In Memory of

Borni in Hertfordshire, 1731.
Buried in this Church, 1800.

Ye, who with warmth the public triumph feel
of talents, dignified by sacred zeal,
Here to devotion's bard devoutly just,
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust!
England, exulting in his spotless fame,
Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name :
Sense, fancy; wit, suffice not all to raise
So clear a title to affection's praise;
His highest honours to the heart belong ;

Hlis virtaes form'd the magic of his song. Cowper has justly been called the poet of Domestic Life; but his writings are so diversified, as to have a charm for every taste, and for every age. They are calculated not only to awaken the genuine sympathies of the mind, but to rectify the morals, and shed the brightest lustre round the divine realities of our most holy faith.



Si te forte meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ,

llor. Lib. i. Epist. 13.

A. You told me, I remember, glory, built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt ;
The deeds, that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears
The laurel, that the very lightning spares !
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody sword like rust.

B. I grant that, men continuing what they are,
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war ;
And never meant the rule should be applied
"To him that fights with justice on his side.

Let laurels, drenched in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his memory, dear to every muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honour's field advancing luis firm foot, Plants it upon the line that justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause. 'Tis to the virtues of such men, man owes His portion in the good that heaven bestows; And when recording history displays Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died Where duty placed them, at their country's side;

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The man that is not moved with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch, to nought but his ambition true,
Who, for the sake of filling with one blast
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.
Think yourself stationed on a towering rock,
To see a people scattered like a flock,
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels;
Then view him self-proclaimed in a gazette,
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet :
The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced,
Those ensigns of dominion, how disgraced ;
The glass that bids man mark the fleeting hour,
And death's own scythe would better speak his power;
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead
With the king's shoulder-knot and gay cockade ;
Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress,
The same their occupation and success.

A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man; Kings do but reason on the self-same plan; Maintaining your's, you cannot their's condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.

B. Seldom, alas ! the power of logic reigns
With much sufficiency in royal brains ;
Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone,
Wanting its proper base to stand upon.
Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim
That tell you so—say, rather, they for him.
That were indeed a king-ennobling thought,
Could they, or would they, reason as they ought.
The diadem, with mighty projects lined
To catch renown by ruining mankind,

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