again. 
 
 Ill fares the bard in this unlctter'd land, 
 
 None to consult, and none to under.stand. 
 
 The purest verse has no admirers here, 
 
 Their own rude lancrua^e only suits their ear. 
 
 Ru le as it is, at length familiar grown, 
 
 I learn it, and almost unlearn my own — 
 
 Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains 
 
 Confinement, and attempts her former strains
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 735 
 
 But finds the strong desire is not the power, 
 And what her taste condemns the flames devour. 
 A part perhaps, hke this, escapes the doom. 
 And thoujrli unworthy, finds a friend at Rome; 
 But oh ! tiic cruel art that could undo 
 Its votary thus ! would that could perish too ! 
 
 H9RACE, BOOK I. ODE IX. 
 
 Vides, ut alts, stet nive candiduin 
 Soracte ; 
 
 Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow, 
 The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow, 
 
 The streams, congeal'd, forget to i\o\v, 
 Come, tliaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile 
 
 Of fuel on tlie hearth ; 
 Broach the best cask and make old winter sml!e 
 With seasonable mirth. 
 
 This be our part — let Heaven dispose the rest ; 
 If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, 
 That now wage war upon the foamy deep, 
 
 And gentle gales spring from the balmy west. 
 
 E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may, 
 When to-morrow's passed away, 
 We at least ?hall have to say, 
 W'e have hvnd anotlier day; 
 V'our auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er, 
 Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no 
 more. 
 
 HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII. 
 
 Persicus odi, puor, apparatus. 
 
 Boy, I hate their empty shows, 
 
 Persian garlands I detest. 
 Bring not mc the late-blown rose, 
 
 Lingering al>er all the rest. 
 Plainer myrtle pleases me, 
 
 Thus outstrelchd beneath my vine ; 
 IMyrtle more becoming thee, 
 
 Waiting with thy master's wine. 
 
 HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII. 
 
 Boy ! I detest all Persian fopperies. 
 Fillet-bound garlands are to me di-sgusting ; 
 Task not tliyself with any search, I charge thee. 
 
 Where latest roses linger. 
 Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) 
 Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
 Thee occupied to serve mc. or me drinkino-" 
 
 Beneath my vine's cool sJielter. 
 
 HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X. 
 
 RECK.ivn, dear friend, the truths I teach, 
 So shall thou live beyond the reach 
 
 Of adverse tbrlune's power; 
 Not always tempt the distant deep, 
 Nor always timorously creep 
 
 Aloni'' the treacherous shore. 
 
 He that holds fast the golden mean, 
 And lives contentedly between 
 The httle and the great, 
 
 Peels not the wants that pinch the poor. 
 Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 
 Imbittering all his state. 
 
 The tallest pines feel most the power 
 Of wintry blasts ; the loftiest tower 
 
 Comes heaviest to the ground ; 
 The bolts that spare the mountain's side 
 His cloudcapt eminence divide, 
 
 And spread the ruin round. 
 
 The well-inform'd philosopher, 
 Rejoices with a wholesome fear, 
 
 And hopes in spite of pain ; 
 If Winter bellow from the north. 
 Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth, 
 
 And Nature laughs again. 
 
 What if thine heaven be overcast 1 
 The dark appearance will not last ; 
 
 EA'pcct a brighter sky. 
 The God that strings the silver bow 
 Awakes sometimes the muses too, 
 
 And lays his arrows by. 
 
 If hindrances obstruct thy way, 
 Thy magnanimity display, 
 
 And let thy strength be seen . 
 But O 1 if Fortune fill thy sail 
 With more than a propitious gale. 
 
 Take half thy canvas in. 
 
 A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING 
 ODE. 
 
 And is this all 1 Can Reason do no more 
 Then bid me shun the deep and dread the shored 
 Sweet moralist ! afloat on life's rough sea. 
 The Christian has an art unknown to thee • 
 He holds no parley with unmanly fears ; 
 Where Duty bids he confidently steers, 
 Faces a thousand dangers at her call, 
 And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all, 
 
 HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVL 
 
 Otium Divos rogat in patent!. 
 
 Ease is the weary merchant's prayer. 
 Who ploughs by night the ^gean flood. 
 
 When neither moon nor stars appear. 
 Or fiiintly glimmer through the cloud. 
 
 For ease the Mede with quiver graced, 
 For ease the Tracian hero sighs. 
 
 Delightful ease all pant to tastej 
 A blessing which no treasure buys. 
 
 For neither gold can lull to rest. 
 Nor all a Consul's guard beat off 
 
 The tumults of a troubled breast, 
 The cares that haunt a gilded roof. 
 
 Happy the man whose table .shows 
 A few clean ounces of old plate, 
 
 No fear intrudes on his repose, 
 No sordid wishes to be great. 
 
 Poor short-lived tilings, what plans wc lay 
 Ah, why forsake our native home 1 
 
 To distant climates speed away ; 
 
 For self sticks close where'er we roam. 
 
 Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes 
 The vvell-ngg'd ship, the warlike steed ;
 
 736 
 
 COWPEK'S WORKS. 
 
 Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes — 
 Not the wind flies with half her speed. 
 
 From anxious fears of future ill 
 
 Guard well the cheerful, happy now ; 
 
 Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, 
 No blessing is unmix'd below. 
 
 Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds, 
 Thy numerous flocks around thee graze. 
 
 And the best purple Tyre affords 
 Thy robe magnificent displays. 
 
 On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd 
 A rural mansion, neat and small ; 
 
 This lyre ; — and as for yonder crowd, 
 The happiness to hate them all. 
 
 THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST 
 BOOK OF HORACE. 
 
 A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR's 
 JOURNEY FROM ROME TO BRUNDUS'UM. 
 
 'TwAS a long journey lay before us, 
 When I and honest Heliodorus, 
 Who far in point of rhetoric 
 Surpasses evory living Greek, 
 Each leaving our respective home, 
 Together sallied forth from Rome. 
 
 First at Aricia we alight. 
 And there refresh, and pass the nicrht, 
 Our entertainment rather coarse 
 Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse. 
 Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair 
 To Appii Forum we repair. 
 But as this road is well supplied 
 (Temptation strong !) on either side 
 With inns commodious, snug, and warm, 
 We split the journey, and perform 
 In two days' time what's often done 
 By brisker travellers in one. 
 Here, rather choosing not to sup 
 Than with bad water mix my cup. 
 After a warni debate in spite 
 Of a provoking appetite, 
 I sturdily resolved at last 
 To balk it, and pronounce a fast, 
 And in a moody humor wait, 
 While my less dainty comrades bait. 
 
 Now o'er the spangled hemisphere 
 Diffused the starry train appear, 
 When there arose a desperate brawl ; 
 The slaves and bargemen, one and all, 
 Rending their throats (have mercy on us !) 
 As if they were resolved to stun us. 
 " Steer the barge this way to the shot: ; 
 I tell you we'll admit no more ; 
 Plague ! will you never be content"?" 
 Thus a whole hour at least is spent. 
 While they receive the several fares. 
 And kick the mule into his gears. 
 Happy, these difficulties past, 
 Could we have fallen asleep at last ! 
 But, what with humming, croaking, biting, 
 Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting. 
 These tuneful natives of the lake 
 Conspired to keep us broad awake. 
 Besides, to make the concert full, 
 Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, 
 
 The bargeman and a passenger, 
 Each in his turn, essay'd an air 
 In honor of his absent fair. 
 At length the passenger, opprest 
 With wine, left ofi", and snored the rest. 
 The weary bargeman too gave o'er. 
 And, hearing his companion snore, 
 Seiz'd the occasion, fix'd the barge, 
 Turn'd out his mule to graze at lame. 
 And slept forgetful of his charge. "^ 
 And now the sun o'er eastern nill 
 Discover'd that our barge stood still ; 
 When one, whose anger vex'd him sore. 
 With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore; 
 Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack 
 Assails the mule and driver's back. 
 
 Then slowly moving on with pain, 
 At ten Feronia's stream we gain. 
 And in her pure and glassy wave 
 Our hands and faces gladly lave. 
 Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height 
 We reach, with stony quarries white. 
 While here, as was agreed, we wait, 
 Till, charged with business of the state, 
 Maecenas and Cocceius come. 
 The messengers of peace from Rome. 
 My eyes, by watery humors blear 
 And sore, I with black balsam smear. 
 At length they join us, and with them 
 Our worthy friend Pontcius came ; 
 A man of such complete desert, 
 Antony loved huu at his heart. 
 At Fundi we refused to bait, 
 And laugh'd at vain Aulidius' state, 
 A prajtor now, a scribe before. 
 The purple-border'd robe he wore. 
 His slave the smoking censor bore 
 Tired, at Mursen-a's we repose. 
 At Formia sup at Capito's. 
 
