Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowersThe violet, the pink, the jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while— Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)— Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou―as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,—
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;"

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed,
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost;
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,-
The son of parents passed into the skies.

COWPER'S GRAVE.

And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run
His wonted course: yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again--
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:

And while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

WILLIAM COWPER.

291

Cowper's Grave

T is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying,

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their pray

ing:

Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languishEarth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish !

O poets! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing!

O Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was

clinging!

O men! this man, in brotherhood, your weary paths beguil

ing,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears

his story,

How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, And how, when one by one sweet sounds and wandering

lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted;

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration :
Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good forsaken:
Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath
taken!

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, I learn to think upon him;

With meekness, that is gratefulness, on God whose heaven hath won him—

Who suffered once the madness-cloud toward his love to blind

him;

But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him ;

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic

senses,

As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influ

ences!

The pulse of dew upon the grass his own did softly number; And silent shadow from the trees fell o'er him like a

slumber.

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's chill removing,

Its women and its men became beside him, true and loving! And timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home

caresses,

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses!

But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the

guiding,

And things provided came without the sweet sense of pro

viding,

He testified this solemn truth, though phrenzy desolatedNor man nor nature satisfy whom only God created!

COWPER'S GRAVE.

293

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she

blesses

And droppeth on his burning brow the coolness of her

kisses;

That turns his fevered eyes around--“My mother! where's my mother?"____

As if such tender words and looks could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart, he sees her bending o'er

him;

Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!

Thus, woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,

Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save him!

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him

breaking;

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted; But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My Saviour! not deserted!"

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,

Upon the victim's hidden face, no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops

averted,

What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from his own essence rather: And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and

Father;

Yea, once Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken

It went up single, echoless, “My God, I am forsaken !”

It went up from the holy lips amid his lost creation,

That of the lost no son should use those words of desola

tion;

That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition,

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture, in a

vision!

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

The Sleep.

"He giveth his beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvii. 2.

Fall the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this,-
"He giveth his beloved sleep!"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows,-
He giveth his belovèd sleep !

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake,—
He giveth his beloved sleep.