Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of Nature fair Imagination culls

To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them.
The rural honours his.

His the city's pomp,
Whate'er adorns

The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert

Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On Nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd
The world's foundations, if to these the mind

Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous powers?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordain'd
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His
energy divine: he tells the heart,

He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being: to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom Nature's works can charm, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions, act upon his plan;

And form to his, the relish of their souls.

FROM AN ODE TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSHEND.

YE heroes, who of old

Did generous England Freedom's throne ordain;
From Alfred's parent reign

To Nassau, great deliverer, wise and bold;

I know your perils hard.

Your wounds, your painful marches, wintery seas,
The night estrang'd from ease,

The day by cowardice and falsehood vex'd,
The head with doubt perplex'd,

The indignant heart disdaining the reward

Which envy hardly grants. But, O renown,
O praise from judging heaven and virtuous men,
If thus they purchas'd thy divinest crown,
Say, who shall hesitate? or who complain?
And now they sit on thrones above:

Before the sovran mind,

"Lo, these," he saith, "lo, these are they
Who to the laws of mine eternal sway

From violence and fear asserted human kind."

Thus honour'd while the train

Of legislators in his presence dwell;
If I may aught foretell,

The statesman shall the second palm obtain.
For dreadful deeds of arms

Let vulgar bards, with undiscerning praise,
More glittering trophies raise:

But wisest heaven what deeds may chiefly move
To favour and to love?

What, save wide blessings, or averted harms?

Nor to the imbattled field

Shall the achievements of the peaceful gown
The green immortal crown

Of valour, or the songs of conquest yield.
Not Fairfax wildly bold,

While bare of crest he hew'd his fatal way,
Through Naseby's firm array,

To heavier dangers did his breast oppose
Than Pym's free virtue chose,

When the proud force of Strafford he controll'd.

But what is man at enmity with truth?
What were the fruits of Wentworth's copious mind
When (blighted all the promise of his youth)
The patriot in a tyrant's league had join'd?
Let Ireland's loud-lamenting plains,

Let Tyne's and Humber's trampled swains,
Let menac'd London tell

How impious Guile made Wisdom base; How generous zeal to cruel rage gave place; And how unbless'd he liv'd, and how dishonour'd fell.

*

NATHANIEL COTTON was born in 1721 ;-of the circumstances connected with his birth, parentage, and education, we have no account. He was bred to the profession of physic, and practised at St. Alban's, where he kept a house for the reception of persons afflicted with insanity. Cowper was for some time his patient; and in one of his letters he states, that the asylum was selected for him by his friends, not only because he had some slight acquaintance with the Doctor, but because of his skill as a physician, and "his well-known humanity and sweetness of temper;" his after communications describe Cotton as of exceeding amiability, gentleness, and piety. It was also his fate to attend Dr. Young during his last illness. Dr. Cotton died at St. Alban's, 1788.

Dr. Cotton has obtained admission into the collections of English Poetry; his merit has been largely allowed; and his popularity continues. His "Visions in Verse" have passed through several editions; and among his "Miscellanies" are to be found several which have stood the test of time; -it is, however, less to his poetical genius than to the soundness of his advice, the practical piety he inculcates, and the pure and benevolent principles he invariably advocates, that he is indebted for that general regard and esteem which may justly be considered as Fame. Of an upright, amiable, and generous nature, he afforded ample proofs; they are to be found not only in his poetical writings, but in his prose productions; his "Sermons," as the compositions of a layman, are plain, natural, and instructive, and may be perused with advantage by all classes of Christians; they are, indeed, so many "workings out" of a passage contained in one of his letters, written under the pressure of a grievous affliction : "For my own part, I am, and have long been, abundantly persuaded, that no system but that of Christianity is able to sustain the soul amidst all the difficulties and distresses of life. The consolations of philosophy are specious trifles at best: all cold and impotent applications to the bleeding heart!"

If we cannot claim for him a very high station among the poets of Great Britain, we are by no means disposed to push him aside from the prominent seat in which public opinion has placed him. If to be useful, in the best sense of the term, is to be great, Dr. Cotton may be classed above men far more richly gifted; and it is a proud and happy thing for a country when the contributions to its store of literature are only such as must tend to elevate its character and improve the social condition of its children. The "Visions in Verse" were expressly written "for the entertainment and instruction of younger minds;" and the object is admirably answered. We are not, however, compelled to limit our praise to the MATTER; there is considerable merit in the MANNER in which Dr. Cotton has conveyed his moral lessons to the old as well as to the young. His poems are distinguished for simplicity of style, and his taste was formed after the best models; he writes always with ease, frequently with grace, and at times with dignity and spirit. We may, indeed, and with strict justice, apply to him a passage from his own lines to Hervey, on his " Meditations:"—

"'Tis thine, bright teacher, to improve the age;
'Tis thine, whose life's a comment on thy page:
Thy happy page! whose periods sweetly flow,
Whose figures charm us, and whose colours glow:

When artless piety pervades the whole,
Refines the genius, and exalts the soul.
For let the witling argue all he can,

It is religion still that makes the man."

"The Fire-side" has always been a favourite. If it be tried by a severe test, it will scarcely be considered as possessing much poetic merit. The cause of its popularity is to be accounted for on other grounds. The poem is essentially English; it presents a picture such as no other country in the world can produce-the social quiet and domestic happiness so peculiarly our own. We have reason to know that he painted as he experienced and felt; that, when the partner who had for many years participated in his toils and troubles, and shared in his amusements and joys, was removed from him, and his "fire-side" was comparatively desolate, the hopes and feelings he had cherished in her society were his best consolations during the residue of his journey to that "sanctuary" for which he so earnestly longed, and

DEAR Cloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,