TO HIS FATHER.

Oh that Pieria's spring would thro' my breastPour its inspiring influence, and rush,No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood!That for my venerable father's sake,All meaner themes renounc'd, my muse on wingsOf duty borne, might reach a loftier strain.For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please,She frames this slender work, nor know I aught,That may thy gifts more suitably requite;Though to requite them suitably would askReturns much nobler, and surpassing farThe meagre stores of verbal gratitude:But, such as I possess, I send thee all.This page presents thee in their full amountWith thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought:Nought save the riches that from airy dreamIn secret grottoes, and in laurel bow'rs,I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquir'd.

He then sings the praises of song in the following animated strain.

Verse is a work divine; despise not thouVerse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining stillSome scintillations of Promethean fire,Bespeaks him animated from above.The gods love verse; the infernal pow'rs themselvesConfess the influence of verse, which stirsThe lowest deep, and binds in triple chainsOf adamant both Pluto and the shades.In verse the Delphic priestess, and the paleTremulous Sybil, make the future known,And he who sacrifices, on the shrineHangs verse, both when he smites the threat'ning bull,And when he spreads his reeking entrails wideTo scrutinize the Fates envelop'd there.

He anticipates it as one of the employments of glorified spirits in heaven.

We too, ourselves, what time we seek againOur native skies, and one eternal Now[734]Shall be the only measure of our being,Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyreHarmonious verse, shall range the courts above,And make the starry firmament resound.

The sympathy existing between the two kindred studies of poetry and music is described with happy effect.

Now say, what wonder is it, if a sonOf thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'dIn close affinity, we sympathizeIn social arts, and kindred studies sweet?Such distribution of himself to usWas Phœbus' choice; thou hast thy gift,[735]and IMine also, and between us we receive,Father and son, the whole inspiring god.

The following effusion of filial feeling is as honourable to the discernment and liberality of the parent, as it is expressive of the gratitude of the son.

... Thou never bad'st me treadThe beaten path and broad, that leads right onTo opulence, nor did'st condemn thy sonTo the insipid clamours of the bar,To laws voluminous and ill observ'd;But, wishing to enrich me more, to fillMy mind with treasure, led'st me far awayFrom city-din to deep retreats, to banksAnd streams Aonian, and, with free consent,Did'st place me happy at Apollo's side.I speak not now, on more important themesIntent, of common benefits, and suchAs nature bids, but of thy larger gifts,My father! who, when I had open'd onceThe stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'dThe full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks,Whose lofty music grac'd the lips of Jove,Thyself did'st counsel me to add the flow'rs,That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the smoothItalian his degen'rate speech adorns,That witnesses his mixture with the Goth;And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.

We delight in witnessing the exuberance of manly and generous feeling in a son towards a parent, entitled by kind offices to his gratitude, and therefore transcribe the following passage.

Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds,That covet it; what could my father more?What more could Jove himself, unless he gaveHis own abode, the heaven in which he reigns?More eligible gifts than these were notApollo's to his son, had they been safe,As they were insecure, who made the boyThe world's vice-luminary, bade him ruleThe radiant chariot of the day, and bindTo his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath.I therefore, although last and least my placeAmong the learned, in the laurel groveWill hold, and where the conqu'ror's ivy twines,Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throngProfane, nor even to be seen by such.Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint, away!And Envy, with thy "jealous leer malign!"Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forthHer venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes!Ye all are impotent against my peace,For I am privileg'd, and bear my breastSafe, and too high for your viperean wound.

He thus beautifully concludes this affecting tribute of filial gratitude.

But thou, my father! since to render thanksEquivalent, and to requite by deedsThy liberality, exceeds my power,Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,And bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind!Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth,My voluntary numbers, if ye dareTo hope longevity, and to surviveYour master's funeral, not soon absorb'dIn the oblivious Lethæan gulf,Shall to futurity perhaps conveyThis theme, and by these praises of my sireImprove the fathers of a distant age!

We subjoin Hayley's remark on this poem, in Cowper's edition of Milton.

"These verses are founded on one of the most interesting subjects that language can display, the warmth and felicity of strong reciprocal kindness between a father and a son, not only united by the most sacred tie of nature, but still more endeared to each other by the happy cultivation of honourable and congenial arts. The sublime description of poetry, and the noble and graceful portrait, which the author here exhibits of his own mental character, may be said to render this splendid poem the prime jewel in a coronet of variegated gems."