 With smiles the rising morn we greet, 
 At Sinuessa pleased to meet 
 With Plotius, Varius, and the bard 
 Whom Mantua first with wonder heard. 
 The world no purer spirits knows ; 
 For none my heart more warmly glows. 
 O ! what embraces we bestow'd, 
 And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd ! 
 Sure, while my sense is sound and clear, 
 Long as I live, I shall prefer 
 A gay, good-natured, easy friend 
 To every blessing Heaven can send. 
 At a small village, the next night. 
 Near the Vulturnus we alight ; 
 Where, as employ'd on state affairs. 
 We were supplied by the purveyors. 
 Frankly at once, and without hire, 
 With food for man and horse, and fire. 
 Capua next day betimes we reach, 
 Where Virgil and myself' who each 
 Labor'd with different maladies. 
 His such a stomach, mine such eyes, 
 As would not bear strong exercise. 
 In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; 
 MfEcenas to the tennis-court. 
 Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated, 
 Above the Caudian tavern seated ; 
 His kind and hospitable board 
 With choice of wholesome food was stored 
 
 Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays 1 
 To nobler themes my fancy raise ! 
 Two combatants, who scorn to yield 
 The noisy, tongue-disputed field,
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 
 
 737 
 
 Sarrnentus and Cicirrus, claim 
 
 A poet's tribute to their fame ; 
 
 Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, 
 
 Sarinentus, who was never freed, 
 
 But ran away. We don't defame him ; 
 
 His lady lives, and still may claim him. 
 
 Thus dignified, in harder fray 
 
 These champions their keen wit display 
 
 And first Sarrnentus led the way. 
 
 " Thy locks," quoth he, " so rough and coarse, 
 
 Look like the mane of some wild horse." 
 
 We laugh ; Cicirrus undismay'd — 
 
 " Have at you !" — cries, and shakes his head. 
 
 " 'Tis well," Sarmentus says, " you've lost 
 
 That horn your forehead once could boast ; 
 
 Since, maim'd and mangled as you are, 
 
 You seem to butt." A hideous scar 
 
 Improved, 'tis true, with double grace 
 
 The native horrors of his face. 
 
 Well, after much jocosely said 
 
 Of his grim front, so fiery red, 
 
 (F'or carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er 
 
 As usual on Campania's shore,) 
 
 " Give us," he cried, " since you're so big, 
 
 A sample of the Cyclop's jig ! 
 
 Your shanks methinks no buskins ask, 
 
 Nor does your phiz require a mask." 
 
 To this Cicirrus : " In return 
 
 Of you, sir, now I fain would learn. 
 
 When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave. 
 
 Your chains you to the Lares gave 1 
 
 For though a scrivener's right you claim, 
 
 Your lady's title is the same. 
 
 But what could make you run away, 
 
 Since, pigmy as you are, each day 
 
 A single pound of bread would quite 
 
 O'erpower your puny appetite '!" 
 
 Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd, 
 
 And many a cheerful bumper quaff 'd. 
 
 To Beneventum next we steer ; 
 Where our good host by over care 
 In roasting thrushes lean as mice 
 Had almost fallen a sacrifice. 
 The kitchen soon was all on fire. 
 And to the roof the flames aspire ; 
 There might you see each man and master 
 Striving, amidst this sad disaster, 
 To save the supper. Then they came 
 With speed enough to quench the flame. 
 From hence we first at distance see 
 The Apulian hills, well known to me, 
 Parch'd by the sultry western blast ; 
 And which we never should have past, 
 Had not Trivicius by the way 
 Received us at the close of day. 
 But each was forced at entering here 
 To pay the tribute of a tear. 
 For more of smoke than fire was seen — 
 The hearth was piled with logs so green. 
 From hence in chaises we were carried 
 Miles twenty-lour, and gladly tarried 
 At a small town, whose name my verse 
 (So barbarous is it) can't rehearse. 
 Know it you may by many a sign. 
 Water is dearer far than wine ; 
 There bread is deem'd such dainty fare, 
 That every prudent traveller 
 His wallet loads with many a crust; 
 For at Canusiura you might just 
 As well attempt to gnaw a stone 
 As think to get a morsel down : 
 That too with scanty streams is fed ; 
 
 Its founder was brave Diomed. 
 
 Good Varius (ah, that friends must part !) 
 
 Here left us all with aching heart. 
 
 At Rubi we arrived that day. 
 
 Well jaded by the length of way. 
 
 And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter : 
 
 Next day no weather could be better ; 
 
 No roads so bad ; we scarce could crawl 
 
 Along to fishy Barium's wall. 
 
 The Egnatians next, who by the rules 
 
 Of common sense are knaves or fools. 
 
 Made all our sides with laughter heave, 
 
 Since we with them must needs believe 
 
 That incense in their temples burns, 
 
 And without fire to ashes turns. 
 
 To circumcision's bigots tell 
 
 Such tales ! for me, I know full well 
 
 That in high heaven, unmoved by care, 
 
 The gods eternal quiet share : 
 
 Nor can I deem their spleen the cause. 
 
 While fickle Nature breaks her laws. 
 
 Brundusium last we reach : and there 
 
 Stop short the muse and traveller. 
 
 THE NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST 
 BOOK OF HORACE. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OP AN IMPERTINENT. ADAPTED TO 
 PRESENT TIMES, 1759. 
 
 Sauntering along the street one day. 
 
 On trifles musing by the way — 
 
 Up steps a free familiar wight, 
 
 (I scarcely knew the man by sight). 
 
 " Carlos," he cried, " your hand, my dear; 
 
 Gad, I rejoice to meet you here ! 
 
 Pray Heaven I see you well V " So, so ; 
 
 E'en well enough as times now go : 
 
 The same good wishes, sir, to you." 
 
 Finding he still pursued me close — 
 
 " Sir, you have business I suppose." 
 
 " My business, sir, is quickly done, 
 
 'Tis but to make my merit known. 
 
 Sir, I have read" — " O learned sir, 
 
 You and your learning I revere." 
 
 Then sweating with anxiety. 
 
 And sadly longing to get free, 
 
 Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't. 
 
 Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short, 
 
 Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near, 
 
 And whispcr'd nothing in his ear. 
 
 Teased witii his loose unjointed chat — 
 " What street is this I What house is that 1" 
 
 Harlow, how I envied thee 
 Thy unabash'd eff'rontery. 
 
 Who darest a foe with freedom blame. 
 
 And call a coxcomb by his name ! 
 
 When I return'd him answer none, 
 
 Obligingly the fool ran on, 
 
 " I see you're dismally distress'd. 
 
 Would give the world to be released. 
 
 But by your leave, sir, I shall still • 
 
 Stick to your skirts, do what you will. 
 
 Pray which way docs your journey tend'?" 
 
 " O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend ; 
 
 Across the Thames, the Lord knows where, 
 
 1 would not trouble you so far." 
 
 " Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." 
 " Are you 1" thought I, " the Deil befriend you. 
 No ass with double panniers rack'd, 
 Oppress'd, o'erladen, brokcn-back'd, 
 47
 
 738 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 E'er look'd a thousandtli part so dull 
 
 As I, nor half so like a fool. 
 
 " Sir, I know little of myself, 
 
 (Proceeds the pert conceited elf) 
 
 If Gray or Mason you will deem 
 
 Than me more worthy your esteem. 
 
 Poems I write by fohos 
 
 As fast as other men write prose ; 
 
 Then I can sing so loud, so clear, 
 
 That Beard cannot with me compare. 
 
 In dancing too I all surpass, 
 
 Not Cooke can move with such a grace." 
 
 Here I made shitl with much ado 
 
 To interpose a word or two. — 
 
 " Have you no parents, sir, no friends, 
 
 Whose welfare on your own depends ■?" 
 
 " Parents, relations, say you 1 No. 
 
 They're all disposed of long ago." — 
 
 " Happy to be no more perplex'd 1 
 
 My fate too threatens, I go next. 
 
 Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late, 
 
 Alas ! to struggle with my fate ! 
 
 Well, I'm convinced my time is come — 
 
 When young, a gipsy told my doom. 
 
