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-charg'd with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred,

Shall plough the wave no more.

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 I am now speaking. An elegant and judicious Writer, who has recently favoured the public with three interesting volumes relating to the early Poets of our country, conjectures, that a Poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas Moore in his youth (the merry jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin; but that fascinating Ballad had a different origin; and it is a very remarkable fact, that full of gaiety and humour, as this favourite of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really composed at a time, when the spirit of the Poet, as he informed me himself, was very deeply tinged with his depressive malady. It happened one afternoon, in those years when his accomplished friend Lady Austen made a part of his little evening circle, that she observed him sinking into encreasing dejection; it was her custom, on these occasions,

to

to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate relief. She told him the story of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in her memory from her childhood) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchantment: he informed her the next morning, that convulsions of laughter, brought on by his recollection of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night; and that he had turned it into a Ballad. So arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin : It was eagerly copied, and finding its way rapidly to the Newspapers, it was seized by the lively spirit of Henderson, the Comedian, a man, like the Yorick described by Shakespeare, “of infinite jest, and most excellent fancy," it was seized by Henderson as a proper subject for the display of his own comic powers, and by reciting it, in his Public Readings, he gave uncommon celebrity to the Ballad, before the public suspected to what Poet they were indebted for the sudden burst of ludicrous amusement. Many readers were astonished when the Poem made its first authentic appearance in the second volume of Cowper. In some Letters of the Poet to Mr. Hill, which did not reach me till my Work was Work was nearly finished, I find an account of John Gilpin's first introduction to the world, and a circumstance relating to the first Volume of Cowper's Poems, which may render the following selection from this correspondence peculiarly interesting.

VOL. I.

S

LETTER

LETTER XXXII.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Feb. 13, 1783.

In writing to you I never want a

subject. Self is always at hand, and Self with its concerns is always interesting to a friend.

You may think perhaps that having commenced Poet by profession, I am always writing Verses. Not so I have written nothing, at least finished nothing, since I published-except a certain facetious history of John Gilpin, which Mrs. Unwin would send to the Public Advertiser, perhaps you might read it without suspecting the Author.

My Book procures me favours, which my modesty will not permit me to specify, except one, which, modest as I am, I cannot suppress, a very handsome Letter from Dr. Franklin, at PassyThese fruits it has brought me.

I have been refreshing myself with a walk in the garden, where I find that January (who according to Chaucer was the husband of May) being dead, February has married the widow.

LETTER XXXIII.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

Olney, Feb. 20, 1783.

Suspecting that I should not have hinted

at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other influence than that of vanity, I was several times on the point of burning my Letter for that very reason. But not having time to write another by the same post, and believing that you would have the

grace to pardon a little self-complacency in an Author on so trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin naturally leads to another, and a greater, and thus it happens now; for I have no way to gratify your curiosity, but by transcribing the Letter in question. It is addressed by the way, not to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who had transmitted the Volume to him without my knowledge.

"Sir,

Passy, May 8, 1782.

I received the Letter you did me the honour of writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind present of a Book. The relish for reading of Poetry had long since left me, but there is something so new in the manner, so easy and yet so correct in the language, so clear in the expression, yet concise, and so just in the sentiments, that I have read the whole with great pleasure, and some of the pieces more than once. I beg you to accept my thankful acknowledgements, and to present my respects to the Author.

Your most obedient humble Servant,