And, while that face renews my filial grief, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile!—it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And disappointed still, was still deceived; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, And still to be so to my latest age, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, While airs impregnated with incense play So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, And. while the wings of fancy still are free, 1 Garth. And I can view this mimic show of thee, THE POPLAR FIELD. THE poplars are felled; farewell to the shade, Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade! The blackbird has fled to another retreat, My fugitive years are all hasting away, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE. Go-thou art all unfit to share The squirrel here his hoard provides, And woodpeckers explore the sides Of rugged oaks for worms. The sheep here smoothes the knotted thorn With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn, Like her, a friend to peace. 1 Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the following manner :The change both my heart and my fancy employs, I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; Ah!-I could pity thee exiled But thou canst taste no calm delight; Thy magnanimity in fight, I care not whether east or north, AN EPITAPH. 1792. HERE lies one who never drew Would advance, present, and fire. EPITAPH ON FOP, A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. August 1792. THOUGH Once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim; No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chase. Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice! SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM, IN THE SIXTY-FIRST YEAR OF MY AGE, AND IN THE MONTHS OF AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER, 1792. October 1792. ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvas, not the form alone Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear; ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. N language warm as could be breathed or penned EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER OF CHICHELEY. April 1793. TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep; Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep; As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. THRIVE, gentle plant! and weave a bower And deck with many a splendid flower |