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 Thou―as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,— And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide COWPER'S GRAVE. And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run And while the wings of fancy still are free, 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, 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, For gift or grace, surpassing this,- What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, What do we give to our beloved? A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake,— |