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Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall
In part abate, that happiness were small;
For with a race like theirs no chance I see
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray,
Or be it not, or be it whose it may,

And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues
Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,
Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear
We have at least commodious standing here.
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last."
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals—
For Reynard, close attended at his heels

By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse,
Through mere good fortune, took a different course.
The flock grew calm again, and I, the road
Following, that led me to my own abode,
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound,
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

MORAL.

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,
Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

EPITAPH ON JOHNSON.

[Written 1785.]

[As this Epitaph first appears in one of Cowper's private letters, we find "favour" instead of "glory" in the last line.

HERE Johnson lies. —a sage by all allow'd,

Whom to have bred may well make England proud;
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;

Whose verse may claim-grave, masculine, and strong,
Superior praise to the mere poet's song;

Who many a noble gift from Heaven possess'd,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a'double prize,-
By fame on earth-by glory in the skies!

THE JOURNEY.

[The date of this amusing jeu d'esprit belongs to the happy period of Cowper's intercourse with Lady Austen; and though admirably characteristic of his peculiar talent for humorous writing, has never before found a place in an edition of his collected works. The autograph was discovered by Hayley, rolled up with copies of the songs written at Lady Austen's request in 1783, as if the poet had resolved to lay aside, though not to destroy, all memorials of that connection. Through mistake of the last figure in the date, the composition appears among those of 1785.]

I sing of a journey to Clifton,*

We would have perform'd if we could;
Without cart or barrow to lift on

Poor Mary or me through the mud.

Sle, sla, slud,

Stuck in the mud,

Oh, it is pretty to wade through a flood.

So away we went slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs;
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels no doubt,

Go briskly about,

But they clatter, an rattle, and make such a rout.

"Well

DIALOGUE.

SHE.

now I protest it is charming,

How finely the weather improves ;
That cloud, though, is rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves."

HE.

"Pshaw! never mind,

'Tis not in the wind,

We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind."

* The reader will recollect that Mrs Green, Lady Austen's sister, was married to the rector of Clifton.

SHE.

“I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded and penn'd,
Until they grow rusty, not caring

To stir half a mile to an end."

HE.

"The longer we stay,

The longer we may;

It's a folly to think about weather or way."

SHE.

"But now I begin to be frighted;
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted.
Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole."

[blocks in formation]

You'll not be the last that will set a foot there."

SHE.

"Let me breathe now a little, and ponder On what it were better to do;

That terrible lane I see yonder,

I think we shall never get through."

HE.

"So think I,

But, by the bye,

We shall never know, if we never should try."

SHE.

"But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have pass'd,
Slipping and sliding; and if we should come
To a difficult state, I am ruin'd at last.
Oh, this lane!

Now it is plain,

That struggling and striving is labour in vain."

HE.

"Stick fast there, while I go and look."

SHE.

"Don't go away for fear I should fall.

HE.

"I have examined it every nook,

And what you have here is a sample of all :
Come, wheel around;

The dirt we have found,

Would buy an estate at a farthing a pound."

Now, sister Ann, the guitar you must take,
Set it and sing it, and make it a song;
I have varied the verse for variety's sake,
And cut it off short because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,

Which critics won't blame,

For the sense and the sound they say should be the

same.

TO MISS C, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

[Presented to Miss Chester, the daughter of Mr Chester of Chichely, the brother-in-law of the Rev. Mr Bagot, so often mentioned in the Poet's letters. Written 1786.]

How many between east and west,
Disgrace their parent earth,

Whose deeds constrain us to detest
The day that gave them birth!
Not so when Stella's natal morn
Revolving months restore,

We can rejoice that she was born,

And wish her born once more!

GRATITUDE.

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH.

*

[1786.]

THIS cap, that so stately appears,
With ribbon-bound tassel on high,
Which seems by the crest that it rears
Ambitious of brushing the sky :
This cap to my cousin I owe,

She gave it, and gave me beside,
Wreathed into an elegant bow,

The ribbon with which it is tied :

This wheel-footed studying chair,
Contrived both for toil and repose,
Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair,
In which I both scribble and dose,
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes,
And rival in lustre of that
In which, or astronomy lies,
Fair Cassiopeïa sat:

These carpets, so soft to the foot,
Caledonia's traffic and pride!
Oh, spare them, ye knights of the boot,
Escaped from a cross-country ride!
This table and mirror within,

Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust:

This moveable structure of shelves,

For its beauty admired and its use,
And charged with octavos and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce;
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold,
My poems enchanted I view,

* It is with this cap that Cowper is represented in his usual

portraits.

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