fuch disappointment in future, by feeing the friend fo pleafing and fo useful to him very comfortably fettled, as his next door neighbour.

Lady Auften became a tenant of the Parfonage in Olney; when Mr. Newton occupied that Parfonage he had opened a door in the garden wall, that admitted him, in the most commodious manner, to vifit the fequeftered Poet, who refided in the next house. Lady Auften had the advantage of this eafy intercourfe, and fo captivating was her fociety, both to Cowper and to Mrs. Unwin, that thefe intimate neighbours might be almost said to make one family, as it became their cuftom to dine always together, alternately in the houses of the two ladies.

The mufical talents of Lady Auften induced Cowper to write a few fongs of peculiar sweetness and pathos, to fuit particular airs that fhe was accustomed to play on the harpsichord. I infert three of these as proofs, that even in his hours of focial amufement, the Poet loved to dwell on ideas of tender devotion and pathetic folemnity.

SONG I.

WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT THE REQUEST

OF LADY AUSTEN.

AIR" My fond Shepherds of late,” &c.

NO longer I follow a found;

No longer a dream I pursue:

O Happiness, not to be found,

Unattainable treasure, adieu !

I have fought thee in splendour and dress
In the regions of pleasure and tafte:
I have fought thee, and feem'd to poffefs,
But have prov'd thee a vifion at last.

s;

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires; Tis fufficient, if Peace be the scope,

And the fummit of all our defires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind,
That seeks it in meekness and love;
But rapture and blifs are confin'd
To the glorified spirits above.

SONG II.

AIR-"The Lafs of Pattie's Mill."

WHEN all within is peace,
How nature seems to fmile;
Delights that never cease,

The livelong day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers
Fresh bleffings, to deceive,
And footh the filent hours.

It is content of heart,

Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no fmart, Enlivens all it fees:

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as fmiling May,

And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously array'd
In nature's various robe,

With wond'rous fkill difplay'd,

Is, to a mourner's heart,
A dreary wild at best:
It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

I add the following fong (adapted to the march in Scipio) for two reasons; because it is pleafing to promote the celebrity of a brave man, calamitously cut off in his career of honour, and because the fong was a favourite production of the Poet's; fo much fo, that in a feafon of depreffive illness, he amused himself by tranflating it into Latin verse.

SONG III.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

TOLL for the brave!

The brave! that are no more!

All funk beneath the wave,
Faft by their native fhore.

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whofe courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her fide.

A land breeze fhook the fhrouds,
And fhe was overfet ;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle ;

No tempeft gave the fhock:
She fprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

His fword was in its fheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the veffel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup,

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are found,
And she may float again

Full charg'd with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

Let the reader, who wishes to imprefs on his mind a just idea of the variety and extent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this heroic ballad, of exquisite pathos, with his diverting history of John Gilpin !

That admirable, and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which I am now speaking. An elegant and judicious writer, who has recently favoured the public with three interesting volumes relating to the early poets of our country, conjectures, that a poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More

in his youth (the merry jeft of the Serjeant and Frere) may have fuggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin ; but that fascinating ballad had a different origin; and it is a very remarkable fact, that full of gaiety and humour, as this favourite of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really compofed at a time, when the spirit of the Poet, as he informed me himself, was very deeply tinged with his depreffive malady. It happened one afternoon, in those years, when his accomplifhed friend Lady Austen made a part of his little evening circle, that she observed him finking into increafing dejection; it was her cuftom, on thefe occafions, to try all the refources of her sprightly powers for his immediate relief. She told him the ftory of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in her memory from her childhood) to diffipate the gloom of the paffing hour. Its effect on the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchantment: he informed her the next morning, that convulfions of laughter, brought on by his recollection of her ftory, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night; and that he had turned it into a ballad.— So arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin: It was eagerly copied, and finding its way rapidly to the newfpapers, it was feized by the lively fpirit of Henderson, the Comedian, a native of Newport-Pagnell, and a man, like the Yorick described by Shakespeare, "of infinite jest, and most excellent fancy," it was feized by Henderson as a proper fubject for the difplay of his own comic powers, and by reciting it, in his public readings, he gave uncommon celebrity to the ballad, before the public fufpected to what poet they were indebted for the fudden burft of ludicrous amufement. Many readers were astonished, when the poem made its first authentic appearance in the fecond volume of Cowper. In fome letters of the Poet to Mr. Hill, which did not reach me