private care of a physician. After a time he recovered his mental faculties.

He settled at Huntington, where he entered into a close friendship with a clergyman of the name of Unwin, in whose family he became an inmate. Mr. Unwin died in 1767, and Cowper and Mrs. Unwin settled at Olney. He had, as yet, written but little, but in 1782 he issued a volume of poems, which, however, attracted but little public attention. But a second volume, in 1785, established his

WILLIAM COWPER

reputation as a poet. This volume contained his celebrated poem, "The Task," a blank - verse production, written at the suggestion of his friend and admirer, Lady Austin. The same lady was also the occasion of the popular ballad, "John Gilpin," the story of which she related to amuse Cowper during one of his fits of melancholy. About the same time he translated the "Iliad" of Homer into blank verse.

In 1794 the King granted Cowper a pension of three hundred pounds a year, but the royal bounty was too late to yield much profit or pleasure. Its recipient was in a state of utter dejection, a kind of morbid insanity, from which he rarely emerged into the enjoyment of unclouded reason. He continued to write, in short lucid intervals, until his death in 1800.

Cowper's personal appearance is thus described by Hay

ley, his friend and biographer: "He was of middle stature, rather strong than delicate in the form of his limbs; the color of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish gray, and his complexion ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not finical; in his diet, temperate and not dainty. He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, and his extreme shyness sometimes produced in his manners a mixture of awkwardness and dignity; but no being could be more truly graceful when he was in perfect health and perfectly pleased with his society."

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine - thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me:

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

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But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother when I learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! It answers - Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

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And, turning from my nursery window, drew

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A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu.

But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.

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Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learnt at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

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Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more;

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day,

Drew me to school along the public way,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt

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In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, "Tis now become a history little known,

That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

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That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

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The biscuit, or confectionery plum ;

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;

All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

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Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

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I pricked them into paper with a pin

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),
Could those few pleasant days again appear,

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Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart— the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.

But no
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

- what here we call our life is such

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Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
But oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,-
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft -

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.