combes, in the preface to their Horace, impute the size of their work to the poetical contributions of their friends. At what time the two Satires I have mentioned were translated by William Cowper, I have not been able to ascertain; but they are worthy his pen, and will therefore appear in the Appendix to these volumes.

Speaking of his own early life, in a letter to Mr. Park, (dated March 1792) Cowper says, with that extreme modesty, which was one of his most remarkable characteristics, "From the age of twenty "to thirty-three I was occupied, or ought to have been, in the study of the law; from thirty-three tỏ

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sixty, I have spent my time in the country, where

my reading has been only an apology for idleness, "and where, when I had not either a magazine, or a review, I was sometimes a carpenter, at others, a bird-cage-maker, or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. At fifty years of age I commenced an "author-it is a whim, that has served me longest, "and best, and will probably be my last."

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Lightly as this most modest of poets has spoken of his own exertions, and late as he appeared to himself in producing his chief poetical works, he had received from nature a contemplative spirit, perpe

tually acquiring a store of mental treasure, which he at last unveiled, to delight and astonish the world with its unexpected magnificence. Even his juvenile verses discover a mind deeply impressed with sentiments of piety; and in proof of this assertion I select a few stanzas from an Ode, written, when he was very young, on reading Sir Charles Grandison.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword

The oppress'd ;-unseen, and unimplor'd,

To chear the face of woe;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right-a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;

These, these, distinguish from the croud,
And these alone, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,

O, with what matchless speed, they leave
The multitude behind!

Then ask ye from what cause on earth

Virtues like these derive their birth?

Derived from Heaven alone;

Full on that favour'd breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart:-but while the Muse

Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues,
Her feebler spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an Angel's song,

The Hero, and the Saint!

His early turn to moralize, on the slightest occasion, will appear from the following Verses, which he wrote at the age of eighteen; and in which those who love to trace the rise and progress of genius, will, I think, be pleased to remark the very promising seeds of those peculiar powers, which unfolded themselves in the richest maturity at a distant period, and rendered that beautiful and sublime poem, THE TASK, the most instructive and interesting of modern compositions. Young as the poet was, when he produced the following lines, we may observe, that he had probably been four years in the habit of writing English verse, as he has said in one of his Letters, that he began his poetical career at the age of fourteen, by translating an Elegy of Tibullus. I have reason to believe that he wrote many poems in his early life; and the singular merit of this juvenile composition is sufficient to make the friends of genius regret, that

an excess of diffidence prevented him from preserving the poetry of his youth.

VERSES

WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE.

1748.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle Goddess! thanks!

Not that my Muse, tho' bashful, shall deny,

She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast

A treasure in her way; for neither meed

Of early breakfast to dispel the fumes,

And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,

Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast,

Hopes she from this-presumptuous, tho,' perhaps,

The cobler, leather-carving artist! might.
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon,

Whatever, not as erst the fabled cock,

Vain glorious fool! unknowing what he found,

Spurn'd the rich gem, thou gav'st him. Wherefore ah!
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!)
Conferr'dst thou, Goddess! Thou art blind, thou say'st:
Enough!-thy blindness shall excuse the deed.

Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale

From this thy scant indulgence!-even here,
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found;
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song!

This pond'rous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply, (for such its massy form bespeaks)

The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown
Upbore: on this supported oft, he stretch'd,
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,
Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, 'till cruel time,
(What will not cruel time?) on a wry step,
Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas!
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,
Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry,

And some proportion form'd, now, on one side,
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on.
Thus fares it oft with other, than the feet
Of humble villager-the statesman thus,
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads,
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds

His prosp'rous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails, and friends prove true :
But that support soon failing, by him left,
On whom he most depended, basely left,
Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height
Head-long he falls; and thro' the rest of life,
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

Of a youth, who, in a scene like Bath, could