tone of his breathing, which had a striking resemblance to the confused notes of an organ. Inexperienced as he then was in the diversified approaches of the last messenger, he conceived it to be the sound of his immediate summons, and after listening to it several minutes, he arose from the foot of the bed, on which he was sitting, to take a nearer, and a last view of his departing relative, commending his soul, in silence, to that gracious Saviour, whom, in the fulness of mental health, he had delighted to honour. As he put aside the curtain he opened his eyes; but closed them without speaking, and breathed as usual. In the early part of Monday the 21st, and indeed till towards the hour of dinner, he appeared to be dying, but he so far recovered as to be able to partake slightly of that meal. The near approach of his dissolution became more and more observable in every succeeding hour of Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday the weakness was not at all diminished; but he sat up as usual for a short time in the evening. In the course of the night, when he appeared to be exceedingly exhausted, some refreshment was present ed to him by Miss Perowne. From a persuasion, however, that nothing could ameliorate his feelings, though without any apparent impression that the hand of death was already upon him, he rejected the cordial with these words, the very last that he was heard to utter, "What can it signify?" At five in the morning of Friday the 25th, a deadly change in his features was observed to take place. He remained in an insensible state from that time till about five minutes before five in the afternoon, when he ceased to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a manner did his spirit take its flight, that though the writer of this memoir, his medical attendant, Mr. Woods, and three other persons, were standing at the foot and side of the bed, with their eyes fixed upon his dying coun tenance, the precise moment of his departure was unobserved by any. From this mournful period, till the features of his deceased friend were closed from his view, the expression which the kinsman of Cowper observed in them, and which he was affectionately delighted to suppose an index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of his sonl in its gradual escape from the depths of despondence, was that of calmness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy surprise. He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in the church of East Dereham, on Saturday the 2d of May. Over his grave a monument is erected, bearing the follow ing inscription, from the pen of Mr. Hayley. In Memory Of WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 1800. Ye who with warmth the publick triumph feel Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name; 6 POEMS. VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE, IN 1748. FORTUNE! I thank thee; gentle Goddess! thanks! Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny, She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast A treasure in her way; for neither meed Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, Hopes she from this-presumptuous, tho', perhaps, Conferr'd'st thou, Goddess! Thou art blind, thou say'st; Enough! thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Upbore on this supported oft, he stretch'd, STANZAS SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL ODE ON THE FIRST To rescue from the tyrant's sword Th' oppress'd;-unseen and unimplor'd, From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right-a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe; These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these along, the great and good, The guardians of mankind; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, O, with what matchless speed, they leave The multitude behind! Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Full on that favour'd breast they shine, To call the blessing down. Such is that heart-but while the Muse Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues, Her feeble spirits faint: She cannot reach, and would not wrong, That subject of an angel's song, The hero, and the saint! AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 1754. "Tis not that I design to roo Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle; Nor that I mean, while thus I knit My thread-bare sentiments together To show my genius, or my wit, When God and you know I have neither; |