tone of his breathing, which had a striking resemblance to the confused notes of an organ. Inexperienced as he then was in the diversified approaches of the last messenger, he conceived it to be the sound of his immediate summons, and after listening to it several minutes, he arose from the foot of the bed, on which he was sitting, to take a nearer, and a last view of his departing relative, commending his soul, in silence, to that gracious Saviour, whom, in the fulness of mental health, he had delighted to honour. As he put aside the curtain he opened his eyes; but closed them without speaking, and breathed as usual.

In the early part of Monday the 21st, and indeed till towards the hour of dinner, he appeared to be dying, but he so far recovered as to be able to partake slightly of that meal.

The near approach of his dissolution became more and more observable in every succeeding hour of Tuesday and Wednesday.

On Thursday the weakness was not at all diminished; but he sat up as usual for a short time in the evening.

In the course of the night, when he appeared to be exceedingly exhausted, some refreshment was presented to him by Miss Perowne. From a persuasion, however, that nothing could ameliorate his feelings, though without any apparent impression that the hand of death was already upon him, he rejected the cordial with these words, the very last that he was heard to utter, "What can it signify?"

At five in the morning of Friday the 25th, a deadly change in his features was observed to take place. He remained in an insensible state from that time till about five minutes before five in the afternoon, when he ceased to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a manner did his spirit take its flight, that though the writer of this memoir, his medical attendant, Mr. Woods, and three other persons, were standing at the foot and side

of the bed, with their eyes fixed upon his dying countenance, the precise moment of his departure was unobserved by any.

From this mournful period, till the features of his deceased friend were closed from his view, the expres sion which the kinsman of Cowper observed in them, and which he was affectionately delighted to suppose an index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of his soul in its gradual escape from the depths of despondence, was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy surprise.

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in the church of East Dereham, on Saturday the 2d of May. Over his grave a monument is erected, bearing the following inscription, from the pen of Mr. Hayley.

In Memory

Of WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.
Born in Herefordshire, 1731.
Buried in this church,
1800.

Ye who with warmth the publick triumph feet
Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal,

Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just,
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust!
England, exulting in his spotless fame,

Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name;
Sense, fancy, wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to affection's praise:
His highest honours to the heart belong ;
His virtues form'd the magick of his song,
VOL. III.

6

POEMS.

VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH,

ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE

IN 1748.

FORTUNE! I thank thee; gentle Goddess! thanks! Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny, She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast A treasure in her way; for neither meed Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, Nor noontide feast, nor ev'ning's cool repast, Hopes she from this-presumptuous, tho', perhaps, The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might. Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon, Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock, Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found, Spurn'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Wherefore, ah! Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!) Conferr'd'st thou, Goddess! Thou art blind, thou

say'st;

Enough! thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale
From this thy scant indulgence!—even here,
Hints worthy sage philosophy are found;
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song!
This pond'rous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks)
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown

Upbore: on this supported oft, he stretch'd,
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time,
(What will not cruel time,) on a wry step,
Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erset, with even, equal pace
Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry,
And some proportion form'd now, on one side,
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on;
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet
Of humble villager-the statesman thus,
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads,
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds

His prosp'rous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails, and friends prove true;
But that support soon failing, by him left,
On whom he most depended, basely left,
Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height,
Head-long he falls; and through the rest of life,
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

STANZAS

SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL ODE ON THE FIRST
PUBLICATION OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON,
IN 1753.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword

Th' oppress'd ;-unseen and unimplor'd,
To cheer the face of wo;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right-a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these along, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, O, with what matchless speed, they leave The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth,
Deriv'd from Heav'n alone,

Full on that favour'd breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart-but while the Muse
Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues,
Her feeble spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject of an angel's song,
The hero, and the saint!

AN EPISTLE

TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.

1754.

'Tis not that I design to roo Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, For thou art born sole heir, and single,

Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;

Nor that I mean, while thus I knit
My thread-bare sentiments together
To show my genius, or my wit,

When God and you know I have neither;