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      I have sought thee in splendor 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.

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      Air—"The lass of Pattie's mill."

      When all within is peace,

       How nature seems to smile!

       Delights that never cease,

       The live-long 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 wint'ry 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 wond'rous skill display'd,

       Is to a mourner's heart

       A dreary wild at best;

       It flutters to depart,

       And longs to be at rest.

The following song, adapted to the march in Scipio, obtained too great a celebrity not to merit insertion in this place. It relates to the loss of the Royal George, the flag-ship of Admiral Kempenfelt, which went down with nine hundred persons on board, (among whom was Rear-Admiral Kempenfelt,) at Spithead, August 29, 1782. The song was a favourite production of the poet's; so much so, that he amused himself by translating it into Latin verse. We take the version from one of his subsequent letters, for the sake of annexing it to the original.

SONG, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

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      Toll for the brave!

       The brave that are no more!

       All sunk beneath the wave,

       Fast by their native shore!

      Eight hundred of the brave,

       Whose courage well was tried,

       Had made the vessel heel,

       And laid her on her side.

      A land-breeze shook the shrouds,

       And she was overset;

       Down went the Royal George,

       With all her crew complete.

      Toll for the brave!

       Brave Kempenfelt is gone;

       His last sea-fight is fought;

       His work of glory done.

      It was not in the battle;

       No tempest gave the shock;

       She sprang no fatal leak;

       She ran upon no rock.

      His sword was in its sheath;

       His fingers held the pen,

       When Kempenfelt went down

       With twice four hundred men.

      Weigh the vessel up,

       Once dreaded by our foes!

       And mingle with our cup

       The tear that England owes.

      Her timbers yet are sound,

       And she may float again,

       Full-charged with England's thunder,

       And plough the distant main.[152]

      But Kempenfelt is gone,

       His victories are o'er;

       And he and his eight hundred

       Shall plough the wave no more.

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI GEORGIUS, REGALE NOMEN, INDITUM.

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      Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes,

       Patrium propter periere littus

       Bis quatèr centum; subitò sub alto

       Æquore mersi.

      Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat,

       Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,

       Cùm levis, funes quatiens, ad imum

       Depulit aura.

      Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam

       Fortibus vitam voluere parcæ,

       Nec sinunt ultrà tibi nos recentes

       Nectere laurus.

      Magne, qui nomen, licèt incanorum,

       Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti!

       At tuos olim memorabit ævum

       Omne triumphos.

      Non hyems illos furibunda mersit,

       Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes,

       Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox

       Abstulit ensis.

      Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosi

       Voce fallebant hilari laborem,

       Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im-

       pleverat heros.

      Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,

       Humidum ex alto spolium levate,

       Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos

       Reddite amicis!

      Hi quidem (sic dîis placuit) fuere:

       Sed ratis, nondùm putris, ire possit

       Rursùs in bellum, Britonumque nomen

       Tollere ad astra.

      Let the reader, who wishes to impress on his mind a just idea of the variety and extent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this heroic ballad of exquisite pathos with his diverting history of John Gilpin!

That admirable and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which we are now speaking. An elegant and judicious writer, who has favoured the public with three interesting volumes relating to the early poets of our country,[153] conjectures, that a poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More in his youth, (the merry jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have suggested

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