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worthy of permanently occupying a place among the productions of the Poet. The Translations are omitted for a different reason; as belonging, together with the Homer, to a distinct portion of Cowper's Works. An exception has, however, been made in favour of the elegant Versions of VINCENT BOURNE's Poems, of which the entire collection will be found in the present volume.

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Page Sonnet to Henry Cowper, Esq. ........

48 to John Johnson .........

to William Hayley, Esq. ....................
- to Dr. Austin ...........
– to George Romney, Esq.

- to Mrs. Unwin ................
To Mary.....................
On the Death of Mrs. Throckmorton's Bulfinch ......
The Poet's New Year's Gift, to Mrs. Throckmorton..
To Mrs. Throckmorton, on her Transcript of Horace
Catharina, to Miss Stapleton ..............

ICCOLI ...............................
Catharina, the Second Part.....
Gratitude. To Lady Hesketh...............................
To my Cousin Anne Bodham ..............
To Mrs. King..................................................:
To Lady Austen .....................
On Mrs. Montagu's Feather-hangings .....................
To an Afflicted Protestant Lady in France ............
To Joseph Hill, Esq. .........
To the Rev. Mr. Newton.....
To the same .....................................................
To the Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin .......................
To a Young Friend ..........................
On the Burning of Lord Mansfield's Library ..........
On the same ..........
On the Promotion of Lord Thurlow ...
The Diverting History of John Gilpin

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The Yearly Distress .................
On the Queen's Visit to London, 1789 ................

....... 102 Annus Memorabilis, 1789........

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SURVIVOR sole, and hardly snch, of all
That once liy'd here, thy brethren, at my birth,
(Since which I number threescore winters past)
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,
As now, and with excoriate forks deform,
Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore,
I might with rev'rence kneel, and worship thee.

It seems idolatry with some excuse,
When our forefather Druids in their oaks
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet
Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste
Of fruit proscrib'd, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, pre par'd The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reas’oers broad awake, whose busy search , Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!

Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod Swelling with vegatative force instinct Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fost'ring propitious, thou becam’st a twig.

Who liv'd, when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou As in Dodona once thy kindred trees [speak, Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events

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