TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.

Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame;Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask,And from the mind of Cowperâ€”call'd "The Task."Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed in the year 1806; aged seventy-five, the poet alwaysspoke in the language of unfeigned esteem and affection.Sir George Throckmorton's death has been already recorded, and with this event the genius of the place may be said to have deserted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion exists no longer. His surviving estimable widow the Catharina of Cowper, resides at Northampton.Lady Hesketh, whose affectionate kindness to the poet must have endeared her to every reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy-four.To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already been borne in the course of this work. He was cousin to the poet, by one remove, which was the reason why he was usually designated as Cowper'skinsman, his mother having been the daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, rector of Catfield, Norfolk, own brother to Cowper's mother. His unremitting and watchful care over the poet, for several successive years, and during a period marked by a painful and protracted malady, his generous sacrifice of his time, and of every personal consideration, that he might administer to the peace and comfort of his afflicted friendâ€”his affectionate sympathy, and uniform forgetfulness of self, in all the various relations of lifeâ€”these virtues have justly claimed for Dr. Johnson the esteem and love of his friends, and the honourable distinction of being ever identified with the endeared name of Cowper. He was rector of the united parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the county of Norfolk, where he preached the doctrines of the gospel with fidelity, and adorned them by the Christian tenor of his life and conduct. He married Miss Livius, daughter of the late George Livius, Esq., formerly at the head of the commissariat, in India, during the government of Warren Hastings. The Editor was connected with him by marrying the sister of Mrs. Johnson. He departed in the autumn of the year 1833, after a short illness, and was followed to the grave by a crowded assemblage of his parishioners, to whom he was endeared by his virtues. He left his estimable widow and four surviving children to lament his loss. Cowper was engraved on his heart, and his Poems minutely impressed on his memory. Both, therefore, became a frequent theme of conversation; and it is to these sources of information, that the writer is indebted for the knowledge of many facts and incidents that are incorporated in the present edition.The value which Cowper attached to the esteem of the Rev. W. Bull, the friend and travelling companion of John Thornton, Esq., may be seen in the following letter. It alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. Bull on the publication of his first volume of poems.TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.March 24, 1782.Your letter gave me great pleasure, both as a testimony of your approbation and of your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing you, and such as you; and though I must confess that, at the same time, I cast a sidelong glance at the good liking of the world at large, I believe I can say it was more for the sake of their advantage and instruction than their praise. They are children; if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with honeyâ€”if my book is so far honoured as to be made the vehicle of true knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has procured me a proof of your esteem.Yours, most truly,W. C.Mr. Bull was distinguished by no common powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagination. It was at his suggestion that Cowper engaged in translating the poems of Madame Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes and consolations of the Gospel, and left a son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his father's virtues.Wherever men have acquired celebrity by those powers of genius with which Providence has seen fit to discriminate them, a curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter traits of person, habit, and real character. We wish to realize the portrait before our eyes, to see how far all the component parts are in harmony with each other; or whether the elevation of mind which raises them beyond the general standard is perceptible in the occurrences of common life. Tell me, said an inquirer, writing from America, what was the figure of Cowper, what the character of his countenance, the expression of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house he lived in, whether its aspect was north or south, &c. This is amusing, but it shows the power of sympathy with which we are drawn to whatever commands our admiration, and excites the emotions of esteem and love.The person and mind of Cowper seem to have been formed with equal kindness by nature; and it may be questioned if she ever bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodigality, all the requisites to conciliate affection and to inspire respect.He is said to have been handsome in his youth. His features strongly expressed the powers of his mind and all the sensibility of his heart; and even in his declining years, time seemed to have spared much of its ravages, though his mind was harassed by unceasing nervous excitement.He was of a middle stature, rather strongthan delicate in the form of his limbs; the colour of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish grey, 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 an indescribable mixture of awkwardness and dignity; but no person could be more truly graceful, when he was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased with his society. Towards women, in particular, his behaviour and conversation were delicate and fascinating in the highest degree.There was a simplicity of manner and character in Cowper which always charms, and is often the attribute of real genius. He was singularly calculated to excite emotions of esteem and love by those qualities that win confidence and inspire sympathy. In friendship he was uniformly faithful; and, if the events of life had not disappointed his fondest hopes, no man would have been more eminently adapted for the endearments of domestic life.His daily habits of study and exercise are so minutely and agreeably delineated in his letters, that they present a perfect portrait of his domestic character.His voice conspired with his features to announce to all who saw and heard him the extreme sensibility of his heart; and in reading aloud he furnished the chief delight of those social, enchanting, winter evenings, which he has described so happily in the fourth book of "The Task."Secluded from the world, as he had long been, he yet retained in advanced life singular talents for conversation; and his remarks were uniformly distinguished by mild and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of delicate humour, varied by solid and serious good sense, and those united charms of a cultivated mind, which he has himself very happily described in drawing the character of a venerable friend:Grave without dullness, learned without pride,Exact, yet not precise: though meek, keen-eyed;Who, when occasion justified its use,Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce;Could fetch from records of an earlier age,Or from philosophy's enlightened page,His rich materials, and regale your earWith strains, it was a privilege to hear.Yet, above all, his luxury supreme,And his chief glory, was the gospel theme:Ambitious not to shine or to excel,But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.But the traits of his character are nowhere developed with happier effect than in his own writings, and especially in his poems. From these we shall make a few extracts, and suffer him to draw the portrait for himself.His admiration of the works of Nature:I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan,That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly blissBut there I laid the scene. There early stray'dMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free,My very dreams were rural; rural tooThe first-born efforts of