(As you, perhaps, may recollect) And when your linnet on a day, Had flutter'd all his strength away, Well knowing him a sacred thing, Let my obedience then excuse If killing birds be such a crime, 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 ver ses, 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, I danc'd and fondled on my knee I thank thee for my purse. Gold pays the worth of all things here; I, therefore, as a proof of love, 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 involv'd the sky; He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But wag'd with death a lasting strife, He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevail'd, They left their outcast mate behind, Some succour yet they could afford; The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, And so long he, with unspent pow'r That tells his name, his worth, his age, And tears by bards or heroes shed. I therefore purpose not, or dream, To give the melancholy theme But misery still delights to trace ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. The Royal George, was a British vessel belonging to the navy. While she was in harbour, and undergoing some repair, with Admiral Kempenfelt, and eight hundred persons, officers and men, on board, the vessel, and all in it suddenly sunk, and every individual, perished September, 1782. Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! Eight hundred of the brave, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; It was not in the battle; His sword was in his sheath; |