The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' many a vow, and locked embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We torn oursels asunder:

But O, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly :
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that loed me dearly;

But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

1762-1850.

BOWLES made his appearance in the world of letters in 1789, by publishing a small collection of sonnets, most of which hinted of a disappointment in love. The object of his affections is said to have been a niece of Sir Samuel Romilly, whose rejection of his suit set him wandering about the Continent and writing poetry. He seems to have been quite unhappy, in a quiet way; but he finally consoled himself with a wife, for in 1797 he married Magdalene Wake, daughter of the Rev. Charles Wake, prebendary of Westminster.

Bowles' sonnets were the delight and inspiration of Coleridge in his youth. "As my school finances," he says, "did not permit me to purchase copies, I made, within less than a year and a half, more than forty transcriptions."

IN MEMORIAM.

How blessed with thee the path could I have trod

Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,
(And little wishing more,) nor of the great
Envious, or their proud name; but it pleased God
To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go

In youth and beauty to thy cold death-bed;
Even whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
Of years to come of comfort! Be it so.
Ere this I have felt sorrow; and even now,

Though sometimes the unbidden tear will start,
And half unman the miserable heart,

The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!

APPROACH OF SUMMER.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill

My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide
First came, and on the Coomb's romantic side
Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill!
Fresh flowers shall fringe the margin of the stream,
As with the songs of joyance and of hope
The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope
The poplars sparkle in the passing beam;
The shrubs and laurels that I loved to tend,

Thinking their May-tide fragrance would delight,
With many a peaceful charm, thee, my poor friend,

Shall put forth their green shoots, and cheer the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sadder eyes,

And weep the more for one who in the cold earth lies!

ABSENCE. OCT. 26, 1791.

How shall I cheat the heavy hours, of thee

Deprived, of thy kind looks and converse sweet,
Now that the waving grove the dark storms beat,
And wintry winds sad sounding o'er the lea,
Scatter the sallow leaf! I would believe

Thou, at this hour, with tearful tenderness
Dost muse on absent images, and press
In thought my hand, and say: O do not grieve,
Friend of my heart, at wayward fortune's power:
One day we shall be happy, and each hour
Of pain forget, cheered by the summer ray.

These thoughts beguile my sorrow for thy loss,
And, as the aged pines their dark heads toss,

Oft steal the sense of solitude away.

So am I sadly soothed, yet do I cast

A wishful glance upon the seasons past,

And think how different was the happy tide,

When thou, with looks of love, wert smiling by my side.

WILLIAM COWPER.

1731-1800.

IN 1749, Cowper entered the office of Mr. Chapman, a solicitor in Southampton Row, with whom he remained three years. His ostensible object was studying law, but his real business was giggling with his fellow clerk, Thurlow, afterwards Lord Chancellor, and making love to his cousin, Theodora Jane, a daughter of his uncle, Ashley Cowper. This young lady and her sister Harriet, the Lady Hesketh of the poet's correspondence, were in the habit of visiting their young kinsman in his chambers, and making giggle with him and his companion. At what stage of their acquaintance the unfledged barrister was first attracted to his fair cousin, we are not told, but it was probably at an early one, for young gentlemen of his age and temperament-he was a melancholy youth of eighteen-are ready to fall in love at the shortest notice. Be this as it may, he loved his cousin, and her influence over him was soon perceptible; he lost his natural bashfulness, spruced up his dress, and endeavoured to shine in conversation. When his uncle became aware of his attachment, he objected to it, basing his objection at first on Cowper's want of means. "If you marry William Cowper, what will you do?" he asked his daughter. "Do?" she answered, "why, wash all day, and ride on the great dog at night." The episode growing serious, he refused his consent, on the ground that marriage was improper between persons so nearly related. Cowper tried to overcome the objection, and continued to meet his cousin; but when he found that she deemed it her duty to obey her father, whose will was unalterable, their interviews ceased, and they never met again. Years afterwards, when his intimacy with Lady Hesketh was renewed, he said to her, "I still look back to the memory of your sister and regret her; but how strange it is, if we were to meet now we should not know each other." It is possible that they might not have known each other then, but it would not have been because his cousin had forgotten him, for she never forgot him. She kept for many a long year the poems that he wrote her in his early days, and only parted with them when she was an old woman, to one who would keep them more securely than she could do. Whether the sight of them reminded her too vividly of her youth, or Cowper's insanity and death affected her too painfully, she never told; but she sent them to a friend with directions not to open them until she was dead. She died unmarried in 1824, and they were published for the first time in 1825. I have glanced through them

-there are some twelve or fourteen in all-and found nothing that seemed worth quoting. They are like most of the love-poems of the last century-imitative, conventional, passionless, written from the head rather than the heart. A lock of hair is begged in one; in another a quarrel is spoken of, and happily as a thing that is past. And these trifles, poor Theodora, are all that remain of thy love! It is sad to think of.

Thirteen years of melancholy, despair, and madness passed, and Cowper found a home at Huntingdon with the Unwins. The family consisted of the Rev. William Unwin, his wife Mary, and a son and daughter: "The most agreeable people imaginable," Cowper wrote to his friend, Joseph Hill, in 1765. "They treat me more like a near relation than a stranger, and their house is always open to me. The old gentleman carries me to Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of learning and sense, and as simple as Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncommon understanding, has read much to excellent purpose, and is more polite than a duchess." In June, 1767, Mr. Unwin was killed by a fall from his horse. A few months later his widow removed to Olney, and Cowper accompanied her. The connection between the poet and this lady has frequently been commented upon by his biographers, who cannot quite make up their minds whether he loved her, or not. The relation was a subject of gossip at the time, some going so far as to say that he was married to her, which he flatly denied. It is said by one of his biographers that he intended to marry her, and repeatedly declared that if he entered into a church again, it would be for the purpose of making her his wife. Southey scouts the idea, and insists upon it that the relation was a friendly one, and nothing more. My own opinion is that Cowper loved Mrs. Unwin, or fancied that he did so, but was prevented from marrying her by the return of his madness, or her disinclination to enter again into the bonds of matrimony, or some other reason equally valid. But this is mere conjecture. It is enough for us to know that they were not married, and that the tie which bound them together, whatever it may have been, was an innocent and happy one. They were probably necessary to each other. At any rate, Mrs. Unwin was necessary to Cowper, especially in his hours of despondency and gloom. She watched him with the skill of a physician, and the tenderness of a mother, and it was to her that he owed some of the brightest years of his life. She incited him to write, suggesting to him the subjects of some of his most admired poems. During his nineteen years' residence at Olney with her, he dawned upon the world as a poet, by the publication of his first volume of poems, wrote "THE TASK," and translated the greater part of Homer. In November, 1786, they removed to Weston, where Mrs. Unwin was struck with paralysis, and where, in the autumn of 1793, Cowper wrote the poem which I have quoted. Hayley visited them at this place, and perceived the approach of the storm which finally wrecked the poet's intellect. "There was something indescribable," he says, "in his appearance, which led me to apprehend that, without some signal event in his favour to reanimate his spirits, they would gradually sink into hopeless dejection. The state of his aged, infirm companion afforded additional ground for increasing solicitude. Her cheerful and beneficent spirit could hardly resist her own accumulated maladies, so far as to preserve ability sufficient to watch over the tender health of him, whom she had watched and guarded so long." In 1796, they removed to East Dereham, in Norfolk, where, on the 17th of December, Mrs. Unwin died, in the seventy-second year of her age. Cowper,