who was in one of his fits of insanity, was aware that her dissolution was expected, and when the servant opened his window, on the morning of the day she died, he said to her, "Sally, is there life above stairs?" He visited her bedside that morning as usual, and returning to his room, desired his relative, Mr. Johnson, to read to him. The book was Miss Burney's "CAMILLA." Mr. Johnson read a few pages, when he was beckoned from the room, and informed that all was over. When he returned, Cowper did not ask why he had been called out, so he told him that Mrs. Unwin had breathed her last. It did not seem to move him, and the reading proceeded as before. A few hours later he said that he was sure she was not dead, but would come to life in the grave, and be suffocated on his account. As he seemed to wish to see her, Mr. Johnson led him into her chamber. At first he fancied that he saw her stir, but on looking more closely he saw that she was indeed dead, and flung himself to the other side of the room with a passionate burst of feeling. He soon grew calm, and when he had descended the stairs, asked for a glass of wine, and from that moment never mentioned her name, nor spoke of her again.

TO MARY.

The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast ;

Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow;

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disused, and shine no more;

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil

The same kind office for me still,

Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For could I view nor them, nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,

My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,

How oft the sadness that I show

Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

1777-1844.

THE Caroline of this poem was the daughter of a clergyman of Inverary, whom Campbell met at Sunipol, in the Isle of Mull, in the summer of 1795. She was on a visit at the house of one of his relatives, with whom he was then lodging, and being about his own age, young, beautiful, and accomplished, he fell to admiring her, and writing verses in her praise. They spent the summer together pleasantly, and parted early in autumn, each with a memorial of their meeting, she with the manuscript of some of his poems, and he with her image in his fancy. They met again at Inverary in the following summer, but nothing came of it, except the second part of Campbell's poem, which was written at that time. He devoted himself to poetry, and she was shortly after married to a certain Thomas W. Esq., of Sterling.

CAROLINE.

PART I.

I'll bid the hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below

The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,

The sweet South wind shall wander by,
And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day,

Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has played,
Whatever isles of ocean fanned,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle,

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold,

Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould:

From some green Eden of the deep,

Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved,

Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endeared, undoubting, undeceived:

From some sweet Paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost, Where Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never crossed.

O gentle gale of Eden bowers,

If back thy rosy feet should roam, To revel with the cloudless Hours

In Nature's more propitious home,

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,

That o'er enchanted spirits twine, A fairer form than Cherub loves,

And let the name be Caroline.

CAROLINE.

PART II.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Gem of the crimson-coloured Even,
Companion of retiring Day,
Why at the closing gates of Heaven,
Belovéd star, dost thou delay ?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns,

When soft the tear of twilight flows;

So due thy plighted love returns,

To chambers brighter than the rose:

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love,

So kind a star thou seem'st to be,

Sure some enamoured orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour,
When all unheavenly passions fly,

Chased by the soul-subduing power
Of Love's delicious witchery.

O sacred to the fall of day,

Queen of propitious stars, appear,

And early rise, and long delay,

When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort,

Whose trees the sunward summit crown,

And wanton flowers, that well may court.

An angel's feet to tread them down.