LESSON 18.—THE ROSE. WILLIAM COWPER, the poet, was the son of the rector of Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, and was born at this place in 1731. He was of quiet and retiring disposition, and though he was a man of earnest piety, he was subject to fits of melancholy, which rendered his later years very unhappy. He died in 1800. His writings are distinguished for playfulness, good sense, fidelity to nature, patriotism, and for the spirit of piety that pervades them. His principal poems are "The Task," "Table Talk," and "The Progress of Error." Many of his shorter poems are well-known, such as the "Lines on Receipt of my Mother's Picture" and the inimitable "John Gilpin." He is also the author of many of our best hymns. THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, I hastily seized it, unfit as it was And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner a while; LESSON 19.-LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS. GOD moves in a mysterious way He plants His footsteps in the sea, Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up His bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan His work in vain: God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.-Cowper. LESSON 20.-FALSE SYMPATHY. A YOUNGSTER at school, more sedate than the rest, His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, "Oh no! "You speak very fine, and you look very grave, you will go with us, you shall have a share, If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.' They spoke, and Tom ponder'd-"I see they will go; Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, "If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree; His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, LESSON 21.-THE FIRST CAUSE. HAPPY the man, who sees a God employ'd And putrify the breath of blooming Health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first He made the world? And did He not of old employ His means To drown it? What is His creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for His use, and ready at His will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of Him, Or ask of whomsoever He has taught; And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.-Cowper. LESSON 22.-ON RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd I will obey, not willingly alone, my relief, My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er the sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-It was.- -Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. |