my youthful muse,Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'dTo Nature's praises.Task, book iv.The love of Nature's worksIs an ingredient in the compound man,Infus'd at the creation of the kind.This obtains in all,That all discern a beauty in his works,And all can taste them. Minds, that have been form'dAnd tutor'd with a relish more exact,But none without some relish, none unmov'd.It is a flame that dies not even thereWhere nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,Nor habits of luxurious city-life,Whatever else they smother of true worthIn human bosoms, quench it or abate.The villas with which London stands begirt,Like a swarth Indian with his belt or beads,Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheerThe citizen, and brace his languid frame.Book iv.God seen, and adored, in the works of Nature:Not a flow'rBut shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspiresTheir balmy odours, and imparts their hues,And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.Book vi.His fondness for retirement:Since then, with few associates, in remoteAnd silent woods I wander, far from thoseMy former partners of the peopled scene;With few associates, and not wishing more.Here much I ruminate, as much I may,With other views of men and manners nowThan once, and others of a life to come.I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray,Each in his own delusions; they are lostIn chace of fancied happiness, still woo'dAnd never won. Dream after dream ensues;And still they dream that they shall still succeed,And still are disappointed. Rings the worldWith the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,And add two-thirds of the remaining half,And find the total of their hopes and fearsDreams, empty dreams.Book iii.His love for his country:England, with all thy faults I love thee stillâ€”My country! and, while yet a nook is left,Where English minds and manners may be found,Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Tho' thy climeBe fickle, and thy year most part deform'dWith dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,And fields without a flower, for warmer FranceWith all her vines; nor for Ausonia's grovesOf golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.Book ii.His humane and generous feelings:I was born of woman, and drew milkAs sweet as charity from human breasts.I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,And exercise all functions of a man.How then should I and any man that livesBe strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there,And catechise it well; apply thy glass,Search it, and prove now if it be not bloodCongenial with thine own.Book iii.His love of liberty:Oh Liberty! the prisoner's pleasing dream,The poet's muse, his passion and his theme;Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse;Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse;Heroic song from thy free touch acquiresIts clearest tone, the rapture it inspires:Place me where winter breathes his keenest air,And I will sing, if liberty be there;And I will sing at liberty's dear feet,In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat.Table Talk.'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'rOf fleeting life its lustre and perfume;And we are weeds without it.Task, book v.His depressive malady, and the source of its cure:I was a stricken deer, that left the herdLong since; with many an arrow deep infix'dMy panting side was charg'd, when I withdrewTo seek a tranquil death in distant shades.There was I found by One, who had himselfBeen hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore,And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.[777]With gentle force soliciting the dartsHe drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.Book iii.The employment of his time, and design of his life and writings:Me therefore studious of laborious ease,Not slothful, happy to deceive the time,Not waste it, and aware that human lifeIs but a loan to be repaid with use,When He shall call his debtors to account,From whom are all our blessings; business findsE'en here: while sedulous I seek t' improve,At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,The mind he gave me; driving it, though slackToo oft, and much impeded in its workBy causes not to be divulg'd in vain,To its just pointâ€”the service of mankind.Book iii.But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek.In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,If he regard not, though divine the theme.'Tis not in artful measures, in the chimeAnd idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart,Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,Whose approbation prosperâ€”even mine.Book vi.The office of doing justice to the poetical genius of Cowper has been assigned to an individual so well qualified to execute it with taste and ability, that the Editor begs thus publicly to record his acknowledgements and his unmingled satisfaction. The bowers of the Muses are not unknown to the Rev. John Cunningham, and, in contemplating the poetical labours of others, he might, with a small variation, justly apply to himself the well-known exclamation, "Ed anch'io son pittore."[778]All therefore that seems necessary, is simply to illustrate the beauties of Cowper's poetry in the same manner as we have exhibited his personal character. We shall present a brief series of poetical portraits.The following portrait of Lord Chatham is drawn with great force and spirit:In him Demosthenes was heard again;And freedom taught him her Athenian strain.She clothed him with authority and awe,Spoke from his lips, and in his books gave law.His speech, his form, his action, full of grace,And all his country beaming in his face,He stood, as some inimitable handWould strive to make a Paul or Tully stand.No sycophant or slave, that dared opposeHer sacred cause, but trembled when he rose;And every venal stickler for the yokeFelt himself crushed at the first word he spoke.Table Talk.Sir Joshua Reynolds:There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomesA lucid mirror, in which Natures seesAll her reflected features.Bacon the sculptor:Bacon thereGives more than female beauty to a stone,And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.[779]John Thornton, Esq.:Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceedsA stream of liberal and heroic deeds;The swell of pity, not to be confinedWithin the scanty limits of the mind,Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands,A rich deposit, on the bordering lands:These have an ear for his paternal call,Who make some rich for the supply of all;God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ,And Thornton is familiar with the joy.Charity.The martyrs of the Reformation:Their blood is shedIn confirmation of the noblest claim,Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,To walk with God, to be divinely free,To soar, and to anticipate the skies.Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,Till persecution dragg'd them into fame,And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flewâ€”No marble tells us whither. With their namesNo bard embalms and sanctifies his song:And history, so warm on meaner themes,Is cold on this. She execrates indeedThe tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.Task, book v.Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress:O thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wingBack to the season of life's happy spring,I pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yetHolds fast her office here, can ne'er forget;Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told taleSweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail;Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple style,May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile;Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord,Speaking in parables his slighted word:I name thee not, lest so despis'd a nameShould move a sneer at thy deserved fame:Yet, e'en in transitory life's late day,That mingles all my brown with sober grey,Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road,And guides the Progress of the soul to God.Tirocinium.Brown, the rural designer:[780]Lo! he comesâ€”Th' omnipotent magician, Brown appears.Down falls the venerable pile, th' abodeOf our forefathers, a grave whisker'd race,But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,But in a distant spot; where more expos'dIt may enjoy th' advantage of the north,And agueish east, till time shall have transform'dThose naked acres to a shelt'ring grove.He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise,And streams, as if created for his use,Pursue the track of his directing wand,Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades,E'en as he bids. Th' enraptur'd owner smiles.'Tis finish'd. And yet, finished as it seems.Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.The Task, book iii.London:Oh! thou resort and mart of all the earth,Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind,And spotted with all crimes; in whom I seeMuch that I love and much that I admire,And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair,That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh,And I can weep, can hope, and yet despond,Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee!Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once,And thou hast many righteous.â€”Well for theeâ€”That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else,And therefore more obnoxious at this hour,Than Sodom in her day had power to be,For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain.THE CONTRAST.Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye,With which she gazes at yon burning diskUndazzled, and detects and counts his spots?In London. Where her implements exact,With which she calculates, computes, and scans,All distance, motion, magnitude, and nowMeasures an atom, and now girds a world?In London. Where has commerce such a mart,So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied,As Londonâ€”opulent, enlarg'd, and stillIncreasing, London? Babylon of oldNot more the glory of the earth than she,A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.Book i.The gin-palace:Behold the schools, in which plebeian mindsOnce simple are initiated in arts,Which some may practice with politer grace,But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learnThe road that leads from competence and peace,To indigence and rapine, till at lastSociety, grown weary of the load,Shakes her incumber'd lap, and casts them out.But censure profits little: vain th' attemptTo advertise in verse a public pest,That, like the filth with which the peasant feedsHis hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich resultOf all this riot, and ten thousand casks,For ever dribbling out their base contents,Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state,Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!Gloriously drunk obey th' important call!Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.Task, book iv.We add a few short passages:How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!But grant me still a friend in my retreatWhom I may whisperâ€”solitude is sweet.Not to understand a treasure's worthTill time has stolen away the slighted goodIs cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.Not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep.When one that holds communion with the skiesHas fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,And once more mingles with us meaner things,'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.We must not omit a most splendid specimen of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the "Yardley Oak." It is an unfinished poem, and supposed to have been written in the year 1791, and laid aside, without ever having been resumed, when his attention was engrossed with the edition of Milton. Whatever may be the history of this admirable fragment, it has justly acquired for Cowper the reputation of having produced one of the richest and most highly finished pieces of versification that ever flowed from the pen of a poet. Its existence even was unknown both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the latter discovered it buried in a mass of papers. We subjoin in a note a letter addressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, containing further particulars.[781]Though this fragment is inserted among the poems, we extract the following passages, as expressive of the vigour and inspiration of true poetic genius.Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball,Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil,Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'dThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.So Fancy dreams.Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;And Time hath made thee what thou artâ€”a caveFor owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughsO'erhung the champaign: and the numerous flocks,That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm.No flock frequents thee now.While thus through all the stages thou hast push'dOf treeshipâ€”first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and as cent'ry roll'dSlow after century, a giant bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd rootUpheav'd above the soil, and sides imboss'dWith prominent wens globoseâ€”till, at the last,The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflictOn other mighty ones found also thee.Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a flyCould shake thee to the rootâ€”and time has beenWhen tempests could not.[782]With these acknowledged claims to popular favour, it is pleasing to reflect on the singular moderation of Cowper amidst the snares of literary fame. His motives seem to have been pure and simple, and his main design to elevate the character of the age, and to glorify God. He was not insensible to the value of applause, when conferred by a liberal and powerful mind, but even in this instance it was a subdued and chastened feeling. A more pleasing evidence could not be adduced than when Hayley, in one of his visits to Weston, brought a recent newspaper containing a speech of Mr. Fox, in which that distinguished orator had quoted the following impressive verses on the Bastille, in the House of Commons.Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts:Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,That monarchs have supplied from age to ageWith music, such as suits their sov'reign ears,The sighs and groans of miserable men!There's not an English heart that would not leap,To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know,That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'dIn forging chains for us, themselves were free.[783]Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid satisfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.[784]We have mentioned how little Cowper was elated by praise. We shall now state how much he was depressed by unjust censure. His first volume of poems had been severely criticised by the Analytical Review. His feelings are recorded in the following (hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thornton, Esq.Olney, May 21, 1782.Dear Sir,â€”You have my sincere thanks for your obliging communication, both of my book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I understand have spoken of it with contempt enough; but, while gentlemen of taste and candour have more favourable thoughts of it, I see reason to be less concerned than I have been about their judgment, hastily framed perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice against the subjects of which it treats.Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's sentiments reached me very seasonably, just when, in a fit of despondence, to which no man is naturally more inclined, I had begun to regret the publication of it, and had consequently resolved to write no more. For if a man has the fortune to please none but his friends and their connexions, he has reason enough to conclude that he is indebted for the measure of success he meets with, not to the real value of his book, but to the partiality of the few that approve it. But I now feel myself differently affected towards my favourite employment; for which sudden change in my sentiments I may thank you and your correspondent in France, his entire unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he never saw, nor will see, his character as a man of sense and condition, and his acknowledged merit as an ingenious and elegant writer, and especially his having arrived at an age when men are not to be pleased they know not why, are so many circumstances that give a value to his commendations, and make them the most flattering a poor poet could receive, quite out of conceit with himself, and quite out of heart with his occupations.If you think it worth your while, when you write next to the Doctor, to inform him how much he has encouraged me by his approbation, and to add my respects to him, you will oblige me still further; for next to the pleasure it would afford me to hear that it has been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, so far as my volume is in question, than to hear that it has pleased the judicious.Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respectful compliments.I am, dear sir,Your affectionate and most obedient servant,W. C.To John Thornton, Esq.Clapham, Surrey.Through this harsh and unwarrantable exercise of criticism, the world might never have possessed the immortal poem of "The Task," if an American philosopher had not awarded that honourable meed of just praise and commendation, which an English critic thought proper to withhold.But it is not merely the poetic claims of Cowper which have earned for him so just a title to public gratitude and praise. It would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and one that friendship ought especially to honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her happiest sources of delightâ€”we mean the talent of writing letters.Those of Pope are generally considered to be too laboured, and deficient in ease. Swift is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth of affection.The letters of Cowper are not distinguished by any remarkable superiority of thought or diction; it is rather the easy and graceful flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic love of nature, his touching representations of common and domestic life, and above all, the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of his own heart, that constitute their charm and excellence.They form a kind of biographical sketch, drawn by his own hand. His poetry proclaims the author, his correspondence depicts the man. We see him in his walks, in the privacy of his study, in his daily occupations, amid the endearments of home, and with all the qualities that inspire friendship, and awaken confidence and love. We learn what he thought, what he said, his views of men and manners, his personal habits and history. His ideas usually flow without premeditation. All is natural and easy. There is no display, no evidence of conscious superiority, no concealment of his real sentiments. He writes as he feels and thinks, and with such an air of truth and frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the letter the image of his mind, with the same fidelity of resemblance that the canvass represents his external form and features. We see in them the sterling good sense of a man, the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and the winning softness and delicacy of a woman's feelings. He can write upon any subject, or write without one. He can embellish what is real by the graces of his imagination, or invest what is imaginary with the semblance of reality. He can smile or he can weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with fervour on the loveliness of nature, talk about his tame hares, or cast the overflowings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of friendship. His correspondence is a wreath of many flowers. His letters will always be read with delight and interest, and by many, perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals of his poems. They are justly entitled to the eulogium which we know to have been pronounced upon them by Charles Fox,â€”that of being "the best specimens of epistolary excellence in the English language."Among men distinguished by classical taste and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever be considered as elegant specimens of composition, and formed after the best models of antiquity.There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin hexameters, entitled "Votum," beginning thus:O matutini rores, aurÃ¦que salubres,which we believe has never received an English dress. A gentleman of literary taste has kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, which we are happy to subjoin in a note.[785]We trust the author will excuse the insertion of his name.We have thus endeavoured to exhibit the singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and the combination of powers not often united in the same mind. All that now remains is to consider the consecration of these faculties to high and holy ends; and the influence of his writings on the literary, the moral, and religious character of the age.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 in an arm but thine,Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine.My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,Were but the feeble efforts of a child;Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,That they proceeded from a grateful heart.Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood,Forgive their evil, and accept their good.I cast them at thy feetâ€”my only pleaIs what it wasâ€”dependence upon thee:While struggling in the vale of tears below,Thatnever failed, nor shall it fail me now.Truth.We confess that we are edified by this simple, yet sublime and holy 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 honourable 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 out. 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. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that religion is not susceptibleof poetry.[786]If this be true, it can arise only from the want of religious authors and religious readers. But we venture to deny the position, and to maintain that religion ennobles whatever it touches. In architecture, what building ever rivalled the magnificence of the temple of Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the imposing grandeur of St. Paul's? In painting, what power of art can surpass the Transfiguration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the Cross in a Rubens? In poetry, where shall we find a nobler production of human genius than the Paradise Lost? Again, let us listen to the language of the pious FÃ©nelon:"No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable to the Psalms. That which begins, 'The God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, and hath called up the earth,' exceeds whatever human imagination has produced. Neither Homer, nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describing the majesty of God, in whose presence empires are as a grain of sand, and the whole universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the softness and sweetness of an eclogue; at others, he soars above mortal conception. But what is there in profane antiquity comparable to the wailings of Jeremiah, when he mourns over the calamities of his people? or to Nahum, when he foresees in spirit the downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an innumerable army? We almost behold the formidable host, and hear the arms and the chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Belshazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall upon him; compare it with the most sublime passages of pagan antiquity; you find nothing comparable to it. It must be added that, in the Scriptures, every thing sustains itself; whether we consider the historical, the legal, or the poetical part of it, the proper character appears in all."It would be singular, if a subject which unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the invisible world, and which is to be a theme of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, could inspire no ardour in a poet's soul; and if the wings of imagination could take flight to every world save to that which is eternal. We leave our Montgomeries to refute so gross an error, and appeal with confidence to the page of Cowper.We quote the following passage, to show that religion can not only supply the noblest theme, but also communicate a corresponding sublimity of thought and language. It is the glowing and poetical description of the millennial period, commencing withâ€”Sweet is the harp of prophecy.We have room only for the concluding portion:â€”

Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame;Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask,And from the mind of Cowperâ€”call'd "The Task."

Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed in the year 1806; aged seventy-five, the poet alwaysspoke in the language of unfeigned esteem and affection.

Sir George Throckmorton's death has been already recorded, and with this event the genius of the place may be said to have deserted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion exists no longer. His surviving estimable widow the Catharina of Cowper, resides at Northampton.

Lady Hesketh, whose affectionate kindness to the poet must have endeared her to every reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy-four.

To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already been borne in the course of this work. He was cousin to the poet, by one remove, which was the reason why he was usually designated as Cowper'skinsman, his mother having been the daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, rector of Catfield, Norfolk, own brother to Cowper's mother. His unremitting and watchful care over the poet, for several successive years, and during a period marked by a painful and protracted malady, his generous sacrifice of his time, and of every personal consideration, that he might administer to the peace and comfort of his afflicted friendâ€”his affectionate sympathy, and uniform forgetfulness of self, in all the various relations of lifeâ€”these virtues have justly claimed for Dr. Johnson the esteem and love of his friends, and the honourable distinction of being ever identified with the endeared name of Cowper. He was rector of the united parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the county of Norfolk, where he preached the doctrines of the gospel with fidelity, and adorned them by the Christian tenor of his life and conduct. He married Miss Livius, daughter of the late George Livius, Esq., formerly at the head of the commissariat, in India, during the government of Warren Hastings. The Editor was connected with him by marrying the sister of Mrs. Johnson. He departed in the autumn of the year 1833, after a short illness, and was followed to the grave by a crowded assemblage of his parishioners, to whom he was endeared by his virtues. He left his estimable widow and four surviving children to lament his loss. Cowper was engraved on his heart, and his Poems minutely impressed on his memory. Both, therefore, became a frequent theme of conversation; and it is to these sources of information, that the writer is indebted for the knowledge of many facts and incidents that are incorporated in the present edition.

The value which Cowper attached to the esteem of the Rev. W. Bull, the friend and travelling companion of John Thornton, Esq., may be seen in the following letter. It alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. Bull on the publication of his first volume of poems.

March 24, 1782.

Your letter gave me great pleasure, both as a testimony of your approbation and of your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing you, and such as you; and though I must confess that, at the same time, I cast a sidelong glance at the good liking of the world at large, I believe I can say it was more for the sake of their advantage and instruction than their praise. They are children; if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with honeyâ€”if my book is so far honoured as to be made the vehicle of true knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has procured me a proof of your esteem.

Yours, most truly,W. C.

Mr. Bull was distinguished by no common powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagination. It was at his suggestion that Cowper engaged in translating the poems of Madame Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes and consolations of the Gospel, and left a son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his father's virtues.

Wherever men have acquired celebrity by those powers of genius with which Providence has seen fit to discriminate them, a curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter traits of person, habit, and real character. We wish to realize the portrait before our eyes, to see how far all the component parts are in harmony with each other; or whether the elevation of mind which raises them beyond the general standard is perceptible in the occurrences of common life. Tell me, said an inquirer, writing from America, what was the figure of Cowper, what the character of his countenance, the expression of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house he lived in, whether its aspect was north or south, &c. This is amusing, but it shows the power of sympathy with which we are drawn to whatever commands our admiration, and excites the emotions of esteem and love.

The person and mind of Cowper seem to have been formed with equal kindness by nature; and it may be questioned if she ever bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodigality, all the requisites to conciliate affection and to inspire respect.

He is said to have been handsome in his youth. His features strongly expressed the powers of his mind and all the sensibility of his heart; and even in his declining years, time seemed to have spared much of its ravages, though his mind was harassed by unceasing nervous excitement.

He was of a middle stature, rather strongthan delicate in the form of his limbs; the colour of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish grey, 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 an indescribable mixture of awkwardness and dignity; but no person could be more truly graceful, when he was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased with his society. Towards women, in particular, his behaviour and conversation were delicate and fascinating in the highest degree.

There was a simplicity of manner and character in Cowper which always charms, and is often the attribute of real genius. He was singularly calculated to excite emotions of esteem and love by those qualities that win confidence and inspire sympathy. In friendship he was uniformly faithful; and, if the events of life had not disappointed his fondest hopes, no man would have been more eminently adapted for the endearments of domestic life.

His daily habits of study and exercise are so minutely and agreeably delineated in his letters, that they present a perfect portrait of his domestic character.

His voice conspired with his features to announce to all who saw and heard him the extreme sensibility of his heart; and in reading aloud he furnished the chief delight of those social, enchanting, winter evenings, which he has described so happily in the fourth book of "The Task."

Secluded from the world, as he had long been, he yet retained in advanced life singular talents for conversation; and his remarks were uniformly distinguished by mild and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of delicate humour, varied by solid and serious good sense, and those united charms of a cultivated mind, which he has himself very happily described in drawing the character of a venerable friend:

Grave without dullness, learned without pride,Exact, yet not precise: though meek, keen-eyed;Who, when occasion justified its use,Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce;Could fetch from records of an earlier age,Or from philosophy's enlightened page,His rich materials, and regale your earWith strains, it was a privilege to hear.Yet, above all, his luxury supreme,And his chief glory, was the gospel theme:Ambitious not to shine or to excel,But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

But the traits of his character are nowhere developed with happier effect than in his own writings, and especially in his poems. From these we shall make a few extracts, and suffer him to draw the portrait for himself.

His admiration of the works of Nature:

I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan,That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly blissBut there I laid the scene. There early stray'dMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free,My very dreams were rural; rural tooThe first-born efforts of my youthful muse,Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'dTo Nature's praises.

Task, book iv.

The love of Nature's worksIs an ingredient in the compound man,Infus'd at the creation of the kind.This obtains in all,That all discern a beauty in his works,And all can taste them. Minds, that have been form'dAnd tutor'd with a relish more exact,But none without some relish, none unmov'd.It is a flame that dies not even thereWhere nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,Nor habits of luxurious city-life,Whatever else they smother of true worthIn human bosoms, quench it or abate.The villas with which London stands begirt,Like a swarth Indian with his belt or beads,Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheerThe citizen, and brace his languid frame.

