his prospects of advancement in the world were gone; and in the new-born zeal of his religious fervor, his friends might well doubt whether his reason had been completely restored. He retired to the town of Huntingdon, near Cambridge, where his brother resided, and there formed an intimacy with the family of the Rev. Mr. Unwin, a clergyman resident in the place. He was adopted as one of the family; and when Mr. Unwin was removed, soon after, by death, the same connection was continued with his widow. Death only could sever a tie so strongly knit-cemented by mutual faith and friendship, and by sorrows of which the world knew nothing. To the latest generation the name of Mary Unwin will be associated with that of Cowper, partaker of his fame as of his sad decline By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light. On the death of Mr. Unwin, in 1767, the family were advised, by the Rev. John Newton, to fix their abode at Olney, in the northern part of Buckinghamshire, where Mr. Newton himself was settled. This was accordingly done, and Cowper removed with them to a spot which he has consecrated by his genius. The river Ouse was still before him, and with more varied and attractive scenery than at Huntingdon. His life was that of a religious recluse; he ceased to correspond with his friends, and associated only with Mrs. Unwin and Newton. The latter engaged his assistance in writing a volume of hymns, and of those which Cowper furnished we present the following as a specimen : VOL. II.-2D SUFFICIENCY OF THE ATONEMENT. 1. There is a fountain fill'd with blood 2. The dying thief rejoic'd to see And there have I, as vile as he, 3. Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood Till all the ransom'd church of God 4. E'er since by faith, I saw the stream 5. Then in a nobler, sweeter song I'll sing thy power to save; When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue 6. Lord, I believe thou hast prepared For me a blood-bought free reward, 7. 'Tis strung, and tuned, for endless years, To sound in God the Father's ears Cowper's morbid melancholy had been, for some time, increasing, and in 1773, it became a case of decided insanity. He passed about two years in this unhappy state; and after his recovery, he occupied his time alternately with gardening, rearing hares, drawing landscapes, and composing poetry. The latter was fortunately the most permanent source of enjoyment; and its fruits appeared in a volume of poems, published in 1783. The reception of these poems, though not enthusiastic, was such as to revive his spirits: he resumed his correspondence, and cheerfulness again became an inmate of his retreat at Olney. This happy change was augmented by the presence of a third party, Lady Austen, a widow, who came to reside in the immediate neighborhood of Olney, and whose conversation charmed away, for a time, Cowper's melancholy spirit. She told him the story of John Gilpin, and the 'famous horseman and his feats were an inexhaustible source of merriment.' Lady Austen also prevailed upon him to try his powers in blank verse, and from her suggestion sprung the noble poem, The Task. This great work appeared in 1785, and its success was instant and decided. The public rejoiced to hear again the true voice of poetry and of nature, and in the rural descriptions and fireside scenes of 'The Task,' they saw the features of English scenery and domestic life faithfully delineated. Cowper had no sooner completed the Task, than he resolved to undertake the translation of Homer. He had gone through the great Grecian at Westminster school, and afterwards read him critically in the Temple; and by translating forty lines a day he at length completed the laborious undertaking, which, in 1791, appeared, in two volumes quarto. As a translation the work is faithful to the original; but it wants the infusion of the old Ionian bard's spirit, and hence it has failed to become popular. This, with the exception of the Castaway, one of his minor poems, was his last literary performance. On the seventeenth of December, 1796, Mrs. Unwin died. suddenly at Norfolk, whither Cowper had accompanied her on a visit. When the mournful intelligence was imparted to the unhappy poet, he refused to believe that his long-tried friend was actually dead. He went to see the body, and on witnessing the unaltered placidity of death, flung himself to the other side of the room with a passionate expression of feeling, and from that time forward he never mentioned her name. He lingered on in lonely life, however, for more than three years; but death at length came to his relief, on the twenty-fifth of April, 1800. The mind uniformly turns from contemplating the life of Cowper with deep melancholy. So sad and strange a destiny never has, before or since, attended a man of genius. With wit and humor at all times at his command, he was, for the most part of his life, bordering on despair. Though innocent, pious, and confiding, he lived in constant dread of everlasting punishment: he could only see between him and heaven a high wall, which he despaired of ever being able to scale. Yet who can doubt that the spirit that breathed forth such strains as the following, is not now in heavenly bliss! Oh! for a closer walk with God, A calm and heavenly frame; Where is the blessedness I knew, What peaceful hours I once enjoyed! Return, O holy Dove, return, Sweet messenger of rest; I hate the sins that made thee mourn, The dearest idol I have known, Help me to tear it from thy throne, So shall my walk be close with God, So purer light shall mark the road, The almost universal popularity of Cowper's poetry, renders the task of selecting particular poems or passages from it, a very delicate and difficult one. We shall first present, without reference to their relative merit, his verses addressed to Mrs. Unwin, in 1793, and then his sketch of the Greenland Missionaries, in 'Conversation.' These shall be followed by his 'Lines on his Mother's Picture,' after which some extracts from 'The Task,' will find an appropriate place. TO MARY. The twentieth year is well nigh past Ah, would that this might be our last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For, could I view nor them nor thee, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, And still to love, though pressed with ill, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, And should my future lot be cast My Mary! THE GREENLAND MISSIONARIES. That sound bespeaks salvation on her way, 'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines, Her sons to pour it on the farthest north; Oh blessed within the inclosure of your rocks, From happier scenes to make your lands a prey; ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, |