Of nature to perfection half divine Expand the blooming soul. What pity than Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth Her tender blossom, choak the streams of life, And blast her spring! Far otherwise design'd Almighty wisdom; nature's happy cares Th' obedient heart far otherwise incline, Witness the sprightly joy when ought unknown Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active pow'r To brisker measures : witness the neglect Of all familiar prospects, tho' beheld With transport once ; the fond attentive gaze Of young astonishment; the sober zeal of age, commenting on prodigious things. For such the bounteous providence of Heav'n, luu every breast implanting this desire Of objects new and strange, to urge us on With unremitted labour to pursue Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul, In truth's exhaustless bosom. What need words To paint its pow'r ? For this, the daring youth Breaks froin his weeping mother's anxious arms, In foreigu climes to rove; the pensive sage, Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp, Hangs o'er the sickly taper; and untir'd The virgin follows, with enchanted step, The mazes of some wise and wondrous tale, From morn to eve; unmindful of her form, Unmindful of the happy dress that stole The wishes of the youth, when every maid With envy pin'd. Hence finally by night The village matron, round the blazing heart, Suspends the infant-audiance with her tales, Breathing astonishment! of witching rhimes, And evil spirits ; of the death-bed call Of him who robb’d the widow, and devour'd The orphan's portion; of unquiet souls

Ris'n from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life conceald; of shapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave
The torch of hell around the murd'rer's bed.
At every solemn pause the croud recoil
Gazing each other speechless, and congeald
With shiv'ring sighs : till eager for th' event,
Around the beldame all erect they hang,
Each trembling heart with grateful terrors quell'd.

AKENSIDE.

WHEN erst contagion with mephitic breath
And wither'd famine urg'd the work of death ;
Marseilles' good bishop, London's generous mayor,
With food and faith, with medicine and with prayer,
Raised the weak head and stayed the parting sigh,
Or with new life relumed the swiming eye..
-And now, Philanthropy! thy rays divine
Dart round the globe from Zembla to the line ;
O'er each dark prison plays the cheering light,
Like northern lustres o'er the vault of night.
From realni to realm, with cross or crescent crown'dg
Where'er mankind and misery are found,
O'er burning sands, deep waves, or wilds of snow,
Thy Howard journeying seeks the house of woe.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where anguish wails aloud, and felters clauk;
To cave bestrew'd with many a mouldering bode,,
And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose,

No sun-beam enters, and no zephyr blows,
He treads, inémulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil and prodigal of health ;
With soft assuasive eloquence expands
Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands;
Leads stern-ey'd justice to the dark domains,
If not to sever, to relax the chains ;
Or guides awaken'd mercy through the gloom,
And shows the prison, sister to the tomb !
Gives to her babes the self-devoted wife,
To her fond husband liberty and life! -

- The spirits of the good, who bend from high
Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye,
When first, array'd in Virtue's purest robe,
They saw her Howard traversing the globe;
Saw round his brows her sun-like glory blaze
In arrowy circles of unwearied rays;
Mistook a mortal for an angel-guest,
And ask'd what seraph-foot the earth imprest.
Onward he moves ! -Disease and death retire,
--And murmuring demons hate him, and admire.

DARWIN.

THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all till’d, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,

On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !

I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim’d, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart,

Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

CowPER.

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CHAP. XXXIV.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. THROCKMORTON.

MARIA ! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a tine,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhime.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour, then, not yet possess’d,

Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire ?

None here is happy but in part;

Full bliss is bliss divine ;
There dwells some wish every heart,

And doubtless one in thine.

That wish on some fair future day

Which fate shall brightly gild, (Tis blameless, be it what it may)

I wish it all fulfill'd.

COWPER.

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CHAP. XXXV,

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRY'D IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wiong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning ;

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In constant exhalations.

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink ?

Upborn into the viewless air

It floats a vapour now,
Impell'd thro' regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow,