Know, ye were form’d to range yon azure field, ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. In yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave :

Force then, secure in Faith's protecting shield,
The midnight clock has tollid; and hark, the bell
Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound ? Is this the bigot's rant? Away, ye vain,

The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grare It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,

Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dullness steep Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

Go, soothe your souls in sickness, grief, or pain, Yes, **** is dead. Attend the strain,

With the sad solace of elernal sleep. Daughters of Albion! Ye that, light as air,

Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are, So oft have tript in her fantastic train,

More than those preachers of your fav’rite creed With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair :

Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war, For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom;

Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed; (This envy owns, since now her bloom is ficd;)

Nor wish for more: who conquer, but to die. Fair as the forms, that, wove in fancy's loom,

Hear, Folly, hear, and triumph in the tale : Float in light vision round the poet's head.

Like you, they reason; not, like you, enjoy Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd,

The breeze of bliss, that fills your siiken sail: Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise,

On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily steer How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,

Your litile course to cold oblivion's shore: The liquid lustre darted from her eyes !

They dare the storm, and, through th' inclement year, Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace,

Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's ruar. That o'er her form its transient glory cast:

Is it for glory? that just Fate denies. Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,

Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud, Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.

Ere from her trump the hear'n-breath'd accents rise That bell again! it tells us what she is:

That lift the hero from the fighting crowd. On what she was, no more the strain prolong :

Is it his grasp of empire to extend ? Luxuriant fancy, pause : an hour like this

To curb the fury of insulting foes ? Demands the tribute of a serious song,

Ambition, cease: the idle contest end : Maria claims it from that sable bier, Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head; And why must murder'd myriads lose their all,

'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose. In still small whispers to reflection's ear, She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead.

(If life be all,) why desolation lower,

With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball, Oh catch the awful notes, and lift them loud;

That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour! Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool rever'd:

Go wiser ye, that flutter life away, Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud!

Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high; 'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard.

Weave the light dance, with festive freedom gay, Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear, While, high with health. your hearts uxulting leap; Yet know, vain sceptics, know, th' Almighty mind,

And live your moment, since the next ye die. Evin in the midst of Pleasure's mad career, The mental monitor shall wake and weep.

Who breath'd on man a portion of his fire,

Bade his free soul, by earth nor time confind For say, than ****'s propitious star,

To Heav'n, to immortality aspire. What brighter planet on your births arose :

Nor shall the pile of hope, his mercy rear'd, Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share,

By vain philosophy be e'er destroy'd : In life to lavish, or by death to lose !

Eternity, by all or wish'd or fear'd,
Early to lose ; while, borne on busy wing,

Shall be by all or suffer'd or enjoy'd.
Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom :
Nor fear, while basking in the beams of spring,

The wintry storm that sweeps you to the tomb.
Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand
That led her hence, though soon, by steps so slow:

EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON.
Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,

IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL.
And menac'd ost, and oft withheld the blow :
To give reflection time, with lenient art,

Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: Each fond delusion from her soul to steal ;

Take that best gift which Hear'n so lately gave Teach her from folly peaceably to part,

To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care And wean her from a world she lov'd so well. Her faded form ; she bow'd to taste the wave, Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend

And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? To you so long a span? Alas, ye sigh:

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? Make then, while yet ye may, your God, your friend, Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine :

And learn with equal ease to sleep or die! Ev’n from the grave thou shalt have power to Nor think the Muse, whose sober vice ye hear,

charm. Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow; Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear,

Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; Or shades with horrors, what with smiles should And if so fair, from vanity as free; glow.

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love No; she would warm you with seraphic fire, Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, Heirs as ye are of Heav'n's eternal day;

('Twas ev'n to thee) yet the dread path once trod Would bid you boldly to that Heav'n aspire, Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high,

Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. And bids “ the pure iu heart behold their God."

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William COWPER, a poet of distinguished and Olney in Buckinghamshire, which was thenceforth original genius, was born in 1731, at Great Berk- 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 me- rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, London, whose relimorial was educated at Westminster school, where gious opinions were in unison with his own.

To a he acquired the classical knowledge and correctness collection of hymns published by him, Cowper conof taste for which it is celebrated, but without any tributed a considerable number of his own composi. portion of the confident and unđaunted spirit which tion. He first became known to the public as a is supposed to be one of the most valuable acquisi- poet by a volume printed in 1782, the contents of tions derived from the great schools, to those who which, if they did not at once place him high in the are to push their way in the world. On the con- scale of poetic excellence, sufficiently established his trary, it appears from his poem entitled “ Tirocini-claim to originality. Its topics are, “ Table Talk," um," that the impressions made upon his mind from “ Error,” “Truth,” « Expostulation," " Hope,” “Char. what he witnessed in this place, were such as gave ity," “ Conversation," and " Retirement," all treated him a permanent dislike to the system of public upon religious principles, and not without a consideducation. Soon after his leaving Westminster, he erable tinge of that rigor and austerity which bewas articled to a solicitor in London for three years; longed to his system. These pieces are written in but so far from studying the law, he spent the great- rhymed heroics, which he commonly manages with est part of his time with a relation, where he and little grace, or attention to melody. The style, though the future Lord Chancellor (Lord Thurlow) spent often prosaic, is never fat or insipid ; and sometimes their time, according to his own expression, “ in gig- the true poet breaks through, in a vein of lively degling, and making giggle.” At the expiration of his scription or bold figure. time with the solicitor, he took chambers in the If this volume excited but little of the public atTemple, but his time was still little employed on tention, his next volume, published in 1785, introthe law, and was rather engaged in classical pur- duced his name to all the lovers of poetry, and gave suits, in which Coleman, Bonnel Thornton, and him at least an equality of reputation with any of Lloyd, seem to have been his principal associates. his contemporaries. It consists of a poem in six

