The Works of William Cowper. William Cowper
COWPER'S LATIN POEMS.
| Montes Glaciales, in Oceano Germanico natantes | 726 |
| On the Ice Islands seen floating in the German Ocean | 727 |
| Monumental Inscription to William Northcot | 727 |
| Translation | 727 |
| In Seditionem Horrendam | 727 |
| Translation | 727 |
| Motto on a Clock, with Translation by Hayley | 728 |
| A Simile Latinised | 728 |
| On the Loss of the Royal George | 728 |
| In Submersionem Navigii, cui Georgius Regale Nomen inditum | 728 |
| In Brevitatem Vitæ Spatii Hominibus concessi | 728 |
| On the Shortness of Human Life | 729 |
| The Lily and the Rose | 729 |
| Idem Latine redditum | 729 |
| The Poplar Field | 729 |
| Idem Latine redditum | 730 |
| Votum | 730 |
| Translation of Prior's Chloe and Euphelia | 730 |
| Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd | 730 |
| The same in Latin | 730 |
| Papers, by Cowper, inserted in "The Connoisseur" | 731 |
THE
LIFE OF COWPER.
PART THE FIRST.
The family of Cowper appears to have held, for several centuries, a respectable rank among the merchants and gentry of England. We learn from the life of the first Earl Cowper, in the Biographia Britannica, that his ancestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is found repeatedly among the sheriffs of London; and William Cowper, who resided as a country gentleman in Kent, was created a baronet by King Charles the First, in 1641.[3] But the family rose to higher distinction in the beginning of the last century, by the remarkable circumstance of producing two brothers, who both obtained a seat in the House of Peers by their eminence in the profession of the law. William, the elder, became Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spencer Cowper, the younger, was appointed Chief Justice of Chester in 1717, and afterwards a Judge in the Court of Common Pleas, being permitted by the particular favour of the king to hold those two offices to the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, on the 10th of December, 1728, and has the higher claim to our notice as the immediate ancestor of the poet. By his first wife, Judith Pennington (whose exemplary character is still revered by her descendants), Judge Cowper left several children; among them a daughter, Judith, who at the age of eighteen discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the praise of her contemporary poets Pope and Hughes. This lady, the wife of Colonel Madan, transmitted her own poetical and devout spirit to her daughter Frances Maria, who was married to her cousin Major Cowper; the amiable character of Maria will unfold itself in the course of this work, as the friend and correspondent of her more eminent relation, the second grandchild of the Judge, destined to honour the name of Cowper, by displaying, with peculiar purity and fervour, the double enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The father of the subject of the following pages was John Cowper, the Judge's second son, who took his degrees in divinity, was chaplain to King George the Second, and resided at his Rectory of Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, the scene of the poet's infancy, which he has thus commemorated in a singularly beautiful and pathetic composition on the portrait of his mother.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more;
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor:
And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall;