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Beau was Mr. Cowper's favourite Dog, and often ac. companied him in his walks. Those who possess Cowper's entire works, will find Beau celebrated in the vere 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 sportive. ness 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 danc'd 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 rogues 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 fast 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;

Th’ Atlantic billows roard,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,

Wash'd 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 lov'd them both, but both in vain,
* Nor him beheld, 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 wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted ; nor his friends had faild

To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevaild,

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 floated cord, · Delay'd not to bestow,

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that fight, 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 pow'r

His destiny repell’d:
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 ev'ry blast,

Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdu'd, 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.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date.

But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

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!
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 his sheath;

His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup,

The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,
Full charg'd with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,
· His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred,

Shall plough the wave no more.

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