 The beldame shook her palsied head, 
 
 As she perused my palm, and said : 
 
 Of poison, pestilence, and war, 
 
 Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh, 
 
 You have no reason to beware. 
 
 Beware the coxcomb's idle prate; 
 
 Chiefly, my son, beware of that. 
 
 Be sure, when you behold him, fly 
 
 Out of all earshot, or you die." 
 
 To Rufus' Hall we now draw near 
 Where he was summoned to appear, 
 Refute the charge the plaintifi" brought, 
 Or suffer judgment by default. 
 " For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait 
 One moment! I'll be with you straight." 
 Glad of a plausible pretence — 
 "Sir, I must beg you to dispense 
 With my attendance in the court. 
 My legs will surely suffer for't." 
 "Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!" 
 " Faith, sir, in law I have no skill. 
 Besides, I have no time to spare, 
 I must be going you know where." 
 " Well, I protest I'm doubtful now 
 Whether to leave my suit or you !" 
 " Me without scruple !" I reply, 
 " Me by all means, sir !"— '' No, not I 
 Allons, Monsieur !" 'Twas vain, you know, 
 To strive with a victorious foe. 
 So I reluctantly obey, 
 And follow where he leads the way, 
 
 " You and Newcastle are so close, 
 Still hand and glove, sir— I suppose." 
 "Newcastle, let me tell you, sir. 
 Has not his equal everywhere." 
 "Well. There indeed your fortune's made ; 
 Faith, sir, you understand your trade. 
 Would jiou but give me your good word : 
 Just introduce me to my lord, 
 I should serve charmingly by way 
 Of second fiddle, as they say : 
 What think you, sir 1 'twere a good jest. 
 'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." 
 " Sir, you mistake the matter far. 
 We have no second fiddles there — 
 Richer than I some folks may be ; 
 More learned, but it hurts not me. 
 
 Friends though he has of different kind. 
 
 Each has his proper place assign'd." 
 
 " Strange matters these alleged by you !'' 
 
 " Strange they may be, but they are true." 
 
 " Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever. 
 
 Now I long ten times more than ever 
 
 To be advanced extremely near 
 
 One of his shining character. 
 
 Have but the will — there wants no more, 
 
 'Tis plain enough you have the power. 
 
 His easy temper (that's the worst) 
 
 He knows, and is so shy at first." — 
 
 " But such a cavalier as you — 
 
 Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to !" 
 
 " Well ; if I fail in my design. 
 
 Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. 
 
 If by the saucy servile tribe 
 
 Denied, what think you of a bribe 1 
 
 Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, 
 
 But try my luck again to-morrow ; 
 
 Never attempt to visit him 
 
 But at the most convenient time ; 
 
 Attend him on each levee day, 
 
 And there my humble duty pay — 
 
 Labor, like this, our want supplies ; 
 
 And they must stoop who mean to rise." 
 
 While thus he wittingly harangued. 
 For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd, 
 Campley, a friend of mine, came by — 
 Who knew his humor more than I ; 
 We stop, salute, and — " Why so fast. 
 Friend Carlos 1 Whither all this haste 1" 
 Fired at the thought of a reprieve, 
 I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve. 
 Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, 
 Do everything but speak plain out : 
 While he, sad dog, from the beginning 
 Determined to mistake my meaning, 
 Instead of pitying my curse. 
 By jeering made it ten times worse. 
 " Campley, what secret (pray !) was that 
 You wanted to communicate !" 
 " I recollect. But 'tis no matter. 
 Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. 
 E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell 
 Another time, sir, just as well." 
 
 Was ever such a dismal day 'i 
 Unlucky cur, he steals away. 
 And leaves me, half bereft of life. 
 At mercy of the butcher's knife ; 
 When sudden, shouting from afar. 
 See his antagonist appear ! 
 The bailiff seized him quick as thought, 
 " Ho, Mr. Scoundrel ! Are you caught 1 
 Sir, you are witness to the arrest." 
 " Ay, marry, sir, I'll do my best." 
 The mob huzzas. Away they trudge. 
 Culprit and all before the judge. 
 Meanwhile I luckily enough 
 (Thanks to Apollo) got clear off. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM FROM 
 HOMER.* 
 
 P.^Y me my price, potters ! and I will sing. 
 Attend, O Pallas ! and with lifted arm 
 
 • No title is prefixed to this piece, but it appears to be 
 a translation of one of the En-ij-pa/^j/ara of Homer called 
 O Kauivog, or The Furnace. Herodotus, or whoever 
 waa tlie author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him,
 
 HIS LATIN POEMS. 
 
 739 
 
 Protect their oven ; let the cups and all 
 The sacred vessels blacken well, and, baked 
 With good success, yield them both fair renown 
 And profit, whether in the market sold 
 Or streets, and let no strife ensue between us. 
 But, oh ye potters ! if with shameless front 
 Ye falsify your promise, then I leave 
 No mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong. 
 Come, Syntrips, Smaragus. Sabactes, come, 
 And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread, 
 Omodamus, delay ! Fire seize your house, 
 May neither house nor vestibule escape, 
 May ye lament to see confusion mar 
 
 observes, "cert.ain potters, while they wero busied in 
 baking their ware, seeing Homer at a small distance, and 
 having hoard much said of his wisdom, called to him, 
 and promised him a present of their commodity, and of 
 such otlier things as they could afford, if he would sing 
 to them, when be sang as follows." 
 
 And mingle the whole labor of your hands, 
 And may a sound fill all your oven, such 
 As of a horse grinding his provender. 
 While all your pots and flagons bounce within 
 Come hither, also, daughter of the sun, 
 Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugs 
 Poison themselves, and all that they have made 
 Come, also, Chiron, with thy numerous troop 
 Of centaurs, as well those who died beneath 
 The club of Hercules, as who escaped, 
 And stamp their crockery to dust ; down fall 
 Their chimney ; let them see it with their eyes, 
 And howl to see the ruin of their art, 
 While I rejoice ; and if a potter stoop 
 To peep into his furnace, may the fire 
 Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men 
 Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith. 
 
 October, 1790. 
 
 COWPER'S LATIN POEMS. 
 
 MONTES GLACIALES, IN OCEANO GER- 
 MANICO NATANTES. 
 
 En, quaj prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, 
 Oras adveniunt pavefacta per a3quora nostras! 
 Non equidem priscae saeclum rediisse videtur 
 Pyrrhffi, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes 
 Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora 
 Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus alti 
 In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque perer- 
 
 rant. 
 Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu 1 
 Splcndentes video, ceu pulchro ex aere vel auro 
 Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, 
 Bacca cnerulea, et flammas imitante pyropo. 
 Ex orlente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus 
 Parturit oinnigenas,quibus a3va per omnia sumptu 
 Ingenti finxere sibi diademata regesi 
 Vix hoc credidcrim. Non fallunt talia acutos 
 Mercatorum oculos : prius et quam Uttora Gangis 
 Liquissent, avidis gratissima praeda fuLssent. 
 Ortos unde putemus 1 An illos Ves'vius atrox 
 Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus vEtna 1 
 Luce micant propria, Phoebive, per aera purum 
 Nunc stimulantis cquos. argentea tela retorqucnt 1 
 Phocbi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis 
 Appuisi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis. 
 Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre 
 
 est 
 Multa oncrata nive et canis conspersa pruinis, 
 Cajtera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma 
 
 fere omnes 
 Contristat menses, portenta hajc horrida nobis 
 Ilia strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo 
 Clivorum fluorent in littora prona, soluL-c 
 Sole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu, 
 Ilia gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese 
 Mirum cocpit opus ; glacieque ab origine rerum 
 In glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem 
 Aquavit montes. non crescere nescia moles. 
 
 Sicimmensa diu stetit, seternumque stetisset 
 Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte, 
 Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset, 
 Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum 
 Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, 
 Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquara studiosa natandi, 
 Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim, 
 Insula, in JEgso fluitasse erratica ponto. 
 Sed non ex glacie Delos ; neque torpida Delum 
 Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. 
 Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunquam 
 Decidua lauro ; et Delum dilexit Apollo. 
 At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digni 
 Cimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vsetra, 
 Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri 
 Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite coelum ! 
 Ite ! Redite ! Timete moras ; ni leniter austro 
 Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas 
 Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti ! 
 March 11, 1799. 
 
 ON THE ICE ISLANDS SEEN FLOATING 
 IN THE GERMAN OCEAN. 
 
