BENEFACTIONS.

A POEM IN SHENSTONE'S MANNER.

ADDRESSED TO MY DEAR COZ, APRIL 14, 1788.

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;
This cap to my Harriet I owe;

She gave it, and gave me beside
A ribbon, worn out long ago,

With which in its youth it was tied.

This chair that I press at my ease,

With tresses of steeds that were black
Well cover'd, and wadded to please
The sitter, both bottom and back;
Thick-studded with bordering nails,
Smooth-headed and gilded and bright,
As Vesper, who when the day fails,
Adorns the dark forehead of Night:

These carpets, so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride,
(Oh spare them, ye Knights of the Boot,
Dirt-splash'd in 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,
Contrived both for splendour and use,
And charged with octavoes 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 mortals have named a beaufette,

But what the Gods call it above

Has ne'er been revealed to us yet:
These curtains that keep the room warm
Or cool, as the season demands;
Those stoves which for figure and form
Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands:

That range, from which many a mess
Comes smoking the stomach to cheer;
That tub,-(you might bathe in a less,)
Where malt is transform'd into beer:
These painted and unpainted chairs,
Those cushion'd, these curiously framed;
Yon bedding and bed above stairs,
With other things not to be named:

These items endear my abode,
Disposing me oft to reflect
By whom they were kindly bestowed,
Whom here I impatient expect.
But, hush! She a parent attends,
Whose dial-hand points to eleven,
Who, oldest and dearest of friends,
Waits only a passage to Heaven.

Then willingly want her awhile,
And, sweeping the chords of your lyre,
The gloom of her absence beguile
As now, with poetical fire.

'Tis yours, for true glory athirst,
In high-flying ditty to rise

On feathers renown'd from the first
For bearing a goose to the skies.

Mr. Rose meantime had visited him again, and was "assured of an undissembling welcome at all times," both on his own part and Mrs. Unwin's ; as to her,"

said Cowper," she is one of the sincerest of the human race; and if she receives you with the appearance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. Her behaviour on such occasions is with her an affair of conscience, and she dares no more look a falsehood than utter one 46 " Her daughter, Mrs. Powley, and her husband came also to Weston; "her," he says, 66 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 47."

On the eve of their departure he wrote to Lady Hesketh, and complaining playfully that Mrs. Frog prolonged her stay in London, "it is true," he said, "that northerly winds have blown ever since she left us, but they have not prevented the most exuberant show of blossoms that ever was seen, nor the singing of nightingales on every hedge. Ah, my cousin, thou hast lost all these luxuries too; thine is an absence of necessity. now in all its beauty. I would that thou wert here to enjoy it 48 !"

but not by choice; The wilderness is

Ashley Cowper died in the ensuing month, at the age of eighty-six. It is worthy of remark that Cowper's letters upon the occasion could not have been written under the influence of an uncharitable creed, nor of that insane persuasion which characterised his disease.

46 March 29, 1788.
48 May 19.

47 To Mr. Newton, June 5.

TO LADY HESKETH.

MY DEAREST COUSIN,

The Lodge, June 10, 1788.

Your kind letter of precaution to Mr. Gregson sent him hither as soon as chapel-service was ended in the evening. But he found me already apprized of the event that occasioned it, by a line from Sephus, received a few hours before. My dear uncle's death awakened in me many reflections, 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 consciousness, 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 blameless, so was his death without anguish; and that he is gone to heaven. I know not, that human life, in its most prosperous state, can present any thing to our wishes half so desirable 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 hope that you and your sister will be able effectually to avail yourselves of all the consolatory matter with which it abounds. You gave yourselves, while he lived, to a father, whose life was, doubtless, prolonged by your attentions, and whose tenderness of disposition made him always deeply sensible of your kindness in this respect, 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, to 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 15, 1788. very much

Although I know that you must be occupied on the present most affecting occasion, yet, not hearing from you, I began to be uneasy on your account, and to fear that your health might have suffered by the fatigue, both of body and spirits, that you must have undergone, till a letter that reached me yesterday from the General set my heart at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in question. He uncle in the tenderest terms, such as speaks of my show how truly sensible he was of the amiableness and excellence of his character, and how deeply he regrets his loss. We 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. My memory retains so perfect an impression of him, that, had I been painter instead of poet, I could from those faithful traces have perpetuated his face and form with the most minute exactness; and this I the rather wonder at because some with whom I was equally conversant five-and-twenty years ago, have almost faded out of all recollection with me. But he made an impression not soon to be effaced, and was in figure, in temper, and manner, and in numerous other respects, such as I shall never be