The last original poem he composed was entitled The Cast-away, and was founded upon an incident, related in Anson's Voyage, of a mariner who was washed overboard in the Atlantic, and lost, which he remembered to have read in that work many years ago, and which, according to the following stanzas, selected from it, he appears to have regarded as an illustration of his own case:

"Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

He long survives who lives an hour
In ocean self-upheld,

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;

And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cry'd 'Adieu !'

No poet wept him, but the page

Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear :

And tears, by bards or heroes shed,
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate!

To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date.

But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone,

When snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished, each alone;

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he!"

Anxious as all his friends now were, that he should be constantly employed, as this proved the best remedy for his depression, they were frequently pained to see him reduced to a state of hopeless inactivity, owing to the severity of his

mental anguish. At these seasons, what suited him best was Mr. Johnson's reading to him, which he was accustomed to do, almost invariably for a length of time, every day. And so industriously had he persevered in this method of relieving the poet's mind, that after having exhausted numerous works of fiction, which had the power of attracting his attention, he began to read to his afflicted relative the poet's own works. Cowper evinced no disapprobation to this till the reader arrived at the history of John Gilpin, when he entreated his relative to desist.

It became evident towards the close of 1799, that his bodily strength was rapidly declining, though his mental powers, notwithstanding the unmitigated severity of his depression, remained unimpaired. In January, 1800, Mr. Johnson observed in him many symptoms which he thought very unfavorable. This induced him to call in additional medical advice. His complaint was pronounced to be, not as has been generally stated, dropsical, but a breaking up of the constitution. Remedies, however, were tried, and he was recommended to take as much gentle exercise as he could bear. To this recommendation he discovered no particular aversion, and Mr. Johnson took him for a ride in a post-chaise as often as circumstances would permit; it was, however, with considerable difficulty he could be prevailed upon to use such medicines as it was thought necessary to employ.

About this time his friend Mr. Hayley wrote to him, expressing a wish that he would new-model a passage in his translation of the Iliad, where mention is made of the very ancient sculpture in which Dædalus had represented the Cretan dance for Ariadne. "On the 31st January," says Mr. Hayley, "I received from him his improved version of the lines in question, written in a firm and delicate hand. The sight of such writing from my long-silent friend, inspired me with a lively, but too sanguine hope, that I might see him once more restored. Alas! the verses which I surveyed as a delightful omen of future letters from a correspondent so inexpressibly dear to me, proved the last effort of his pen.”

Cowper's weakness now very rapidly increased, and by the end of February it had become so great as to render him incapable of enduring the fatigue of his usual ride, which was hence discontinued. In a few days he ceased to come down stairs, though he was still able, after breakfasting in bed, to adjourn to another room, and to remain there till the evening. By the end of the ensuing March, he was compelled to forego even this trifling exercise. He was now en

tirely confined to his bed-room; he was, however, still able to sit up to every meal, except breakfast.

His friend, Mr. Rose, about this time, paid him a visit. Such, however, was the melancholy change which his complicated maladies had produced upon his mind, that he expressed no pleasure at the arrival of one whom he had previously been accustomed to greet with the most cordial reception. Mr. Rose remained with him till the first week in April, witnessing with much sorrow the sufferings of the afflicted poet, and kindly sympathizing with his distressed relations and friends. Little as Cowper had appeared to enjoy his company, he evinced symptoms of considerable regret at his departure.

Both Lady Hesketh and Mr. Hayley would have followed the humane example of Mr. Rose, in visiting the dying poet, had they not been prevented by circumstances over which they had no control. The health of the former had suffered considerably by her long confinement with Cowper, at the commencement of his last attack, and the latter was detained by the impending death of a darling child.

Mr. Johnson informs us, in his sketch of the poet's life, that, "on the 19th April the weakness of this truly pitiable sufferer had so much increased that his kinsman apprehended his death to be near. Adverting, therefore, to the affliction, as well of body as of mind, which his beloved inmate was then enduring, he ventured to speak of his approaching dissolution as the signal of his deliverance from both these miseries. After a pause of a few moments, which was less interrupted by the objections of his desponding relative than he had dared to hope, he proceeded to an observation more consolatory still—namely, that in the world to which he was hastening, a merciful Redeemer, who had prepared unspeakble happiness for all his children, and therefore for him

To the first part of this sentence he had listened with composure, but the concluding words were no sooner uttered than his passionately expressed entreaties that his companion would desist from any further observations of a similar kind, clearly proved that though he was on the eve of being invested with angelic light, the darkness of delusion still veiled his spirit."

On the following day, which was Sunday, he revived a little. Mr. Johnson, on repairing to his room, after he had discharged his clerical duties, found him in bed and asleep. He did not, however, leave the room, but remained watching him, expecting he might, on awaking, require his assistance.

Whilst engaged in this melancholy office, and endeavoring to reconcile his mind to the loss of so dear a friend, by considering the gain which that friend would experience, his reflections were suddenly interrupted by the singularly varied tone in which Cowper then began to breathe. Imagining it to be the sound of his immediate summons, after listening to it for several minutes, he arose from the foot of the bed on which he was sitting, to take a nearer, and, as he supposed, a last view of his departing relative, commending his soul to that gracious Savior, whom, in the fullness of mental health, he had delighted to honor. As he put aside the curtains, Cowper opened his eyes, but closed them again without speaking, and breathed as usual. On Monday he was much worse; though, towards the close of the day, he revived sufficiently to take a little refreshment. The two following days he evidently continued to sink rapidly. He revived a little on Thursday, but, in the course of the night, he appeared exceedingly exhausted: some refreshment was presented to him by Miss Perowne, but, owing to a persuasion that nothing could afford him relief, though without any apparent impression that the hand of death was already upon him, he mildly rejected the cordial with these words, the last he was heard to utter-" What can it signify?"

Early on Friday morning, the 25th, a decided alteration for the worse was perceived to have taken place. A deadly change appeared in his countenance. In this insensible state he remained till a few minutes before five in the afternoon, when he gently, and without the slightest apparent pain, ceased to breathe, and his happy spirit escaped from his body, in which, amidst the thickest gloom of darkness, it had so long been imprisoned, and took its flight to the regions of perfect purity and bliss. In a manner so mild and gentle did death make its approach, that though his kinsman, his medical attendant, and three others, were standing at the foot 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," writes Mr. Johnson, "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 that part of Dereham Church, called St. Edmund's Chapel, on Saturday, the 2d May, 1800; and his funeral was attended by several of his relatives. In a literary point of view, his long and painful affliction had ever been regarded as a national calamity; a deep and almost universal sympathy was felt in his behalf; and by all men of learning and of piety, his death was looked upon as an event of no common importance.

As he died without a will, his amiable and beloved relation, Lady Hesketh, kindly undertook to become his administratrix. She raised a tablet monument to his memory, with the following inscription:

IN MEMORY OF

WILLIAM COWPER, Esq.

BORN IN HERTFORDSHIRE,

1731.

BURIED IN THIS CHURCH,

1800.

Ye who with warmth the public 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 favorite name
Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to affection's praise:
His highest honors to the heart belong-
His virtues formed the magic of his song.

The following lines have been kindly handed to the author by a friend, in manuscript. He is not sure they have never been in print, though he rather inclines to think such is the

case.

And is the spirit of the Poet fled?

Yes, from its earthly tenement 'tis flown;

And death at length hath added to the dead

The sweetest minstrel that the world has known.