 What portents, from what distant region, ride, 
 Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide 1 
 In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves 
 Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the 
 
 groves. 
 But now, descending whence of late they stood, 
 Themselves the mountains seem to rove the 
 
 flood. 
 Dire times were they, full charged with human 
 
 woes; 
 And these, scarce less calamitous than those. 
 What view we now? More wondrous stilf. 
 
 Behold ! 
 Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold , 
 And all around the pearl's pure splendor show 
 And all around the ruby's fiery glow.
 
 740 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Come they from India, where the burning earth, 
 All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; 
 And where the costly gems, that beam around 
 The brows of mightiest potentates, are found 1 
 No. Never such a countless dazzling store 
 Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore. 
 Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes. 
 Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the 
 
 prize. 
 Whence sprang they then "? Ejected have they 
 
 come 
 From Vesuvius', or from ^Etna's burning womb 1 
 Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display 
 The borrow'd splendors of a cloudless day 1 
 With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that 
 
 breathe 
 Now landward, and the current's force beneath, 
 Have borne them nearer ; and the nearer sight, 
 Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. 
 Their lofty summits crested high they show. 
 With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. 
 The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, 
 Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year, 
 Their infant growth began. He bade arise 
 Tlieir uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. 
 Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow 
 Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below ; 
 He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast 
 The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 
 By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, 
 And long successive ages roll'd the while; 
 Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand, 
 Tali as its rival mountains on the land. 
 Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill 
 Or force of man, had stood the structure still, 
 But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yet 
 By pressure of its own enormous weight, 
 It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 
 That shook the bellowing waves and rocks 
 
 around, 
 Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 
 As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 
 Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old 
 How Delos swam the ^gean deep have told. 
 But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore 
 Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with 
 
 laurel, wore, 
 E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile ; 
 And Delos was Apollo's favorite isle. 
 But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you 
 He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. 
 Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, 
 But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. 
 Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dare 
 The darts of Phoebus and a softer air; 
 Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, 
 In no congenial gulf forever lost ! 
 March 19, 1799. 
 
 MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WIL- 
 LIAM NORTHCOT. 
 
 Hic sepultus est 
 Inter suorum lacrymas 
 
 GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, 
 GDLIELMI et MARI.E filius 
 
 Unicus, unice dilectus, 
 
 Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis, 
 
 Aprilis die septimo. 
 
 1780. ^t. 10. 
 
 Care, vale ! Sed non asternum, care, valeto ! 
 
 Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. 
 Turn nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros. 
 
 Nee tu marcesces, nee lacrymabor ego. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Farewell! " But not forever," Hope replies, 
 Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies ! 
 There nothing shall renew our parting pain, 
 Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again. 
 
 IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM 
 
 CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, 
 NUPER EXORTAM. 
 
 LONDINI 
 
 Perfida, crudelis. victa et lymphata furore, 
 
 Non armis. laurum Gallia fraude petit. 
 Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit 
 
 Undique privatas patriciasque domos. 
 Nequicquam conata sua, foedissima sperat 
 
 Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. 
 Gallia, vana struis ! Precibus imnc utere! Vinces, 
 
 Nam mites timidis, supulicibusquc sumus. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Pai.se, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, 
 France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part, 
 To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys, 
 Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze. 
 Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone, 
 She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
 Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with 
 
 ease. 
 We always spare a coward on his knees. 
 
 MOTTO ON A CLOCK. 
 
 WITH A TRANSLATION BY HAYLEY. 
 
 Q,UjE lenta accedit, quam velox praeterit hora I 
 Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil ! 
 
 Slow comes the hour ; its passing speed how 
 
 great ! 
 Waiting to seize it — vigilantly wait ! 
 
 A SIMILE LATINIZED. 
 
 SoRS ad versa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas: 
 Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit. 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. 
 
 To the March in Scipio. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 The brave that are no more ! 
 All sunk beneath the wave. 
 
 Fast by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave. 
 Whose courage well was tiled, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel. 
 And laid her on her side.
 
 HIS LATIN POEMS, 
 
 741 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 
 
 And she was overset; 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 
 ^Vith all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
 His last sea-fight is fought ; 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 She sprang no fatal leak, 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath ; 
 
 His fingers held the pen, 
 When Kempenfelt went down 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 And mingle with our cup 
 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound, 
 
 And she may float again. 
 Full charged with England's thunder, 
 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone, 
 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 Sept. 3782. 
 
 IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGH, GUI GEOR- 
 GIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM. 
 
 Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes, 
 Patrium propter periere littus 
 Bis quatur centum ; subito sub alto 
 .iCquore mersi. 
 
 Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, 
 Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, 
 Cum levis, funes quatiens. ad imum 
 Depulit aura. 
 
 Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam 
 Fortibus vitam voluore parcsc, 
 Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes 
 Nectere laurus, 
 
 Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, 
 Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! 
 At tuos olim mcmorabit cevum 
 Omne triumphos. 
 
 Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, 
 Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes, 
 Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox 
 Abstulit ensis. 
 
 Navitac sed tum nimium jocosi 
 Voce fallebant hilari laborem, 
 Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im- 
 pleverat heros. 
 
 Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
 Humidum ex alto spolium levate, 
 Et putrcscentes sub aquis amicos 
 Reddite amicis ! 
 
 Hi quidem (sic dis placuit) fucre: 
 Sed ratis, nondum putris. ire possit 
 Rursus in bellum, Britonumque nomjn 
 Tollere ad astra. 
 
 IN BREVITATEM VITiE SPATII HOMI- 
 NIBUS CONCESSI. 
 
 BY DR. JORTIN. 
 
 Het mihi t lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 
 Lunaque mutatse reparat dispendia formae, 
 Astraque. purpurei telis extincta diei, 
 Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni. 
 Graminis herba vircns. et florum picta propago, 
 Q,uos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit, 
 Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque serenj 
 Temperies anni, foscundo e cespite surgunt. 
 Nos domini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati, 
 Cum breve ver vitEB robustaque transiit setas, 
 Deficimus ; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras [vit. 
 Reddit in sethereas, tumuli neque claustra resoL 
 
 ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE, 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. 
 
 Suns that set, and moons that wane, 
 Rise and are restored again ; 
 Stars, that orient day subdues. 
 Night at her return renews. 
 Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birta 
 Of the genial womb of earth, 
 Suffer but a transient death 
 From the winter's cruel breath. 
 Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
 Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
 We, alas ! earth's haughty kings, 
 We, that promise mighty things. 
 Losing soon life's happy prime, 
 Droop, and fade, in little time. 
 Spring returns, but not our bloom ; 
 Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 
 Jan., 178-t. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 
 
 Thf, nymph must lose her female friend, 
 If more admired than she — 
 
 But where will fierce contention end, 
 If flowers can disagree 1 
 
 Within the garden's peaceful scene 
 
 Appear'd two lovely foes, 
 Aspiring to the rank of queen, 
 
 ■The Lily and the Rose. 
 
 The Rose soon rcdden'd into rage, 
 
 And, swelling with disdain, 
 Appeal'd to many a poet's page 
 
 To prove her right to reign. 
 
 The Lily's height bespoke command. 
 
 A fair imperial flower; 
 She seein'd designd for Flora's hand, 
 
 The sceptre of her power. 
 
 This civil bickering and debate 
 The goddess chanced to hear, 
 
 And flew to save, ere yet too late, 
 The pride of the parterre. 
 
 Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, 
 And yours the statelier mien: 
 
 And, till a third surpasses you, 
 Let each be dtem'd a queen.
 
 742 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks 
 
 The fairest British fair ; 
 The seat of empire is her cheeks, 
 
 They reign united there. 
 
 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 
 
 Heu inimicitias quoties parit aemula forma, 
 Q.uam raro pulchraj pulchra placere potest! 
 
 Sed fines ultra solitos discordia tendit, 
 Cum flores ipsos bills et ira movent. 
 
 Hortus ubi dulces praebet tacitosque recessus, 
 Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas ; 
 
 Hie sibi regales Amaryllis Candida cultus, 
 Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa. 
 
 Ira Ro.<!am et meritis quscsita superbia tangunt, 
 Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinu, 
 
 Dura sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatum, 
 J usque suum, multo carmme fulta, probat. 
 
 Altior emicat ilia, et celso vertice nutat, 
 Ceu flores inter non habitura parem, 
 
 Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usus 
 Lnperii, sceptrum. Flora quod ipsa gerat. 
 
 Nee Dea non sensit civihs murmura rixae, 
 Cui curse est pictas pandere ruris opes. 
 
 Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri, 
 Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest. 
 
 Et tibi forma datur proccrior omnibus, inquit, 
 Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color, 
 
 Et donee vincat quaedam formosior ambas, 
 Et tibi reginffi nomen, et esto tibi. 
 
 His ubisedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham, 
 Q,ualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit ; 
 
 Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius. 
 Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis. [hujus 
 
 THE POPLAR FIELD. 
 
 The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade, 
 And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
 The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years had elapsed since I last took a view 
 Of my favorite field, and the bank where they 
 
 grew ; 
 And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
 And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat, [heat, 
 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the 
 And the scene where his melody charm'd me 
 
 before 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
 And I mu:-t ere long lie as lowly as they, 
 With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head. 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
 
 Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
 To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
 Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
 Have a being less durable even than he.* 
 
 * Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the fol- 
 ,owing manner: — 
 
 The change both my heart and my fancy employs, 
 I reflect on the frailty of man, and his joys ; 
 Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
 Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 
 
 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 
 
 PopoLE^ cecidit gratissima copia silvae, 
 Conticuere susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra. 
 NuHeb jam levibus se miscent frondibus aurse, 
 Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago. 
 
 Hei mihi ! bis senos dum luctu torqueor annos, 
 His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu. 
 Cum sero rediens, stratasque in gramine cernens, 
 Insedi arboribus, sub quels errare solebam. 
 
 Ah ubi nunc merulse cantus "? Felicior ilium 
 Silva tegit, durae nondum permissa bipenni ; 
 Scilicet exustos colles camposque patentes 
 Odit, et indignans et non rediturus abivit. 
 
 Sed qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse, 
 Et prius huic parilis, quam creverit altera silva, 
 Flebor, et, exequiis parvis donatus, habebo 
 Defixum lapidem tumuUque cubantis acervum. 
 
 Tara subito periisse videns tam digna manere, 
 Agnosco humanas sortes et tristia fata — 
 Sit licet ipse brevis, volucrique simillimus umbra8 ! 
 Est homini brevior citiusque obitura voluptas. 
 
 VOTUM. 
 
 O MATOTiNi rores, aurseque salubres, 
 O nemora, et Itetae rivis felicibus herbae, 
 Graminei colles, et amoenae in vallibus umbrae . 
 Fata modo dederint quas olim in rure paterno 
 Delicias, procul arte, procul formidine novi, 
 Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea sempei 
 avebat, [nectam. 
 
 Ante larem proprium placidam expectare se- 
 Tum demum, exactis non in feliciter annis, 
 Sortiri tacitum lapidem, aut sub cespite condi ! 
 
 TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE 
 AND EUPHELIA. 
 
 Mercator, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit. 
 Nomine sub ficto trans mare mitit opes ; 
 
 Lene sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis, 
 Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chloe. 
 
 Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines, 
 Cum dixit, mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. 
 
 Namque lyram juxta positam cum carmine vidit, 
 Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram. 
 
 Fila lyrae vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt, 
 Et miscent numeris murmura moesta meis, 
 
 Dumque tuae memoro laudes, Euphelia, formae, 
 Tota anima interea pendet ab ore Chloes. 
 
 Subrubet ilia pudore, et contrahit altera frontem, 
 Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo ; 
 
 Atque Cupidinea dixit Dea cincta corona, 
 Heu ! fallendi artem quam didicere parum. 
 
 VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. 
 LLOYD. 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT 
 AFTER HIS DECEASE. 
 
 Our good old friend is gone ; gone to his rest, 
 Whose social converse was itself a feast.
 
 HIS LATIN POEMS, 
 
 743 
 
 O ye of riper years, who recollect 
 How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, 
 Both in the firmness of his better day, 
 While yet he ruled you with a father's sway. 
 And when, impair'd by time, and glad to rest, 
 Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest, 
 He took his annual seat, and mingled here 
 His sprightly vein with yours — now drop a tear ! 
 In morals blameless, as in manners meek. 
 He knew no wish that he might blush to speak. 
 But, happy in whatever state below, 
 And richer than the rich in being so, 
 Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed 
 At length from one* as made him rich indeed. 
 Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here ! 
 Go ! garnish merit in a higher sphere. 
 The brows of those, whose more exalted lot 
 He could congratulate, but envied not ! 
 Light lie the turf good senior, on thy breast; 
 And tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest. 
 Though, living, thou hadst more desert than fame, 
 And not a stone now chronicles thy name ! 
 
 Abut senex. Periit senex amabilis, 
 
 Quo non fuit jucundior. 
 Lugete vos, setas quibus maturior 
 
 Senem colendum prasstitit ; 
 Seu quando, viribus valentioribus 
 
 Firmoque fretus pectore, 
 Florentiori vos juventute excolens 
 
 Cura fovebat patria ; 
 Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude 
 
 Vultu sed usque blandulo, 
 Misftre gaudebat suas facetias 
 
 His annuls leporibus. 
 
 * He was usher and under-master of Westminster, near 
 fifty years, and retired from Uis occupation when he was 
 near seventy, with a handsome pension from the king. 
 
 Vixit probus, puraque simplex indole, 
 
 Blandisque comis moribus, 
 Et dives aequa mente, charus omnibus, 
 
 Unius auctus munere, 
 Ite, tituli ! Meritis beatioribus 
 
 Aptate laudes debitas ! 
 Nee invidebat ille, si quibus favens 
 
 Portuna plus arriserat. 
 Placide senex, levi quiescas cespite, 
 
 Etsi superbum nee vivo tibi 
 Decus sit inditum, nee mortuo 
 
 Lapis notatus nomine ! 
 
 As Cowper's Version of Homer is not included 
 in this Edition of his Works, it seems necessary 
 to assign the reasons which have led to the omis- 
 sion. 
 
 Distinguished as this Version unquestionably 
 is, beyond any preceding attempt, for its fidelity 
 and close adherence to the Grecian Bard, as 
 well as for other excellences which have already 
 been specified, it has still failed in securincr an 
 adequate reception from the British public. In 
 the religious portion of the community it is well 
 known that a very general sentiment of regret 
 exists that the author of the Task, whose muse 
 was capable of such high moral flights, should 
 have consumed so many years in this laborious 
 enterprise. Under these circumstances, its re- 
 publication here, appeared to be undesirable, es- 
 pecially as it would have added one-third to the 
 cost of the present Edition, and as editions of 
 Cowper's Homer are already before the public, 
 and accessible to all who attach an interest ta 
 this portion of the Poet's Works.
 
 THREE PAPERS, BY COWPER. 
 
 INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 
 
 "DuKiNG Cowper's visit to Eartham, he 
 kindly pointed out to me," Hayley observes, 
 "three of his papers in the hist volume of 
 the 'Connoisseur.' — I inscribed them with his 
 name at the time ; and imagine that the read- 
 ers of his Life may be gratified in seeing 
 them inserted here. I find other numbers of 
 that work ascribed to him, but the three fol- 
 lowing I print as his, on his own explicit 
 authority. Number 119, Thursday, May 6, 
 1756 — Number 134, Thursday, August 19, — 
 Number 138, Thursday, Sept. 16." 
 
 No. CXIX. 
 
 Plenus rimarum sum, hue et illuc perfluo. 
 
 Ter. 
 
 Leaky at bottom ; If those chinka you stop. 
 In vain — the secret will run o'er at top. 
 
 There is no mark of our confidence taken 
 more kindly by a friend than the entrusting 
 uim with a secret, nor any which he is so 
 likely to abuse. Confidants in general are 
 like crazy firelocks, which are no sooner 
 charged and cocked than the spring gives 
 way, and the report immediately follows. 
 Happy to have been thought worthy the con- 
 fiidence of one friend, they are impatient to 
 manifest their importance to another; till, 
 between them and their friend and their 
 friend's friend, the whole matter is presently 
 known to all our friends round the Wrekin. 
 The secret catches as it were by contact, and 
 like electrical matter breaks forth from every 
 link in the chain, almost at the same instant. 
 Thus the whole Exchange may be thrown 
 into a buzz to-morrow, by what was whis- 
 pered in the middle of Marlborough Downs 
 this morning; and in a week's time the streets 
 may ring with the intrigue of a woman of 
 fashion, bellowed out from the foul mouths 
 of the hawkers, though at present it is known 
 to no creature living but her gallant and her 
 waiting maid. 
 
