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that of calmness and composure, mingled as it were with holy surprise." A pretty fancy we may call this; but who can doubt that it symbolized the simple truth? All who had ever known him loved him; but the love of the best of us grows cold before the might of Thine, O most merciful Father of us all. Thy judgments are like the great deep; but Thy righteousness standeth like the strong mountains.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue, was poured the deathless singing!

O Christians! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging!

O men! this man, in brotherhood, your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory,

And how, when one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,
He bore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted ;

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration :
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken;

Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath taken.
ELIZABETH BARRETT-BROWNING.

He was buried on Saturday, May 2, in Dereham Church, in St. Edmund's Chapel Mrs. Unwin is buried in the north aisle. Lady Hesketh had a monument erected to him, for which Hayley wrote 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 favourite name :
Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to affection's praise :
His highest honours to the heart belong;
His virtues form'd the magic of his song.

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

WILLIAM COWPER

EARLY POEMS.

(PUBLISHED POSTHUMOUSLY.)

VERSES,

WRITTEN AT BATH IN HIS 17TH YEAR, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE

FORTUNE! I thank thee: gentle Goddess, thanks!
Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny
She would have thanked thee rather hadst thou cast
A treasure in her way; for neither meed

Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes

And bowel-raking pains of emptiness,

Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast,

Hopes she from this, presumptuous, though perhaps
The cobbler, leather-carving artist, might.
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,

Vain-glorious fool, unknowing what he found,

Spurned the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah!
Why not on me that favour (worthier sure!)

Conferredst thou, Goddess? Thou art blind, thou say'st:
Enough! thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale
From this thy scant indulgence;-even here,
Hints, worthy sage Philosophy, are found,
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song.
This ponderous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented many a row,
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks)
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown
Upbore: on this supported oft he stretched,
With uncouth strides, along the furrowed glebe,
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel Time,
(What will not cruel Time?) on a wry step,
Severed the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erst with even equal pace
Pursue his destined way with symmetry
And some proportion formed, now on one side,
Curtailed and maimed, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on.
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet
Of humble villager: the statesman thus,
Up the steep road where proud ambition leads,

B

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