LOVE ABUSED.

WHAT is there in the vale of life
Half so delightful as a wife,

When friendship, love, and peace combine
To stamp the marriage-bond divine?
The stream of pure and genuine love
Derives its current from above;
And earth a second Eden shows,
Where'er the healing water flows
But ah, if from the dikes and drains
Of sensual nature's feverish veins,
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood,
Impregnated with ooze and mud,
Descending fast on every side
Once mingles with the sacred tide,
Farewell the soul-enlivening scene!
The banks that wore a smiling green,
With rank defilement overspread,
Bewail their flowery beauties dead;
The stream polluted, dark, and dull,
Diffused into a Stygian pool,
Through life's last melancholy years
Is fed with overflowing tears,
Complaints supply the zephyr's part,
And sighs that heave a breaking heart.

ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789.

WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY.'
I RANSACK'D for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,

Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast
Prowess to dissipate a host;

Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,

But none I found, or found them shared
Already by some happier bard.

To modern times, with truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied;

*The king's recovery was announced on the 27th Feb. 1789. In a letter to Mr King, Cowper says that this poem, which he had written on the occasion, was to be presented to the queen, "by some kind body or another, I know

not whom.'

Here cities won, and fleets dispersed,
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Our fathers' triumphs and our own.

Thus as the bee, from bank to bower,
Assiduous sips at every flower,

But rests on none till that be found
Where most nectareous sweets abound,
So I, from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight,
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view,)
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near.
A theme for poetry divine,

A theme to ennoble even mine,

In memorable eighty-nine.

The spring of eighty-nine shall be

An era cherish'd long by me.
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,

That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,

Her sovereign's tutelary care,

One breath of heaven, that cried-Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more;

And for the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our queen's long agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below.
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles !
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,

And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, shew in theirs.
If they who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
'Tis but the natural effect

Of grandeur that insures respect;
But she is something more than queen
Who is beloved where never seen.

ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON,
THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH OF MARCH 1789.

WHEN, long sequester'd from his throne,
George took his seat again,

By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign;

Then loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm'd, a gallant show,

Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.

"Twas hard to tell of streets or squares
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the dome, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,

To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,

And all the banners been unfurl'd
That heralds e'er design'd;

For no such sight had England's queen
Forsaken her retreat,

Where, George recover'd made a scene

Sweet always, doubly sweet.

Yet glad she came that night to prove,

A witness undescried,

How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er
In aid of her design,-

Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before
To veil a deed of thine.

On borrow'd wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,

And gratify no curious eyes
That night except her own.

Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,

Had known their sovereign come.

Pleased she beheld aloft portray'd
On many a splendid wall,

Emblems of health and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all.

Unlike the enigmatic line,

So difficult to spell,

Which shook Belshazzar at his wine,
The night his city fell.

Soon, watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,
George ever drew from her.

It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art
Created and sustain'd.

But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,

To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd,
And through the cumbrous throng,

Not else unworthy to be fear'd,

Convey'd her calm along.

So, ancient poets say, serene

The sea-maid rides the waves,

And fearless of the billowy scene

Her peaceful bosom laves.

With more than astronomic eyes
She view'd the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice,
Heaven grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.*
MUSE-hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,

Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record, (if the theme
Perchance may credit win,)

For proof to man, what Man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, Man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below,

Gentle he was, if gentle birth

Could make him such; and he had worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest

He shone superior at the feast,

*Written on reading the following in the obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789:-"At Tottenham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and in the splendour of his carriages and horses rivalled by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospitality, where it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles, he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and had a favourite cock upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he lost, which so enraged him that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr A., that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interposed; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity."