Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize

Of him that creeps and him that flies.

THE RAVEN.

[Cowper wrote to Mr Newton in May 1780: "A crow, rook, or raven has built a nest in one of the young elm trees at the side of Mrs Aspray's orchard. In the violent storm that blew yesterday morning, I saw it agitated to a degree that seemed to threaten its immediate destruction, and versified the following thoughts upon the occasion."]

A RAVEN, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,
And, on her wicker-work 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 conjurers 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.

THE DOVES.

[A letter of Cowper to Mr Newton, sent with this fable, tells us that the happy doves were that gentleman and his wife; the following is an extract from it :-"The male dove was smoking a pipe, and the female dove was sewing, while she thus delivered herself. This little circumstance may lead you perhaps to guess what pair I had in my eye."]

REASONING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,

While meaner things, whom instinct leads,
Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus address'd her mate,
And soothed the listening dove:

"Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,

Those blessings of our early youth,
Shall cheer our latest age:

"While innocence without disguise,
And constancy sincere,

Shall fill the circles of those eyes,

And mine can read them there;

"Those ills, that wait on all below,
Shall ne'er be felt by me,

Or gently felt, and only so,

As being shared by me.

"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 couldst become unkind at last,
And scorn thy present lot,

"No need of lightnings 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.

AN ENGLISH VERSIFICATION OF A THOUGHT

THAT POPPED INTO MY HEAD ABOUT TWO MONTHS SINCE.

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 bless'd where'er she goes;
Pure-bosom'd, as that watery glass,
And heaven reflected in her face!

ON THE

BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS., BY THE MOB IN THE MONTH OF JUNE 1780.

So then the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile
Than ever Roman saw !

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift,
And many a treasure more,

The well-judged purchase, and the gift
That graced his letter'd store.

Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,
The loss was his alone;

But ages yet to come shall mourn
The burning of his own.

ON THE SAME.

WHEN wit and genius meet their doom
In all devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.

O'er Murray's loss the muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,

Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.

There Memory, like the bee that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,
The quintessence of all he read
Had treasured up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;

The flowers are gone-but still we find
The honey on his tongue.

A RIDDLE.

I AM just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told,
I am lawful, unlawful-a duty, a fault—

I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought,
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
And yielded with pleasure-when taken by force.*

ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE

RECORDED IN THE "BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA."

Он, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page,

They court the notice of a future age:

Mr Bell in his edition of Cowper says:-This Riddle was printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, where many of Cowper's lighter pieces occasionally appeared. A correspondent furnished the following:

ANSWER.

A riddle by Cowper

Made me swear like a trooper;
But my anger, alas! was in vain;
For remembering the bliss

Of beauty's soft kiss,

1 now long for such riddles again.-J. T.

Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand;
Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.

So when a child, as playful children use,
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire-
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire,
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark!
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk !

TO THE REV. MR NEWTON,
ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.

(WRITTEN IN OCTOBER 1780.)

THAT Ocean you have late survey'd,
Those rocks I too have seen,
But I, afflicted and dismay'd,
You, tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controlling steep
Saw stretch'd before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,
No longer such to you.

To me the waves, that ceaseless broke
Upon the dangerous coast,

Hoarsely and ominously spoke

Of all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have past,
And found the peaceful shore;
I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last,
Come home to part no more.

ON A GOLDFINCH,

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new,

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain,
And of a transient date;