The great end and aim which he proposed to himself as an author has already been illustrated from his writings: we add one more passage to show the sanctity of his character: "Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot, And cut up all my follies by the root, I never trusted to an arm but thine, Nor hoped but in thy righteousness divine. T Truth. We confess that we are edified by this simple, yet sublime piety. It was from this source that Cowper drew the materials that have given to his writings the character of so elevated a morality. Too seldom, alas! have poets consecrated their powers to the cause of divine truth. In modern times, especially, we have witnessed a voluptuous imagery and appeal to the passions, in some highly-gifted writers, which have contributed to undermine public morality, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. But it is the honorable distinction of Cowper's poetry, that nothing is to be found to excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor a single line that requires to be blotted. He has done much to introduce a purer and more exalted taste; he is the poet of nature, the poet of the heart and conscience, and, what is a still higher praise, the poet of Christianity. He mingled the waters of Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam; and planted the Cross amid the bowers of the Muses. That religion cannot only supply the noblest theme, but also communicate a corresponding sublimity of thought and language, will appear on reading the glowing and poetical description of the Millennial Period, commencing with "Sweet is the harp of prophecy." Task, Bk. VI., 747-817. By this strain of poetry, so adapted to the spirit of the present age, Cowper is rapidly accomplishing a revolution in the public taste, and creating a new race of readers. He is purifying the literary atmosphere from its noxious vapors. He has taught us that literary celebrity, acquired at the cost of public morals, is but an inglorious triumph, and merits no better title than that of splendid infamy. His page has fully proved that the varied field of nature, the scenes of domestic life, and the rich domains of moral and religious truth, are sufficiently ample for the exercise of poetic taste and fancy; while they never fail to tranquillize the mind, to invigorate the principles, and to enlarge the bounds of virtuous pleasure. Though the singular and mysterious malady of Cowper has been the occasion of repeated remark, we cannot dismiss the subject without a few reflections. In recording the lot of genius, Milton, it is known, was blind, Pope was afflicted with sickness, and Tasso, Swift, and Collins, were exposed to the aberrations of reason. "Moralists," says Dr. Johnson, "talk of the uncertainty of fortune, and of the transitoriness of beauty; but it is yet more dreadful to consider that the powers of the mind are equally liable to change that understanding may make its appearance and depart, that it may blaze and expire." It seems as if the mind were too ethereal to be confined within the bounds of its earthly prison, or that the too frequent and intense exercise of thought disturbs the digestive organs, and lays the foundation of hypochondriacal feelings, which cloud the serenity of the soul. Let those to whom Providence has assigned a humbler path, learn the duty of contentment, and be thankful that if they are denied the honors attendant on rank and genius, they are at least exempted from its trials. For where there are heights, there are depths; and he who occupies the summit is often seen descending into the valley of humiliation. That a similar morbid temperament may be traced in the case of Cowper is indisputable; nor can a more conclusive evidence be adduced than the words of his own memoir: "I was struck, not long after my settlement in the Temple (as a student at law), with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have the least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and rising up in de spair." In his subsequent attack, religion became an adjunct, not a cause; for he describes himself at that period as having lived without religion. The impression under which he labored was therefore manifestly not suggested by a theological creed, but was the delusion of a distempered fancy. Every other view is founded on misconception, and must inevitably tend to mislead the public. The fruitful source of all this misery was the indulgence of an over-excited state of feeling. His mind was never quiescent. Occurrences, which an ordinary degree of self-possession would have met with calmness, or passive indifference, were to him the subject of mental agony and distress. His imagination gave magnitude to trifles, till what was at first ideal at length assumed the character of a terrible reality. He was always anticipating evil; and so powerful is the influence of fancy, that what we dread we seldom fail to realize. Thus Swift lived in the constant fear of mental imbecility, and at length incurred the calamity. We scarcely know a spectacle more pitiable, and yet more reprehensible. For what is the use of reason, if we reject its dictates? or the promise of the Spirit to help our infirmities, if we nevertheless yield to their sway? How important in the education of youth to repress the first symptoms of nervous irritability, to invigorate the principles, and to train the mind to habits of self-discipline, and firm reliance upon God! The far greater proportion of human trials originate not in the appointment of Providence, but may be traced to the want of a well-ordered and duly-regulated mind; to the ascendency of passion, and to the absence of mental and moral energy. It is possible to indulge in a state of mind that shall rob every blessing of half its enjoyment, and give to every trial a double portion of bitterness. We turn with delight to a more edifying feature in his character-his submission under this dark dispensation, and to that wise Providence which overruled for good his distressing malady. The severest trials are not without their alleviation, nor the accompaniment of some gracious purpose. Had it not been for Cowper's malady, the world might never have been presented with the Task, nor the Church of Christ with the Olney Hymns. He was constrained to write in order to divert his melancholy. "Despair," he observes, "made amusement necessary, and I found poetry the most agreeable amusement.” In such a situation of mind, encompassed by the midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand times filled with unspeakable horror, I first commenced an author. Distress drove me to it; and the impossibility of subsisting without some employment still recommends it." 66 Independently of the interest created by the events of Cowper's life, there is something singularly impressive in the mechanism of his mind. It presents the most wonderful combinations of the grave and the gay, the social and the retired; ministering to the spiritual joy of others, yet enveloped in the gloom of darkness; enchained with fetters, yet vigorous and free; soaring to the heights of Zion, yet precipitated to the depths below. It resembled a beautiful landscape, overshadowed by a dark and impending cloud. But it is worthy of observation, that for upwards of twenty years-during this period of his life-his mind never suffered a total alienation. It was a partial eclipse; not night, nor yet day. He lived long enough, both for himself and others; sufficient to discharge all the claims of an affectionate friendship, and to raise to himself an imperishable name on the noble foundation of moral virtue. THE GENIUS AND POETRY OF COWPER. THE following judicious observations are selected from a Dissertation by the Rev. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, Vicar of Harrow, England. It has the greater value from the fact that the writer took pains to acquaint himself with the observations of different reviewers, scattered over a large number of volumes, and has endeavored (and not without remarkable success) to collect those criticisms into a focus, and thus present them within a moderate compass to the reader. He declares himself not ashamed to profit from the labor and genius of his predecessors in the same course, and to let them say for him what he could not say so well for himself. It is impossible not to be struck with certain peculiarities in the history of Cowper, as connected with his poetical productions. Although "born a poet, if ever there was one”—thinking and feeling upon all occasions as none but a poet could, expressing himself in verse with almost incredible facility, it does not appear that Cowper, between the ages of fourteen and thirty-three produced any thing beyond the most trifling specimens of his art. A few light and agreeable poems, two hymns written at Huntingdon, with about sixty others composed at Olney, are almost the only known poetical productions of his |