Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue, fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,

And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour

When idly first, ambitious of the town,

335

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet Auburn! thine, the loveliest train,—

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?

E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread.
Ah, no! to distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

340

Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore,-
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;

345

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

350

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,—
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,

355

360

That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day
That call'd them from their native walks away;

365

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,

NOTE-344 Altama, the Alta

maha River in Georgia, one

of the boundaries of Oglethorpe's grant of land.

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire was first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But, for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.

370

375

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,

380

And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,

385

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!

How do thy potions, with insidious joy,

Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,

Boast of a florid vigor not their own.

390

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass, of rank unwieldy woe;

Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;

395

E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
1 see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

400

Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

NOTES. 368. seats, sites, loca- 368. main, sea.

tions.

402. strand, beach.

Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,

405

410

Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel;
Thou nurse of every virtue,-fare thee well!
Farewell! and, oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,
Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigors of the inclement clime;

415

120

Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;

Teach him that states of native strength.possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very bless'd;
That Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As Ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can Time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

425

420

NOTES.-418. Torno's cliffs. This | 418.
probably refers to the cliffs
around Lake Tornc in Swe-
den.

Pambamarca's side. l'am

bamarca is a mountain near Quito, South Amer ica.

12. WILLIAM COWPER,

1731-1800.

WILLIAM COWPER, whom Southey speaks of as the "most popular poet of his generation, and the best of English letter-writers," was the son of the Rev. Dr. John Cowper, chaplain to George II., and grandson of Judge Spencer Cowper. His mother also was allied to some of the noblest families in England, and descended by four different lines from King Henry III. Dr. Cowper at the time of William's birth-which took place on the 15th of November, 1731—was also rector of Great Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire.

Cowper's mother died when he was but six years of age, and he was soon thereafter taken to a boardingschool, where he was not only homesick and lonely, but compelled to suffer from the tyranny of one of his schoolfellows much older than himself, who cruelly crushed his spirit with rough blows and continual persecution. It was here that the foundation was laid for that morbid sensitiveness and dislike for schools of all kinds which characterized him through life. At the age of eight he was taken from school, and placed for two years in the care of an oculist for treatment of his eyes. At the age of ten he was placed in Westminster School, where he remained seven years.

He was placed in an attorney's office at eighteen, and here for three years he and a fellow-student, who afterward became Lord Chancellor Thurlow, enjoyed themselves in pretending to study English law. This experience was one of the few bright spots in the poet's

life. Cowper, who was called to the bar in 1754, lived for some time an agreeable but idle life, spending an hour now and then in writing a little for the serials of the day.

Ir. 1763 a clerkship in the House of Lords was offered to him, but his shrinking nature forbade his accepting the post. Another position was substituted, that of clerk of the journals of the House of Lords. But he was required to pass an examination for this position, and in the effort to prepare himself his mind gave way and he tried to kill himself. A deep religious melancholy took possession of him, and for a year and a half he remained an inmate of an asylum at St. Albans. Three times subsequently his malady returned.

In 1766 he became a member of Rev. Mr. Unwin's family, residing at Huntingdon; and this proved to be the great blessing of his life. Cowper in one of his letters says of Mrs. Unwin, who became a widow in 1767, "Her behavior to me has always been that of a mother to her son." In 1773, Cowper became insane the second time, and for more than three years his terrible malady held possession of him. When he recovered he resorted to gardening, the rearing of hares, and the writing of poetry as recreation. The last of these fortunately became a permanent enjoyment. His first published poems appeared in 1782. The Task, by which he is best known, was published in 1785, but previous to this the comic ballad of John Gilpin, written for the amusement of a few friends, had made all England merry with its humor.

From 1776 to 1794, Cowper's mind was clear, except for a space of six months, and it was during these eighteen years that most of his poems were written. His verses On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture are among the most touching in the language.