He feels a gentle tingling come
Down to his finger and his thumb,
Derived from nature's noblest part,
The centre of a glowing heart:

And this is what the world, who knows
No flights above the pitch of prose,
His more sublime vagaries slighting,
Denominates an itch for writing.
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme
To catch the triflers of the time,
And tell them truths divine and clear,
Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear;
Who labour hard to allure and draw;
The loiterers I never saw,

Should feel that itching and that tingling,
With all my purpose intermingling,
To your intrinsic merit true,

When call'd to address myself to you.
Mysterious are His ways whose power
Brings forth that unexpected hour,
When minds, that never met before,
Shall meet, unite, and part no more:
It is the allotment of the skies,
The hand of the Supremely Wise,
That guides and governs our affections,
And plans and orders our connexions:
Directs us in our distant road,

And marks the bound of our abode.
Thus we were settled when you found us,
Peasants and children all around us.
Not dreaming of so dear a friend,
Deep in the abyss of Silver-End,
Thus Martha, e'en against her will,
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill;
And you, though you must needs prefer
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre.†

*An obscure part of Olney, adjoining the residence of Cowper, which faced the market-place.

+ Lady Austen's residence in France.

Are come from distant Loire, to choose
A cottage on the banks of Ouse.
This page of Providence quite new,
And now just opening to our view,
Employs our present thoughts and pains
To guess and spell what it contains?
But day by day, and year by year,
Will make the dark enigma clear;
And furnish us, perhaps, at last,
Like other scenes already past,
With proof, that we, and our affairs,
Are part of a Jehovah's cares;
For God unfolds by slow degrees
The purport of his deep decrees;
Sheds every hour a clearer light
In aid of our defective sight;
And spreads, at length, before the soul,
A beautiful and perfect whole,
Which busy man's inventive brain
Toils to anticipate in vain.

Say, Anna, had you never known
The beauties of a rose full blown,
Could you, though luminous your eye,
By looking on the bud descry,
Or guess with a prophetic power,
The future splendour of the flower?
Just so the Omnipotent, who turns
The system of a world's concerns,
From mere minutiæ can educe
Events of most important use;
And bid a dawning sky display
The blaze of a meridian day,

The works of man tend, one and all,

As needs they must, from great to small;
And vanity absorbs at length

The monuments of human strength.
But who can tell how vast the plan
Which this day's incident began?
Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion
For our dim-sighted observation;

It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird
That cleaves the yielding air unheard,
And yet may prove when understood
A harbinger of endless good.

Not that I deem, or mean to call
Friendship a blessing cheap or small :
But merely to remark, that ours,
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers,
Rose from a seed of tiny size

That seem'd to promise no such prize;
A transient visit intervening,

And made almost without a meaning,
(Hardly the effect of inclination,
Much less of pleasing expectation),
Produced a friendship, thus begun,
That has cemented us in one;
And placed it in our power to prove,
By long fidelity and love,

That Solomon has wisely spoken;

"A threefold cord is not soon broken." Dec. 1781.

THE COLUBRIAD.

CLOSE by the threshold of a door nail'd fast
Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,

At the three kittens cast a careless eye;

Not much concern'd to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.

But presently a loud and furious hiss

Caused me to stop and to exclaim, "What's this?"
When lo! upon the threshold met my view
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,

A viper long as Count de Grasse's queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose;
Who, having never seen in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;

Only projecting with attention due,

Her whisker'd face, she asked him, "Who are you?"
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:
With which well arm' I hasten'd to the spot,
To find the viper, but I found him not.
And turning up the leaves and shrubs around,
Found only that he was not to be found.
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
"I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill
Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard :"
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
"Twas in the garden that I found him first.
E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat,
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious the kittens erst had been

To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat;

With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him NEVER TO COME THERE NO MORE.

1782.

SONG ON PEACE.

Witten in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady Austen, who gave the sentiment.

AIR.—“ My fond Shepherds of late.”.

No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue;
O happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu?

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires;
"Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope,
And the summit of all our desires.
Peace may be the lot of the mind
That seeks it in meekness and love;
But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.

SONG.

Also written at the request of Lady Austen. AIR.-"The Lass of Petie's mill.",

WHEN all within is peace,

How Nature seenis to smile!

Delights that never cease

The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve

With open hand she showers

Fresh blessings, to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives Nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees;

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye

As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,
So beauteously array'd
In Nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill display'd,