Were I but free, I'd take a flight,

And pierce the clouds beyond their sight,
But ah! like a poor pris'ner bound,
My string confines me near the ground:
I'd brave the eagle's towering wing,
Might I but fly without a string."

It tugged and pulled, while thus it spoke,
To break the string-at last it broke.
Deprived at once of all its stay,
In vain it tried to soar away;
Unable its own weight to bear,

It fluttered downward through the air:
Unable its own course to guide,

The winds soon plunged it in the tide.
Ah! foolish kite, thou hadst no wing,
How could'st thou fly without a string?

My heart replied, "O Lord I see
How much this kite resembles me,
Forgetful that by Thee I stand,
Impatient of Thy ruling hand;

How oft I've wished to break the lines
Thy wisdom for my lot assigns?

How oft indulged a vain desire

For something more, or something higher? And, but for grace and love divine,

A fall thus dreadful had been mine."

A THOUGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE.

IN every object here I see

Something, O Lord, that leads to Thee;

Firm as the rocks Thy promise stands,

Thy mercies countless as the sands,

Thy love a sea immensely wide,

Thy grace an ever-flowing tide.

Something, my heart, that points at thee; Hard as the rocks that bound the strand, Unfruitful as the barren sand,

Deep and deceitful as the ocean,

And, like the tide, in constant motion.

JOHN GILPIN.

BY WILLIAM COWPER.-1731-1800.

[WILLIAM COWPER, the son of Dr. Cowper, chaplain to George II., was born November 15th, 1731, at his father's rectory of Great Berkhampstead, Hertfordshire. His mother, who was allied to some of the noblest families in England, died when he was about six years of age; throughout his lifetime he remembered her with the tenderest affection. At an early age Cowper was removed from a country school to Westminster, where, being constitutionally timid and delicate, the rough usage he experienced at the hands of the elder boys had a sad effect on him. At the age of eighteen he was articled to an attorney, and, in 1754, he was called to the bar; he however, never made the law his study. Through the interest of his family, he received the appointment of Clerk of Journals of the House of Lords; but his nervousness was such that he was plunged into the deepest misery. The seeds of insanity soon became apparent; he resigned his appointment, and was placed in a private madhouse kept by Dr. Cotton, where the kind attention of his physician gradually restored his shattered mind. On his recovery he retired to Huntingdon, where he became a boarder in the family of Mr. Unwin, curate of that place. After Mr. Unwin's death, the family, on the advice of the Rev. John Newton, fixed their abode in Olney, Buckinghamshire. He there formed a close friendship with Lady Austen, at whose instance he wrote "The Task," "John Gilpin," and other poems. Occasionally his mind was reduced to a distressing state of melancholy, his disease taking the form of monomania on religious subjects. His intervals of convalescence were occupied in gardening and literary pursuits. poem given under the title of "The Castaway" pathetically describes some of his saddest feelings, and, at the same time that it evinces his usual inspiration of true poetry as an extraordinary contrast to "John Gilpin," it displays the variable extremes of his temperament. His sonnets to Mrs. Unwin are full of exquisite pathos, brightened by their being addressed to one who had been his companion and stay throughout some of his worst mental sufferings. He died April 28, 1800.]

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

credit and renown,

A train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,

The

"Tomorrow is our wedding-day ;

And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we."

He soon replied, "I do admire
Of womankind but one;
And you are she, my dearest dear;
Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know ;
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said
And for that wine is dear,

We will be furnish'd with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;
O'erjoy'd was he to find,

;

That, though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,
Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad;

The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.