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Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flow'd behind,
Each comely in its kind.
Thus show'd his ready wit:
They therefore needs must fit.
That hangs upon your face;
Be in a hungry case."
And all the world would stare
And I should dine at Ware." So, turning to his horse, he said,
“I am in haste to dine;
You shall go back for mine."
For which he paid full dear;
Did sing most loud and clear;
Had heard a lion roar,
As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
For why ?- They were too big.
Her husband posting down Into the country far away,
She pull'd out half a crown; And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell, “ This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.”
John coming back amain,
By catching at his rein:
And gladly would have done,
And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels,
The lumbering of the wheels.
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
They raised the hue and cry:
Not one of them was mute;
Did join in the pursuit.
Flew open in short space;
That Gilpin rode a race.
For he got first to town;
He did again get down.
And Gilpin, long live he;
May I be there to see!
O thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told lale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word, I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame: Yet even in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober gray, Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy; And not with curses on his art, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul.
SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE." Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrallid From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-galld, Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe,
ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE
O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
1 "The eloquence of Wilberforce was the voice of humanity. It was at the table of Bennet Langton, that he made the public avowal of his sentiments upon slavery. There was something sublime in the spectacle of so young a man preaching a new crusade. He declared himself the advocate of a forsaken race; and with almost unaided arm prepared to open the gates of mercy to mankind. Mackintosh said that he had conferred upon the world a benefit never exceeded by human benevolence. He was neither daunted by opposition nor depressed by defeat. However exhausted by the struggle, if he touched, in imagination at least, the ground where the ashes of the persecuted African reposed, his strength returned to him. The cry of blood ascended from the earth. Let his toil be appreciated, and his difficulties acknowledged. What others have dared in the war of arms, he dared in the war of opinion. He attacked the bulwarks with which avarice had fortified the cruelties of slavery; and never yielded to the invitations of ease, until he had driven a gap into those barricades of iniquity. His mind seemed to dilate with the majesty of his subject. His speech in 1789 gained the applause of all who heard it; and one passage, that in which he summoned death, as his last witness, whose tremendous testimony was neither to be purchased nor refuted, reached the sublime. Burke admired it; Pitt and Fox eulogized it; and Bishop Porteus mentioned it to the poet Mason, in terms of still warmer praise. In him was beheld, for the first, if not for the last time, the noble spectacle of a man without patronage or office, to whom parliament listened with respect, and the country with reverence; having no friends but the good; no side but virtue." - Willmott.
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no inore, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call’d the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber, made That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid · Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen’d by those cataracts and breaks, That humor interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. Cowper's prose works are confined almost exclusively to his letters. These now, without dispute, take the very first rank in English epistolary literature « There is something in the sweetness and facility of the diction, and more. perhaps, in the glimpse they afford of a pure and benevolent mird, that diffuses a charm over the whole collection, and communicates an interest that cannot always be commanded by performances of greater dignity and pre