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The thought is converged to bright sallies within its brief limits, and the quickly succeeding rhymes sweeten the sentiment to the ear. Finely chosen words are very ef. fective in the heroic measure, and images have a striking relievo. For bold appeal, and keen satire, this medium is unsurpassed; and it is equally susceptible of touching melody. Witness Byron's description of the dead Medora, and Campbell's protest against scepticism. Rogers and our own Sprague have won their fairest laurels in heroic verse. With this school of poetry, Pope is wholly identified. He most signally exhibited its resources, and to him is justly ascribable the honor of having made it the occasion of refining the English language. He illus. trates the power of correctness--the effect of precision. His example has done much to put to shame careless habits of expression. He was a metrical essayist of excellent sense, rare fancy, and bright wit. He is the apostle of legitimate rhyme, and one of the true masters of the art of verse.

COWPER.

In the gallery of the English poets, we linger with peculiar emotion before the portrait of Cowper. We think of him as a youth, 'gigling and making giggle' at his uncle's house in London, and indulging an attachment destined to be sadly disappointed; made wretched by the idea of a peculiar destiny; transferred from a circle of literary roysterers to the gloomy precincts of an Insane Asylum; partially restored, yet shrinking from the re] sponsibilities incident to his age; restless, undecided, desponding even to suicidal wretchedness, and finally abandoning a world for the excitement and struggles of which he was wholly unfit. We follow him into the bosom of a devoted family; witness with admiration the facility he exhibits in deriving amusements from trifling employments-gathering every way-side flower even in the valley of despair, finding no comfort but in 'selfdeception,' and finding this in self-discipline.' We behold his singular re-appearance in the world in the capacity of an author,-genius reviving the ties that misfortune had broken. We trace with delight his intellectual

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career in his charming correspondence with Hayley, Hill, and his cousin, the vividness of his affections in his poem to his mother's picture, the play of his fancy in John Gilpin, his reflective ingenuity in the Task. We recall the closing scene-the failing faculties of his faithful companion,* his removal from endeared scenes, his sad walks by the sea-shore, his patient, but profound melancholy and peaceful death-with the solemn relief that ensues from the termination of a tragedy. And when we are told that an expression of "holy surprise" settled on the face of the 'departed, we are tempted to exclaim with honest Kent

O, let him pass! he hates him

That would upon the rack of this rude world,
Stretch him out longer.

At an age when most of his countrymen are confirmed in prosaic habits, William Cowper sat down to versify. No darling theory of the art, no restless thirst for fame, no bardic frenzy prompted his devotion. He sought in poetic labor oblivion of consciousness. He strove to make a Lethe of the waters of Helicon. beautiful mind was maried by an unhappy temperament; the chords of a tender heart proved too delicate for the winds of life; and the unfortunate youth became an intellectual hypochondriac. In early manhood, when the

* Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream,

Yet me they charm, whate'er their theme,

My Mary.

The gift of a

Grst cloud of insanity had dispersed, he took, as it were, monastic vows-and turned aside from the busy metropolis where his career began, to seek the solace of rural retirement. There, the tasteful care of a conservatory, the exercise of mechanical ingenuity, repose, seclusion and kindness, gradually restored his spirit to calmness; and then the intellect demanded exercise, and this it found in the service of the muse. Few of her votaries afford a more touching instance of suffering than the bard of Olney. In the records of mental disease, his case has a melancholy prominence-not that it is wholly isolated, but because the patient tells his own story, and hallows the memory of his griefs by uniform gentleness of soul and engaging graces of mind, To account for the misery of Cowper, is not so important as to receive and act upon the lesson it conveys. His history is an ever-eloquent appeal in behalf of those, whose delicate organization and sensitive temper expose them to moral anguish. Whether his gloom is ascribable to a state of the brain as physiologists maintain, to the ministry of spirits as is argued by the Swedenborgians, or to the influence of a creed as sectarians declare, is a matter of no comparative moment--since there is no doubt the germs of insanity existed in his very constitution. "I cannot bear much thinking," he says. "The meshes of the brain are composed of such mere spinner's threads in me, that when a long thought finds its way into them, it buzzes and twangs and bustles about at such a rate as seems to threaten the whole contexture." Recent discoveries have proved that there is more physiological truth in this remark, than the

unhappy poet could ever have suspected. The ideas about which his despair gathered, were probably accidental. His melancholy naturally was referred to certain external causes, but its true origin is to be sought among the mysteries of our nature. The avenues of joy were closed in his heart. He tells us, a sportive thought startled him. "It is as if a harlequin should intrude himself into the gloomy chamber were a corpse is deposited." In reading his productions, with a sense of his mental condition, what a mingling of human dignity and woe is present to the imagination! A mind evolving the most rational and virtuous conceptions, yet itself the prey of absurd delusions; a heart overflowing with the truest sympathy for a sick hare, yet pained at the idea of the church-honors paid to Handel; a soul gratefully recognizing the benignity of God, in the fresh verdure of the myrtle, and the mutual attachment of doves, and yet incredulous of his care for its own eternal destiny! What a striking incongruity between the thoughtful man, ex. patiating in graceful numbers upon the laws of Nature and the claims of Religion, and the poor mortal deferring to an ignorant school-master, and "hunted by spiritual hounds in the night-season;" the devout poet celebrating his maker's glory, and the madman trembling at the waxing moon; the affectionate friend patient and devoted, and the timid devotee deprecating the displeasure of a clergyman, who reproved his limited and harmless plea

sures!

It has been objected to Hamlet, that the sportiveness of the prince mars the effect of his thoughtfulness. It is

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