TO THE NIGHTINGALE,

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792.

[The poet mentions the fact in a letter to Mr Rose.]

WHENCE is it that, amazed, I hear

From yonder wither'd spray,

This foremost morn of all the year,

The melody of May?

And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shewn,

Am I selected from the crowd,

To witness it alone?

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

For that I also long

Have practised in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?

Or sing'st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?

Thrice welcome then! for many a long

And joyless year have I,

As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.

But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing,

To make even January charm,
And every season Spring.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HAND-WRITINGS AND SIGNATURES MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.

[Newton had been requested to negotiate this little matter with Cowper and though the latter remarks on the verses "trifling enough I readily confess they are; but I have always allowed myself to trifle occasionally; and on this occasion had not, nor have at present, time to do more;" yet we perceive, from the fact of the verses having been three times altered, and the copies of the alterations sent by post, that, in poetry at least, his trifling was not without solicitude. As an example of Cowper's emendations, the second copy may be acceptable: the final improvement was Lady Hesketh's suggestion.

In vain to live from age to age
We modern bards endeavour;
But write in Patty's book one page,
You gain your point for ever.

March 6, 1792.

In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.

W. COWPER.

EPITAPH

ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST.

March, 1792.

[The bird was a favourite of Miss Sally Hurdis, the sister of the Rev. Mr Hurdis, the poet's correspondent, and author of the Village Curate.]

THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears,

And tears by Sally shed

For absent Robin, who she fears,

With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplext,
She sought him, but in vain ;
That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.

She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,

Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame,

Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.

TO DR AUSTIN,

OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.

[This gentleman had been sent for from London, by Mr Hayley, to attend Mrs Unwin, in an attack of paralysis. May 26, 1792.]

AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find:
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died.
And, oh! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,

Were in the power of verse like mine to give,

I would not recompense his art with less,

Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.

Friend of my friend! I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own.

SONNET

TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.

[A correspondent in the Northampton Mercury had expressed some doubts regarding Cowper's real sentiments on the Slave Trade, because he had declined to write on the subject. In order to answer, without seeming to reply to, these remarks, this Sonnet and the following Epigram appeared in that paper, April 16, 1792. From his correspondence, also, Cowper's detestation of the principle of slavery sufficiently appears, though, with equal feeling and good taste, he regarded the vulgar atrocities, and the popular excitement connected with the traffic, as unpromising subjects for a sustained and dignified poem.]

THY Country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.

Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause;

Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe

By peace

for Afric, fenced with British laws.

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love

From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

EPIGRAM.

To purify their wine, some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good

To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, And thence, perhaps, this wondrous virtue springs. 'Tis in the blood of innocence alone.

Good cause why planters never try their own.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.

[JUNE 2, 1792.]

[Hayley first addressed Cowper in a letter enclosing a sonnet ; the poetical compliment is here answered.]

HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown,
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary and me for her dear sake distress'd,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest
Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me; nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,

Not more to admire the bard than love the man.

CATHARINA:

THE SECOND PART.

ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.

BELIEVE it or not, as you choose,

The doctrine is certainly true,

June, 1792.

That the future is known to the muse,

And poets are oracles too.

I did but express a desire

To see Catharina at home,

At the side of my friend George's fire,
And, lo!-she is actually come.

Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approved in the skies,

And therefore attains to its end.