Cowper's spirits were naturally weak; and when books, entitled “The Task,” alluding to the injunchis friends had procured him a nomination to the tion of a lady, to write a piece in blank verse, for offices of reading-clerk and clerk of the Private the subject of which she gave him The Sofa. It sets Committees in the House of Lords, he shrunk with out, indeed, with some sportive discussion of this such terror from the idea of making his appearance topic; but soon falls into a serious strain of rural before the most august assembly in the nation, that description, intermixed with moral sentiments and after a violent struggle with himself, he resigned his portraitures, which is preserved through the six intended employment, and with it all his prospects books, freely ranging from thought to thought with in life. In fact, he became completely deranged; no perceptible method. But as the whole poem will and in this situation was placed, in December, 1763, here be found, it is unnecessary to enter into particuabout the 320 year of his age, with Dr. Cotton, an lars. Another piece, entitled “ Tirocinium, or a Re. amiable and worthy physician at St. Alban's. This view of Schools," a work replete with striking obagitation of his mind is placed by some who have servation, is added to the preceding; and several mentioned it to the account of a deep consideration other pieces gleaned from his various writings will of his state in a religious view, in which the terrors be found in the collection. of eternal judgment so much overpowered his For the purpose of losing in employment the disfaculties, that he remained seven months in mo- tressing ideas which were ever apt to recur, he next mentary expectation of being plunged into final undertook the real task of 'translating into blank misery. Mr. Johnson, however, a near relation, has verse the whole of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. This taken pains to prove to demonstration, that these work has much merit of execution, and is certainly views of his condition were so far from producing a far more exact representation of the ancient poet such an effect, that they ought to be regarded as his than Pope's ornamental version ; but where simplisole consolation. It appears, however, that his mind city of matter in the original is not relieved by the had acquired such an indelible tinge of melancholy, force of sonorous diction, the poverty of English that his whole successive life was passed with little blank verse has scarcely been able to prevent it from more than intervals of comfort between long parox- sinking into mere prose. Various other translations ysms of settled despondency.

denoted his necessity of seeking employment; but After a residence of a year and a half with Dr. nothing was capable of durably relieving his mind Cotton, he spent part of his time at the house of from the horrible impressions it had undergone. He his relation, Earl Cowper, and part at Huntingdon, passed some of his latter years under the affection. with his intimate friend, the Rev. Mr. Unwin. The ate care of a relation at East Dereham, in Norfolk, death of the latter caused his widow to remove to where he died on April 25th, 1800.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

What are ye, monarchs, laurel'd heroes, say, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
But Ætnas of the suff"ring world ye sway? In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, 'Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; That once we callid ihe past'ral house our own.
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
O place me in some Heav'n-protecied isle, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile; A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood ; That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; Where Pow'r secures what Industry has won; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, Where to succeed is not to he undone;

The biscuit, or confectionary plum; A land, that distant tyrants hate in vain,

The fragrant waters on roy cheeks bestow'd
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign! By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd !

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant Now of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughen’d by those cataracts and breaks,
ON TIE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE That humor interpos'd 100 often makes ;
OUT OF NORFOLK,

All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
O that those lips had language! Life has passid Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Witn me but roughly since I heard thee last. Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, “Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The violet, the pink, and jessamine, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

Wouldst sofily speak, and stroke my head, and smile;) To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Could those few pleasant days again appear, Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? O welcome guest, though unexpected here ! I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might. — Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

But no—what here we call our life is such, I will obey, not willingly alone,

So little to be lov’d, and thou so much, But gladly, as the precept were her own :

That I should ill requite thee to constrain And, while that face renews my filial grief, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

(The storins all weather’d and the ocean cross'd) A momentary dream that thou art she.

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Hoverd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? While airs impregnated with incense play Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; Perhaps a lear, if souls can weep in bliss- So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. " Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar, I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day,

And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away, Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

Always from port withheld, always distress'd— But was it such ?-It was.—Where thou art gone, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, And day by day some current's thwarting force The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. Whal ardently I wish’d, I long believ'd,

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.

From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth ; By expectation ev'ry day beguilid,

But higher far my proud pretensions riseDupe of tomorrow even from a child.

The son of parents pass'd into the skies. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went And now, farewell—Time unrevok'd has run Till, all my stock of infant-sorrow spent,

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. I learn’d at last submission to my lot,

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ; Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; Without the sin of violating thine ; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way,