and

WILLIAM COWPER.

WILLIAM COWPER was born November 26, 1731, in Great Berkhampstead. Being of delicate body and mind, in consequence of trouble with his eyes, his early School-days were interrupted. He spent about eight years at Westminster School, but, being the butt of much ridicule from his school-fellows, it seemed to subdue and embitter his spirits, so much so that many critics concur in believing that the effect of those days can be plainly traced in his writings. Leaving school at eighteen years of age he studied law, but being more inclined to literature than law, we find he constantly rambled from the thorny road of jurisprudence, to the primrose paths of literature." At thirty-two he was appointed Clerk to the House of Lords, but before he was prepared, his mind failed him through nervous excitement, and he retired for a time to a private asylum at St. Albans, and soon recovered. He now retired to Huntingdon, and took up his residence with the Unwins, and after the death of Mr. Unwin accompanied the widow and her daughter to Olney, where he spent many years of much happiness. While at Olney he met the Rev. Jno. Newton, in connection with whom he composed the Olney Hymns. His first volume of poems, con

taining Table Talk, Hope, Progress of Error, etc., was
published in 1782, but met with indifferent sale. The
Task appeared in 1785. In 1791 he published a transla-
tion of Homer. The Castaway, his last piece, was pub-
lished shortly before his death, which occurred on April
25, 1800. Though he was never free from despondency
and gloom during his last years, his mind was as un-
clouded as ever, and his poetical genius as vigorous as at
any period of his life.

The School.

E it a weakness, it deserves some praise,
We love the play-place of our early days,
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.

The wall on which we tried our graving skill,

The very name we carved subsisting still;

The bench on which we sat while deep employed,
Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroyed;
The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot,
Playing our games and on the very spot;
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,

Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat;
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollection of our own delights,
That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain
Our innocent, sweet, simple years again.
This fond attachment to the well-known place,
Whence first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day.

Winter Walk at Noon.

HERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those evening bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear

In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!

With easy force it opens all the cells

Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody the scene recurs,

And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
The night was winter in its roughest mood;
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon,
Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendor of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;

And through the trees I view the embattled tower
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strain
And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk, still verdant under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade.
The roof, though movable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And, intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.

The redbreast warbles still, but is content
With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendant drops of ice,
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft
Charms more than silence. Meditation here

May think down hours to moments. Here the heart