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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 pleasant 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.-

Shall steep me in Elysian 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 ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;)
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blies
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolld 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, I long 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 sorrow 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 inore, 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-capt, '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 That thou mightst know me sale and warmly laid: Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

But now-what here we 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 weather d and the ocean cross d)
Shoots into port at some well-bavend 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 swift! bast reachi'd the sho
* Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;
And thy lovel consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchord by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress -
Me bowling blasts drive derious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails rippd, seams opening wide, and compass log
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course,
Yet O 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 passil into the skies.
And now, farewell Time unrevokel has run
His wonted course, yet what I wishd 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;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in lus theft,-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

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,

Cowper's prose works are confined almost exclusively to now, without dispute, take the very first rank in English e * There is something in the sweetness and facility of the perhaps, in the glimpse they afford of a pure and benevo fuses a charm over the whole collection, au communi a cannot always be commanded by performances of great

Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued fowers,
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 pleasant 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 we 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 weather'd 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 swift! 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 anchord by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, 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.
Yet O 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!_Tine 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;
And, 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.

Cowper's prose works are confined almost exclusively to his letters. These now, without dispute, take the very first rank in English epistolary literature. « There is something in the sweetness and facility of the diction, and more, perhaps, in the glimpse they afford of a pure and benevolent mind, that dif. fuses a charm over the whole collection, and communicates an interest that cannot always be commanded by performances of greater dignity and pre. tension. From them we now know almost as much of Cowper as we do of those authors who have spent their days in the centre and glare of Literary or fashionable society; and they will continue to be read long after the curiosity is gratified to which, perhaps, they owed their first celebrity; for the character with which they make us acquainted, will always attract by its rarity, and engage by its elegance. The feminine delicacy and purity of Cowper's manners and disposition, the romantic and unbroken retirement in which his life was passed, and the singular gentleness and modesty of his whole character, disarm him of those terrors that so often shed an atmosphere of repulsion around the persons of celebrated writers, and make us more indulgent to his weaknesses, and more delighted with his excellencies, than if he had been the centre of a circle of wits, or the oracle of a literary confederacy. The interest of this picture is still further heightened by the recollection of that tremendous malady, to the visitations of which he was subject, and by the spectacle of that perpetual conflict which was maintained, through the greater part of his life, between the depression of those constitutional horrors, and the gayety that resulted from a playful imagination, and a heart animated by the mildest affections.")

Though it is impossible to have any just conception of the fascination or Cowper's epistolary style without reading a large portion of his letters, yet some faint idea may be formed of its ease, and grace, and charming power, from the following, which are all that our limited space will allow.

onduce, together with your other ministerial accomplishme
make you extremely popular in the place.

I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I first entert
den in the morning, I find them perched upon a wall, wai
their breakfast ; for I feed them always upon the gravel wi
your wish should be accomplished, and you should find y
Cortished with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubtedly t
aliingst them. Only be so good, if that should be the
announce yourself by some means or other. For I imani
emp will require something better than tares to fill it."

Your mother and I last week made a trip in a postal Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles off. derstood that I did not much affect strange faces, and

his servant on purpose to inform me, that he was going
cestershire, and that if I chose to see the gardens, I mig
myself without danger of seeing the proprietor, I acc
invitation, and was delighted with all I found there, '1
tion is happy, the gardens elegantly disposed, the hotho
most flourishing state, and the orange-trees the most
creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had
the talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do
scene justice.

Our love attends you all

Yours.

COW PER'S AMUSEMENTS.
To the Rev. William Unwin.
Amico Mio,

September 21, 1779. Be pleased to buy me a glazier's diamond pencil. I have glazed the two panes designed to receive my pine plants; but I cannot mend the kitchen windows, till, by the help of that implement, I can reduce the glass to its proper dimensions. If I were a plumber, I should be a complete glazier; and possibly the happy time may come, when I shall be seen trudging away to the neighboring towns with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. If government should impose another tax upon that commodity, I hardly know a business in which a gentleman might more successfully employ himself. A Chinese, 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 ? Rousseau would have been charmed to have seen me so occupied, and would have exclaimed with rapture, “ that he had found the Emilius who (he supposed) had subsisted only in his own idea." I would recommend it to you to follow my example. You will presently qualify yourself for the task, and may not only amuse your self at home, but even exercise your skill in mending the church windows; which, as it would save money to the parish, would

WRITING UPON ANY THING.
To the Rev. William Unwix.

My dear Friend,
You like to hear from me: this is a very good r
should write. But I have nothing to say; this see
good reason why I should not. Yet, if you had
your horse at our door this morning, and at this pre
being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occas
me,-- Mr. Cowper, you have not spoken since I co
you resolved never to speak again?" it would be bu
if, in answer to the suminons, I should plead inabili
and only excuse. And this, by the way, sugresy
sonable piece of instruction, and reminds me of w
apt to forget, when I have any epistolary business i
letter may be written upon any thing or nothing jus
or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a
him, twenty miles in length, which he is to perfor
not hesitate and doubt whether he shall set out or
does not readily conceive how he shall ever reach
for he knows, that by the simple operation of movi

1 Edinburgh Review, vol. iv., page 373.

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 find them perched upon a wall, waiting for their breakfast ; for I feed them always upon the gravel walk. If your wish should be accomplished, and you should find yourself furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only be so good, if that should be the case, to announce yourself by some means or other. For I imagine your crop will require something better than tares to fill it.

