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afflicted appear bard beneath boast bosom breast breath brow Cacus Cowper Damon death delight Dereham divine Dryope Dunham Lodge Eartham East Dereham ev'n ev'ry eyes fair fame Faunus fear flow'rs friendship gentle GEORGE ROMNEY grace grove hand happy Hayley heart Heav'n Homer honour hope Iliad Inner Temple John Throckmorton Jove kind kinsman labour Lady Austen Lady Hesketh lambs Latium length lyre Mary mind Mundsley Muse ne'er never night num'rous nymphs o'er once pain Pallas Phoebus poem Poet pow'r praise prove quae quod rest Rose scarcely scene seek your home seem'd shade shore sight skies SONETTO song SONNET soon spirits spring sweet tears thee theme thine thoughts are due tibi translation Twas Unwin verse vex'd VINCENT BOURNE voice Weston William Cowper WILLIAM HAYLEY wish worth write youth
Стр. 332 - Adieu!' At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age Is wet with Anson's tear: And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.
Стр. 303 - That ere through age or woe I shed my wings I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings:— But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright — There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine ; And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine...
Стр. lxxviii - YE, who with warmth the public triumph feel Of talents dignified by sacred zeal, Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! England, exulting in his spotless fame, Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite name.
Стр. 80 - Not deeming kittens worth a Poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, ' What's this ?' When lo ! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue.
Стр. 319 - T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still...
Стр. 95 - His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged 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.
Стр. 331 - Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent pow'r, His destiny repell'd; And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried — "Adieu!
Стр. 94 - 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 tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.