Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron-step slow-moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems! A star or two just twinkling on thy brow Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set. With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Beyond this line Cowper does not go, and had no idea of going; he never thinks of lending a soul to material nature as Wordsworth and Shelley do. He is the poetic counterpart of Gainsborough, as the great descriptive poets of a later and more spiritual day are the counterparts of Turner. We have said that Cowper's peasants are genuine as well as his landscape; he might have been a more exquisite Crabbe if he had turned his mind that way, instead of writing sermons about a world which to him was little more than an abstraction, distorted moreover, and discoloured by his religious asceticism. Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left, she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs, The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declined; and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of savoury cheese, or batter, costlier still: Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas' Where penury is felt the thought is chained, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care Ingenious Parsimony takes, but just Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms from grudging hands: but other boast have none To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. Here we have the plain, unvarnished record of visitings among the poor of Olney. The last two lines are simple truth as well as the rest.