T

And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close;
An eye like his to catch the distant goal,
Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,
Like his to shed illuminating rays

On every scene and subject it surveys:
Thus grac'd the man asserts a poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.

The concluding lines may be considered as an omen of that celebrity, which such a writer, in the process of time, could not fail to obtain. Yet powerful as the claims of Cowper were to instant admiration and applause, it must be allowed (as an apology for the inattention of the public) that he hazarded some sentiments in his first volume which were very likely to obstruct its immediate success in the world. I particularly allude to his bold eulogy on Whitfield, whom the dramatic satire of Foote, in his Comedy of the Minor, had taught the nation to deride as a mischievous fanatic. I allude also to a little acrimonious censure, in which he had indulged himself, against one of Whitfield's devout rivals, Mr. Charles Wesley, for allowing sacred music to form a part of his occupation on a Sunday evening. Such praise, and such reproof, bestowed on popular enthusiasts, might easily induce many careless readers, unacquainted with the singular mildness and purity of character that really belonged to the new Poet, to reject his book, without giving it a fair perusal, as the production of a recluse, inflamed with the fierce spirit of bigotry. No supposition could have been wider from the truth; for Cowper was indeed a rare example of true Christian benevolence: yet, as the best of men have their little occasional foibles, he allowed himself, sometimes with his pen, but never, I believe, in conver

sation, to speak rather acrimoniously of several pur suits and pastimes, that seem not to deserve any aus terity of reproof. Of this he was aware himself, and confessed it, in the most ingenuous manner, on the following occasion. One of his intimate friends had written, in the first volume of his Poems, the following passage from the younger Pliny, as descriptive of the Book: "Multa tenuiter, multa sublimiter, multa ve-"nuste, multa tenere, multa dulciter, multa cum bile." Many passages are delicate, many sublime, many beautiful, many tender, many sweet, many acrimoni

ous.

Cowper was pleased with the application, and said, with the utmost candour and sincerity, "The latter part is very true indeed; yes! yes! there are " multa cum bile," many acrimonious.

These little occasional touches of austerity would na. turally arise in a life so sequestered; but how just a subject of surprize and admiration is it, to behold an author starting under such a load of disadvantages, and displaying, on the sudden, such a variety of excellence! For, neglected as it was for a few years, the first volume of Cowper exhibits such a diversity of poetical powers, as have been given very rarely indeed to any individual of the modern or of the ancient world. He is not only great in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humour. After descanting most copiously on sacred subjects, with the animation of a Prophet, and the simplicity of an Apostle, he paints the ludicrous characters of common life with the comic force of Moliere; particularly in his Poem on Conversation, and his exquisite portrait of a fretful temper: a piece of moral painting so highly finished, and so happily calculated to promote good humour, that a transcript of the verses shall close the first part of these Memoirs.

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch;
You always do too little or too much :
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain;
Your elevated voice goes through the brain:
You fall at once into a lower key;

That's worse:-the drone-pipe of an humble Bee!
The Southern sash admits too strong a light;
You rise and drop the curtain:-now its night.
He shakes with cold;-you stir the fire, and strive
To make a blaze:-that's roasting him alive.
Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses Fish;
With soal-that's just the sort he would not wish.
He takes what he at first profess'd to loath;
And in due time feeds heartily on both :
Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown;
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.
Your hope to please him vain on every plan,
Himself should work that wonder, if he can.
Alas! his efforts double his distress;
He likes yours little, and his own still less.
Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd,
His only pleasure is to be displeas'd.

A NEW æra opens in the history of the Poet, from an incident that gave fresh ardour and vivacity to his fertile imagination. In September, 1781, he happened to form an acquaintance with a lady, highly accomplished herself, and singularly happy in animating and directing the fancy of her poetical friends. The world will perfectly agree with me in this eulogy, when I add, that to this lady we are primarily indebted for the Poem of the Task, for the Ballad of John Gilpin, and for the Translation of Homer. But in my lively sense of her merit, I am almost forgetting my immediate duty, as the Biographer of the Poet, to introduce her circumstantially to the acquaintance of my Reader.

A lady, whose name was Jones, was one of the few neighbours admitted in the residence of the retired Poet. She was the wife of a Clergyman, who resided at the village of Clifton, within a mile of Olney. Her sister, the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, came to pass some time with her in the Autumn of 1781; and as the two ladies chanced to call at a shop in Olney,