A group of virtues blossom near;
Their roots improve by every tear.

Here Patience, gentle maid! is nigh,
To calm the storm and wipe the eye;
Hope acts the kind physician's part,
And warms the solitary heart:
Religion nobler comfort brings,

Disarms our griefs, or blunts their stings;
Points out the balance on the whole,
And heaven rewards the struggling soul.
But while these raptures I pursue,
The Genius suddenly withdrew.

WILLIAM COWPER.

WILLIAM COWPER, one of our greatest modern poets, was born in 1731, and died in 1800. His life was clouded by ill health and constitutional melancholy, and presents a most afflicting picture of human weakness; his diffidence was such, that he could not engage in any profession; when he attempted it, the effort was too much for him; and he was compelled to retire to private life. Perhaps it was happy for the world that such was the case, for in his retirement he produced many works, the best of which is his Task. This poem consists of six books, and the title is adopted, in allusion to the injunction of a lady to write a poem, for the subject of which she started the sofa. It commences with a sportive discussion of this subject, but soon falls into a serious strain of rural description, mingled with moral sentiments and portraitures, which is preserved through the six books, ranging from thought to thought, with no perceptible method. As a poet, Cowper possessed that combination of energies which marks the mind of a great genius. He has furnished examples of the sublime, the pathetic, the descriptive, the moral, and the satirical. Nothing seemed beyond his grasp; he was so original, that none of his works remind us of a former muse. His Hymns are some of the most beautiful in the English language.

THE REPENTANT SINNER.

IF ever thou hast felt another's pain,
If ever, when he sighed, hast sighed again,

If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear

That pity had engendered, drop one here.

This man was happy-had the world's good word,
And with it every joy it can afford;

Friendship and love seemed tenderly at strife,

Which most should sweeten his untroubled life;

Politely learned, and of a gentle race,

Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace,

And whether at the toilet of the fair

He laughed and trifled, made him welcome there;
Or if in masculine debate he shared,

Ensured him mute attention, and regard.
Alas, how changed! expressive of his mind,
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined;
Those awful syllables, hell, death, and sin,
Though whispered, plainly tell what works within ;
That conscience there performs her proper part,
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart.
Forsaking and forsaken of all friends,
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends;
Hard task! for one who lately knew no care,
And harder still, as learned beneath despair;
His hours no longer pass unmarked away,
A dark importance saddens every day;
He hears the notice of the clock perplexed,
And cries," Perhaps eternity strikes next."
Sweet music is no longer music here,

And laughter sounds like madness in his ear;
His grief the world of all her power disarms,
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms;
God's holy word, once trivial in his view,
Now by the voice of his experience true,
Seems as it is, the fountain, whence alone
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own.
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad;
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God.
As when a felon, whom his country's laws
Have justly doomed for some atrocious cause,
Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears
The shameful close of all his mispent years,
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne,
A tempest usher in the dreadful morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play,
The thunder seems to summon him away,
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies:

If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost,
When hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost,
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters, and his fear;
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks.
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,

Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul
Of him whom hope has with a touch made whole.
'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings
Of the glad regions of the King of kings;
'Tis more:-'tis God diffused through every part,
'Tis God Himself triumphant in his heart;
Oh! welcome now, the sun's once hated light,
His noon-day beams were never half so bright!
Not kindred minds alone are called to employ
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy;
Unconscious nature! all that he surveys,

Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise.

THE MILLENNIUM.

THE groans of nature in this nether world,
Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end;
Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,
Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp,
The time of rest, the promised Sabbath comes.
Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh
Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course
Over a sinful world; and what remains
Of this tempestuous state of human things,
Is merely as the working of a sea
Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest:

For He whose car the winds are, and the clouds
The dust that waits upon his sultry march,

When sin hath moved Him, and his wrath is hot,

Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend
Propitious in his chariot paved with love;
And what his storms have blasted and defaced
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair.
Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet
Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch:
Nor can the wonders it records be sung
To meaner music, and not suffer loss.
But when a poet, or when one like me,
Happy to rove among poetic flowers,
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels
To give it praise proportioned to its worth,
That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems
The labour, were a task more arduous still.

Oh! scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplished bliss, which who can see,
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?
Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach
Of barrenness is passed. The fruitful field
Laughs with abundance; and the land, once lean,
Or fertile only in its own disgrace,
Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.
The various seasons woven into one,

And that one season an eternal spring,

The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,

For there is none to covet, all are full.

The lion, and the libbard, and the bear,

Graze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noon

Together, or all gambol in the shade

Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.
Antipathies are none. No foe to man

Lurks in the serpent now; the mother sees,
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand
Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm,