To watch the storms, and hear the sky
Give all our Almanacks the lie;

To shake with cold, and see the plains
In Autumn drown'd with Wintry rains;
'Tis thus I spend my moments here,
And wish myself a Dutch Mynheer;
I then should have no need of wit
For lumpish Hollander unfit!
Nor should I then repine at mud,
Or meadows delug'd by a flood;
But in a bog live well content,
And find it just my element;
Should be a clod, and not a man,
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann,
With charitable aid to drag
My mind out of its proper quag;
Should have the genius of a boor,
And no ambition to have more.

MY DEAR SISTER,

You see my beginning-I do not know but in time I may proceed even to the printing of halfpenny Ballads-Excuse the coarseness of my paper-I wasted such a quantity before I could accomplish any thing legible, that I could not afford finer. I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic of the town to make me a longer case; for you may observe, that my lines turn up their tails like Dutch mastiffs, so difficult do I find it to make the two halves exactly coincide with each other.

We wait with impatience for the departure of this unseasonable flood-We think of you, and talk of you, but we can do no more, till the waters shall subside. I do not think our correspondence should drop because we are within a mile of each other. It is but an ima

ginary approximation, the flood having in reality as ef fectually parted us, as if the British Channel rolled be

tween us.

Yours, my dear Sister, with Mrs. Unwin's best love. WM. COWPER.

August 12, 1782.

A flood that precluded him from the conversation of such an enlivening friend was to Cowper a serious evil; but he was happily relieved from the apprehension of such disappointment in future, by seeing the friend so pleasing and so useful to him very comfortably settled as his next door neighbour.

Lady Austen became a tenant of the Parsonage in Olney; when Mr. Newton occupied that Parsonage he had opened a door in the garden wall that admitted him, in the most commodious manner, to visit the sequestered Poet, who resided in the next house. Lady Austen had the advantage of this easy intercourse, and so captivating was her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. Unwin, that these intimate neighbours might be almost said to make one family, as it became their cus tom to dine always together, alternately, in the houses of the two ladies.

The musical talents of Lady Austen induced Cowper to write a few songs of peculiar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular airs that she was accustomed to play on the Harpsichord. I insert three of these as proofs, that even in his hours of social amusement, the Poet loved to dwell on ideas of tender devotion and pathetic solemnity.

SONG

Written in the Summer of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen.

AIR-"My fond Shepherds of late," &c.

No longer I follow a sound;

No longer a dream I pursue: O Happiness, not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu!

I have sought thee in splendour and dress;
In the regions of pleasure and taste :
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have prov'd thee a vision at last.

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient if Peace be the scope, And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind,
That seeks it in meekness and love;
But rapture and bliss are confin'd
To the glorified Spirits above.

SONG 2.

AIR-"The Lass of Pattie's Mill."

When all within is peace,

How Nature seems to smile!

Delights that never cease,
The livelong day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers
Fresh blessings, to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives Nature power to please;
The mind that feels no smart
Enlivens all it sees;
Can make a wint'ry sky
Seem bright as smiling May,
And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously array'd
In Nature's various robe,
With wond'rous skill display'd,
Is, to a mourner's heart,
A dreary wild at best:
It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

I add the following Song (adapted to the March in Scipio) for two reasons; because it is pleasing to promote the celebrity of a brave man, calamitously cut off in his career of honour, and because the Song was a favourite production of the Poet's; so much so, that, in a season of depressive illness, he amused himself by translating it into Latin verse.

SONG 3.

On the loss of the Royal George.

Toll for the brave!

The brave! that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore.

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone:
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock,

His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.