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"Those ills, that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me,
Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shared with thee.

"When lightnings flash among the trees,
Or kites are hovering near,
I fear lest thee alone they seize,
And know no other fear.

"'Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side,
Resolved a union form'd for life
Death never shall divide.

"But oh! if fickle and unchaste,
(Forgive a transient thought)
Thou should become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot,

"No need of lightning from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak;

Denied the endearments of thine eye,
This widow'd heart would break."

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird,
Soft as the passing wind;
And I recorded what I heard,
A lesson for mankind.

A FABLE.

[Suggested by a circumstance which actually occurred in an orchard adjoining to the Poet's summer-house and study. The piece is first mentioned in a letter to Newton, and was written in the spring of 1780.]

A RAVEN, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,
And on her wickerwork high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted,

(A fault philosophers might blame
If quite exempted from the same,)
Enjoy'd at ease the genial day;
'Twas April, as the bumpkins say,
The legislature call'd it May.
But suddenly a wind as high
As ever swept a winter sky,

Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And fill'd her with a thousand fears,
Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather
And all her fears were hush'd together:
And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph,
'Tis over, and the brood is safe;
(For ravens, though as birds of omen
They teach both conj'rers and old women,
To tell us what is to befall,

Can't prophesy themselves at all.)

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,

And destined all the treasure there

A gift to his expecting fair,

Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray,

And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone secures,

In every change, both mine and yours:
Safety consists not in escape
From dangers of a frightful shape;
An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man that's strangled by a hair.
Fate steals along with silent tread
Found oftenest in what least we dread,-
Frowns in the storm with angry brow,
But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

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A COMPARISON.

[Both of these beautiful little pieces were written in 1780. The young lady to whom the second is addressed, was Miss Shuttleworth, the sister of Mrs W. C. Unwin.]

THE lapse of time and rivers is the same,

Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace with which they steal away,
No wealth can bribe, nor prayers persuade to stay ;
Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.
Though each resemble each in every part,

A difference strikes at length the musing heart:
Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound,
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd!
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind,
Neglected leaves a weary waste behind.

ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid,

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world's gay busy throng;

With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes,
Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,
And heaven reflected in her face.

VERSES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JÚAN FERNANDEZ.

[Cowper's exquisite verses, and the admirable fiction of De Foe, have cast a romantic tenderness over the story of Selkirk's life, which it is painful to find unsustained by his natural dispositions. This adventurer, the son of a fisherman of Nether Largo, a village on the Fifeshire coast, was born in 1676, and in consequence of a family quarrel, arising out of his own irascible temper, went to sea. After several years' absence he returned, bringing with him the gun, chest, and drinking cup which he had used during his abode on Juan Fernandez: the two latter of these are still in possession of his surviving relative, a grand-niece, residing in the cottage where Alexander was born. He remained about nine months at home, leading a recluse life, going out only at night or early in the morning; and seems to have regretted his solitude, for he was often overheard lamenting the loss of "his island." This sentiment, the only poetical feeling which we can discover about the man, probably sent him out again a wanderer over the waste of waters; but of his subsequent fate, nothing was ever known.]

I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man,

Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wing'd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

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