Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat.
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet, careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn,

And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

Cowper's Summer House

From a Drawing by J. D. Harding

But O the important budget! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace?
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh--I long to know them all :
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

To MRS. UNWIN.

[May 1793.]

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalises whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast
Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast ;

I passing swift and inattentive by,

At the three kittens cast a careless eye,

Not much concern'd to know what they did there,

Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.

But presently a loud and furious hiss

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"

When lo! upon the threshold met my view,

With head erect and eyes of fiery hue,

A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue.

Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,

Darting it full against a kitten's nose,

Who having never seen in field or house

The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;

Only projecting with attention due.

Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?"