Peace may be the lot of the mind,

That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confin'd

To the glorified Spirits above.

SONG 2.

AIR" The Lass of Pattie's Mill.

When all within is peace,

How Nature seems to smile

Delights that never cease,

The livelong day beguile.

From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers,

Fresh blessings, to deceive,

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart,

Gives Nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart,

Enlivens all it sees ;

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously arrayed
In Nature's various robe,

With wondrous skill display'd,

Is, to a mourner's heart,

A dreary wild at best:

It flutters to depart,

And longs to be at rest.

I add the following Song (adapted to the March in Scipio) for two reasons; because it is pleasing to promote the celebrity of a brave man, calamitously cut off in his career of honour, and because the Song was a favourite production of the Poet's; so much so, that, in a season of depressive illness, he amused himself by translating it into Latin verse.

SONG 3.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

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

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 its 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

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er ;
And he and his eight hundred,

Shall plough the wave no more.

Let the Reader, who wishes to impress on his mind a just idea of the variety and extent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this heroic Ballad, of exquiste pathos, with his diverting history of John Gilpin!

That admirable, and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which I am now speaking. An elegant and judicious Writer, who has recently favoured the public with three interesting Volumes relating to the early Poets of our country, conjectures, that a Poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More in his youth (the merry jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin; but that fascinating Ballad had a different origin; and it is a very remarkable fact, that full of gaiety and humour, as this favourite of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really composed at a time, when the spirit of the Poet, as he informed me himself, was very deeply tinged with his depressive malady. It happened one afternoon, in those years, when his accomplished friend Lady Austen made a part of his little evening circle, that she observed him sinking into encreasing dejection; it was her custom, on these occasions,

to

to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate rclief. She told him the story of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in her memory from her childhood) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour... Its effect on the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchantment: he informed her the next morning, that convulsions of laughter, brought on by his recollection of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night; and that he had turned it into a Ballad.--So arose the pleasant Poem of John Gilpin: It was eagerly copied, and finding its way rapidly to the Newspapers, it was seized by the lively spirit of Henderson, the Comedian, a native of Newport-Pagnell, and a Man, like the Yorick described by Shakespeare" of infinite jest, and most excellent fancy," it was seized by Henderson as a proper subject for the display of his own comic powers, and by reciting it, in his public Readings, he gave uncoffinon celebrity to the Ballad, before the public suspected to what Poet they were indebted for the sudden burst of ludicrous amusement. Many Readers were astonished, when the Poem made its first authentic appearance in the second Volume of Cowper. In some Letters of the Poet to Mr. Hill, which did not reach me till my Work was nearly finished, I find an account of John Gilpin's first introduction to the world, and a circumstance relating to the first Volume of Cowper's Poems, which may render the following selection from this correspondence peculiarly interesting.