LETTER XX.

"Now seen with love-lorn lilies weeping,
Now with a blushing rose bud sleeping;
While fays from forth their chambers peeping,

Cry, O,rare!"

Leftley.

MY DEAR ANNE,

WHATEVER concerns the name, the writings, or the memory of Cowper, is interesting to me, and, I believe, to you also. I concluded my last letter with an extract from one of the poet's epistles to Lady Hesketh. I now introduce you to another cousin of the amiable bard—Mrs. Thompson of Doncaster. This lady is the daughter of Dr. Madan, the friend and correspondent of Cowper; but, probably, better known to you as the composer of the fine music accompanying Dr. Watts's solemn hymn, beginning, "Before Jehovah's awful throne," which I know to be a favourite piece of yours. Mrs. Thompson has published anonymously, besides smaller pieces, a volume of poetry, which reflects

no discredit on her relationship to the bard of Weston; and as he declares in his "Winter Nosegay," that

"The charms of the late-blowing Rose

Seem'd grac'd with a livelier hue,"

in consequence of the affection of Mrs. Unwin, so also do the following lines derive additional interest from the fact of their having been written by the cousin of Cowper.

ON FINDING A WITHERED BUD UPON A FAVOURITE

ROSE-TREE.

"Pride of that favourite bush my fancy chose,
As the sweet promise of its fairest Rose!
How art thou chang'd, though my assiduous toil,
From each encroaching weed preserv'd thy soil;
Would pleas'd observe thy infant folds assume
The gradual blush, the delicate perfume;
The glittering insect's hasty wing would chase,
And prune thy leaf from all their embryo race.
Yet, ere maturer sweets my hopes repaid,

Those hopes are vanish'd and those sweets decay'd.
Haply a prey to some unpitying storm,
Perchance a banquet to the lurking worm,
That inly canker'd what appear'd so fair,
To mock my wishes and defeat my care.
Ah! could a wish revive that fragrant scent,
Those lovely tints, indulgent nature lent,

How soon those faded beauties should return,
Which once I cherish'd, now can only mourn :
Can only to a faithless world compare,
Whose smiles betray, whose promises ensnare;
Or to that fragile, that precarious thread,
Which yet withholds me from the silent dead.
Should we then trust that world's delusive power,
On youth depend, less certain than a flower?
Alas! let such as have presumed to try,
From sad experience dictate the reply—
"Lean not on earth, it is a broken reed,

"Nay, oft a spear, whereon our hope must bleed.”
There is a hope, that never can deceive,

There is a promise we may dare believe;
That such as trust in "Him who cannot lie,"
Though born to suffer, and decreed to die,
May feel support beneath affliction's weight,
May look beyond this transitory state,
Where the too ardent in their frail pursuit,
Expect from blossoms, ample store of fruit;
Till disappointed, they lament to see,

A "Wither'd Bud" upon their favourite tree.”

How many buds of hope, which it was fondly anticipated would one day blow into roses of happiness, have we seen wither and drop from the branches of society around us! and a few from the bower of our own enjoyments have immaturely perished-but how many yet remain, which the blessings of heaven shall nourish to perfection, and which we may gather in due time full of fragrance, and finished in beauty! But, my dear Anne, how

interesting is a bud—a Rose-bud! It seems like a secret folded up; a promise in reversion; a hope in progress; the plaything of the imagination, which hath yet something to reveal. "The Rose," says an elegant writer, "in full display of beauty, is not so captivating, as when opening her paradise of leaves, she speaks to the fancy, rather than the sight."

"I've seen indeed the hopeful bud
Of a ruddy Rose that stood
Blushing to behold the ray
Of the new saluted day;

His tender top not fully spread;
The sweet dash of a shower now shed,
Invited him no more to hide
Within himself the purple pride
Of his forward flower, when lo,
While he sweetly 'gan to show
His swelling glories, Auster spied him,
Cruel Auster thither hied him,

And with the rush of one rude blast,

Sham'd not spitefully to waste

All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,

And lay them trembling at his feet."

Crashaw.

The following verses are from the tuneful Waller : they exhibit one of those forced conceits so familiar with the poets of his age, and so opposite to truth and nature; the application of the thought in this instance, is pretty as well as ingenious.

THE BUD.

"Lately on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming Rose,
This early Bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose;

I pluck'd it, though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.

"Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so would flame anon:
All that was meant by air or sun,

To the young flower my breath has done.

"If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same inform's of love,
Of purest love, and music too,
When Flavia it aspires to move:

When that which lifeless buds persuades

To wax more soft, her youth invades."

The notion that the bud might be made to open by breathing upon, seems to have been prevalent among the elder poets. Sir Richard Fanshawe alludes to it in the following lines; in what situation our poet's rose-bush stood to be obnoxious to the "careless plough," is not very easy to conceive.

"Thou blushing ROSE, within whose virgin leaves

The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives

For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes!