of the bed, with their eyes fixed upon his dying countenance, the precise moment of his departure was unobserved by any.

From this mournful period, till the features of his deceased friend were closed from his view, the expression which the kinsman of Cowper observed in them, and which he was affectionately delighted to suppose an index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of his soul in its gradual escape from the depths of despondence, was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy surprise.

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in the church of East Dereham, on Saturday the 2d of May. Over his grave a monument is erected, bearing the following inscription, from the pen of Mr. Hayley.

In Memory

Of WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.
Born in Herefordshire, 1731.
Buried in this church,
1800.

Ye who with warmth the publick triumph feel
Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal,

Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just,
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust!
England, exulting in his spotless fame,

Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name;
Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to affection's praise:
His highest honours to the heart belong;
His virtues form'd the magick of his song.
VOL. III.

6

POEMS.

VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH,

ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE

IN 1748.

FORTUNE! I thank thee; gentle Goddess! thanks! Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny, She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast A treasure in her way; for neither meed

Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,

And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,

Nor noontide feast, nor ev'ning's cool repast,

Hopes she from this-presumptuous, tho', perhaps,
The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might.
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,
Spurn'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Wherefore, ah!
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!)

Conferr'd'st thou, Goddess! Thou art blind, thou

say'st;

Enough! thy blindness shall excuse the deed.

Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale
From this thy scant indulgence !—even here,
Hints worthy sage philosophy are found;
İllustrious hints, to moralize my song!
This pond'rous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks)
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown

:

Upbore on this supported oft, he stretch'd,
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time,
(What will not cruel time,) on a wry step,
Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erset, with even, equal pace'
Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry,
And some proportion form'd now, on one side,
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on;
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet
Of humble villager-the statesman thus,
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads,
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds

His prosp'rous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails, and friends prove true;
But that support soon failing, by him left,
On whom he most depended, basely left,
Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height,
Head-long he falls; and through the rest of life,
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

STANZAS

SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL ODE ON THE FIRST
PUBLICATION OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON,
IN 1753.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword

Th' oppress'd;-unseen and unimplor'd,
To cheer the face of wo;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right-a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these along, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, O, with what matchless speed, they leave The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth,
Deriv'd from Heav'n alone,

Full on that favour'd breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart :-but while the Muse Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues, Her feeble spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong, That subject of an angel's song,

The hero, and the saint!

AN EPISTLE

TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.

1754.

"Tis not that I design to roo

Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir, and single,

Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;

Nor that I mean, while thus I knit

My thread-bare sentiments together

To show my genius, or my wit,

When God and you know I have neither;

Or such, as might be better shown

By letting poetry alone.

'Tis not with either of these views,

That I presum❜d t' address the Muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti,

(Sworn foes to ev'ry thing that's witty!)
That, with a black, infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense :

The fierce banditti, which I mean,
Are gloomy thoughts, led on by Spleen.
Then there's another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly quit
The debt, which justly became due
The moment when I heard from you;
And you might grumble, crony mine,
If paid in any other coin;

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows,
(I would say twenty sheets of prose,)
Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much
As one of gold, and your s was such.
Thus, the preliminaries settled,
I fairly find myself pitch-kettled ;*
And cannot see, though few see better,
How I shall hammer out a letter.

First, for a thought-since all agree-
A thought-I have it—let me see—
Tis gone again-plague on't! I thought
I had it—but I have it not.

Dame Gurton thus and Hodge her son,
That useful thing, her needle, gone!
Rake well the cinders sweep the floor,
And sift the dust behind the door;

* Pitch-kettled, a favourite phrase at the time when this Epistle was written, expressive of being puzzled, or what, in the Spectator's time would have been called bamboozled.