So barren sands imbibe the shower,
But render neither fruit nor flower,
Unpleasant and ungrateful.

They whisper trivial things, and small
But to communicate at all

Things serious, deem improper.
Their feculence and froth they show,
But keep their best contents below,
Just like a simmering copper.

Pursue the theme, and you will find

A disciplin'd and furnish'd mind

To be at least expedient;

And, after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast,
A principal ingredient.

True friendship has, in short, a grace,
More than terrestrial, in its face,

That proves it heaven-descended.
Man's love of woman not so pure,
Nor when sincerest, so secure,

To last till life is ended."

Cowper was, through life, the warm, though not the blind, admirer of the British constitution; and though he made no pretensions to the character of a politician, yet he took the liveliest interest in all that related to the honor and prosperity of his country. In one of his letters to Mr. Newton he thus writes: "I learned when I was a boy, being the son of a staunch Whig, and a man that loved his country, to glow with that patriotic enthusiasm which is apt to break forth into poetry, or at least to prompt a person, if he has any inclination that way, to poetical endeavors. After I was grown up, and while I lived in the Temple, I produced several halfpenny ballads, two or three of which had the honor of being popular. But unhappily, the ardor I felt upon the occasion, disdaining to be confined within the bounds of fact, pushed me upon uniting the prophetical with the poetical character, and defeated its own purpose. I am glad it did. The less there is of this sort in my productions the better. The stage of national affairs is such a fluctuating scene, that an event which seems probable to-day becomes impossible to-morrow; and unless a man were indeed a prophet, he cannot, but with the greatest hazard of losing his labor, bestow his rhymes upon future contingencies, which perhaps are never to take

place, but in his own wishes and in the reveries of his own fancy."

The time which Cowper bestowed upon his translation of Homer, and the indefatigable diligence with which he labored in this great work, notwithstanding his melancholy depression, until he had completed it, prove that he was not easily to be diverted from what he had once undertaken; and that few men were equal, and perhaps none superior, to him, in those essential qualities of a truly great mind,-industry and perseverance.

It might be imagined that Cowper's very retired manner of life, had deprived him of that manly independence of mind, which is a prime constituent in the character of every great man. Several incidents, however, are related of him, which go to prove that such was very far from being the case. His conduct to Mr. Unwin and Mr. Newton, who both in their turns, at different times, thought themselves entitled to complain of some neglect, proves that he allowed not the affection of friendship to intrench upon his right to judge at all times for himself. Alluding to Mr. Newton's displeasure, he remarks to another friend :-" If he says more on the subject, I shall speak freely, and perhaps please him less than I have already done." Almost in the same breath, however, evincing his deep knowledge of human nature, he adds:-" But we shall jumble together again, as people, who have an affection for each other at the bottom, never fail to do." On one occasion, some friend having remarked to Cowper, that he knew a person who wished to see a sample of his verse, before subscribing for his edition of Homer, he replied," that when he dealt in wine, or cloth, or cheese, he would give samples, but of verse never." The same independence he evinced on another occasion, writing to the friend whom he had employed to negotiate for the publication of his second volume of poetry, he remarks:-"If Johnson should stroke his chin, look up to the ceiling, and cry nymph! anticipate him, I beseech you, at once, by saying, that you know I should be very sorry he should undertake for me to his own disadvantage, or that my volume should be in any degree pressed upon him."

The depressive malady under which Cowper labored through the greater part of his life, might naturally be supposed to have disqualified him entirely for the kind office of comforting those who were in distress: in truth, however, no one had better learned the divine skill of strengthening the weak mind, of encouraging the timid and trembling be

liever, of lifting up the weak hands that were hanging down, wiping the tear of sorrow from the mournful eye, and directing the Christian to look alone to heaven for support in all his difficulties. His poems abound with passages the most tender and consolatory; enforcing with an eloquence, persuasive and almost irresistible, humble submission to the Divine will, in circumstances the most discouraging. The following lines, forming part of a poetic epistle to a lady in France, show how admirably he could pour the healing oil of comfort into the wounded spirits of others, though he was unable to assuage the grief of his own:—

"The path of sorrow, and that path alone,

Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No trav'ller ever reached that blessed abode,
Who found not thorns and briers on the road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain.

*

*

*

*

*

*

But He, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love;
That hard by nature, and of stubborn will,

A life of ease would make them harder still;
In pity to a chosen few, designed

To escape the common ruin of their kind,

And said-Go spend them in the vale of tears!
Oh baliny gales of soul-reviving air,

Oh salutary streams that murmur there,
These flowing from the fount of grace above!
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love!
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own,
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin!
But ills of every shape, of every name,
Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim,
And every moment's calm that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest to eternal rest.

Ah! be not sad! although thy lot be cast
Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste;
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear,
But the Chief Shepherd even there is near.
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain;
Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine."

Notwithstanding the almost unmitigated severity of Cowper's sufferings, there were seasons in which he enjoyed some internal tranquillity, and was enabled to exercise a trembling, if not an unshaken confidence in the Almighty. It was undoubtedly on one of these occasions that he penned the following lines

"I see, or think I see,

A glimmering from afar

A beam of day that shines for me
To save me from despair.
Forerunner of the sun,

It marks the pilgrim's way:
I'll gaze upon it while I run,
And watch the rising day."

Had it not been for Cowper's depressive malady, he would certainly have been, on all occasions, the most lively and agreeable companion. Even as it was, it must not be imagined that in his conversation he was never sprightly and cheerful. Frequently, when his own heart was suffused with grief, arising from the severity and peculiarity of his malady, such an air of innocent pleasantry and humor, delicate and perfectly natural, ran through his conversation and correspondence, as could not fail to delight all who happened to be in his company, or who were occasionally favored with the productions of his pen. It would be easy to produce proofs of this, both from his poetic and prose productions. His rhyming letter, to Mr. Newton, in which there is such a happy mixture of the grave and the gay, as no other writer could produce, evinces the occasional sprightliness of his mind."My very dear friend, I am going to send, what, when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose there's nobody knows, whether what I have got, be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme, but if it be, did ever you see, of late or yore, such a ditty before?

"I have writ charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the reviewer, should say, to be sure, the gentleman's muse, wears Methodist shoes, you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard, have little regard, for taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan, to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap,

all that may come, with a sugar-plum.-His opinion in this will not be amiss; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, and if I succeed, and folks should read till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid, for all I have said, and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, after a rhyme, as far from hence, to the end of my sense, and by hook or by crook, write another book, if I live and am here another year.

"I have heard before, of a room with a floor, laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you were forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end, of what I have penned, which that you may do, ere madam and you, are quite worn out, with jigling about, I take my leave, and here you receive, a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me, W. C."

The following jeu d'esprit, written by the poet, as descriptive of one of his rural excursions, through the whole of which runs a strain of pleasantry, innocent, and perfectly natural, shows that his life was not one unbroken series of despair, but that he enjoyed, occasionally, at least, some lucid intervals, when, to gratify his friends, he would trifle in rhyme with an affectionate and endearing gaiety. As it has never been published in any of his works, the reader will not regret its having a place here.

I sing of a journey to Clifton,*

We would have performed if we could;

Without cart or barrow to lift on

Poor Mary or me through the mud.
Sle, sla, slud,

Stuck in the mud,

Oh, it is pretty to wade through a flood.

So away we went slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop,-a la mode de deux frogs;
"Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dressed in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,

Go briskly about,

But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.

* A village near Olney.