couraging. The following lines, forming part of a poetic epistle to a lady in France, show how admirably he could pour the healing oil of comfort into the wounded spirits of others, though he was unable to assuage the grief of his own. "The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; But He, who knew what human hearts would prove, A life of ease would make them harder still; To escape the common ruin of their kind, Oh salutary streams that murmur there, These flowing from the fount of grace above! Is given in earnest to eternal rest. Ah! be not sad! although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste; Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine." Notwithstanding the almost unmitigated severity of Cowper's sufferings, there were seasons in which he enjoyed some internal tranquillity, and was enabled to exercise a trembling, if not an unshaken confidence in the Almighty. It was undoubtedly on one of these occasions that he penned the following lines Had it not been for Cowper's depressive malady, he would certainly have been, on all occasions, the most lively and agreeable companion. Even as it was, it must not be imagined that in his conversation he was never sprightly and cheerful. Frequently, when his own heart was suffused with grief, arising from the severity and peculiarity of his malady, such an air of innocent pleasantry and humour, delicate and perfectly natural, ran through his conversation and correspondence, as could not fail to delight all who happened to be in his company, or who were occasionally favoured with the productions of his pen. It would be easy to produce proofs of this, both from his poetic and prose productions. His rhyming letter, to Mr. Newton, in which there is such a happy mixture of the grave and the gay, as no other writer could produce, evinces the occa sional sprightliness of his mind." My very dear friend, I am going to send, what, when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose there's nobody knows, whether what I have got, be verse or not; by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme, but if it be, did ever you see, of late or yore, such a ditty before? "I have writ charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the reviewer, should say, to be sure, the gentleman's muse, wears Methodist shoes, you may know by her pace, and talk about grace, that she and her bard, have little regard, for taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan to catch if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap, all that may come, with a sugar plum.— His opinion in this will not be amiss; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, and if I succeed, and folks should read till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid, for all I have said, and all I have done, though I have run, many a time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end of my sense, and by hook or by crook, write another book, if I live and am here another year. "I have heard before, of a room with a floor, laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you were forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end, of what I have penned, which that you may do, ere madam and you, are quite worn out, with jigling about, I take my leave, and here you receive, a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me, W. C." The following jeu d'esprit, written by the poet, as descriptive of one of his rural excursions, through the whole of which runs a strain of pleasantry, innocent, and perfectly natural, shews that his life was not one unbroken series of despair, but that he enjoyed, occasionally, at least, some lucid intervals, when, to gratify his friends, he would trifle in rhyme with an affectionate and endearing gaiety. As it has never been published in any of his works, the reader will not regret its having a place here. I sing of a journey to Clifton,* We would have performed if we could; Poor Mary or me through the mud. Sle, sla, slud, Stuck in the mud, Oh, it is pretty to wade through a flood. So away we went slipping and sliding, Hop, hop,-a la mode de deux frogs; "Tis near as good walking as riding, Go briskly about, But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout. DIALOGUE. SHE. "Well-now I protest it is charming, How finely the weather improves ; * A village near Olney. |