felt that he should never return. He wrote, unseen by any one, these lines on a window-shutter: "Farewell, dear scenes, for ever closed to me; It was the 30th of July, 1795. He saw the Ouse once more, at St. Neots, on his journey. And as he walked with Johnson through the churchyard in the moonlight, he talked with cheerfulness. It was the last time that he was ever to do So. They went first to North Tuddenham, then to Mundsley, on the coast, where Johnson noticed that the monotonous sound of the breakers seemed to soothe him, and finally they settled at Dunham Lodge, near Swaffham. Johnson tried to coax him into composition or correspondence, but without avail. The only thing that seemed to please him was being read to, and they read Richardson's novels to him. This was evidently successful, and novel-reading was accordingly persisted in. Presently Johnson spoke in his hearing of some criticisms on his Homer, and laid the volumes where he could see them. They soon found that he had sought out the passages, and had made some corrections in his translation in consequence. But Dunham proving inconvenient, they moved to a house in the little town of East Dereham in October 1796. Two months afterwards (Dec. 17) Mrs. Unwin was released from her sufferings. Johnson took Cowper to see her corpse. He gazed for a minute or two, then uttered some half-finished exclamation of sorrow, and was led away. He regained his calmness down-stairs, asked for a glass of wine,* and from that time never alluded to her again. She was buried by torchlight, that he might not know the time of the funeral. His friends hoped that Mrs. Unwin's release might allow of Cowper's restoration. But the hope was vain. The gloom which rested upon him was dark as ever. Means, wise and unwise, were tried to dispel it-the only one which at all succeeded being the attempt to interest him in his Homer. In September 1797 Johnson placed the revised copy open before him at the place where he had left it off twelve months before, and opened all the commentaries at the same place. Then after talking upon other subjects to him he led up to this. After a while the Poet took up one of the books and sat down on the sofa, saying in a low and plaintive voice, "I may as well do this, for I can do nothing else." And from that time he continued steadily at the work. There were few outward signs of any alleviation of his misery, but he was always more composed when thus engaged; and his letters to Lady Hesketh, though appalling in their fixed despair, occasionally contain "dear cousin," and "yours affectionately," both of which expressions he had quite dropped. Old friends *"He is wonderfully calm now, , and made me give him a glass of wine the moment he got down, and took two pinches of snuff, which he had not done for nearly a week."-Extract from Johnson's letter announcing the death. One of them was the clandestine insertion of tubes into his bedroom, through which messages were spoken, professing to be supernatural, and intended to nullify the Teedon voices"! who came to see him, though he would not speak to them, nor appear to notice them, evidently were of some comfort to him, for he spoke of them afterwards. In March 1799 he finished with Homer. Johnson then put the unfinished "Four Ages of Man" before him. He altered a few lines, and added two or three more. But he was evidently past this. Easier subjects were mentioned. At length he said that he had thought of some Latin verses which he thought he might do, and next day he wrote "Montes Glaciales." The story had been read to him at Dunham Lodge, but he had not appeared to take any notice. A few days afterwards he translated it into English, and the next day wrote “The Castaway,” founded upon a story in "Anson's Voyages," which he had heard read some months before. This was his last original poem. He still seemed to like being read to, and he listened to Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works and to his own poems, except "John Gilpin," which he forbade. Vincent Bourne was brought to him again, and he translated a few more of the poems, as well as some Fables from Gay. This was in Jan. 1800. The last words which he ever wrote were a correction of a mistranslation in Homer, which Hayley in a letter had pointed out. Two days afterwards (Feb. 1) signs of dropsy appeared in his feet, and a physician was called in. On his asking him how he felt, "I feel unutterable despair," was the answer. The last visitor who came to see him was Rose. Cowper showed evident regret at his departure. There was a Miss Perowne, a friend of Miss Johnson, who was staying with them, who had more influence with him than any one. She only, and she not always, could persuade him to take any medicine. Mr. Johnson took courage, on one occasion, to speak to him of death as the deliverance from misery. He seemed to listen, but made no answer. Then Johnson spoke yet more encouragingly-spoke of the unutterable blessedness which God has prepared for those who love Him, and therefore for him. He was quiet until the last four words, then he passionately entreated that no such words should be spoken more. And so the sad days passed on, and no comfort appeared. So near was he to the eternal sunrise now, and yet not a ray of its light appeared to herald the day-dawn. Not an echo reached the dying man's ear of the voice of the Good Shepherd who walked by his side through that horrible valley. The ship was in the midst of the sea, all the waves and storms of despair beating and surging over it, and the Saviour was not yet visible, though He was walking on the waters. He refused it, saying, "What Miss Perowne offered the sufferer a cordial. can it signify?" Those were his last words. unconsciousness came on, and lasted for some hours. It was five o'clock in the evening of St. Mark's Day, 1800, when the happy change came. Even so we must all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Thank God. "From that moment," says the relative who loved him so well, "until the coffin was closed, the expression into which his countenance had settled was that of calmness and composure, mingled as it were with holy surprise." A pretty fancy we may call this; but who can doubt that it symbolized the simple truth? All who had ever known him loved him; but the love of the best of us grows cold before the might of Thine, O most merciful Father of us all. Thy judgments are like the great deep; but Thy righteousness standeth like the strong mountains. O poets! from a maniac's tongue, was poured the deathless singing! And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story, And how, when one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration : Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath taken. ELIZABETH BARRETT-BROWNING. He was buried on Saturday, May 2, in Dereham Church, in St. Edmund's Chapel Mrs. Unwin is buried in the north aisle. Lady Hesketh had a monument erected to him, for which Hayley wrote the following inscription :— IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. Born in Hertfordshire 1731. Buried in this Church 1800. Ye, who with warmth the public triumph feel Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust! Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite name : |