as a poet, would be superfluous. After passing through the many trials which criticism has instituted, he remains, by universal acknowledgment, one of the first poets of the eighteenth century. Even without awaiting the issue of such trials, he attained a degree of popularity which is almost without a precedent, while the species of popularity which he has acquired is yet more honorable than the extent of it. No man's works ever appeared with less of artificial preparation; no venal heralds proclaimed the approach of a new poet, nor told the world what it was to admire. He emerged from obscurity, the object of no patronage, and the adherent of no party. His fame, great and extensive as it is, arose from gradual conviction, and gratitude for pleasure received. The genius, the scholar, the critic, the devout man, and the man of the world, each found in the works of Cowper something to excite their admiration, something congenial with their habits and feelings, something which taste readily selected, and judgment decidedly confirmed. COWPER'S POEMS. TABLE TALK. Si te fortè meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ, A. You told me, I remember, glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt; The deeds, that men admire as half-divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel, that the very lightning spares; Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust. B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war: And never meant the rule should be applied To him, that fights with justice on his side. Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honour's field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause. 'Tis to the virtues of such men, man owes His portion in the good that Heav'n bestows. And when recording History displays Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days; Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died, Where duty plac'd them, at their country's side; The man, that is not mov'd with what he reads, That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, Unworthy of the blessings of the brave, Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. But let eternal infamy pursue The wretch, to nought but his ambition true |