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And hope, in due time, to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too:

This china, that decks the alcove,
Which here people call a buffet,
But what the gods call it above,

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us as yet:
These curtains, that keep the room warm,
Or cool, as the season demands,
Those stoves that for pattern and form,
Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands,-

All these are not half that I owe
To One, from our earliest youth
To me ever ready to show

Benignity, friendship, and truth;
For time, the destroyer declared,
And foe of our perishing kind,
If even her face he has spared,

Much less could he alter her mind.

Thus compass'd about with the goods
And chattels of leisure and ease,

I indulge my poetical moods

In many such fancies as these ; And fancies I fear they will seemPoets' goods are not often so fine; The poets will swear that I dream, When I sing of the splendour of mine.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED.

A TALE.

A HERMIT, or, if 'chance you hold
That title now too trite and old,
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well desired,
His hours of study closed at last,
And finish'd his concise repast,

Stoppled his cruse, replaced his book
Within its customary nook,

And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air,
Like Isaac, with a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees, that fringed his hill,
Shades slanting at the close of day
Chill'd more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied

A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favour'd place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,

Just reach'd it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs—
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view

Presents it deck'd with every hue,
That can seduce him not to spare
His powers of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.

Ere long approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades ;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
Which first engaged him in the chase.
True, answer'd an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
But whether all the time it cost

To
urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth

Of that which call'd his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;

A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there he wins a curse;
But he, whom even in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,

Is paid, at least, in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design'd;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,

A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.

STANZAS

SUBJOINED TO THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY, OF THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON, A.D. 1787.

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[The Mortuary Verses," often so beautiful, always so impressive, were supplied at the request of Samuel Cox, parish clerk of Northampton. In that town, as in several others in England, it is customary to publish yearly about Christmas the annual deaths in the parish. To these lists of mortality Cowper's stanzas were appended; and it is not easy to conceive greater condescension than such a man thus supplying exquisite and valuable poetry in place of the wretched effusions which usually accompany these records of death. But the occasion offered an opportunity of perhaps advancing the interests of religion and morality, and that was reward and motive sufficient. See letter

to Lady Hesketh, November 27, 1787, vol. II.]

Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres.

HORACE.

Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door

Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.

WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run

The Nen's barge-laden wave,

All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?

Did famine, or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came :
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.

Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;
The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless, I have seen :
I pass'd, and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the solemn truth,
With which I charge my page;
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.

No present health can health ensure
For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it often cure,
Can always baulk the tomb.

And oh! that humble as my lot,
And scorn'd as is my strain,

These truths, though known, too much forgot, I may not teach in vain.

So prays your clerk with all his heart,

And, ere he quits the pen,

Begs you for once to take his part,

And answer all - Amen!

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

ON HIS EMPHATICAL AND INTERESTING DELIVERY OF THE DEFENCE OF WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. IN THE HOUSE OF Llords.

[This gentleman was cousin to the poet, and they had been intimate in early life. The Sonnet was first printed anonymously in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1788; General Cowper copied and sent it to the author, as something with which he had been exceedingly pleased.]

COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy generous powers; but silence honour'd thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head ; and couldst with music sweet, Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide

Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

[This little piece, which, according to the decision of a living critic, "includes one of the most delicate complimentary turns that ever poet paid or woman received," was presented to Lady Throckmorton on the first day of the year 1788.]

MARIA! I have every good

For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhyme.

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

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