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What character, what turn thou wilt assume

From constant converse with I know not whom;
Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;
Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,
Is all chance medley, and unknown to me.
Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids,
And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids,
Free, too, and under no constraining force,
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course,
Lay such a stake upon the losing side,
Merely to gratify so blind a guide?

Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart,
Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part.
Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea,
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,

Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay
A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way;
Then only, govern'd by the self-same rule
Of natural pity, send him not to school.
No-guard him better. Is he not thine own,
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?
And hopest thou not ('tis every father's hope),
That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,
And thou wilt need some comfort, to assuage
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age,
That then, in recompense of all thy cares,
Thy child shall shew respect to thy gray hairs,
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,
And give thy life its only cordial left ?
Aware, then, how much danger intervenes,
To compass that good end, forecast the means.
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command;
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand.
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,
Complain not if attachments lewd and base
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place.
But, if thou guard its secret chambers sure
From vicious inmates, and delights impure,

Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,
And keep him warm and filial to the last;
Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say
But, being man, and therefore frail, he may?)
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.

Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools-what?—all the schools i' the land,

Or throw them up to livery nags and grooms,
Or turn them into shops and auction rooms ?
A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,)
Deserves an answer similar, or none.
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ
(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy,
And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?
Survey our schools and colleges, and see
A sight not much unlike my simile.
From education, as the leading cause,
The public character its colour draws;
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.

And though I would not advertise them yet,
Nor write on each,— This building to be let,
Unless the world were all prepared to embrace
A plan well worthy to supply their place;
Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,
To cultivate and keep the morals clean,
(Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess,
Or better managed, or encouraged less.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE MINOR POEMS of Cowper are here arranged in the order of their dates; or, where these could not be ascertained, the authority of the earliest editions has been preferred. Only twenty-six of these original performances were published by the author. The rest either appeared separately in the different periodicals of the time, generally with his permission, or remained unknown beyond the circle of those friends to whom they were communicated in the course of correspondence. The various repositories in which those gems had previously been scattered, if not concealed, have been searched, and if nothing absolutely new remained to reward this industry, at least the present collection has thus been rendered the amplest yet published, and affords the advantage of perusing with ease and in regular series, what had formerly to be sought for in a number of unconnected volumes.

To the more important pieces, likewise, a circumstantial note is generally appended; but where public favour has so long been declared, particular criticism seemed altogether unnecessary. Here it may, however, be remarked, that in his Occasional Verses, Cowper ranks among the most successful of English authors; a merit of very rare attainment. Such compositions demand a concentration, yet flexibility of idea, a delicacy of turn, and a happiness of expression, not less the fruits of practice than natural gifts, and which are yet wanting in the similar productions of many deservedly eminent for their labours of higher pretension. His excellence here is not indeed uniform ; yet even in his least perfect attempts, there is always some redeeming quality, often some unexpected beauty, which not only rescues them from the disgrace of failure, but raises them above mediocrity. In the happiest pieces, what

more pathetic than their simple tenderness, or more touching than their dignified seriousness? or, in the lighter compositions, what more airy than their ingeniousness, more polished than their gaiety? Cowper's fancy, like his character, — at once refined, yet natural-meditative, yet playful—working out thought into new and unexpected, yet pleasing and unforced relations,-peculiarly fitted its possessor for excelling in this walk of poetry. Hence in all the finished specimens of these minor effusions, while we are struck with the general effect, which, according to the subject, takes captive the heart, or gently surprises the imagination, careful reperusal seldom fails to bring out some latent beauty, some recondite allusion which had before escaped us. These productions thus resemble some exquisite cabinet picture, which, by its arrangement and breadth, charms at once as a whole, while it delights on minute examination by its hues, its handling, and its sentiment.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE DOVES.

[With these verses Cowper commenced his Occasional Poems, as originally printed. The lines were written in May or June, 1780, and first transcribed in a private letter to Mrs Newton, which ends thus: "The male dove was smoking a pipe, and the female dove was sewing, while she delivered herself as above. This little circumstance may lead you, perhaps, to guess what pair I had in my eye." Lest the reader now, from these undove like occupations, should "guess wide," it may be necessary to add here, that the "doves" were Mr and Mrs Bull.]

REASONING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,

While meaner things, whom instinct leads,
Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus address'd her mate,
And soothed the listening dove :

"Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth

Shall cheer our latest age:

"While innocence without disguise,

And constancy sincere,

Shall fill the circles of those eyes,

And mine can read them there;

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