Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine.
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs,
the old;
And they (kind spirits!) shall rejoice to see
How little less than they exalted man may be.

HEAVEN.

but say

Sleep on! Rest, quiet as thy conscience, take,
For though thou sleep'st thyself, thy God's awake.
Above the subtle foldings of the sky,

Above the well-set orbs' soft harmony;
Above those petty lamps that gild the night,
There is a place o'erflown with hallowed light;
Where heaven, as if it left itself behind,

Is stretched out far, nor its own bounds can find.
Here peaceful flames swell up the sacred place,
Nor can the glory contain itself in th' endless space.
For there no twilight of the sun's dull ray
Glimmers upon the pure and native day.

No pale-faced moon does in stolen beams appear,
Or with dim taper scatters darkness there.
On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide,
No circling motion doth swift time divide;
Nothing is there to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal Now does always last.

-The Davideis.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

[After Anacreon.]

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently enjoy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

The country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know.

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among

Voluptuous and wise withal.

Epicurean animal!

Satiate with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.

OF OBSCURITY.

If we engage into a large acquaintance and various familiarities, we set open our gates to the invaders of most of our time: we expose our life to a quotidian ague of frigid impertinences, which would make a wise man tremble to think of. Now, as for being known much by sight, and pointed at, I cannot comprehend the honor that lies in that: whatsoever it be, every mountebank has it more than the best doctor, and the hangman more than the lord chief justice of a city. Every creature has it, both of nature and art, if it be any ways extraordinary. It was as often said, "This is that Bucephalus," or "This is that Incitatus," when they were led prancing through the streets, as "This is that Alexander," or, "This is that Domitian ;" and truly, for the latter, I take Incitatus to have been a

much more honorable beast than his master, and more deserving the consulship, than he the empire.

I love and commend a true good fame, because it is the shadow of virtue; not that it doth any good to the body which it accompanies, but it is an efficacious shadow, and, like that of St. Peter, cures the diseases of others. The best kind of glory, no doubt, is that which is reflected from honesty, such as was the glory of Cato and Aristides; but it was harmful to them both, and is seldom beneficial to any man whilst he lives; what it is to him after his death, I cannot say, because I love not philosophy merely notional and conjectural, and no man who has made the experiment has been so kind as to come back and inform us. Upon the whole matter, I account a person who has a moderate mind and fortune, and lives in the conversation of two or three agreeable friends, with little commerce in the world besides, who is esteemed well enough by his few neighbors that know him, and is truly irreproachable by anybody and so, after a healthful quiet life, before the great inconveniences of old age, goes more silently out of it than he came in (for I would not have him so much as cry in the exit): this innocent deceiver of the world, as Horace calls him, this "muta persona," I take to have been more happy in his part, than the greatest actors that fill the stage with show and noise, nay, even than Augustus himself, who asked with his last breath, whether he had not played his farce very well.-Essays.

COWPER, WILLIAM, a renowned English poet, born at Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England, November 15, 1731; died at East Dereham, Norfolk, April 25, 1800. His father was Rector of Berkhamstead and sprang from an ancient family, which could trace its descent in an uninterrupted line to the time of Edward IV. (1450). His mother, Ann Donne, was daughter of the Dean of St. Paul's, who was descended from Henry III. (1250), through four distinct lines. She died when William, her eldest living boy, was six years old, leaving besides him an infant son.

A few months after his mother's death Cowper was placed at a private school, where for two years he was cruelly bullied by the elder pupils. At the age of fourteen he was placed in Westminster School, where he became an excellent scholar. At seventeen he was articled to a London solicitor; but he paid no attention to legal studies. His uncle, Ashley Cowper, a man of considerable fortune, resided in London, and it was arranged that the youth should pass his Sundays at his uncle's residence. Mr. Ashley Cowper had two daughters, Theodora and Harriet, just growing up into womanhood. A warm attachment sprang up between William Cowper and his cousin Theodora. Harriet became in