We extract the following passages from the remarks and notes in Cowper's Milton, as exhibiting the manner in which he executed this portion of his labours.

"There is a solemnity of sentiment, as well as majesty of numbers, in the exordium of this noble poem, which, in the works of the ancients, has no example.

"The sublimest of all subjects was reserved for Milton; and, bringing to the contemplation of that subject, not only a genius equal to the best of theirs but a heart also deeply impregnated with the divine truths which lay before him, it is no wonder that he has produced a composition, on the whole, superior to any that we have received from former ages. But he who addresses himself to the perusal of this work, with a mind entirely unaccustomed to serious and spiritual contemplation, unacquainted with the word of God, or prejudiced against it, is ill qualified to appreciate the value of a poem built upon it, or to taste its beauties. Milton is the poet of Christians: an infidel may have an ear for the harmony of his numbers, may be aware of the dignity of his expression, and, in some degree, of the sublimity of his conceptions; but the unaffectedand masculine piety, which was his true inspirer, and is the very soul of his poem, he will either not perceive, or it will offend him."

To bellow through the vast and boundless deep.

Line 177.

"In this we seem to hear a thunder suited both to the scene and the occasion, incomparably more awful than any ever heard on earth, and thethunder winged with lightningis highly poetical. It may be observed here, that the thunder of Milton is not hurled from the hand like Homer's, but discharged like an arrow. Thus in book vi. line 712, the Father, ordering forth the Son for the destruction of the rebel angels, says—

..... Bring forth all my war,My bow, and thunder.

As if, jealous for the honour of the true God, the poet disdained to arm him like the god of the heathen."[736]

He spake, and to confirm his words, &c. &c.

Line 663.

"This is another instance in which appears the advantage that Milton derives from the grandeur of his subject. What description could even he have given of a host of human warriors insulting their conqueror, at all comparable to this? First, their multitude is to be noticed. They are not thousands but millions; and they are millions, not of puny mortals, but of mighty cherubim. Their swords flame, not metaphorically, but they are swords of fire; they flash not by reflection of the sunbeams, like the swords of Homer, but by their own light, and that light plays not idly in the broad day, but far round illumines Hell. And lastly, they defy not a created being like themselves, but the Almighty."

As when from mountain tops, &c.

Line 488.

"The reader loses half the beauty of this charming simile, who does not give particular attention to the numbers. There is a majesty in them not often equalled, and never surpassed, even by this great poet himself; the movement is uncommonly slow; an effect produced by means already hinted at, the assemblage of a greater proportion of long syllables than usual. The pauses are also managed with great skill and judgment; while the clouds rise, and the heavens gather blackness, they fall in those parts of the verse, where they retard the reader most, and thus become expressive of the solemnity of the subject; but in the latter part of the simile, when the sun breaks out, and the scene brightens, they are so disposed as to allow the verse an easier and less interrupted flow, more suited to the cheerfulness of the occasion."

He concludes with the following summary of the great doctrines that form the foundation of the Paradise Lost.

"It may not be amiss, at the close of these admirable speeches—as admirable for their sound divinity as for the perspicuity with which it is expressed—to allow ourselves a moment's pause, for the purpose of taking a short retrospect of the doctrines contained in them. Man, in the beginning, is placed in a probationary state, and made the arbiter of his own destiny. By his own fault, he forfeits happiness, both for himself and his descendants. But mercy interposes for his restoration. That mercy is represented as perfectly free, as vouchsafed to the most unworthy; to creatures so entirely dead in sin as to be destitute even of a sense of their need of it, and consequently too stupid even to ask it. They are also as poor as they are unfeeling; and, were it possible that they could affect themselves with a just sense and apprehension of their lapsed condition, they would have no compensation to offer to their offended Maker, nothing with which they can satisfy the demands of his justice,—in short, no atonement. In this ruinous state of their affairs, and when all hope of reconciliation seems lost for ever, the Son of God voluntarily undertakes for them,—undertakes to become the son of man also, and to suffer, in man's stead, the penalty annexed to his transgression. In consequence of this self-substitution, Christ becomes the federal head of his church, and the sole author of salvation to his people. As Adam's sin was imputed to his posterity, so the faultless obedience of the second Adam is imputed to all, who, in the great concern of justification, shall renounce their own obedience as imperfect and therefore incompetent. The sentence is thus reversed as to all believers: 'Death is swallowed up in victory.' The Saviour presents the redeemed before the throne of the Eternal Father, in whose countenance no longer any symptom of displeasure appears against them, but their joy and peace are thenceforth perfect. The general resurrection takes place; the saints are made assessors with Christ in the judgment, both of men and angels; the new heaven and earth, the destined habitation of the just, succeed; the Son of God, his whole undertaking accomplished, surrenders the kingdom to his Father: God becomes all in all! It is easy to see, that, among these doctrines, there are some which, in modern times, have been charged with novelty; but how new they are Milton is a witness."

