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Should aught my bofom difcompofe, Who now, with fweet complacent air, Shall fmooth the rugged brow of Care,

And foften all my woes?

Too faithful Memory-Cease, O ccafeHow fhall I e'er regain my peace? (0 to forget her!) but how vain each art, Whilft ev'ry virtue lives imprinted on my heart! And thou, my little cherub, left behind,

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, When Reason's dawn informs thy infant mind, And thy fweet lifping tongue fhall ask the cause, How oft with forrow thall mine eyes run o'er, When, twining round my knees, I trace Thy mother's fmile upon thy face! How oft to my full heart fhalt thou restore Sad mem'ry of my joys-ah, now no more! By bleffings once enjoyed now more distrest, More beggar by the riches once poffeft, My little darling-dearer to me grown; [hear!) By all the tears thou'ft caus'd-(O ftrange to Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, Thy cradle purchas'd with thy mother's bier: Who now fhall feek with fond delight Thy infant fteps to guide aright? She, who with doating eyes would gaze On all thy little artlefs ways, By all thy foft endearments bleft, And clafp thee oft with tranfport to her breaft, Alas! is gone Yet fhalt thou prove A father's dearest, tendereft love; And, O fweet fenfelefs fmiler (envy'd state!) As yet unconfcious of thy hapless fate,

When years thy judgment fhall mature, And Reafon fhows thofe ills it cannot cure, Wilt thou a father's grief t'affwage, For virtue prove the Phonix of the earth (Like her, thy mother dy'd to give thee birth) And be the comfort of my age? When fick and languishing I lie, Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care fupply?

And oft as to thy lift'ning ear, Thy mother's virtues and her fate Í tell,

Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear, Whilft on the mournful theme I dwell? Then fondly ftealing to thy father's fide, Whene'er thou feeft the foft diftrefs, Which I would vainly feek to hide,

Say, wilt thou ftrive to make it lefs? To footh my forrows all thy cares employ, And in my cup of grief infufe one drop of joy?

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Say, doft thou mourn my ravish'd mate,
That oft enamour'd on thy ftrains has hung?
Or has the cruel hand of Fate

Bereft thee of thy darling young?
Alas, for both I weep!

In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
A lovely babe, that should have liv'd to blefs
And fill my doating eyes with frequent

tears,

At once the fource of rapture and distress, The flattering prop of my declining years! In vain from death to rescue I effay'd,

By every art that fcience could devife; Alas! it languifh'd for a mother's aid, And wing'd its flight to feck her in the Then O our comforts be the fame, [fkies.At ev'ning's peaceful hour,

To fhun the noify paths of wealth and fame, And breathe our forrows in this lonely bow'r.

But why, alas! to thee complain
To thee-unconscious of my pain!
Soon fhalt thou ceafe to mourn thy lot fevere,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:

The genial warmth of joy renewing spring Again fhall plume thy fhatter'd wing; Again thy little heart fhall tranfport prove, Again fhall flow thy notes refponfive to thy But O for me in vain may feafons roll, [love. Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears; Deploring ftill the comfort of my foul,

I count my forrows by increafing years.

Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, fay,

Where is the promis'd period of my woes? Full three long lingering years have roll'd away, And yet I weep, a franger to repofe:

"O what delufion did thy tongue employ ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love,

"Her laft bequeft-with all a mother's care, "The bitterness of forrow fhould remove, “Soften the horrors of despair,

"And cheer a heart long loft to joy!"

How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel-face,
My foul the maze of Fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And O what flatt'ring fcenes had fancy feign'd!
How did I rave of bleffings yet in store!
Till ev'ry aching fenfe was fweetly pain'd,

And my full heart could bear, nor tongue
could utter more. -

"Juft Heav'n," I cry'd with recent hopes "elate, [dead "Yet will I live will live though Emma's "So long bow'd down beneath the ftorms of

fate,

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"Yet will I raife my woe-dejected head! "My little Emma, now my all,

"Will want a father's care;

"Her looks, her wants, my rafh refolves recall, And for her fake the ills of life I'll bear: G&4 "And

"And oft together we'll complain, [know. | Condemn'd to nurse eternal care,
"Complaint, the only blifs my foul can And ever drop the silent tear,
"From me my child fhall learn the mournful Unheard I mourn, unknown I figh,
"And prattle tales of woe.
Unfriended live, unpity'd die!

