Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd;

And ever as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried" Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear;

And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date.

But misery still delights to trace
Its 'semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone ;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.

BY AN OLD SCHOOL FELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER.

HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind
While young, humane, conversible, and kind;
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men.
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.

ON THE

AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE

THE genius of the Augustan age

His head among Rome's ruins rear'd,

And bursting with heroic rage,

When literary Heron appear'd.

Thou hast, he cried, like him of old
Who set the Ephesian dome on fire,

By being scandalously bold,

Attain'd the mark of thy desire.

And for traducing Virgil's name,

Shalt share his merited reward;

A perpetuity of fame,

That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.

MARY AND JOHN.

IF John marries Mary, and Mary alone,

'Tis a very good match between Mary and John.

Should John wed a score, oh! the claws and the scratches

It can't be a match, 'tis a bundle of matches.

HYMNS.

[THESE Compositions, so beautiful in their execution, so important in their objects, are now, for the first time, incorporated with the other original works of the author. They were written, with a few exceptions, which belong to the last months of his residence at St Alban's, between the years 1769 and 1772. Hitherto they have appeared only as originally published by Newton, interspersed in a numerous collection of his own pieces, where the peculiar excellence of only sixty-eight short poems was liable to be overlooked, or at least where they in a great measure lost their distinctive character. The particular dates of the separate hymns not having been preserved, that arrangement has been adopted as the best which promised most clearly to impress their practical or exegetical nature, With this view they have been divided into three heads, of PRAise, Prayer, and DOCTRINE, forming an admirable manual of personal devotion, in which the Christian will find the purest models of a simple and sublime service or instructive declarations of faith. There can hardly be a religious disposition of mind which does not discern, even in this small number of pious aspirations, a suitable form of thanksgiving or of petition; and scarcely a depression can sadden, or a doubt distress the heart, under which comfort, or at least religious expression, is not found here. The Olney Hymns exhibit the lights and shadows of a believer's life, and thus, more than other sacred poetry, do they come home to the heart, with the efficacy both of precept and example. Like all the poetry of Cowper, they possess an individuality that permits not a suspicion of their sincerity, while the universal interest of their topics identifies their experiences with those of all Christians. As literary performances their merits are great—the language is noble, the versification easy, and the imagery poetical, without merging the sanctity of devotion in the sentiment of poetry. In these respects, Cowper surpasses all competitors: his performances are neither odes-admired, because understood only by the refined, and that rather for elegance than piety, like one school; neither, like the productions of the other, are they so divested of ornament as to derive their sole merit from good intention. Cowper, as a sacred classic, here concentrates all his peculiar Christian excellencies as a poet. His general sincerity becomes, in these hymns, a heavenly-mindedness, an uncalculating, unhesitating devotedness of every feeling and interest to the glory of God. The ordinary unrestrained and regardless flow of his verse, expressive of earnest conviction of the truths which he utters, rises here into a spontaneous, an unconscious, burst of gratitude and love to Him whose grace is operating unspeakable renewings of purity and gladness in a heart constrained thus to sing aloud for very joy. At other seasons, the cry comes from the depths of some heart, breaking and forsaken, yet still confiding in the mercy of Jehovah. Thus, under whatever impression of gospel dispensations Cowper may speak, he speaks here in comfort to the seeking mourner, as well as to the rejoicing believer, and in language so affecting, by its union of faith and poesy, as can hardly fail to touch a responsive chord in every breast.]

HYMNS.

to enter.

I. PRAISE

I.

[The poet extols the comforts and invokes the aid of divine grace in the course of Christian retirement upon which he is about The hymn was written at St Alban's, on his recovery there of bodily health and mental peace, being one of those compositions named by himself " Specimens of my first Christian thoughts." It was afterwards given to Newton, and thus inserted in the Olney collection.]

FAR from the world, O Lord, I flee,

From strife and tumult far

From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem by thy sweet bounty made
For those who follow thee.

There, if thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,

Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!

There, like the nightingale, she pours

Her solitary lays:

Nor asks a witness of her song,

Nor thirsts for human praise.