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'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warm'd
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was form❜d.

Maria* would leave us, I knew,

To the grief and regret of us all,
But less to our grief could we view
Catharina the Queen of the Hall.
And therefore I wish'd as I did,

And therefore this union of hands;
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,
But all cry-Amen-to the bans.

Since therefore I seem to incur

No danger of wishing in vain,
When making good wishes for her,
I will e'en to my wishes again:
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress for my life-
How soon I can make her a mother.

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[These lines were written at Eartham, August, 1792, in order to accompany some of Hayley's verses, with whom Darwin was a great favourite, from his care and tenderness as the medical attendant of the first Mrs Hayley.]

Two poets, (poets by report
Not oft so well agree,)

Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!

Conspire to honour thee,

They best can judge a poet's worth,

Who oft themselves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

Lady Throckmorton.

We therefore pleased extol thy song,
Though various, yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as strong,
And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
At any poet's happier lays,

They would

they must, at thine.

But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of Friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for thee,
Unworthy of his own.

AN EPITAPH.

(1792.)

HERE lies one who never drew

Blood himself, yet many slew;

Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger;
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd;
At his signified desire

Would advance, present, and fire.
Stout he was, and large of limb-
Scores have fled at sight of him;
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.

Neptune was he call'd-not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;

And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

EPITAPH ON FOP,

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.

August, 1792.

[These lines were written during Cowper's visit at Eartham. This and the preceding, each inscribed upon a pedestal supporting an urn, still ornament the grounds of Weston.]

THOUGH Once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race,

And though no hound, a martyr to the chase

Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,

Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view-
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.

"Yes"-the indignant shade of Fop replies"And worn with vain pursuit man also dies."

MORTUARY STANZAS

FOR 1792.

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!

Happy the mortal, who has traced effects
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet,
And Death, and roaring Hell's voracious fires.

THANKLESS for favours from on high,
Man thinks he fades too soon;
Though 'tis his privilege to die,
Would he improve the boon.

But he, not wise enough to scan
His best concerns aright,

Would gladly stretch life's little span
To ages, if he might.

VIRG.

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Strange fondness of the human heart,
Enamour'd of its harm!

Strange world, that costs it so much smart,
And still has power to charm.

Whence has the world her magic power?
Why deem we death a foe?

Recoil from weary life's best hour,
And covet longer wo?

The cause is Conscience-Conscience oft

Her tale of guilt renews:
Her voice is terrible, though soft,

And dread of death ensues.

Then, anxious to be longer spared,
Man mourns his fleeting breath:
All evils then seem light, compared
With the approach of Death.

'Tis judgment shakes him; there's the fear, That prompts the wish to stay :

He has incurr'd a long arrear,

And must despair to pay.

Pay!-follow Christ, and all is paid;
His death your peace ensures;
Think on the grave where He was laid,
And calm descend to yours.

SONNET

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM IN THE 61ST YEAR OF MY AGE, AND IN THE MONTHS OF

AUGUST AND september, 1792.

October, 1792.

[The sonnet was begun at Eartham, but such was Cowper's state of depression, that its completion occupied nearly three months.]

ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, not the form alone
And semblance, but, however faintly shewn,
The mind's impression too on every face,
With strokes that time ought never to erase
Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that, though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
But this I mark-that symptoms none of wo
In thy incomparable work appear.

Well I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.
[JANUARY, 1793.]

IN language warm as could be breathed or penn'd
Thy picture speaks the original, my friend;
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind,
They only speak thee friend of all mankind;
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.

EPITAPH

ON MR CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY.

[APRIL, 1793.]

TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who know him follow to the skies.

Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep-
And justly-few shall ever him transcend

As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

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