[ftrain,
"And O! in that aufpicious hour, [pow'r,
"When Fate refigns her perfecuting
"With duteous zeal her hand fhall clofe,
"No more to weep-my forrow-ftreaming
"When death gives mifery repofe, [eyes,

"And opes a glorious paffage to the skies."

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The flatt'ring scene is o'er, My hopes for ever-ever fled.

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She too [dead

And vengeance can no more → Cruth'd by misfortune-blafted by difeafeAnd none-none left to bear a friendly part! To meditate my welfare, health, or eafe,

Or footh the anguifh of an aching heart!
Now all one gloomy fcene, till welcome Death,
With lenient hand (O falfely deem'd fevere)
Shall kindly ftop my grief-exhaufted breath,
And dry up ev'ry tear,
Perhaps. obfequious to my will,

But ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The last fad office ftrangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;

As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.
Yet while this weary life fhall laft,
While yet my tongue can form th'impaf-
fion'd ftrain,

In piteous accents thall the Mufe complain, And dwell with fond delay on bleffings paft: For Oh! how grateful to a wounded heart The tale of mifery to impart!

From others eyes bid artlefs forrows flow, And raife cftceni upon the bafe of woe! Ev'n he*, the nobleft of the tuneful throng, Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the foft contagion of my fong, [tear. And pay my penfive Mufe the tribute of a

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§ 118. Elegy in Imitation of Tibullus.
SMOLLET.

WHERE now are all my flatt'ring dreams of
joy?
Monimia,
give my foul her wonted reft:
Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,
Heart-gnawing cares corrode my penfive breaft!
Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,
With feftive fouls beguile the fleeting hour,
Lead beauty thro' the mazes of the ball,
Or prefs her wanton in love's rofeate bow'r.
For me, no more I'll range th'empurpled mead,
Where fhepherds pipe, and virgins dance around,
Nor wander thro' the woodbine's fragrant shade,
To hear the mufic of the grove resound.

I'll feek fome lonely church, or dreary hall,
Where fancy paints the glimm'ring taper blue,
Where damps hang mould'ring on the ivy'd wall,
And theeted ghofts drink up the midnight dew:
There, leagu'd with hopless anguish and despair,
A while in filence o'er my fate repine:
Then, with a long farewell to love and care,
To kindred duft my weary limbs confign.
Wilt thou, Monimia, shed a gracious tear
On the cold grave where all my forrows reft;
Strew vernal flow'rs, applaud my love fincere,
And bid the turf lie eafy on my breast?

A

§ 119. The Propagation of the Gospel in Greenland.
COWPER,
ND ftill it fpreads. See Germany fend forth
Her fons to pour it on the fartheft north:
Fir'd with a zeal peculiar, they defy
The rage and rigour of a polar fky,
And plant fuccefsfully fweet Sharon's rofe
On icy plains, and in eternal fnows.

Oh! bleft within th'inclofure of your rocks,
Nor herds have ye to boaft, nor bleating flotks,
No fertilizing streams your fields divide,
That fhew revers'd the villas on their fide;
No groves have ye; no cheerful found of bitd,
Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard:
Nor grateful eglantine regales the fmell
Of thofe that walk at ev'ning, where ye dwell→→
But Winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown,
Sits abfolute on his unfhaken throne,
Piles up his ftores amidst the frozen waste,
And bids the mountains he has built ftand faft;
Beckons the legions of his ftorms away
From happier fcenes, to make your land a prey;
Proclaims the foil a conqueft he has won,
And fcorns to fhare it with the diftant fun.

+ The Moravian Miffionaries in Greenland. Vide Krantz.

-Yet

-Yet Truth is yours, remote, unenvy'd ifle,
And peace, the genuine offspring of her fmile:
The pride of letter'd ignorance, that binds
In chains of error our accomplish'd minds;
That decks, with all the fplendour of the true,
A falfe religion, is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchfafes for our delight
The fweet viciffitudes of day and night;
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer
Field, fruit, and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here;
But brighter beams than his who fires the fkies
Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,
That fhoot into your darkeft caves the day,
From which our nicer optics turn away.

$120. On Slavery, and the Slave Trade.

COWPER.

BUT ah! what with can profper, or what

pray'r,

For merchants rich in cargoes of defpair,
Who drive a loathfome traffic, gage and fpan,
And buy the mufcles and the bones 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 ftroke as fatal as the feythe of death.
The fable warrior, frantic with regret
Of her he loves, and never can forget,
Lofes in tears the far-receding fhore,

§ 121. On Liberty, and in Praife of Mr. Howard.
COWPER.