Your mother and I last week made a trip in a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles off. He understood that I did not much affect strange faces, and sent over his servant on purpose to inform me, that he was going into Leicestershire, and that if I chose to see the gardens, I might gratify myself without danger of seeing the proprietor. I accepted the invitation, and was delighted with all I found there. The situation is happy, the gardens elegantly disposed, the hothouse in the most flourishing state, and the orange-trees the most captivating creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had need have the talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the whole scene justice.

Our love attends you all.

Yours.

WRITING UPON ANY THING,

To the Rev. WILLIAM Unwin.
My dear friend,

August 6, 1780. 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 writing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to say to me," Mr. Cowper, you have not spoken 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 instruction, and reminds me of what I am very apt to forget, when I have any epistolary business in hand, that a letter may be written upon any thing or nothing, just as 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 he knows, that by the simple operation of moving one foot for

what I have got, be verse or not; by the tu
cught to be rhyme; but if it be, did you eve
yore, such a ditty before? The thought did
her, as madam and I, did walk and not fly
dales, with spreading sails, before it was dark

The news at Oney is little or noney; but
it, viz. : Poor Mr. Peace cannot yet cease, ad
what you said, and has left parish-church qui
ing almost swore to go there no more.

Page and his wife, that made such a strife
in Dog-lane; we gave them the wall, and th
Scott, we have seen him not, except as he py
haste, to see a friend in Silver End. Mrs.

ward first, and then the other, he shall be sure to accomplish it. So it is in the present case, and so it is in every similar case. A letter is written as a conversation is maintained, or a journey performed; not by preconcerted, or premeditated means, a new contrivance, or an invention never heard of before.--but merely by maintaining a progress, and resolving 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 the last century, a tie-wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would say, “My good sir, a man has no right to do either.” But it is to be hoped that the present century has nothing to do with the mouldy opinions of the last ; and so, good Sir Launcelot, or Sir Paul, or whatever be your name, step into your picture-frame again, and look as if you thought for another century, and leave us moderns, in the meantime, to think when we can, and to write whether we can or not, else we might as well be dead, as you are.

When we look back upon our forefathers, we seem to look back upon the people of another nation, almost upon creatures of another species. Their vast rambling mansions, spacious halls, and painted casements, the Gothic porch smothered with honeysuckles, their little gardens and high walls, their box-edging, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, are become so entirely unfashionable now, that we can hardly believe it possible, that a people who resembled us so little in their tastes, should resemble us in any thing else. But in every thing else, I suppose, they were our counterparts exactly; and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk-stockings, has left human nature just where it found it. The inside of the man, at least, lias undergone no change. His passions, appetites, and aims, are just what they ever were. They wear, perhaps, a handsomei disguise than they did in days of yore; for philosophy and literature will have their effect upon the exterior; but in every other respect a modern is only an ancient in a different dress.

July closes, that she and her sister, and her
that are here, our course shall steer, to dine
for a guinea, if the weather should hold, so
had better by far, stay where we are. For
while nobody mows, (which is very wrong,
80 to speak, 'tis at least a week, if it happe
again,

I have writ Charity, not for popularity,
io hopes to do good; and if the Reviewer sh.
the gentleman's Muse, wears methodist sho
her pace, and talk about grace, that she ar
regard, for the taste and fashions, and ruling
ing play, of the modern day; and though
plume, and here and there wear a tittering
to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as
production on a new construction. She
hopes to snap all that may come, with a s

en His opinion in this, will not be ar
my principal end ; and if I succeed, and
few are brought to a serious thought, I sb
all I have said and all I have done, thou
time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence.
and by hook or crook, write another boo
another year. I have heard before, of
upon springs, and such-like things, wit!

AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.

To the Rev. John Newton."
My very dear friend,

July 12, 1781.
I am going to send, what when you have read, you may scratch
your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether

part, that when you went in, you was f

1 * Cowper, in one of his letters, complained to Mr. Newton of the wanderings of his mind; he riend acknowledged a similar weakness ;-'Yes,' replied the poet, but you have always a serious thought standing at the door, like a justice of peace, with the riot-act in his hand, ready to disperse the mob.' Cowper's correspondence with Newton presents few specimens of this delightful baile lage. He loved and respected, but he also feared his triend." --Willmolt.

The Spinney was a delightfal rural retirement grove
Weston, and about a mile from Oldey. The word is used for

Cowper's summer-house still exists, but his favorite Spin
Newton, be said, "In one year the whole will be a thicket; the
is now in a state of transformation, and is already become as
without number, are springing in the turt. They are now as
is ended they will be twice as bigh; and the growth of anot
desolation of the whole scene is such that it yunk our spirits.

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