Hush-silent hearers profit most-
This racer of the sea

Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mást,

And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle passed.
Within that cavity aloft.

Their roofless home they fixed,
Formed with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mixed.

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight-
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind;
But goes the male! Far wiser, he
Is doubtless left behind?

No-Soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love.

Then perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheered her with a song.

The seaman with sincere delight,
His feathered shipmates eyes.
Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.

For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new,
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hope be true!

Hail, honoured land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,
Yet parent of this loving pair

Whom nothing could divide.

“The tale is faunded on an article of intelligence which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words.

"Glasgow, May 23.

"In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabet, now lying at the Bromeslaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hull for food."

On a Spaniel called Beau, killing a young Bird.

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.

But you have killed a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,"
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport,
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble Man?

Beau's Reply.

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

You cried-forbear-but in my breast
A mightier cried-proceed—
'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impelled me to the deed.

Yet much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break,
(As you, perhaps, may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;

And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
Had fluttered all his strength away,
And panting pressed the floor,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,

I only kissed his ruffled wing,
And licked the feathers smooth.

Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved Bow-wow;

If killing birds be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,)
What think you sir of killing Time
With verse addressed to me?"

Beau was Mr. Cowper's favourite Dog, and often accompanied him in his walks. Those who possess Cowper's entire works, will find Beau celebrated in the verses, The Dog and the Water Lily.

The verses to Mrs. Anne Bodham, on receiving from her a net-work purse made by herself, are lively and epigrammatic, expressive of the cordiality and sportiveness with which Cowper treated the friends whom he loved.

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,

I danced and fondled on my knee
A kitten both in size and glee,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love; -That gem's too dear
For richest rouges to win it;

I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above

The best things kept within it.

THE CASTAWAY.

The date of this piece is March 20, 1799. It is the last original effort of Cowper, and as such, a melancholy interest is attached to it. The Castaway is founded upon an incident recorded in Lord Anson's voyage. A sailor fell overboard, but the force of the wind and the roughness of the sea frustrated every effort which could be made to save his life, and he was drowned. Obscurest night involved the sky,

The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast,
Than he, with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him behold, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed,
That, pitiless, perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floating cord,
Delayed not to bestow,

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power
His destiny repelled :

And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !"

At length his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed,
Alike immortalize the dead,