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Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Shortlived 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 safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties 'ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
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 humour 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 honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here.

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
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.

smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

here?

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 anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'dMe 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 riseThe son of parents pass’d into the skies. And now farewell—Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.

Garth.

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.

TO MARY.

AUTUMN OF 1793.

THE twentieth year is well nigh pass'd,
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow-
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with màgic art Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of oriert light,

My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently press’d, press gently mine,

My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,

My Mary! And still to love, though press’d with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary! But, ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

COWPER, THE

TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY.

MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought These scenes deep-stain'd with Sorrow's sable

dye? Hast thou in store no joy-illumined draught,

To cheer bewilder'd Fancy's tearful eye? Yes--from afar a landscape seems to rise,

Deck'd gorgeous by the lavish hand of Spring; Thin gilded clouds float light along the skies,

And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing. How bless’d the youth in yonder valley laid !

Soft smiles in every conscious feature play, While to the gale low-murmuring through the

glade He tempers sweet his sprightly warbling lay. Hail, Innocence! whose bosom, all serene,

Feels not fierce Passion's raving tempest roll! Oh, ne'er may Care distract that placid mien ! Oh, ne'er may Doubt's dark shades o’erwhelm

thy soul. Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire conceald,

Yonder she comes! the heart-inflaming fiend ! (Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield ?)

Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend! Oh smile accursed, to hide the worst designs !

Now with blithe eye she woos him to be bless’d, While round her arm unseen a serpent twines

And lo, she hurls it hissing at his breast!

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