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And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state,
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,
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space.
A CHARACTER IN THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.
Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
There would he linger, till the latest ray
Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past;
And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind,
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 invites my song,
Sat upon a flowery bed,
About his chequer'd sides I wind,
As circles on a smooth canal:
Now I gain the mountain's brow,
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
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 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,
See on the mountain's southern side,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
0 may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see!
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.