Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, He held them up, and in his turn But let me scrape the dirt away Said John-" It is my wedding-day, So, turning to his horse, he said, "Twas for your pleasure you came here, Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! Whereat his horse did snort, as he And gallop'd off with all his might, Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Into the country far away, She pull'd out half a crown; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain, Whom in a trice he tried to stop, But not performing what he meant, Away went Gilpin, and a way The post-boy's horse right glad to miss Six gentlemen upon the road With post-boy scampering in the rear, "Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!” And now the turnpike-gates again And so he did; and won it too; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up Now let us sing, Long live the king, And when he next doth ride abroad, JOHN BUNYAN. O thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word,— I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame: Yet even in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober gray, Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God. "Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy; And not with curses on his art, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.1 Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pa ase ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: 1 "The eloquence of Wilberforce was the voice of humanity. It was at the table of Bennet Lang ton, that he made the public avowal of his sentiments upon slavery. There was something sublime in the spectacle of so young a man preaching a new crusade. He declared himself the advocate of forsaken race; and with almost unaided arm prepared to open the gates of mercy to mankind Mackintosh said that he had conferred upon the world a benefit never exceeded by human benevo lence. He was neither daunted by opposition nor depressed by defeat. However exhausted by the str.ggle, if he touched, în imagination at least, the ground where the ashes of the persecuted African reposed, his strength returned to him. The cry of blood ascended from the earth. Let his to se appreciated, and his difficulties acknowledged. What others have dared in the war of arms, he dared in the war of opinion. He attacked the bulwarks with which avarice had fortified the cruel ties of slavery; and never yielded to the invitations of ease, until he had driven a gap into those barricades of iniquity His mind seemed to dilate with the majesty of his subject. His speech in 1789 gained the applause of all who heard it; and one passage, that in which he summoned death, as his last witness, whose tremendous testimony was neither to be purchased nor refuted, reached the sublime. Burke admired it; Pitt and Fox eulogized it; and Bishop Porteus mentioned it to the poet Mason, in terms of still warmer praise. In him was beheld, for the first, if not for the last time, the noble spectacle of a man without patronage or office, to whom parliament listened with respect, are be country with reverence; having no friends but the good; no vide but virtue.”- Willmats. Shali steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and wert, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no mere Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber, made That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, And still to be so to my latest age, Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, Time has but half succeeded in his theft, Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. Cowper's prose works are confined almost exclusively to his letters. These now, without dispute, take the very first rank in English epistolary literature. "There is something in the sweetness and facility of the diction, and more, perhaps, in the glimpse they afford of a pure and benevolent mind, that dif fuses a charm over the whole collection, and communicates an interest that cannot always be commanded by performances of greater dignity and pre |