 As the talent of secrecy is of so great im- 
 portance to society, and the necessary com- 
 
 merce between individuals cannot be securely 
 carried on without it, that this deplorable 
 weakness should be so general is much to be 
 lamented. You may as well pour water into 
 a funnel or sieve, and expect it to be retained 
 there, as commit any of your concerns to so 
 slippery a companion. It is remarkable that, 
 in those men who have thus lost the faculty 
 of retention, the desire of being communica- 
 tive is always most prevalent where it is least 
 justified. If they are entrusted with a matter 
 of no great moment, affairs of more conse- 
 quence will perhaps in a few hours shuffle it 
 entirely out of their thoughts ; but if any- 
 thing be delivered to them with an fhrnest- 
 ness, a low voice, and the gesture of a man 
 in terror for the consequence of its being 
 known ; if the door is bolted, and every pre- 
 caution taken to prevent surprise, however 
 they may promise secresy, and however they 
 may intend it, the weight upon their minds 
 will be so extremely oppressive, that it will 
 certainly put their tongues in motion. 
 
 This breacli of trust, so universal amongst 
 us, is perhaps, in great measure owing to 
 our education. The first lessons our little 
 masters and misses are taught is to become 
 blabs and tell-tales: they are bribed to divulge 
 the petty intrigues of the family below stairs 
 to papa and mamma in the parlor, and a doll 
 or hobby-horse is generally the encourage- 
 ment of a propensity which could scarcely be 
 atoned for by a whipping. As soon as chil- 
 dren can lisp out the little intelligence they 
 have picked up in the hall or the kitchen, 
 they are admired for their wit; if the butler 
 has been caught kissing the housekeeper in 
 his pantry, or the footman detected in romp- 
 ing with the chamber-maid, away flies little 
 Tommy or Betsy with the news ; the parents 
 are lost in admiration of the pretty rogue's 
 understanding, and reward such uncommon 
 ingenuity with a kiss or a sugar-plum. 
 
 Nor does an inclination to secrecy meet 
 with less encouragement at school. The 
 gouvernantes at the boarding-school teach 
 miss to be a good girl, and tell them every- 
 thing she knows : thus, if any young lady is
 
 PAPERS INSERTED IN Ttitl CONNOISSEUR. 
 
 745 
 
 unfortunately discovered eating a green apple 
 in a corner : if she is heard to pronounce a 
 naughty word, or it caught picking the letters 
 out of another miss's sampler; away runs 
 the chit who is so happy as to get the start 
 of the rest, screams out her information as 
 she goes; and the prudent matron chucks 
 her under the chin, and tells her that she is 
 a good girl, and everybody will love her. 
 
 The management of our young gentlemen 
 is equally absurd ; in many of our schools, if 
 a lad is discovered in a scrape, tlie impeach- 
 ment of an accomplice, as at the Old Bailey, 
 is made tlie condition of a pardon. I remem- 
 ber a boy, engaged in robbing an orchard, 
 wlio was unfortunately taken prisoner in an 
 apple-tree, and conducted, under the strong 
 guard of the farmer and his dairy-maid, to 
 the master's house. Upon his absolute re- 
 fusal to discover his associates, the peda- 
 gogue undertook to lash him out of his 
 fidelity ; but finding it impossible to scourge 
 the secret out of him, he at last gave him up 
 for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his 
 father, who told him he was ruined, and was 
 going to disinherit him for not betraying his 
 school-fellows. 
 
 I must own I am not fond of thus drubbing 
 our youths into treachery ; and am much 
 pleased with the request of Ulysses, when he 
 went lo Troy, who begged of those who were 
 to have the care of young Telemachus, that 
 they would above all things teach him to be 
 just, sincere, faithful, and to keep a secret. 
 
 Every man's experience must have fur- 
 nisliod him with instances of confidants who 
 are not to be relied on, and friends who are 
 not to be trusted ; but few perhaps have 
 thought it a character so well worth their 
 attention, as to have marked out the different 
 degrees into which it may be divided, and tlie 
 different methods by which secrets are com- 
 municated. 
 
 Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a very singular 
 kind. Having some sense of his duty, he 
 hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he 
 engages never to utter a syllable, he most 
 punctually performs his promise ; but then 
 he has the knack of insinuating by a nod, 
 and a sin-ug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, 
 as much as others can convey in express 
 terms. It is difficult, in short, to determine 
 whether lie is more to be admired for his 
 resolution in not mentioning, or his ingenuity 
 in disclosing, a secret. He is also excellent 
 at a doubtful phrase, as Hamlet calls it, or 
 ambic;uo':s giving out, and his conversation 
 consists chiefiy of suoli broken inuendoes as 
 — "well I know — or I could — and if 1 would 
 — or, if I list to speak — or there be, and if 
 thero miglit," &c. 
 
 Here he generally stops; and leaves it to 
 his hearers to draw proper inferences from 
 Ll'esti piecemeal premises. With due en- 
 
 couragement however he may be prevailed 
 on to slip the padlock from his lips, and im- 
 mediately overwhelms you with a torrent of 
 secret history, which rushes forth with more 
 violence for having been so long confined. 
 
 Poor Meanwell, though he never tails to 
 transgress, is rather to be pitied than con- 
 demned. To trust him with a secret is to 
 spoil his appetite, to break his rest, and to 
 deprive him for a time of every earthly enjoy- 
 ment. Like a man who travels with his whole 
 fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you 
 approach him, and immediately suspects that 
 you come with a felonious intention to rob 
 him of his charge. If he ventures abroad, it 
 is to walk in some unfrequented place, where 
 he is least in danger of an attack. At home, 
 he shuts himself up from his family, paces to 
 and fro in his chamber, and has no relief but 
 from muttering over to himself what he longs 
 to publish to the world; and would gladly 
 submit to the oflice of town-crier, for the 
 liberty of proclaiming it in the market-place. 
 At length, however, weary of his burden, and 
 resolved to bear it no longer, he consigns it 
 to the custody of the first friend he meets, 
 and returns to his wife with a cheerful as- 
 pect, and wonderfully altered for the better. 
 
 Careless is perhaps equally undesigning, 
 though not equally excusable. Entrust him 
 with an affiiir of the utmost importance, on 
 the concealment of which your fortune and 
 happiness depend, he hears you with a kind 
 of half attention, whistles a lavorite air, and 
 accompanies it with the drumming of his fin- 
 gers upon the table. As soon as your nar- 
 ration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of 
 it, he asks your opinion of his swordknot — 
 condems his tailor for having dressed him in 
 a snuff"-colored coat instead of a pompadour, 
 and leaves you in haste to attend an auction, 
 where, as if he meant to dispose of his in- 
 telligence to the best bidder, he divulges it 
 with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's; and, 
 when you tax him with having played you 
 false, he is heartily sorry for it, but never 
 knew that it was to be a secret. 
 
 To these I might add the character of the 
 open and unreserved, who thinks it a breach 
 of friendship to conceal anytliing from his 
 intimates ; and the impertinent, who, having 
 by dint of observation made himself master 
 of your secret, imagines he may lawfully 
 publish the knowledge it cost luni so much 
 labor to obtain, and considers that privilege 
 as the reward due to his industry. But I 
 shall leave these, witli many otlier characters 
 wliich ray reader's own experience may sug- 
 gest to him, and conclude with prescribing, 
 as a sliort remedy for this evil, tliat no man 
 may betray the counsel of his friend — let 
 every man keep his own.
 
 746 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 No. CXXXIV. 
 
 Delicta majorum immeritus lues, 
 Eomane, donee templa refeceris 
 ^desque labentes Deorum, et 
 Foeda nigro simulacra fumo. — Hor. 
 
 The tott'ring tow'r, and mould'ring wall repair, 
 And fill with decency the house of pray'r ; 
 Quick to the needy curate bring relief, 
 And deck the parish-church without a brief 
 
 MR. VILLAGE TO MR. TOWN. 
 
 Dear Cousin, — The country at present, no 
 less than the metropolis, abounding with 
 politicians of every kind, I begin to despair 
 of picking up any intelligence that might 
 possibly be entertaining to your readers. 
 However, I have lately visited some of the 
 most distant parts of the kingdom with a 
 clergyman of my acquaintance : I shall not 
 trouble you with an account of the improve- 
 ments that have been made in the seats we 
 saw, according to the modern taste, but pro- 
 ceed to give you some reflections which oc- 
 curred to us in observing several country 
 churches, and the behavior of their congre- 
 gations. 
 