OH, could I worship aught beneath the skies
That earth hath feen, or fancy could devife,
Thine altar, facred Liberty, fhould stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flow'rs as wild and fair
Duly as ever on the mountain's height
As ever drefs'd a bank, or fcented fummer air,
The peep of morning fhed a dawning light;
Again, when Evening in her fober veft
Drew the grey curtain of the fading Weft,
My foul fhould yield the willing thanks and
praise

For the chief bleffings of my faireft days:
But that were facrilege-praife is not thine,
But his who gave thee, and preferves thee mine:
Elfe I would fay, and as I fpake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless fky,
This triple realm adores thee:-thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home;
We feel thy force ftill active, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from prieftly pow'r,
While Confcience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no fuperior but the God the fears.
Propitious fpirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rights have fuffer'd, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thoufand hearts that share
The fears and hopes of a commercial care:
Prifons expect the wicked, and were built

But not the thought that they must meet no To bind the lawlefs, and to punish guilt;

more!

Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow,
What has he left that he can yet forego?
Yes, to deep fadnefs fullenly refign'd,
He feels his body's bondage in his mind;
Puts off his gen'rous nature, and to fuit
His manners with his fate, puts on the brute.
Oh most degrading of all ills that wait
On man, a mourner in his beft cftate!
All other forrows virtue may endure,
And find fubmiflion more than half a cure;
Grief is itself a med'cine, and bestow'd
T'improve the fortitude that bears the load;
To teach the wand'rer, as his woes increase,
The path of wifdom, all whofe paths are peace.
But flav'ry-Virtue dreads it as her grave;
Patience itself is meannefs in a flave:
Or, if the will and fovereignty of God
Bid Tuffer it a while and kifs the rod,
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,

But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and

flood,

Are mighty mifchiefs not to be withstood;
And honeft merit ftands on flipp'ry ground,
Where covert guile and artifice abound:
Let juft reftraint, for public peace defign'd,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind,
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let infolvent innocence go free.

Patron of elfe the most defpis'd of men,
Accept the tribute of a ftranger's pen;
Verfe, like the laurel, its immortal mced,
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed:
I may alarm thee, but I fear the fhame
(Charity chofen as my theme and aim)
I must incur, forgetting Howard's name.
Bleft with all wealth can give thee, to refign
Joys doubly fweet to feelings quick as thine,
To quit the blifs thy rural scenes bestow,
To feek a nobler amidst fcenes of woe; [home,

And fnap the chain the moment when you may. To traverfe feas, range kingdoms, and bring

Nature imprints upon whate'er we fee
That Has a heart and life in it, Be free!
The beafts are charter'd;-neither age nor force
Can quell the love of freedom in a horfe:
He breaks the cord that held him at the rack,
And, confcious of an unincumber'd back,
Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein,
Loofe fly his forelock and his ample mane;
Refponfive to the diftant neigh he neighs,
Nor ftops till, overleaping all delays,

He finds the pasture where his fellows graze.

Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge-fuch as only dungeons teach!
And only fympathy like thine could reach!
That grief, fequefter'd from the public stage,
Might fmooth her feathers and enjoy her cage,
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldeft patriot might be proud to feel.
On that the voice of clamour and debate,
That pleads for peace till it difturbs the ftate,
Were huth'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and Heav'n's finile thy fee!

On

§ 122. On Domestic Happiness as the Friend of Virtue, and of the falfe Good-nature of the Age. COWPER.

DOMESTIC happiness, thou only blifs

Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!
Tho' few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preferve thy fweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper fheds into thy crystal cup,
Thou art the nurfe of virtue. In thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth fhe is,
Heaven-born, and deftin'd to the skies again.
Thou art not known where Pleafure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess, with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, ftill leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle, frail fupport:
For thou art meck and conftant, hating change,
And finding in the calin-of truth-ty'd love-
Joys that her ftormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what fhipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown,
Till proftitution elbows us afide

In all our crowded streets, and fenates feem
Conven'd for purpofes of empire lefs,
Than to releafe th'adultrefs from her bond!
Th'adultrefs! what a theme for angry verse,
What provocation to th'indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! but I difdain
The naufeous talk to paint her as fhe is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her fhame.
No. Let her pafs, and, chariotted along
In guilty fplendour, thake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white;
And verle of mine fhall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now of character unfmirch'd
And chafte themfelves, are not afham'd to own..
Virtue and Vice had bound'ries in old time
Not to be pafs'd; and fhe that had renounc'd
Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for Prudery's fake,
But Dignity's, refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif
Defirous to return, and not receiv'd;
But was an wholefome rigour in the main,
And taught th'unblemish'd to preferve with care
That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all.
Men too were nice of honour in thofe days,
And judg'd offenders well; and he that fharp'd
And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd, [fold
Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that
His country, or was flack when she requir’d
His ev'ry nerve in action and at ftretch,
Paid with the blood that he had basely spar'd
The price of his default. But now, yes, now,
We are become fo candid and fo fair,
So lib'ral in conftruction, and fo rich
In Chriftian charity, a good-natur'd age!
That they are fafe; finners of either fex
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd,
well bred,

Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To pafs us readily thro' ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill, that the admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause;
But fhe has burnt her masks not needed here,
Where Vice has fuch allowance, that her shifts
And fpecious femblances have loft their use.

§ 123. On the Employments of what is called
an Idle Life. COWPER.

HOW various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who juftly in return
Efteems that bufy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful induftry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Can he want occupation who has these?
Drefs'd to his tafte, inviting him abroad-
Will he be idle who has much t'enjoy?
Me therefore, ftudious of laborious eafe,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not wafte it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When he thall call his debtors to account,
From whom are all our bleffings, bus'nefs finds
Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t'improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd
The mind he gave me; driving it, tho' flack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
Py caufes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior felf,
That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplies it; and who feeks
A focial, not a diffipated life,

Has bus'nefs: feels himfelf engag'd t'atchieve
No unimportant, tho' a filent task.

A life all turbulence and noise may feem
To him that leads it wife, and to be prais'd;
But wifdom is a pearl with moft fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies,
He that is ever occupy'd in ftorms,
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly induftrious, a difgraceful prize.

124. The Poft comes in-The Nervs-paper is read-The World contemplated at a diftance.

COWPER.

HARK 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder
bridge

That with its wearifome but needful length
Beftrides the wint'ry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
He comes, the herald of a noify world, [locks,
With fpatter'd boots, ftrapp'd waift, and frozen
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the clofe pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;
And having dropt th'expected bag-pafs on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,

Cold

.

Cold and yet cheerful: meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thoufands, and of joy to fome;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houfes in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of abfent fwains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconfcious of them all.
But oh th'important budget! usher'd in
With fuch heart-thaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd!
Or do they ftill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a fmile of peace,
Or do we grind her still the grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wifdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th'imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now ftir the fire, and clofe the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hiffing urn
Throws up a fteamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning who, with fhining face,
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, fqueez'd
And bor'd with elbow-points thro' both his fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient ftands till his feet throb
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage;
Or placemen, all tranquillity and miles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife, that holds
Inquifitive attention, while I read,

Fast bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Tho' eloquent themfelves, yet fear to break,
• What is it but a map of bufy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit, fee,
The feals of office glitter in his eyes; [heels,
He climbs, he pants, he grafps them. At his
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext'rous jerk foon twifts him down,
And wins them-but to loose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the course they take:
The modeft fpeaker is afham'd and griev'd
T'engrofs a moment's notice, and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.

Sweet bathfulnefs! it claims at least this praife,
The dearth of information and good-fenfe
That it foretells us, always comes to pafs.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here:
There forefts of no meaning fpread the page
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleafantry amufe us there,
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.

The reft appears a wilderness of strange
But
gay confufion-rofes for the cheeks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heav'n, earth, and occan, plunder'd of their
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews, [fweets,
Sermons and city feafts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journies, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant thro' the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world; to fee the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar fhe fends thro' all her gates
At a fafe diftance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th'uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at eafe
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.·
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Ha loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but not alarms me. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo of thefe brazen throats.
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates; as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, cuftoms, policy of all.
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And fpreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repaft for me.
He travels and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, thro' his peering eyes
Difcover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and fhare in his efcapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

$125. A Fragment. MALLET. FAIR morn afcends: fresh zephyrs breath, Blows lib'ral o'er yon bloomy heath; Where fown profufely, herb and flow'r, Of balmy finell, of healing pow'r, Their fouls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale. Here fpreads a green expanfe of plains, Where, fweetly penfive, Silence reigns: And there, at utmost stretch of eye, A mountain fades into the fky; While, winding round, diffus'd and deep. A river rolls with founding fweep. Of human art no traces near,

I feem alone with nature here!

Here are thy walks, O facred Health! The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth; The feas'ning of all good below, The fov'reign friend in joy or woe. O Thou, most courted, most despis'd: And but in abfence duly priz'd!

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