-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 luftres o'er the vault of night.-
From realm to realm, with crofs or crefcent crown'd,
Where'er mankind and misery are found,

O'er burning fands, deep waves, or wilds of fnow,
Thy Howard journeying feeks the house of woe.
Down many a winding step to dungeons dank,
Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves beftrew'd with many a mouldering bone,
And cells, whofe echoes only learn to groan ;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend difclofe
No funbeam enters, and no zephyr blows,
He treads, inemulous of fame or wealth,
Profuse of toil, and prodigal of health;
With foft affuafive eloquence expands

Power's rigid heart, and opes his clenching hands
Leads ftern-ey'd Juftice to the dark domains,
If not to fever, to relax the chains;

Or guides awaken'd mercy through the gloom,
And fhows the prifon, fifter to the tomb!-
Gives to her babes the felf-devoted wife,
To her fond husband liberty and life !——
-The fpirits of the good, who bend from high
Wide o'er these earthly scenes their partial eye,
When first, array'd in Virtue's pureft robe,
They faw her Howard traverfing the globe;
Saw round his brows her fun-like glory blaze
In arrowy circles of unwearied rays;
Miftook a mortal for an angel-gueft,

And afk'd what feraph-foot the earth imprest.

-Onward

Onward he moves!-Difeafe and death retire,

-And murmuring demons hate him, and admire.

DARWIN

T

CHAP. XXXIII

THE ROSE.

HE rofe 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 fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it feem'd to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret,,
On the flourishing bush where it grew..

I haftily feiz'd it, unfit as it was,
For a nofegay, fo dripping and drown'd,
And fwinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I fnapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And fuch, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow resign'd.

This elegant rofe, had I fhaken it lefs,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,

And the tear that is wip'd with little addrefs,

May be follow'd perhaps by a fimile.

2

COWPER,

СНАР.

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 fad, and in a cheerful mood,'
But never yet in rhime.

To with thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unfightly.

What favour, then, not yet poffefs'd,
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already bleft,

To thy whole heart's defire?

None here is happy but in part;
Full blifs is blifs divine;

There dwells fome with in ev'ry heart,
And, doubtlefs, one in thine.

That wish, on fome fair future day,
Which fate shall brightly gild,"
'Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

COWPER.

CHAP

CHA P. XXXV.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INK-CLASS ALMOST DRY'D IN THE SUN,

PATRON of all thofe lucklefs brains,

That, to the wrong fide leaning,

Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning,

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, freams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In conftant exhalations,

Why, ftooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, haft thou stol'n away
A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewlefs air,

It floats a vapour now,
Impell'd thro' regions denfe and rare,
By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,

To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.

Illuftrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,,

So foon to be forgot!

Phobus,

Phoebus, if fuch be thy defign,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left

may fhine

With equal grace below.

COWPER,

S

CHA P. XXXVI.

CATHARI N. A.

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON

HE came-she is gone-we have met

And meet perhaps never again;

The fun of that moment is fet,

And feems to have rifen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream-
(So vanishes pleasure alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not fo fuddenly pass.

The last evening-ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progrefs was often delay'd

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paus'd under many a tree,

And much she was charm'd with a tone

Lefs fweet to Maria and me,

Who had witnefs'd fo lately her own.

My numbers that day fhe had fung,

And gave them a grace

As only her musical tongue

fo divine,,

Could infufe into numbers of mine.

The