VI.

COWPER: NEWTON:

&c. &c.

HE Frenchman first in literary fame,

With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,

Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died:
The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew:

An infidel in health, but what when sick?
Oh-then a text would touch him to the quick
View him at Paris in his last career:
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere;
Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

And fumed with frankincense on every side,
He begs their flattery with his latest breath,
And smothered in't at last, is prais'd to death.

L

Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,
Pillow and bobbins all her little store,

Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Has little understanding and no wit,

Receives no praise, but, though her lot be such,
(Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;

Just knows, and knows no more; her Bible true-
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.

O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward;
He, praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come;
She, never heard of half a mile from home:
He, lost in errors his vain heart prefers ;
She, safe in the simplicity of her's.