 The ruinous condition of some of these 
 edifices gave me great offence; and I could 
 not help wishing that the honest vicar, in- 
 stead of indulging his genius for improve- 
 ments, by enclosing his gooseberry-bushes 
 with a Chinese rail, and converting half an 
 acre of his glebe land into a bowling-green, 
 would have applied part of his income to the 
 more laudable purpose of sheltering his 
 parishioners from the weather during their 
 attendance on divine service. It is no un- 
 common thing to see the parsonage-house 
 well thatched, and in exceeding good repair, 
 while the church, perhaps, has scarce any 
 other roof than the ivy that grows over it. 
 The noise of owls, bats, and magpies, makes 
 the principal part of the church music in 
 many of these ancient edifices ; and the walls, 
 like a large map, seem to be portioned out 
 into capes, seas and promontories, by the va- 
 rious colors by which the damps have stained 
 them. Sometimes, the foundation being too 
 weak to support the steeple any longer, it 
 has been found expedient to pull down that 
 part of the building, and to hang the bells 
 under a wooden shed on the ground beside 
 it. This is the case in a parish in Norfolk, 
 through which I lately passed, and where the 
 clerk and the sexton, like the two figures of 
 St. Dunstan's, serve the bells in the capacity 
 of clappers, by striking them alternately with 
 a hammer. 
 
 In other churches, I have observed that 
 nothing unseemly or ruinous is to be found, 
 except in the clergyman, and the appendages 
 of his person. The 'squire of the parish, or 
 bis ancestors, perhaps to testify their devo- 
 tion and leave a lasting monument of their 
 magnificence, have adorned the altar-piece 
 
 with the richest crimson velvet, embroidered 
 with vine-leaves and ears of wheat ; and have 
 dressed up the pulpit with the same splendor 
 and expense ; while the gentleman who fills 
 it, is exalted in the midst of all this finery, 
 with a surplice as dirty as a farmer's frock, 
 and a periwig that seems to have transferred 
 its faculty of curling to the band which ap- 
 pears in full buckle beneath it. 
 
 But if I was concerned to see several dis- 
 tressed pastors, as well as many of our 
 country churches in a tottering condition, I 
 was more offended with the indecency of 
 worship in others. I could wish that the 
 clergy would inform their congregations, 
 that there is no occasion to scream them- 
 selves hoarse in making their responses; 
 that the town-crier is not the only person 
 qualified to pray with true devotion; and 
 that he who bawls the loudest, may never- 
 theless be the wickedest fellow in the parish. 
 The old women too in the aisle might be 
 told, that their time would be better em- 
 ployed in attending to the sermon, than in 
 fumbling over their tattered Testaments till 
 they have found the text ; by which time the 
 discourse is near drawing to a conclusion: 
 while a word or two of instruction might not 
 be thrown away upon the younger part of 
 the congregation, to teach them that making 
 posies in summer-time, and cracking nuts in 
 autumn, is no part of the religious ceremony. 
 The good old practice of psalm-singing is in- 
 deed wonderfully improved in many country 
 churches, since the days of Sternhold and 
 Hopkins ; and there is scarce a parish clerk 
 who has so little taste as not to pick his 
 staves out of the new version. This has 
 occasioned great complaints in some places, 
 where the clerk has been forced to bawl by 
 himself, because the rest of the congregation 
 cannot find the psalm at the end of their 
 prayer books; while others are highly dis- 
 gusted at the innovation, and stick as obsti- 
 nately to the old version as to the old style. 
 
 The tunes themselves have also been new 
 set to jiggish measures, and the sober drawl, 
 which used to accompany the two first staves 
 of the hundredth psalm, with the 'Gloria 
 Patri,' is now split into as many quavers as 
 an Italian air. For this purpose there is in 
 every county an itinerant band of vocal mu- 
 sicians, who make it their business to go 
 round to all the churches in their turns, and, 
 after a prelude with a pitch-pipe, astonish the 
 audience with hymns set to the new Win- 
 chester measure, and anthems of their own 
 composing. 
 
 As these new-fashioned psalmodists are 
 necessarily made up of young men and maids, 
 we may naturally suppose that there is a per- 
 fect concord and symphony between them ; 
 and, indeed, I have known it happen that 
 these sweet singers have more than once
 
 PAPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 
 
 747 
 
 been brought into disgrace by too close a uni- 
 son between the thorough-base and the treble. 
 
 It is a difficult matter to decide which is 
 looked upon as the greatest man in a country 
 church, the parson or his clerk. The latter 
 is most certainly held in the higher venera- 
 tion, where the former happens to be only a 
 poor curate, who rides post every sabbath 
 from village to village, and mounts and dis- 
 mounts at the church door. The clerk's of- 
 fice is not only to tag the prayers with an 
 amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave, 
 but he is also tlie universal f;ither to give 
 away the brides, and the standing god-father 
 to all the new-born bantlings. But in many 
 places there is still a greater man belonging 
 to tlie church than either the parson or the 
 clerk himself. The person I mean is the 
 'squire ; who, like the king, may be styled 
 the head of the church in his own parish. If 
 the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his 
 creature, and of consequence entirely at his 
 devotion : or, if the care of the church be left 
 to a curate, the Sunday fees, roast beef and 
 plum-pudding, and the liberty to shoot in the 
 manor, will bring him as much under the 
 'squire's command as his dogs and horses. 
 
 For this reason the bell is often kept toll- 
 ing, and the people waiting in the church- 
 yard an hour longer than the usual time ; nor 
 must the service begin till the 'squire has 
 strutted up the aisle and seated himself in 
 the great pew in the chancel. The length of 
 the sermon is also measured by the will of 
 the 'squire, as formerly by the hourglass, and 
 I know one parish where the preacher has 
 always the complaisance to conclude his dis- 
 course, however abruptly, the minute that the 
 'squire gives the signal by rising up after his 
 nap. 
 
 In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or 
 the vicar's wife, are perhaps the only females 
 that are stared at for their finery ; but in the 
 large cities and towns, where the newest 
 fashions are brought down weekly by the 
 stage-coach or wagon, all the wives and 
 daughters of the most topping tradesmen 
 vie with each other every Sunday in the ele- 
 gance of their apparel. I could even trace 
 their gradations in their dress according to 
 the opulence, the extent, and the distance of 
 the place from London. I was at a church 
 in a populous city in the north, where the 
 mace-bearer cleared the way for Mrs. Mayor- 
 ess, who came sideling after him in an enor- 
 mous fan-hoop, of a pattern which had never 
 been seen before in those parts. At another 
 church in a corporation town, I saw several 
 Nt'gligt'es, with furbelowcd aprons, which had 
 -ong disputed the prize of superiority ; but 
 these were most wofully eclipsed by a bur- 
 gess's daughter Just come from London, who 
 appeared in a TroUopi' or Slammerkin with 
 treble ruffles to the cutis, pinked and gimped, 
 
 and the sides of the petticoat drawn up in 
 festoons. In some lesser borough towns, 
 the contest I found lay between three or four 
 black and green bibs and aprons ; at one, a 
 grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a new- 
 fashioned cap called a Joan, and at another, 
 they were wholly taken up by a mercer's 
 daughter in a nun's hood. 
 
 I need not say anything of the behavior of 
 the congregation in these more polite places 
 of religious resort ; as the same genteel cer- 
 emonies are practised there as at the most 
 fashionable churches in town. The ladies, 
 immediately on their entrance, breathe a pious 
 ejaculation through their fan-sticks, and the 
 beaux very gravely address themselves to the 
 haberdashers' bills, glewed upon the lining of 
 their hats. This pious duty is no sooner per- 
 formed, than the exercise of bowing and 
 courtseying succeeds; the locking and un- 
 locking of the pews drowns the reader's 
 voice at the beginning of the service ; and 
 the rustling of silks, added to the whispering 
 and tittering of so much good company, ren- 
 ders him totally unintelligible to the very end 
 of it. 
 
 I am, dear cousin, yours, &c. 
 
 No. cxxxvm. 
 
 Servat^ semper lege et ratione loquendi. — Juv. 
 
 Your talk to decency and reason suit, 
 
 Nor prate like fools, or gabble like a brute ! 
 