Fuseli, whose labours were so unfortunately superseded, completed a series of admirable paintings from subjects furnished by the Paradise Lost; which were afterwards exhibited in London, under the name of the Milton Gallery. He thus acquired a reputation which placed him in the first rank of artists; and the amateur had the opportunity of seeing, in the Shakspeare and Milton galleries, the most distinguished painters engaged in illustrating the productions of the two greatest authors that ever adorned any age or country.[737]

This projected edition of Milton is remarkable as having laid the foundation of the intercourse, which soon ripened into friendship, between Cowper and Hayley. The latter was at that time engaged in writing a life of Milton, which gave rise to his being represented as an opponent of Cowper. To exonerate himself from such an imputation, he wrote the letter which we subjoin in a note.[738]

Having detailed the circumstances connected with the edition of Milton, we return to the regular correspondence.

Weston, Dec. 10, 1793.

You mentioned, my dear friend, in your last letter, an unfavourable sprain that you had received, which you apprehended might be very inconvenient to you for some time to come; and having learned also from Lady Hesketh the same unwelcome intelligence, in terms still more alarming than those in which you related the accident yourself, I cannot but be anxious, as well as my cousin, to know the present state of it; and shall truly rejoice to hear that it is in a state of recovery. Give us a line of information on this subject, as soon as you can conveniently, and you will much oblige us.

I write by morning candle-light; my literary business obliging me to be an early riser. Homer demands me: finished, indeed, but the alterations not transcribed: a work to which I am now hastening as fast as possible. The transcript ended, which is likely to amount to a good sizeable volume, I must write a new preface: and then farewell to Homer for ever! And if the remainder of my days be a little gilded with the profits of this long and laborious work, I shall not regret the time that I have bestowed on it.

I remain, my dear friend,Affectionately yours,W. C.

Can you give us any news of Lord Howe's Armada; concerning which we may inquire,as our forefathers did of the Spanish,—"an in cœlum sublata sit, an in Tartarum depressa?"[740]

The reader may now be anxious to learn some particulars of the projected poem, which has been repeatedly mentioned under the title ofThe Four Ages; a poem to which the mind of Cowper looked eagerly forward, as to a new and highly promising field for his excursive fancy. The idea had been suggested to him in the year 1791, by his clerical neighbour, Mr. Buchanan, of Ravenstone, a small sequestered village within the distance of an easy walk from Weston. This gentleman, who had occasionally enjoyed the gratification of visiting Cowper, suggested to him, with a becoming diffidence, the project of a new poem on the four distinct periods of life—infancy, youth, manhood, and old age. He imparted his ideas to the poet by a letter, in which he observed, with equal modesty and truth, that Cowper was particularly qualified to relish, and to do justice to the subject; a subject which he supposed not hitherto treated expressly, as its importance deserved, by any poet ancient or modern.

Mr. Buchanan added to this letter a brief sketch of contents for the projected composition. This hasty sketch he enlarged, at the request of Cowper. How the poet appreciated the suggestion will appear from the following billet.

Weston, May 11, 1793.

My dear Sir,—You have sent me a beautiful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would to heaven that you would give it that requisite yourself; for he who could make the sketch, cannot but be well qualified to finish. But if you will not, I will; provided always nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it will require no common share to do justice to your conceptions.

I am much yours,W. C.

Your little messenger vanished before I could catch him.

This work, in his first conception of it, was greatly endeared to him, but he soon entertained an apprehension that he should never accomplish it. Writing to his friend of St. Paul's in 1793, the poet said—"The Four Agesis a subject that delights me when I think of it; but I am ready to fear, that all my ages will be exhausted before I shall be at leisure to write upon it."

A fragment is all that he has left, for which we refer the reader to the Poems. In his happier days, it would have been expanded in a manner more commensurate with the copiousness of the subject, and the poetical powers of the author.

It may be interesting to add, that a modern poem on the Four Ages of Man was written by M. Werthmuller, a citizen of Zurich, and translated into Latin verse, by Dr. Olstrochi, librarian to the Ambrosian library at Milan. This performance gave rise to another German poem on the Four Ages of Woman, by M. Zacharie, professor of poetry at Brunswick.

The increasing infirmities of Cowper's aged companion, Mrs. Unwin, his filial solicitude to alleviate her sufferings, and the gathering clouds of deeper despondency that began to settle on his mind, in the first month of the year 1794, not only rendered it impossible for him to advance in any great original performance, but, to use his own expressive words, in the close of his correspondence with his highly-valued friend, Mr. Rose, made all composition either of poetry or prose impracticable. Writing to that friend in January 1794, he says, "I have just ability enough to transcribe, which is all that I have to do at present: God knows that I write, at this moment, under the pressure of sadness not to be described."

It was a spectacle that might awaken compassion in the sternest of human characters, to see the health, the comfort, and the little fortune of a man, so distinguished by intellectual endowments, and by moral excellence, perishing most deplorably. A sight so affecting made many friends of Cowper solicitous and importunate that his declining life should be honourably protected by public munificence. Men of all parties agreed that a pension might be granted to an author of his acknowledged merit, with graceful propriety.

But such is the difficulty of doing real good, experienced even by the great and powerful, or so apt are statesmen to forget the pressing exigence of meritorious individuals, in the distractions of official perplexity,that month after month elapsed, without the accomplishment of so desirable an object.

Imagination can hardly devise any human condition more truly affecting than the state of the poet at this period. His generous and faithful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had preserved him through seasons of the severest calamity, was now, with her faculties and fortune impaired, sinking fast into second childhood. The distress of heart that he felt in beholding the afflicting change in a companion so justly dear to him, conspiring with his constitutional melancholy, was gradually undermining the exquisite faculties of his mind. The disinterested and affectionate kindness of Lady Hesketh, at this crisis, deserves to be recorded in terms of the highest commendation. With a magnanimity of feeling to which it is difficult to do justice, and to the visible detriment of her health, she nobly devoted herself to the superintendence of a house, whose two interesting inhabitants were almost incapacitated from attending to the ordinary offices of life. Those only who have lived with the superannuated and the melancholy, can properly appreciate the value of such a sacrifice.

The two last of Cowper's letters to Hayley, that breathe a spirit of mental activity and cheerful friendship, were written in the close of the year 1793, and in the beginning of the next. They arose from an accident that it may be proper to relate, before we insert them.

On Hayley's return from Weston, he had given an account of the poet to his old friend, Lord Thurlow. That learned and powerful critic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, declared himself not satisfied with his version of Hector's admirable prayer in caressing his child. Both ventured on new translations of this prayer, which were immediately sent to Cowper, and the following letters will prove with what just and manly freedom of spirit he was at this time able to criticize the composition of his friends and his own.

Weston, Dec. 17, 1793.

Oh Jove! and all ye Gods! grant this my sonTo prove, like me, pre-eminent in Troy!In valour such, and firmness of command!Be he extoll'd, when he returns from fight,As far his sire's superior! may he slayHis enemy, bring home his gory spoils,And may his mother's heart o'erflow with joy!

I rose this morning, at six o'clock, on purpose to translate this prayer again, and to write to my dear brother. Here you have it, such as it is, not perfectly according to my own liking, but as well as I could make it, and I think better than either yours or Lord Thurlow's. You with your six lines have made yourself stiff and ungraceful, and he with his seven has produced as good prose as heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A scrupulous attention to the letter has spoiled you both; you have neither the spirit nor the manner of Homer. A portion of both may be found, I believe, in my version, but not so much as I could wish—it is better however than the printed one. His lordship's two first lines I cannot very well understand; he seems to me to give a sense to the original that does not belong to it. Hector, I apprehend, does not say, "Grant that he may prove himself my son, and be eminent," &c.—but "grant that this my son may prove eminent"—which is a material difference. In the latter sense I find the simplicity of an ancient; in the former, that is to say, in the notion of a man proving himself his father's son by similar merit, the finesse and dexterity of a modern. His lordship too makes the man, who gives the young hero his commendation, the person who returns from battle; whereas Homer makes the young hero himself that person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, which I suppose is hardly to be disputed.

