Full in the midst, and o'er thy num'rous train Displays the aweful wonders of her reign. There thron'd supreme in native state, If Sirius flame with fainting heat, She calls; ideal groves their shade extend, The cool gale breathes, the silent show'rs descend. Or, if bleak Winter, frowning round, Disrobe the trees, and chill the ground, She, mild magician, waves her potent wand, And ready summers wake at her command. See, visionary suns arise Through silver clouds and azure skies; See, sportive zephyrs fan the crisped streams; Through shadowy brakes light glance the sparkling beams: While, near the secret moss-grown cave, That stands beside the crystal wave, Sweet Echo, rising from her rocky bed, Mimics the feather'd chorus o'er her head. Rise, hallow'd Milton! rise, and say, How, at thy gloomy close of day, How, when "deprest by age, beset with wrongs :" When "fall'n on evil days and evil tongues ;" When darkness, brooding on thy sight, Exil'd the sov'reign lamp of light; Say, what could then one cheering hope diffuse? What friends were thine, save Mem'ry and the Muse? Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth Caught from the stores of ancient truth: Hence all thy classic wand'rings could explore, When rapture led thee to the Latian shore; Each scene, that Tyber's banks supply'd; Each grace, that play'd on Arno's side; The tepid gales, through Tuscan glades that fly : The blue serene, that spreads Hesperia's sky; Were still thine own; thy ample mind Each charm receiv'd, retain'd, combin'd. And thence "the nightly visitant," that came To touch thy bosom with her sacred flame, Recall'd the long-lost beams of grace, That whilom shot from Nature's face, When God, in Eden, o'er her youthful breast Spread with his own right hand Perfection's gorgeous vest. ODE TO INDEPENDENCY. I woo thee, Goddess! On my musing mind And bid these ruffling gales of grief subside: As now o'er this lone beach I stray, Thy fav'rite swain⚫ oft stole along, And artless wove his Dorian lay, Far from the busy throng. Thou heard'st him, goddess, strike the tender string, And led the war 'gainst thine, and Freedom's foes. In aweful poverty his honest Muse He scorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone, Behold, like him, immortal maid, And fan them to that dazzling blaze of song, In distant trills it echoes o'er the tide; "Fond youth! to Marvell's patriot fame, "'Tis he, my son, alone shall cheer At that sad hour, when all thy hopes decline; "This fragrant wreath, the Muses' meed, Or interest's servile throng; While the hush'd breeze its last weak whisper blows, Receive, thou favour'd son, at my command, And lulls old Humber to his deep repose. Come to thy vot'ry's ardent prayer, In all thy graceful plainness drest: No knot confines thy waving hair, No zone, thy floating vest; Unsullied honour decks thine open brow, And candour brightens in thy modest eye: Thy blush is warm content's ethereal glow; Thy smile is peace; thy step is liberty: Thon scatter'st blessings round with lavish hand, As Spring with careless fragrance fills the land. And keep with sacred care, for D'Arcy's brow: I breath'd on every flower a purer glow; Andrew Marvell, born at Kingston-upon-Hull in the year 1620. + See The Rehearsal transprosed, and an account of the effect of that satire, in the Biographia Britannica, art. Marvell. Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field, In yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave: ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. Force then, secure in Faith's protecting shield, THE midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair: Float in light vision round the poet's head. Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd, Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise, How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild, The liquid lustre darted from her eyes! On what she was no more the strain prolong: Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head; In still small whispers to reflection's ear, She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead. Oh catch the aweful notes, and lift them loud; Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool rever'd: Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud! 'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard. Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear, While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap; Ev'n in the midst of Pleasure's mad career, The mental monitor shall wake and weep. What brighter planet on your births arose : Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom: That led her hence, though soon, by steps so slow: Long at her couch Death took his patient stand, And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow: To give reflection time, with lenient art, Each fond delusion from her soul to steal; Teach her from folly peaceably to part, And wean her from a world she lov'd so well. Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend To you so long a span? Alas, ye sigh: Make then, while yet ye may, your God, your friend, And learn with equal ease to sleep or die! Nor think the Muse, whose sober voice ye hear, Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow; Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear, [glow. Or shades with horrours, what with smiles should No; she would warm you with seraphic fire, Heirs as ye are of Heav'n's eternal day; Would bid you boldly to that Heav'n aspire, Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave, Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain, Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep: Go soothe your souls in sickness, grief, or pain, With the sad solace of eternal sleep. Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed, Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war, Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed; Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die. Hear, Folly, hear, and triumph in the tale : Like you, they reason; not, like you, enjoy The breeze of bliss, that fills your silken sail : On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily steer Your little course to cold oblivion's shore: They dare the storm, and, through th' inclement year, Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's row. Is it for glory? that just Fate denies. Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, Ere from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise, That lift the hero from the fighting.crowd Is it his grasp of empire to extend? To curb the fury of insulting foes? Ambition, cease: the idle contest end: 'T is but a kingdom thou canst win or lose. And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, (If life be all,) why desolation lour, With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball, That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour? Go wiser ye, that flutter life away, Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high; Nor shall the pile of hope, his mercy rear'd, WILLIAM COWPER. WILLIAM COWPER, a poet of distinguished and to Olney in Buckinghamshire, which was thence Το original genius, was born in 1731, at Great Berk- forth the principal place of Cowper's residence. At hampstead in Hertfordshire. His father, the rector Olney he contracted a close friendship with the of the parish, was John Cowper, D. D., nephew of Rev. Mr. Newton, then minister there, and since Lord-Chancellor Cowper. The subject of this rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, London, whose rememorial was educated at Westminster school, ligious opinions were in unison with his own. where he acquired the classical knowledge and cor- a collection of hymns published by him, Cowper rectness of taste for which it is celebrated, but with. contributed a considerable number of his own comout any portion of the confident and undaunted position. He first became known to the public as spirit which is supposed to be one of the most a poet by a volume printed in 1782, the contents of valuable acquisitions derived from the great schools, which, if they did not at once place him high in the o those who are to push their way in the world. scale of poetic excellence, sufficiently established his On the contrary, it appears from his poem entitled claim to originality. Its topics are "Table Talk," Tirocinium," that the impressions made upon his "Errour," " Truth," "Expostulation," "Hope," nind from what he witnessed in this place, were "Charity," ," "Conversation," and "Retirement," uch as gave him a permanent dislike to the system all treated upon religious principles, and not withof public education. Soon after his leaving West-out a considerable tinge of that rigour and austerity ninster, he was articled to a solicitor in London which belonged to his system. These pieces are or three years; but so far from studying the law, written in rhymed heroics, which he commonly te spent the greatest part of his time with a relation, manages with little grace, or attention to melody. vhere he and the future Lord Chancellor (Lord The style, though often prosaic, is never flat or inThurlow) spent their time, according to his own sipid; and sometimes the true poet breaks through, xpression," in giggling, and making giggle.' ." in a vein of lively description or bold figure. At the expiration of his time with the solicitor, he ook chambers in the Temple, but his time was still ittle employed on the law, and was rather engaged n classical pursuits, in which Coleman, Bonnel Thornton, and Lloyd, seem to have been his prinipal associates. If this volume excited but little of the public attention, his next volume, published in 1785, introduced his name to all the lovers of poetry, and gave him at least an equality of reputation with any of his contemporaries. It consists of a poem in six books, entitled "The Task," alluding to the inCowper's spirits were naturally weak; and when junction of a lady, to write a piece in blank verse, is friends had procured him a nomination to the for the subject of which she gave him The Sofa. ffices of reading-clerk and clerk of the Private It sets out, indeed, with some sportive discussion of Committees in the House of Lords, he shrunk with this topic; but soon falls into a serious strain of uch terrour from the idea of making his appearance rural description, intermixed with moral sentiments efore the most august assembly in the nation, that and portraitures, which is preserved through the six fter a violent struggle with himself, he resigned his books, freely ranging from thought to thought with ntended employment, and with it all his prospects no perceptible method. But as the whole poem a life. In fact, he became completely deranged; will here be found, it is unhecessary to enter into nd in this situation was placed, in December, 1763, particulars. Another piece, entitled "Tirocinium, bout the 32d year of his age, with Dr. Cotton, an or a Review of Schools," a work replete with miable and worthy physician at St. Alban's. This striking observation, is added to the preceding; and gitation of his mind is placed by some who have several other pieces gleaned from his various writings nentioned it to the account of a deep consideration will be found in the collection. f his state in a religious view, in which the terrours of eternal judgment so much overpowered his aculties, that he remained seven months in momentry expectation of being plunged into final misery. Mr. Johnson, however, a near relation, has taken ains to prove to demonstration, that these views of uis condition were so far from producing such an ffect, that they ought to be regarded as his sole consolation. It appears, however, that his mind had acquired such an indelible tinge of melancholy, hat his whole successive life was passed with little nore than intervals of comfort between long paroxysms of settled despondency. For the purpose of losing in employment the distressing ideas which were ever apt to recur, he next undertook the real task of translating into blank verse the whole of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. This work has much merit of execution, and is certainly a far more exact representation of the ancient poet than Pope's ornamental version; but where simplicity of matter in the original is not relieved by the force of sonorous diction, the poverty of English blank-verse has scarcely been able to prevent it from sinking into mere prose. Various other translations denoted his necessity of seeking employment; but nothing was capable of durably After a residence of a year and a half with relieving his mind from the horrible impressions it Dr. Cotton, he spent part of his time at the house had undergone. He passed some of his latter of his relation, Earl Cowper, and part at Hunting-years under the affectionate care of a relation at lon, with his intimate friend, the Rev. Mr. Unwin. East Dereham in Norfolk, where he died on The death of the latter caused his widow to remove April 25th, 1800. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines, She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth, Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires! Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain, The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqu'rors 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, O place me in some Heav'n-protected isle, 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 Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" 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 sorr'wing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 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 nurs'ry 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, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd. By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, 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 deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs❜ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 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 lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life long since has anchor'd 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 op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous 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 enthron'd, 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 unrevok'd has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; • Garth. ЗАЗ |