 In the comedy of " The Frenchman in 
 London," which, we are told, was acted at 
 Paris with universal applause for several 
 nights together, there is a character of a 
 rough Englishman, who is represented as 
 quite unskilled in the graces of conversation, 
 and his dialogue consists almost entirely of 
 a repetition of the common salutation of — 
 " How do you do 1 — How do you do ?" Our 
 nation has, indeed, been generally supposed 
 to be of a sullen and uncommunicative dis- 
 position ; while, on tlie other hand, the lo- 
 quacious French have been allowed to pos- 
 sess the art of conversing beyond all other 
 people. The Englishman requires to be 
 wound up frequently, and stops very soon ; 
 but the Frenchman runs on in a continual 
 alarum. Yet it must be acknowledged, that, 
 as the English consist of very different hu- 
 mors, their manner of discourse admits of 
 great variety ; but the whole French nation 
 converse alike, and there is no difl'erence in 
 their address between a marquis and a valet- 
 de-chambre. We may frequently see a couple 
 of French barbers accosting each other in 
 the street, and paying their compliments with 
 the same volubility of speech, the same gri- 
 mace and action, as two courtiers in the 
 Tuilcrics. 
 
 I shall not attempt to lay down any par-
 
 748 
 
 COWPER'S WORKS. 
 
 ticular rules for conversation, but rather 
 point out such faults in discourse and be- 
 havior as render the company of half man- 
 kind rather tedious than amusing. It is in 
 vain, indeed, to look for conversation, where 
 we might ex]:>ect to find it in the greatest 
 perfection, among persons of fashion ; there 
 it is almost annihilated by universal card- 
 playing ; insomuch that I have iieard it given 
 as a reason why it is impossible for our pres- 
 ent writers to succeed in the dialogue of 
 genteel comedy, that our people of quality 
 scarce ever meet but to game. All their dis- 
 course turns upon the odd trick and the four 
 honors, and it is no less a maxim with the 
 votaries of whist tnan with those of Bacchus, 
 that talking spoils company. 
 
 Every one endeavors to make liimself as 
 agreeable to society as he can ; but it often 
 happens that those who most aim at shin- 
 ing in conversation overshoot their mark. 
 Though a man succeeds, he should not (as 
 is frequently the case) engross the whole 
 talk to himself; for that destroys the very 
 essence of conversation, which is talking to- 
 gether. We should try to keep up conver- 
 sation like a ball bandied to and fro from 
 one to another, rather than seize it ourselves, 
 and drive it before us like a football. We 
 should likewise be cautious to adapt the 
 matter of our discourse to our company, and 
 not talk Greek before ladies, or of the last 
 new furbelow to a meeting of country 
 justices. 
 
 But nothing throws a more ridiculous air 
 over our conversations than certain peculiar- 
 ities, easily acquired, but very difficultly con- 
 quered and discarded. In order to display 
 these absurdities in a truer light, it is my 
 present purpose to enumerate such of them 
 as are most commonly to be met with ; and 
 first to take notice of those buffoons in so- 
 ciety, the attitudinarians and face-makers. 
 These accompany every word with a peculiar 
 grimace or gesture ; they assent with a shrug, 
 and contradict with a twisting of the neck ; 
 are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in 
 a caper or a minuet step. They may be con- 
 sidered as speaking harlequins, and their 
 rules of eloquence are taken from the pos- 
 ture-master. These should be condemned 
 to converse only in dumb show with their 
 own person in the looking-ghxss ; as well as 
 the smirkers and smilers, who so prettily set 
 off their faces, together with their words, by 
 a je-ne-s^ai-quoi between a grin and a dim- 
 ple. With these we may likewise rank the 
 affected tribe of mimics, who are constantly 
 taking off the peculiar tone of voice or ges- 
 ture of their acquaintance ; though they are 
 6uch wretched imitators, that (like bad paint- 
 er) they are frequently forced to write the 
 name under the picture, before we can dis- 
 cover any likeness. 
 
 Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed 
 in action, and who converse chiefly with their 
 arms and legs, we may consider the professed 
 speakers. And first, the emphatical ; whc 
 squeeze, and press, and ram down every syl- 
 lable with excessive vehemence and energy. 
 These orators are remarkable for their distinct 
 elocution and force of expression ; they dwell 
 on the important particles of and the, and the 
 significant conjunctive and, which they seem 
 to hawk up with much difficulty out of their 
 own throats, and to cram them with no less 
 pain into the ears of their auditors. 
 
 These should be suffered only to syringe, 
 as it were, the ears of a deaf man, through a 
 hearing-trumpet; though I must confess, that 
 I am equally offended with whisperers or low 
 speakers, who seem to fancy all their ac- 
 quaintance deaf, and come up so close to you, 
 that they may be said to measure noses with 
 you, and frequently overcome you with the 
 exhalations of a powerful breath. I would 
 have these oracular gentry obliged to talk 
 at a distance through a speaking-trumpet, or 
 apply their lips to the walls of a whispering- 
 gallery. The wits who will not condescend 
 to utter anything but a bon-mot, and the 
 whistlers or tunehumraers, whc never arti- 
 culate at all, may be joined very agreeably 
 together in concert; and to these tinkling 
 cymbals I would also add the sounding brass 
 — the bawler, who inquires after your health 
 witli the bellowing of a town-crier. 
 
 The tattlers, whose pliable pipes are admi- 
 rably adapted to the " soft parts of conversa- 
 tion," and sweetly " prattling out of fashion," 
 make very pretty music from a beautiful face 
 and a female tongfue ; but from a rou^h 
 manly voice and coarse features, mere non- 
 sense is as harsh and dissonant as a jig from 
 a hurdy-gurdy. The swearers I have spoken 
 of in a former paper; but the half-swearers, 
 who split, and mince, and fritter then- oaths 
 into Gad's but, ad's fish,, and deimne, the 
 Gothic humbuggers, and those who "nick- 
 name God's creatures," and call a man a cab- 
 bage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and 
 an unaccountable muskin, should never come 
 into company without an interpreter. But I 
 will not tire my reader's patience by pointing 
 out all the pests of conversation ; nor dwell 
 particularly on the sensibles, who pronounce 
 dogmatically on the most trivial points, and 
 speak in sentences ; — the wonderers, who are 
 always wondering what o'clock it is, or won- 
 dering whether it will rain or no, or wonder- 
 ing when the moon changes; the phraseol- 
 ogists, who ex2>lain a thing by all that, or 
 enter into particulars with this, that, and 
 t'other ; and lastly, the silent men, who seem 
 afraid of opening their mouths lest they 
 should catch cold, and literally observe the 
 precept of the gospel, by letting tiieir con- 
 versation be only yea, yea, and nay, nay.
 
 PAPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 
 
 749 
 
 The rational intercourse kept np by con- 
 versation is one of our principal distinctions 
 from brutes. We should, therefore, endea- 
 vor to turn this peculiar talent to our ad- 
 vantage, and consider the organs of speech 
 as the instruments of understanding. We 
 should be very careful not to use them as tlie 
 weapons of vice, or tools of folly, and do our 
 utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous 
 habits which tend to lespcn the value of such 
 an inestimable prerogati/o. It is indeed ima- 
 gined by some philosophers, that even birds 
 and beasts (though witiiout tiie power of 
 articulation) perfectly understand one an- 
 other by the sounds they utter; and that 
 dogs and cats, &c., have each a particular 
 language to themselves, like ditferent nations. 
 Thus it may be supposed that the nightin- 
 gale .; i)f Italy have as fine an ear for their 
 own native wood notes, as any signor or 
 signora for an Italian air ; that the boars of 
 Westphalia gruntle as expressively through 
 the nose as the inhabitants in High German ; 
 and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland 
 croak as intelligibly as the natives jabber their 
 Low Dutch. However this may be, we may 
 consider those whose tongues hardly seem 
 
 to be under the influence of reason, and do 
 not keep up the proper conversation of 
 human creatures, as imitating the language 
 of different animals : thus, for instance, the 
 affinity between chatterers and monkeys, and 
 praters and parrots, is too obvious not to oc- 
 cur at once : grunters and growlers may be 
 justly compared to hogs ; snarlers are curs ; 
 and the spiljire passionate are a sort of wild 
 cats, that will not bear stroking, but will purr 
 when they are pleased. Complainers are 
 screech-owls; and story-tellers, always re- 
 peating the same dull note, are cuckoos. 
 Poets that prick up their ears at their own 
 hideous braying are no better than asses; 
 critics in general are venomous serpents that 
 deliglit in hissing; and some of them, who 
 have got by heart a few technical terins, with- 
 out knowing their meaning, are no other than 
 magpies. I myself, who have crowed to 
 the whole town for near three years past, 
 may perhaps put my readers in mind of a 
 dunghill cock ; but as I riurt acquaint them 
 that they v.'ill hear the last of me on this day 
 fortnight, I hope they will then consider me 
 as a swan, who is supposed to sing sweetly 
 in his dying moments.
 
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