Yet she who quiver'd at anothers' pain,
Her own with stoick firmness could sustain ;
Stood unsubdued-but meekly kiss'd the rod,
And took with patience all that came from God;
And curb'd her grief, when sorrow's cup run o'er,
Lest those,
who saw her weep, should

weep

the more.

Her have I seen when Death was at her side,
And hope no longer to our pray'rs replied,
Nor then celestial visions blest her sight,
Or angels waiting for the spirits flight;
Awe she confess'd,-but awe devoid of fear,
In death, as life, who knew her Maker near.-
Yet she, whose claim, (if any may,) will prove
Sure of the joys that crown the just above,
Humbly preferr'd no title of her own,
And on redeeming grace repos'd alone.
In acts of pray'r life's ebbing moments past,
Or acts of love, benignant to the last;
Nor one forgot, nor fail'd to recommend
Each poor dependant-name each valued friend;
And, most resign'd to summons all but giv'n,
Still human, griev'd to leave us, though for heav'n.

Nor hers alone the virtues that require

Some stroke of fate to rouse their latent fire;
Great for an hour, heroick for a scene,
Inert through all the common life between.
But such as each diurnal task perform,
Pleas'd in the calm, unshaken by the storm.
In her had nature bounteously combin'd
The tend'rest bosom with the strongest mind;
Sense, that seem'd instinct, so direct it caught
The just conclusion, oft refus'd to thought.
Simplicity of heart which never knew,

What meant the baubles, which the world pursue;
All these, by not a taint of self alloy'd,
All these were hers-for others all employ'd.

To seek the haunts of poverty and pain,

Teach want to thrive, and grief to smile again;
To guide young footsteps to the right, and win
The old in errour from the ways of sin;

To ease the burthens of the human race,
Mend ev'ry heart, and gladden ev'ry face,

She liv'd and breath'd,-not from the world estrang'd,
But mov'd amongst it guileless and unchang'd;

Still lov'd to view the picture's brightest side;
The first to cherish, and the last to chide.
For this around the time-struck ruin wait
Admiring crowds, the lowly and the great ;
Thither for this, the young, the good, repair,
And watch around with unremitted care;
For this, the orphans of the village bring
Unbidden gifts, the earliest wreath of spring,
Homage that scarce encircles youth, or pow'r,
In courts of kings, or beauty's vernal bow'r.

Thus cheer'd, yet thus forbid to labour more,
Wanting herself the aid she gave before;
When feeble mortals peevishly complain,
Regret past pleasures, and survive in vain;
She, like the silver lamp, that, night and day,
Before some altar sheds its hallow'd ray,
Serenely shines in pure effulgence bright,
With pious lustre and attractive light;

Dispels the black'ning shades that gather round,
And guides the wand'rer to the sacred ground.

Servant of GOD! thy task is nearly done;
And soon, too soon, thy wages will be won.
Yet how shall I contend with grief alone?
How bear this cheerless earth when thou art gone?
Dear being! 'tis thyself wouldst yet bestow
Whate'er of comfort the bereft may know.
For when, (how else shall I employ the hours ?)
Of thee I think, thy virtues, and thy pow'rs,
Shall I despair? thou didst not ;-or repine?
Did ever murmur spring from lips of thine?
Yes I will strive-though, at the thought, my heart
Sickens, and nature trembles at her part.

I will not wholly lose thee, but believe,
That, from on high, thy care I still receive;
And, as I wander through the silent glade,
Trace the sequester'd brook, or seek the shade,

Through days' long hours; or, in the night profound,
When stillness breathes a sacred calm around,
Discourse with thee in spirit, though disjoin'd,
And catch the influence of angelick mind.
The force of virtue lasts beyond the grave,

Still shalt thou watch, console me, guide, and save!

Since the above was put into the 'Editor's hands, the amiable and excellent original of the Portrait has been removed to that higher state of existfor which she was so well prepared. Original note.

ence,

Review.

ART. XIV.-Private Correspondence of William Cowper, Esq. with several of his most intimate Friends. Now first Published from the Original in the Possession of his Kinsman, JOHN JOHNSON LL. D. Rector of Yaxham with Welborne in Norfolk. 2 vols. pp. 378. 349. London. 1824.

THE classical and elegant simplicity of the poetry of Cowper, the rich fertility of his fancy, the gentle and graceful playfulness of his humour, the purity of heart, and earnest goodness of purpose, which appear in all that he has written, have combined to render him one of the most attractive and interesting persons of whom English literature has to boast. The letters, which abounded in his memoirs as compiled by Hayley, were so delightful, that we could not but anticipate great pleasure, as well as advantage, from the perusal of two volumes of his unpublished correspondence, so unexpectedly offered to us at this late period. But we confess ourselves much disappointed. Our impressions have been painful, and our estimate of the character of Cowper has not been raised by it. There are many letters to the Rev. John Newton containing allusions to the unhappy depression of his spirits, which he imagined to be an evidence of the desertion of the Holy Spirit, and of his having fallen from a state of grace; and we are unable to imagine what benefit or pleasure can be derived by any one from the perusal of expressions of the most unwarrantable, insane, and desperate despondency. But perhaps we are wrong; it is possible that the obvious absurdity, and inconsistency, as well with all revealed as with all natural ideas of the character and government of God, into which Cowper was led, partly by his unhappy insanity, and partly by the religious views, which he was taught to believe were Christianity, may strike some pure and humble mind so forcibly, as to save it from falling into the same errours. This is the only benefit, which we can imagine from such passages as the following, from the pen of such a man as Cowper.

'There was a time when I could contemplate my present state, and consider myself as a thing of a day with pleasure; when I numbered the seasons as they passed in swift rotation, as a schoolboy numbers the days that interpose between the next vacation, when he shall see his parents and enjoy his home again. But to make so just an estimate of a life like this, is no longer in my power. The consideration of my short continuance here, which was once grateful to me, now fills me with regret. I would live and live always, and am become such another wretch as Mæcenas was, who wished for long life, he cared not at what expense of sufferings. The only consolation left me on this subject is, that the voice of the Almighty can in one moment cure me of this mental infirmity. That He can, I know by experience; and there are reasons for which I ought to believe that He will. But from hope to despair is a transition that I have made so often, that I can only consider the hope that may come, and that sometimes I believe will, as a short prelude of joy to a miserable conclusion of sorrow that shall never end. Thus are my brightest prospects clouded, and thus to me is hope itself become like a withered flower, that has lost both its hue and its fragrance.'—vol. ii. p. 237.

This from a man whose life at this period, and for a long time previous, was marked by nothing more than by its purity, and whose mind was distinguished for its delicate moral rectitude, is truly lamentable, and is a mournful example of the pernicious effects of false religion upon minds of peculiar susceptibility. We do not mean to charge upon his views of religion the whole of that gloomy despair of which the passage, we have just extracted, is a specimen. He would doubtless have been subject to occasional depression of spirits, and intervals of melancholy, whatever might have been his notion of his religious state. This tendency was part of his physical constitution, and the insanity, under which he suffered for a time, was produced by causes, which had no connexion with religion. But if he had not had what have been so falsely called evangelical views of religion, we think he would probably have attributed these intervals of depression to their true cause, and would have been saved those agonies of despair, which could not but be the consequence of imagining that they were the indications and the beginning of the eternal misery he was doomed to suffer. We are aware that it was one of the objects of the reverend editor of these volumes, to show that Cowper's melancholy was