ferent strain would he allude to them and to his countrymen! With what joy would he blot from his pages the last quoted lines, and say,

"Doing good,

Disinterested good, is now our trade," &c.

The bounds of this article will not allow even an enumeration of the miscellaneous contents of the several books of this poem, which, in one respect, resembles the celebrated "Night Thoughts," -that, being limited to no particular subject, or even range of subjects, the rhapsodist feels himself privileged to expatiate at his pleasure, on all that comes immediately or incidentally in his way. There are a few passages, which, in style and cast of sentiment, resemble those of that singular composition; but, on the whole, The Task is incomparably more attractive, and yet, in its religious influence, incomparably more impressive, in the best sense, than the sublime, but dark and comfortless "Complaint" of Young. Book II. The opening of this book, to the clause beginning with the well-known line,

"England, with all thy faults I love thee still,"

is above all common-place praise. It is the highest, the longest, the most triumphant flight of genius, kindled to intensest ardour, that may be found in any of the Author's works. Then follows, to the end, a vein of the finest but bitterest satire on statesmen, philosophers, clergymen, pleasure-takers, and worldlings in general. The frequency and poignancy of the contempt with which Cowper alludes to philosophy, (even natural and experimental,) both in The Task, and his other argumentative pieces, must sound in many ears illiberal, and would indeed be so, were not his sarcasms and invectives aimed solely at those who look for every thing in nature but God, and, whatever else they find in her, take special care not to find Him. One cause, probably, why he so often conjures up these pompous, self-sufficient oracles of infidelity, is, that about the period when he wrote, the works of the French encyclopedists were in their height of portentous reputation and pestilent influ

ence.

The life and adventures of Discipline, with the anarchy in public schools which has followed his demise, form a very lively allegorical sketch. The metaphor of the quiver and arrows in the context, is bold and original in application, though borrowed from a noble scriptural comparison-" As arrows in the hand of a mighty man, so are children of the youth."

Book III.-The scenery here is the Garden, and the reveries that ensue are suitable to the place, — self-recollections, in which sudden evanescent pleasantry occasionally mingles with overpowering pathos :

"I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
Long since. With many an arrow deep infixed
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one, who had himself
Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live." Who, glancing through the book before us, can

refrain from mentioning this inimitable, this inestimable passage, so pre-eminent for poetic beauty, tender melancholy, and the avowal of Christian experience? The sequel conveys interesting information concerning his personal situation at this time and for many years preceding :

"Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene," &c.

Cowper belonged to a noble stock, whose other branches were all flourishing in the sunshine of the great world, while he thus lived in "distant shades," among strangers, an adopted son, brother, friend, till this very poem cast such a glory about his retreat, that his exalted relatives were glad to find him out, and not only own him, but plead their kindred, that he might own them. Surely the long and keen philippic on philosophical pursuits that follows, is liable to much misconception, if applied to the pursuits of genuine philosophy, which, whatever may be said against it by the most eloquent and pious of men, is nothing more nor less than the quest of truth -the truth of God himself, wherever He has placed it within human search, in any of his works. The poet has hardly done enough to atone for his well meant, but not well applied ridicule of knowledge thus acquired, in the lines

"Philosophy baptized

In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees
As meant to indicate a God to man,

Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own," &c.

-In other respects, "The Garden" is a terrestrial paradise, and our Poet might be Adam in innocence cultivating it. His occupations are charmingly described. His horror of hunting, and detestation of great cities, are not less characteristically expressed. On the latter subject we have a lamentation over " past times," which, according to all poets, but especially all satirists, were far better than the present, and are praised beyond what they were, to make these appear worse than they are.

"Were England now,

What England was, plain, hospitable, kind,
And undebauched."

Let the reader proceed through twenty lines further, and then honestly ask when were these times?-In no page of English history can they be discovered. We may indeed find several centuries after the Conquest, when great landholders habitually resided on their estates; but their houses were castles in those days, they themselves were feudal lords, and their tenants serfs-in plain English, slaves: or, in the middle age, after the wars of the barons were over, there might be more brute gormandizing and riotous hospitality, among the wealthy and their immediate dependents, than there is now in the elegant mansions of our nobility, which are only visited for a few short months in summer; but it is the perfect conviction of the writer of those strictures, that there never was a time when the peasantry, artizans, and manufacturers of this realm, were so orderly, comfortable, and intelligent, in their conduct, their dwellings, and their minds, as they are seen at this day, not only in "the country," which "God made," but in the "town," which " man made."

In the three foregoing books, the reader might imagine himself making so many morning calls upon the Poet. On the first, taking a ramble with him through Sir John Throckmorton's park; on the second, confined perhaps by rain to the house, and discoursing on subjects suggested by their conversation at the former interview; -on the third, finding the Poet at work in his garden, and there, amidst sunshine and a fresh breeze, listening, almost without interruption, while he, sometimes cheerfully, sometimes pensively, touched upon the circumstances of his past life, and recurred to his reminiscences of " the world," as it was when he was young and one of its inhabitants. The intimacy of the two parties having warmed, at every meeting, into the cordiality of friendship, the Poet may be supposed to have invited his new acquaintance to make a longer and more social visit. The latter arriving at tea-time, on a winter evening, is introduced to the family circle -Cowper, Mrs. Unwin, and Lady Austen at the parsonage house in Olney. Such an evening, indeed, has seldom been spent, " in prose or rhyme," within the compass of a book; but thousands and tens of thousands of delighted readers have enjoyed it over again at their own fire-sides, and millions, in ages to come, will, each in turn, be the imaginary guests in this happy parlour. The visitor stays all night, the weather being too rough for him to venture home, through the pitiless storm that raves