If my old friend would look into my Preface, he would find a principle laid down there, which perhaps it would not be easy to invalidate, and which properly attended to would equally secure a translation from stiffness and from wildness. The principle I mean is this—"Close, but not so close as to be servile! free, but not so free as to be licentious!" A superstitious fidelity loses the spirit, and a loose deviation the sense of the translated author—a happy moderation in either case is the only possible way of preserving both.

Thus I have disciplined you both, and now, if you please, you may both discipline me. I shall not enter my version in my book till it has undergone your strictures at least, and, should you write to the noble critic again, you are welcome to submit it to his. We are three awkward fellows indeed, if we cannot amongst us make a tolerable good translation of six lines of Homer.

Adieu!W. C.

Weston, Jan. 5, 1794.

My dear Hayley,—I have waited, but waited in vain, for a propitious moment when I might give my old friend's objections the consideration they deserve; I shall at last be forced to send a vague answer, unworthy to be sent to a person accustomed, like him, to close reasoning and abstruse discussion; for I rise after illrest, and with a frame of mind perfectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit too at the window for light's sake, where I am so cold that my pen slips out of my fingers. First, I will give you a translation,de novo, of this untranslateable prayer. It is shaped as nearly as I could contrive to his lordship's ideas, but I have little hope that it will satisfy him.

Grant Jove, and all ye Gods, that this my sonBe, as myself have been, illustrious here!A valiant man! and let him reign in Troy!May all who witness his return from fightHereafter, say—he far excels his sire;And let him bring back gory trophies, striptFrom foes slain by him, to his mother's joy.

Imlac in Rasselas says—I forget to whom, "You have convinced me that it is impossible to be a poet." In like manner I might say to his lordship, you have convinced me that it is impossible to be a translator; to be a translator, on his terms at least, is I am sure impossible. On his terms, I would defy Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the Paradise Lost into Greek. Yet Milton had Homer much in his eye when he composed that poem; whereas Homer never thought of me or my translation. There are minutiæ in every language, which, transfused into another, will spoil the version. Such extreme fidelity is in fact unfaithful. Such close resemblance takes away all likeness. The original is elegant, easy, natural; the copy is clumsy, constrained, unnatural: to what is this owing? To the adoption of terms not congenial to your purpose, and of a context, such as no man writing an original work would make use of. Homer is every thing that a poet should be. A translation of Homer, so made, will be every thing a translation of Homer should not be; because it will be written in no language under heaven. It will be English, and it will be Greek, and therefore it will be neither. He is the man, whoever he be, (I do not pretend to be that man myself,) he is the man best qualified as a translator of Homer, who has drenched, and steeped, and soaked himself in the effusions of his genius, till he has imbibed their colour to the bone, and who, when he is thus dyed through and through, distinguishing between what is essentially Greek, and what may be habited in English, rejects the former, and is faithful to the latter, as far as the purposes of fine poetry will permit, and no farther: this, I think, may be easily proved. Homer is everywhere remarkable either for ease, dignity, or energy of expression; for grandeur of conception, and a majestic flow of numbers. If we copy him so closely as to make every one of these excellent properties of his absolutely unattainable, which will certainly be the effect of too close a copy, instead of translating, we murder him. Therefore, after all his lordship has said, I still hold freedom to be an indispensable—freedom, I mean, with respect to the expression; freedom so limited, as never to leave behind thematter; but at the same time indulged with a sufficient scope to secure the spirit, and as much as possible of the manner. I say as much as possible, because an English manner must differ from a Greek one, in order to be graceful, and for this there is no remedy. Can an ungraceful, awkward, translation of Homer be a good one? No: but a graceful, easy, natural, faithful version of him, will not that be a good one? Yes: allow me but this, and I insist upon it, that such a one may be produced on my principles, and can be produced on no other.

I have not had time to criticise his lordship's other version. You know how little time I have for anything, and can tell him so.

Adieu! my dear brother. I have now tired both you and myself; and with the love of the whole trio, remain yours ever,

W. C.

Reading his lordship's sentiments over again, I am inclined to think, that in all I have said, I have only given him back the same in other terms. He disallows both the absolutefree, and the absoluteclose—so do I, and, if I understand myself, I said so in my preface. He wishes to recommend a medium, though he will not call it so—so do I; only we express it differently. What is it then that we dispute about? My head is not good enough to-day to discover.

These letters were followed by such a silence on the part of Cowper, as excited the severest apprehensions, which were painfully confirmed by the intelligence conveyed in the ensuing letter:—

Newport Pagnel, April 8, 1794.