Book iv.

God seen, and adored, in the works of Nature:

Not a flow'rBut shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspiresTheir balmy odours, and imparts their hues,And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.

Book vi.

His fondness for retirement:

Since then, with few associates, in remoteAnd silent woods I wander, far from thoseMy former partners of the peopled scene;With few associates, and not wishing more.Here much I ruminate, as much I may,With other views of men and manners nowThan once, and others of a life to come.I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray,Each in his own delusions; they are lostIn chace of fancied happiness, still woo'dAnd never won. Dream after dream ensues;And still they dream that they shall still succeed,And still are disappointed. Rings the worldWith the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,And add two-thirds of the remaining half,And find the total of their hopes and fearsDreams, empty dreams.

Book iii.

His love for his country:

England, with all thy faults I love thee stillâ€”My country! and, while yet a nook is left,Where English minds and manners may be found,Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Tho' thy climeBe fickle, and thy year most part deform'dWith dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,And fields without a flower, for warmer FranceWith all her vines; nor for Ausonia's grovesOf golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.

Book ii.

His humane and generous feelings:

I was born of woman, and drew milkAs sweet as charity from human breasts.I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,And exercise all functions of a man.How then should I and any man that livesBe strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there,And catechise it well; apply thy glass,Search it, and prove now if it be not bloodCongenial with thine own.

Book iii.

His love of liberty:

Oh Liberty! the prisoner's pleasing dream,The poet's muse, his passion and his theme;Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse;Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse;Heroic song from thy free touch acquiresIts clearest tone, the rapture it inspires:Place me where winter breathes his keenest air,And I will sing, if liberty be there;And I will sing at liberty's dear feet,In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat.

Table Talk.

'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'rOf fleeting life its lustre and perfume;And we are weeds without it.

Task, book v.

His depressive malady, and the source of its cure:

I was a stricken deer, that left the herdLong since; with many an arrow deep infix'dMy panting side was charg'd, when I withdrewTo seek a tranquil death in distant shades.There was I found by One, who had himselfBeen hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore,And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.[777]With gentle force soliciting the dartsHe drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.

Book iii.

The employment of his time, and design of his life and writings:

Me therefore studious of laborious ease,Not slothful, happy to deceive the time,Not waste it, and aware that human lifeIs but a loan to be repaid with use,When He shall call his debtors to account,From whom are all our blessings; business findsE'en here: while sedulous I seek t' improve,At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,The mind he gave me; driving it, though slackToo oft, and much impeded in its workBy causes not to be divulg'd in vain,To its just pointâ€”the service of mankind.

Book iii.

But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek.In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,If he regard not, though divine the theme.'Tis not in artful measures, in the chimeAnd idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart,Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,Whose approbation prosperâ€”even mine.

Book vi.

The office of doing justice to the poetical genius of Cowper has been assigned to an individual so well qualified to execute it with taste and ability, that the Editor begs thus publicly to record his acknowledgements and his unmingled satisfaction. The bowers of the Muses are not unknown to the Rev. John Cunningham, and, in contemplating the poetical labours of others, he might, with a small variation, justly apply to himself the well-known exclamation, "Ed anch'io son pittore."[778]

All therefore that seems necessary, is simply to illustrate the beauties of Cowper's poetry in the same manner as we have exhibited his personal character. We shall present a brief series of poetical portraits.

The following portrait of Lord Chatham is drawn with great force and spirit:

In him Demosthenes was heard again;And freedom taught him her Athenian strain.She clothed him with authority and awe,Spoke from his lips, and in his books gave law.His speech, his form, his action, full of grace,And all his country beaming in his face,He stood, as some inimitable handWould strive to make a Paul or Tully stand.No sycophant or slave, that dared opposeHer sacred cause, but trembled when he rose;And every venal stickler for the yokeFelt himself crushed at the first word he spoke.

Table Talk.

Sir Joshua Reynolds:

There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomesA lucid mirror, in which Natures seesAll her reflected features.

Bacon the sculptor:

Bacon thereGives more than female beauty to a stone,And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.[779]

John Thornton, Esq.:

Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceedsA stream of liberal and heroic deeds;The swell of pity, not to be confinedWithin the scanty limits of the mind,Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands,A rich deposit, on the bordering lands:These have an ear for his paternal call,Who make some rich for the supply of all;God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ,And Thornton is familiar with the joy.

Charity.

The martyrs of the Reformation:

Their blood is shedIn confirmation of the noblest claim,Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,To walk with God, to be divinely free,To soar, and to anticipate the skies.Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,Till persecution dragg'd them into fame,And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flewâ€”No marble tells us whither. With their namesNo bard embalms and sanctifies his song:And history, so warm on meaner themes,Is cold on this. She execrates indeedThe tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.

Task, book v.

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress:

O thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wingBack to the season of life's happy spring,I pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yetHolds fast her office here, can ne'er forget;Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told taleSweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail;Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple style,May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile;Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord,Speaking in parables his slighted word:I name thee not, lest so despis'd a nameShould move a sneer at thy deserved fame:Yet, e'en in transitory life's late day,That mingles all my brown with sober grey,Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road,And guides the Progress of the soul to God.

Tirocinium.

Brown, the rural designer:[780]

Lo! he comesâ€”Th' omnipotent magician, Brown appears.Down falls the venerable pile, th' abodeOf our forefathers, a grave whisker'd race,But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,But in a distant spot; where more expos'dIt may enjoy th' advantage of the north,And agueish east, till time shall have transform'dThose naked acres to a shelt'ring grove.He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise,And streams, as if created for his use,Pursue the track of his directing wand,Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades,E'en as he bids. Th' enraptur'd owner smiles.'Tis finish'd. And yet, finished as it seems.Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.

