To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear, undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.
There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek, submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, oh nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Mossrose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
Oh say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
VOL. II.-G
And every storm is laid:
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crown'd;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
Crown'd with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade,
Turn, hither turn thy step,
Oh thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding wind;
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thine own tender calm.
Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores-those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds; And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,
And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;
And call those winds which through the whispering
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
Oh nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun,
With bashful forehead through the cold moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woos
The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade,
Protects thy modest blooms
Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For oh, not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits
Can aught for thee atone,
Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and newborn hope
With softest influence breathes.
WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
On that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine: thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss: Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day; I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting words shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
1 learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod thy nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
"Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That mem'ry 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 plumb;
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 mem'ry'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 Heav'n, though little noticed here.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
TOLL for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
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