Dear Sir,—Lady Hesketh's correspondence acquainted you with the melancholy relapse of our dear friend at Weston; but I am uncertain whether you know, that in the last fortnight he has refused food of every kind, except now and then a very small piece of toasted bread dipped generally in water, sometimes mixed with a little wine. This, her ladyship informs me, was the case till last Saturday, since when he has eat a little at each family meal. He persists in refusing such medicines as are indispensable to his state of body. In such circumstances, his long continuance in life cannot be expected. How devoutly to be wished is the alleviation of his danger and distress! You, dear sir, who know so well the worth of our beloved and admired friend, sympathise with his affliction, and deprecate hisloss doubtless in no ordinary degree: you have already most effectually expressed and proved the warmth of your friendship. I cannot think that anything but your society would have been sufficient, during the infirmity under which his mind has long been oppressed, to have supported him against the shock of Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack. I am certain that nothing else could have prevailed upon him to undertake the journey to Eartham. You have succeeded where his other friends knew they could not, and where they apprehended no one could. How natural therefore, nay, how reasonable, is it for them to look to you, as most likely to be instrumental, under the blessing of God, for relief in the present distressing and alarming crisis! It is indeed scarcely attemptable to ask any person to take such a journey, and involve himself in so melancholy a scene, with an uncertainty of the desired success; increased as the apparent difficulty is by dear Mr. Cowper's aversion to all company, and by poor Mrs. Unwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it of you, rejoiced as she would be at your arrival. Am I not, dear sir, a very presumptuous person, who, in the face of all opposition, dare do this? I am emboldened by those two powerful supporters, conscience and experience. Was I at Eartham, I would certainly undertake the labour I presume to recommend, for the bare possibility of restoring Mr. Cowper to himself, to his friends, to the public, and to God.

Hayley, on the receipt of this letter, lost no time in repairing to Weston; but his unhappy friend was too much overwhelmed by his oppressive malady to show even the least glimmering of satisfaction at the appearance of a guest whom he used to receive with the most lively expressions of affectionate delight.

It is the nature of this tremendous melancholy, not only to enshroud and stifle the finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, and apparently annihilates, for a time, the strongest and best-rooted affections of the heart.

Lady Hesketh, profiting by Hayley's presence, quitted her charge for a few days, that she might have a personal conference with Dr. Willis. A friendly letter from Lord Thurlow to that celebrated physician had requested his attention to the highly interesting sufferer. Dr. Willis prescribed for Cowper, and saw him at Weston, but not with that success and felicity which made his medical skill on another most awful occasion the source of national delight and exultation.

Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper appeared to abound with circumstances very unfavourable to his mental relief. The daily sight of a being reduced to such deplorable imbecility as now overwhelmed Mrs. Unwin, was in itself sufficient to plunge a tender spirit into extreme melancholy; yet to separate two friends, so long accustomed to minister, with the purest and most vigilant benevolence, to the infirmities of each other, was a measure so pregnant with complicated distraction, that it could not be advised or attempted. It remained only to palliate the suffering of each in their present most pitiable condition, and to trust in the mercy of that God, who had supported them together through periods of very dark affliction, though not so doubly deplorable as the present.

Who can contemplate this distressing spectacle without recalling the following pathetic exclamation in the Sampson Agonistes of Milton?

God of our fathers, what is man?. . . . .Since such as thou hast solemnly elected,With gifts and graces eminently adorned;. . . . .Yet towards these thus dignified, thou oftAmidst their height of noon,Changest thy count'nance, and thy hand, with no regardOf highest favours pastFrom thee on them, or them to thee of service.. . . . .So deal not with this once thy glorious champion!What do I beg? How hast thou dealt already!Behold him in this state calamitous, and turnHis labours, for thou canst, to peaceful end!

It was on the 23rd of April, 1794, in one of those melancholy mornings, when his kind and affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, and Hayley, were watching together over this dejected sufferer, that a letter from Lord Spencer arrived at Weston, to announce the intended grant of a pension from his Majesty to Cowper, of 300l.per annum, rendered payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee of Cowper. This intelligence produced in the friends of the poet very lively emotions of delight, yet blended with pain almost as powerful; for it was painful, in no trifling degree, to reflect that these desirable smiles of good fortune could not impart even a faint glimmering of joy to the dejected poet.

From the time when Hayley left his unhappy friend at Weston, in the spring of the year 1794, he remained there under the tender vigilance of Lady Hesketh, till the latter end of July, 1795: a long season of the darkest depression! in which the best medical advice and the influence of time appeared equally unable to lighten that afflictive burthen which pressed incessantly on his spirits.

It was under these circumstances that my revered brother-in-law, with a generous disinterestedness and affection that must ever endearhim to the admirers of Cowper, determined, with Lady Hesketh's concurrence, to remove the poet and his afflicted companion into Norfolk. In adopting this plan, he did not contemplate more than a year's absence from Weston: but what was intended to be only temporary, proved in the sequel to be a final removal.

Few events could have been more painful to Cowper than a separation from his beloved Weston. Every object was familiar to his eye, and had long engaged the affections of his heart. Its beautiful scenery had been traced with all the minuteness of description and the glow of poetic fancy. The slow-winding Ouse, "bashful, yet impatient to be seen," was henceforth to glide "in its sinuous course" unperceived. The spacious meads, the lengthened colonnade, the proud alcove, and the sound of the sweet village-bells—these memorials of past happy days were to be seen and heard no more. All have felt the pang excited by the separation or loss of friends; but who has not also experienced that even trees have tongues, and that every object in nature knows how to plead its empire over the heart?

What Cowper's sensations were on this occasion, may be collected from the following little incident.

On the morning of his departure from Weston, he wrote the following lines in pencil on the back of the shutter, in his bed-room.

"Farewell, dear scenes, for ever closed to me!Oh! for what sorrows must I now exchange you!"

These lines have been carefully preserved as the expressive memorial of his feelings on leaving Weston. Nor can the following little poem fail to excite interest, not only as being the last original production which he composed at Weston, but from its deep and unaffected pathos. It is addressed to Mrs. Unwin. No language can exhibit a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender.

The twentieth year is well-nigh past,Since first our sky was overcast,Ah, would that this might be the last!My Mary!Thy spirits have a fainter flow,I see thee daily weaker grow—'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,My Mary!For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!But well thou playd'st the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic art,Have wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!For, could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign;Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,My Mary!Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,That now at every step thou mov'stUpheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,My Mary!And still to love, though prest with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!But, ah! by constant heed I know,How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!And, should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last,My Mary!

The twentieth year is well-nigh past,Since first our sky was overcast,Ah, would that this might be the last!My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,I see thee daily weaker grow—'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,My Mary!

For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!

But well thou playd'st the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic art,Have wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign;Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,That now at every step thou mov'stUpheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!

But, ah! by constant heed I know,How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!

And, should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last,My Mary!

On Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of July, 1795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, under the care and guidance of Mr. Johnson, from Weston to North-Tuddenham, in Norfolk, by a journey of three days, passing through Cambridge without stopping there. In the evening of the first day they rested at the village of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cowper walked with his young kinsman in the churchyard by moonlight, and spoke with much composure on the subject of Thomson's Seasons, and the circumstances under which they were probably written. This conversation was almost his last glimmering of cheerfulness.

At North-Tuddenham the travellers were accommodated with a commodious, untenanted parsonage-house, by the kindness of the Rev. Leonard Shelford. Here they resided till the nineteenth of August. It was the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not to remove them immediately to his own house, in the town of East-Dereham, lest the situation in a market-place should be distressing to the tender spirits of Cowper.

In their new temporary residence they were received by Miss Johnson and Miss Perowne, whose gentle and sympathizing spirit peculiarly qualified them to discharge so delicate an office, and to alleviate the sufferings of the dejected poet.

Severe as his depressive malady appeared at this period, he was still able to bear considerable exercise, and, before he left Tuddenham, he walked with Mr. Johnson to the neighbouring village of Mattishall, on a visit to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. On surveying his own portrait by Abbot, in the house of that lady, he clasped his hands in a paroxysm of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that his present sensations might be such as they were when that picture was painted.

In August 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted his two invalids to Mundsley, a village on the Norfolk coast, in the hope that a situation by the sea-side might prove salutary and amusing to Cowper. They continued to reside there till October, but without any apparent benefit to the health of the interesting sufferer.

He had long relinquished epistolary intercourse with his most intimate friends, but his tender solicitude to hear some tidings of his favourite Weston induced him, in September, to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows the severity of his depression, but proves also that transient gleams of pleasure could occasionally break through the brooding darkness of melancholy.

He begins with a poetical quotation:

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