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His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM.

Hic etiam jacet,

Qui totum novennium vixit,
Puss.
Siste paulisper,

Qui præteriturus es,

Et tecum sic reputa—

Nunc neque canis venaticus,
Nec plumbum missile,
Nec laqueus,

Nec imbres nimii,

Confecêre

Tamen mortuus est

Et moriar ego.

THE POPLAR FIELD.

[The scene of this little poem, first published in the Gentleman's Magazine, January, 1785, is about two miles from Olney, on the banks of the Ouse, where the river expands into a wide and beautiful reach. Trees of considerable magnitude, scions from the primitive roots, now supply the place of "Cowper's trees." The expression, "twelve years," refers to his long indisposition; and we can readily conceive the feelings with which such a mind would revisit scenes so long lost, and so recovered.]

THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade,
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene, where his melody charm'd me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.*

* 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;
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

[The scenery here described lies about two miles distant in a north-west direction from Olney, and chiefly on the Throckmorton estates. The tale seems to have been founded on an event mentioned in one of the Poet's letters, in which he describes himself not only as a spectator of a fox chase, but as accidentally “in at the death."]

THERE is a field, through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire,
That he may follow them through brake and brier,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,

Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field;
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ;
And where the land slopes to its watery bourne,
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scoop'd, I judge in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed;
Nor autumn yet had brush'd from every spray,
With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack,
Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats
With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes,
For which, alas! my destiny severe,

Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.
The sun, accomplishing his early march,

His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch,

When, exercise and air my only aim,

And heedless whither, to that field I came,
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound

Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found,
Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang
All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry rang.

Sheep grazed the field; some with soft bosom press'd
The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest;
Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook.
All seem'd so peaceful, that from them convey'd
To me, their peace by kind contagion spread.

But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,
'Gan make his instrument of music speak,
And from within the wood that crash was heard,
Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd,
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed,
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,

Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again;

But, recollecting with a sudden thought,

That flight in circles urged advanced them nought,
They gather'd close around the old pit's brink,
And thought again-but knew not what to think.
The man to solitude accustom'd long,
Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees,
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all :
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,
How glad they catch the largess of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind

He scans of every locomotive kind;

Birds of all feather, beasts of every name,

That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame;
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have all articulation in his ears;

He spells them true, by intuition's light;

And needs no glossary to set him right.

This truth premised, was needful as a text,
To win due credence to what follows next.

Awhile they mused; surveying every face,
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;
Their periwigs of wool, and fears combined,
Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind,
That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt,
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd:

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"Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe that winds for ages pent

In earth's dark womb, have found at last a vent,
And from their prison-house below arise,
With all these hideous howlings to the skies,
I could be much composed, nor should appear
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear.
Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd
All night, we resting quiet in the fold.
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,
And being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,
Might be supposed to clamour for a guide.
But ah! those dreadful yells, what soul can hear
That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear?
Demons produce them, doubtless, brazen-claw'd
And fang'd with brass, the demons are abroad;
I hold it, therefore, wisest and most fit,
That life to save, we leap into the pit."

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
"How? leap into the pit our life to save?
To save our life leap all into the grave?
For can we find it less? Contemplate first
The depth how awful! falling there, we burst:

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