The Task, book iii.

London:

Oh! thou resort and mart of all the earth,Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind,And spotted with all crimes; in whom I seeMuch that I love and much that I admire,And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair,That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh,And I can weep, can hope, and yet despond,Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee!Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once,And thou hast many righteous.â€”Well for theeâ€”That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else,And therefore more obnoxious at this hour,Than Sodom in her day had power to be,For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain.

Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye,With which she gazes at yon burning diskUndazzled, and detects and counts his spots?In London. Where her implements exact,With which she calculates, computes, and scans,All distance, motion, magnitude, and nowMeasures an atom, and now girds a world?In London. Where has commerce such a mart,So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied,As Londonâ€”opulent, enlarg'd, and stillIncreasing, London? Babylon of oldNot more the glory of the earth than she,A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.

Book i.

The gin-palace:

Behold the schools, in which plebeian mindsOnce simple are initiated in arts,Which some may practice with politer grace,But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learnThe road that leads from competence and peace,To indigence and rapine, till at lastSociety, grown weary of the load,Shakes her incumber'd lap, and casts them out.But censure profits little: vain th' attemptTo advertise in verse a public pest,That, like the filth with which the peasant feedsHis hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich resultOf all this riot, and ten thousand casks,For ever dribbling out their base contents,Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state,Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!Gloriously drunk obey th' important call!Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

Task, book iv.

We add a few short passages:

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!But grant me still a friend in my retreatWhom I may whisperâ€”solitude is sweet.Not to understand a treasure's worthTill time has stolen away the slighted goodIs cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.Not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep.When one that holds communion with the skiesHas fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,And once more mingles with us meaner things,'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!But grant me still a friend in my retreatWhom I may whisperâ€”solitude is sweet.

Not to understand a treasure's worthTill time has stolen away the slighted goodIs cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.

Not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep.

When one that holds communion with the skiesHas fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,And once more mingles with us meaner things,'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.

We must not omit a most splendid specimen of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the "Yardley Oak." It is an unfinished poem, and supposed to have been written in the year 1791, and laid aside, without ever having been resumed, when his attention was engrossed with the edition of Milton. Whatever may be the history of this admirable fragment, it has justly acquired for Cowper the reputation of having produced one of the richest and most highly finished pieces of versification that ever flowed from the pen of a poet. Its existence even was unknown both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the latter discovered it buried in a mass of papers. We subjoin in a note a letter addressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, containing further particulars.[781]

Though this fragment is inserted among the poems, we extract the following passages, as expressive of the vigour and inspiration of true poetic genius.

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball,Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil,Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'dThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.So Fancy dreams.Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;And Time hath made thee what thou artâ€”a caveFor owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughsO'erhung the champaign: and the numerous flocks,That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm.No flock frequents thee now.While thus through all the stages thou hast push'dOf treeshipâ€”first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and as cent'ry roll'dSlow after century, a giant bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd rootUpheav'd above the soil, and sides imboss'dWith prominent wens globoseâ€”till, at the last,The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflictOn other mighty ones found also thee.Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a flyCould shake thee to the rootâ€”and time has beenWhen tempests could not.[782]

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;And Time hath made thee what thou artâ€”a caveFor owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughsO'erhung the champaign: and the numerous flocks,That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm.No flock frequents thee now.While thus through all the stages thou hast push'dOf treeshipâ€”first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and as cent'ry roll'dSlow after century, a giant bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd rootUpheav'd above the soil, and sides imboss'dWith prominent wens globoseâ€”till, at the last,The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflictOn other mighty ones found also thee.

Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a flyCould shake thee to the rootâ€”and time has beenWhen tempests could not.[782]

With these acknowledged claims to popular favour, it is pleasing to reflect on the singular moderation of Cowper amidst the snares of literary fame. His motives seem to have been pure and simple, and his main design to elevate the character of the age, and to glorify God. He was not insensible to the value of applause, when conferred by a liberal and powerful mind, but even in this instance it was a subdued and chastened feeling. A more pleasing evidence could not be adduced than when Hayley, in one of his visits to Weston, brought a recent newspaper containing a speech of Mr. Fox, in which that distinguished orator had quoted the following impressive verses on the Bastille, in the House of Commons.

Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts:Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,That monarchs have supplied from age to ageWith music, such as suits their sov'reign ears,The sighs and groans of miserable men!There's not an English heart that would not leap,To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know,That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'dIn forging chains for us, themselves were free.[783]

Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid satisfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.[784]

We have mentioned how little Cowper was elated by praise. We shall now state how much he was depressed by unjust censure. His first volume of poems had been severely criticised by the Analytical Review. His feelings are recorded in the following (hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thornton, Esq.

Olney, May 21, 1782.

Dear Sir,â€”You have my sincere thanks for your obliging communication, both of my book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I understand have spoken of it with contempt enough; but, while gentlemen of taste and candour have more favourable thoughts of it, I see reason to be less concerned than I have been about their judgment, hastily framed perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice against the subjects of which it treats.

Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's sentiments reached me very seasonably, just when, in a fit of despondence, to which no man is naturally more inclined, I had begun to regret the publication of it, and had consequently resolved to write no more. For if a man has the fortune to please none but his friends and their connexions, he has reason enough to conclude that he is indebted for the measure of success he meets with, not to the real value of his book, but to the partiality of the few that approve it. But I now feel myself differently affected towards my favourite employment; for which sudden change in my sentiments I may thank you and your correspondent in France, his entire unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he never saw, nor will see, his character as a man of sense and condition, and his acknowledged merit as an ingenious and elegant writer, and especially his having arrived at an age when men are not to be pleased they know not why, are so many circumstances that give a value to his commendations, and make them the most flattering a poor poet could receive, quite out of conceit with himself, and quite out of heart with his occupations.

If you think it worth your while, when you write next to the Doctor, to inform him how much he has encouraged me by his approbation, and to add my respects to him, you will oblige me still further; for next to the pleasure it would afford me to hear that it has been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, so far as my volume is in question, than to hear that it has pleased the judicious.

Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respectful compliments.

I am, dear sir,Your affectionate and most obedient servant,W. C.

To John Thornton, Esq.Clapham, Surrey.

Through this harsh and unwarrantable exercise of criticism, the world might never have possessed the immortal poem of "The Task," if an American philosopher had not awarded that honourable meed of just praise and commendation, which an English critic thought proper to withhold.

But it is not merely the poetic claims of Cowper which have earned for him so just a title to public gratitude and praise. It would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and one that friendship ought especially to honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her happiest sources of delightâ€”we mean the talent of writing letters.

Those of Pope are generally considered to be too laboured, and deficient in ease. Swift is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth of affection.

The letters of Cowper are not distinguished by any remarkable superiority of thought or diction; it is rather the easy and graceful flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic love of nature, his touching representations of common and domestic life, and above all, the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of his own heart, that constitute their charm and excellence.They form a kind of biographical sketch, drawn by his own hand. His poetry proclaims the author, his correspondence depicts the man. We see him in his walks, in the privacy of his study, in his daily occupations, amid the endearments of home, and with all the qualities that inspire friendship, and awaken confidence and love. We learn what he thought, what he said, his views of men and manners, his personal habits and history. His ideas usually flow without premeditation. All is natural and easy. There is no display, no evidence of conscious superiority, no concealment of his real sentiments. He writes as he feels and thinks, and with such an air of truth and frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the letter the image of his mind, with the same fidelity of resemblance that the canvass represents his external form and features. We see in them the sterling good sense of a man, the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and the winning softness and delicacy of a woman's feelings. He can write upon any subject, or write without one. He can embellish what is real by the graces of his imagination, or invest what is imaginary with the semblance of reality. He can smile or he can weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with fervour on the loveliness of nature, talk about his tame hares, or cast the overflowings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of friendship. His correspondence is a wreath of many flowers. His letters will always be read with delight and interest, and by many, perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals of his poems. They are justly entitled to the eulogium which we know to have been pronounced upon them by Charles Fox,â€”that of being "the best specimens of epistolary excellence in the English language."

Among men distinguished by classical taste and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever be considered as elegant specimens of composition, and formed after the best models of antiquity.

There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin hexameters, entitled "Votum," beginning thus:

O matutini rores, aurÃ¦que salubres,

which we believe has never received an English dress. A gentleman of literary taste has kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, which we are happy to subjoin in a note.[785]We trust the author will excuse the insertion of his name.

We have thus endeavoured to exhibit the singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and the combination of powers not often united in the same mind. All that now remains is to consider the consecration of these faculties to high and holy ends; and the influence of his writings on the literary, the moral, and religious character of the age.

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 in an arm but thine,Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine.My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,Were but the feeble efforts of a child;Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,That they proceeded from a grateful heart.Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood,Forgive their evil, and accept their good.I cast them at thy feetâ€”my only pleaIs what it wasâ€”dependence upon thee:While struggling in the vale of tears below,Thatnever failed, nor shall it fail me now.

Truth.

We confess that we are edified by this simple, yet sublime and holy 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 honourable 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 out. 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. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that religion is not susceptibleof poetry.[786]If this be true, it can arise only from the want of religious authors and religious readers. But we venture to deny the position, and to maintain that religion ennobles whatever it touches. In architecture, what building ever rivalled the magnificence of the temple of Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the imposing grandeur of St. Paul's? In painting, what power of art can surpass the Transfiguration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the Cross in a Rubens? In poetry, where shall we find a nobler production of human genius than the Paradise Lost? Again, let us listen to the language of the pious FÃ©nelon:

"No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable to the Psalms. That which begins, 'The God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, and hath called up the earth,' exceeds whatever human imagination has produced. Neither Homer, nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describing the majesty of God, in whose presence empires are as a grain of sand, and the whole universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the softness and sweetness of an eclogue; at others, he soars above mortal conception. But what is there in profane antiquity comparable to the wailings of Jeremiah, when he mourns over the calamities of his people? or to Nahum, when he foresees in spirit the downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an innumerable army? We almost behold the formidable host, and hear the arms and the chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Belshazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall upon him; compare it with the most sublime passages of pagan antiquity; you find nothing comparable to it. It must be added that, in the Scriptures, every thing sustains itself; whether we consider the historical, the legal, or the poetical part of it, the proper character appears in all."

It would be singular, if a subject which unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the invisible world, and which is to be a theme of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, could inspire no ardour in a poet's soul; and if the wings of imagination could take flight to every world save to that which is eternal. We leave our Montgomeries to refute so gross an error, and appeal with confidence to the page of Cowper.

We quote the following passage, to show that religion can not only supply the noblest theme, but also communicate a corresponding sublimity of thought and language. It is the glowing and poetical description of the millennial period, commencing withâ€”

Sweet is the harp of prophecy.

We have room only for the concluding portion:â€”

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