He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled:

And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !"

At length, his transient respite past.
His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his
Is wet with Anson's tear:
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalise the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allayed.
No light propitious shone,

age,

When, snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.1

Written March 20, 1799; being the last original poem of the Author. It is founded on a story in Anson's Voyage, which Cowper had not looked into for nearly twenty years.

TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM

ON MILTON.

"Three Poets in three distant ages born," &c.

TRES tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vates
Ostentant tribus è gentibus eximios.
Græcia sublimem, cum majestate disertum
Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem.
Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est,
Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos.

TRANSLATION OF A SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST.

"So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds
Ascending," &c.

QUALES aërii montis de vertice nubes

Cum surgunt, et jam Boreæ tumida ora quiêrunt,
Cælum hilares abdit, spissa caligine, vultus:
Tum si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore,
Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat,
Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros,
Balatuque ovium colles vallesque resultant.

TRANSLATIONS OF THE LATIN AND ITALIAN

TO

POEMS OF MILTON.

ELEGY I.

CHARLES DEODATI.

[IT was during the lull which followed Cowper's Homeric labcurs, that the proposal came to him to translate the Latin and Italian poems of Milton. His veneration for the English author was only exceeded by that which he felt towards the Greek, and he embraced the offer with pleasure and hope. But the season was unfortunate. Sickness had visited Mrs. Unwin, and Cowper entered with her into the darkest shade. Often and often he complained of having been caught by this Miltonic trap; and though his disquiet was chiefly occasioned by the critical notes, the poetical portion of the task seems never to have worn a sunny look. His success was moderate. Miss Seward, in a letter to Southey, speaks of the "pedantic, tuneless, and spiritless look and sound" of the translations, and contrasts the version by Cowper with the sweet and touching composition which Langhorne formed of the Elegy on Damon. The defects did not grow of neglect. During Cowper's visit to Eartham, the mornings were chiefly occupied with Hayley, in the revision of the translations. He spared no pains. "I give them," he told Hill, "all the varieties of measure that I can. Some I render in heroic rhyme, some in stanzas, some in seven, and some in eight syllable measure, and some in blank verse.' The Sonnet beginning

"As on a hill-top rude, when closing day—”

is, I think, the happiest specimen. The translations were begun September, 1791, and finished in the March of the following year.]

AT length, my friend, the far-sent letters come,
Charged with thy kindness, to their destined home
They come, at length, from Deva's western side,
Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide.
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be,
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me,
And that my sprightly friend now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home.

:

I well content, where Thames with influent tide
My native city laves, meantime reside,
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impel
To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell.
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I,
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny.
'Tis time, that I a pedant's threats disdain,
And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain.
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent,
Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse
A name expressive of the lot I choose.
I would, that, exiled to the Pontic shore,
Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more.
He then had equall'd even Homer's lays,
And Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise:
For here I woo the muse, with no control;
And here my books-my life-absorb me whole.
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep,
The winding theatre's majestic sweep;
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits;
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir,
Suitor or soldier, now unarm'd, be there,
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause,
Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws.
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire,
And, artful, speeds th' enamour'd son's desire.
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove,
What love is know not, yet, unknowing, love.
Or, if impassion'd Tragedy wield high
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye,
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief,
At times, e'en bitter tears! yield sweet relief.
As when from bliss untasted torn away,
Some youth dies, hapless on his bridal day,
Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below,
Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe,
When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords,
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords.
Nor always city pent, or pent at home,

I dwell; but, when spring calls me forth to roam,
Expatiate in our proud suburban shades
Of branching elm, that never sun pervades.

Here many a virgin troop I may descry,
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by.
Oh forms divine! Oh looks that might inspire
E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire.
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes,
Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies.
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestowed
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road!

Bright locks, Love's golden snare! these fallen low, Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow! Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after shower Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flower!

Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shar'd th' embrace
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place!

Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast!
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast!
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the bloom
Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome,
Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains
Redundant, and still live in classic strains!
To British damsels beauty's palm is due,
Aliens to follow them is fame for you.
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands,

Whose towering front the circling realms commands,
Too blest abode! no loveliness we see

In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.
The virgin multitude that daily meets,
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets,
Out-numbers all her train of starry fires,
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires.
Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves,
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves,
Venus, preferring Paphian scenes no more,
Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore;
But lest the sightless boy enforce my stay,
I leave these happy walls, while yet I may.
Immortal Moly shall secure my heart
From all the sorc'ry of Circæan art,
And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools
To face once more the warfare of the schools.
Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few,
Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true!