Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the past'ral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st 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 bestowed

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 interpos'd 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.

3

The parent whose merits are so feeling recorded by the filial tenderness of the Poet, was Ann daughter of Roger Donne, Esqr. of Ludham Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whose family is said to have been originally from Wales, was married in the bloom of youth to Dr. Cowper; after giving birth to several children, who died in

B 2

their infancy, and leaving two sons, William, the immediate subject of this memorial born at Berkhamstead on the 26th of November, N. S. 1731, and John (whose accomplishments and memorable death will be described in the course of this compilation); she died in childbed at the early age of thirty-four, in 1737. It may be wished that the painter employed to preserve a resemblance of such a woman had possessed those powers of graceful and perfect delineation, which in a different art belonged to the pen of her son, but her portrait executed by Heins in oil-colours, on a small scale, is a production infinitely inferior to the very beautiful poem to which it gave rise. Yet such as it is, I apprehend it will gratify my reader to find it in this volume correctly engraved, for what lover of poetry can fail to take an affectionate interest in the mother of Cowper? Those who delight in contemplating the best affections of our nature, will ever admire the tender sensibility with which the Poet has acknowledged his obligations to this amiable mother, in a poem composed more than fifty years after her decease. Readers of this description may find a pleasure in observing how the praise so liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at so late a period is confirmed (if praise so unquestionable may be said to receive confirmation) by another poetical record of her merit, which the hand of affinity and affection bestowed upon her tomb. A record written at a time when the Poet, who was destined to prove in his advanced life her most powerful eulogist, had hardly begun to shew the dawn of that genius, which after years of silent affliction, arose like a star emerging from tempestuous darkness.

The

The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected by her husband in the Chancel of St. Peter's Church at Berkhamstead, contains the following Verses, composed by a young lady, her niece, the late Lady Walsingham.

Here lies, in early years bereft of life,
The best of mothers, and the kindest wife.
Who neither knew, nor practic'd any art,
Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart.
Her love to him still prevalent in death,
Pray'd Heaven to bless him with her latest breath.

Still was she studious never to offend,

And glad of an occasion to commend :
With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd,
Nor e'er was chearful, when another griev'd..
Despising state, with her own lot content,
Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well-spent.
Resign'd when Heaven demanded back her breath,
Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death.

Whoe'er thou art that dost this Tomb draw near,

O stay awhile, and shed a friendly tear,

These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere..

The truth and tenderness of this Epitaph will more than compensate with every candid reader the imperfection ascribed to it by its young and modest author.-To have lost a parent of a character so virtuous and endearing, at an early period of

his