And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands a hymn impart;
Wild-warbling Nature all, above the reach of Art!

Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state,
Of caliphs old, who on the Tygris' shore,
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great,

Held their bright court, where was of ladies store, And verse, love, music, still the garland wore: When Sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore; Composing music bade his dreams be fair, And music lent new gladness to the morning air.

Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, And sobbing breezes sigh'd and oft began (So work'd the wizzard) wintry storms to swell, As heaven and earth they would together mell: At doors and windows threat'ning seem'd to call The demons of the tempest, growling fell, Yet the least entrance found they none at all, Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall.

And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams,
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace,
O'er which was shadowy cast Elysian gleams,
That play'd, in waving lights, from place to place,
And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face.
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array,

So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space.

A CHARACTER IN THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
There was a man of special grave remark :
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face,
Pensive, not sad; in thought involv'd, not dark;
As soot this man could sing as morning lark,
And teach the noblest morals of the heart:
But these his talents were yburied stark;
Of the fine ores he nothing would impart,
Which or boon nature gave, or nature-painting art.

To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
Where purls the brook with sleep inviting sound
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and chamomile are found:

There would he linger, till the latest ray
Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound;
Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray
Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day.

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past;
For oft the heavenly fire that lay conceal'd
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew reveal'd;
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field,

And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind,
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build,
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind;
But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind.

JOHN DYER.

Born 1700-Died 1758.

DYER published Grongar Hill in his twenty-seventh year, and afterwards made the tour of Italy and composed a poem on the ruins of Rome. On his return to England he married, retired into the country, and became a clergyman of the Established church. Grongar Hill is a very beautiful descriptive and moral poem; elegant and easy in its style and versification.

GRONGAR HILL.

GRONGAR Hill invites my song,
Draw the landscape bright and strong
Grongar! in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing, quiet dwells;
Grongar! in whose silent shade,
For the modest muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill

Sat upon a flowery bed,
With my hand beneath my head,
While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood,
Over mead and over wood,
From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind,
And leave his brooks and meads behind,
And groves and grottos where I lay,
And vistos shooting beams of day.
Wide and wider spreads the vale,

As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay the open scene
Does the face of nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow,
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me, trees unnumber'd rise, Beautiful in various dyes; The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beach, the sable yew, The slender fir, that taper grows, The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn, On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye: Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, His sides are cloth'd with waving wood, And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an awful look below; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, And with her arms from falling keeps ; So both a safety from the wind On mutual dependence find.

"T is now the raven's bleak abode; Tis now the' apartment of the toad;

And there the fox securely feeds,
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While ever and anon there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls,
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state:
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers how they run Through woods and meads, in shade and sun! Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep, Like human life to endless sleep! Thus is nature's vesture wrought, To instruct our wandering thought; Thus she dresses green and gay, To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody vallies, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r,
The naked rock, the shady bow'r;
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,

Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way;
The present's still a cloudy day.

0 may I with myself agree,

And never covet what I see!
Content me with an humble shade,
My passion's tam'd, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

NATHANIEL COTTON.

Born (probably) 1707-Died 1788.

COTTON was a physician, remarkable for his success and humanity in the treatment of mental disorders. He kept an asylum for insane patients in the town of St. Albans, and called it the College. Cowper was for some time under his care. Few particulars of his life have been preserved, but there are many testimonies to the excellence of his character. Among these is the following affectionate tribute to his memory from one of the letters of Cowper. "I reckon it one instance of the Providence that has attended me throughout this whole event, that instead of being delivered into the hands of one of the London physicians, who were so much nearer that I wonder I was not, I was carried to Dr. Cotton. I was not only treated by him with the greatest tenderness while I was ill, and with the utmost diligence, but when my reason was restored to me, and I had so much need of a religious friend to converse with, to whom I could open my mind upon the subject without reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter person for the purpose. My eagerness and anxiety to settle my opinions on that long neglected point made it necessary that while my mind was yet weak, and my spirits uncertain, I should have some assistance. The Doctor was as ready to administer relief to me in this article likewise, and as well qualified to do it, as in that which was more immediately his province. How many physicians would have thought this an irregular appetite and a symptom of remaining madness! But if it were so, my friend was as mad as myself, and it is well for me that he was so.”

Mr Hayley observes of Dr. Cotton, that he was "a scholar and a poet, who to many accomplishments added a peculiar sweetness of manners in very advanced life."

His writings do not display an original genius, but are full of good sense, benevolence, and piety. The Fireside is a beautiful domestic picture.