These, the sunniest days of Cowper's life, however, gave birth to many of those short poems which are perhaps his best, certainly his most popular works, and which will probably keep his name alive when _The Task_ is read only in extracts. _The Loss of the Royal George_, _The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk_, _The Poplar Field_, _The Shrubbery_, the _Lines on a Young Lady_, and those _To Mary, will hold their places for ever in the treasury of English Lyrics. In its humble way _The Needless Alarm_ is one of the most perfect of human compositions. Cowper had reason to complain of Aesop for having written his fables before him. One great charm of these little pieces is their perfect spontaneity. Many of them were never published, and generally they have the air of being the simple effusions of the moment, gay or sad. When Cowper was in good spirits his joy, intensified by sensibility and past suffering, played like a fountain of light on all the little incidents of his quiet life. An ink-glass, a flatting mill, a halibut served up for dinner, the killing of a snake in the garden, the arrival of a friend wet after a Journey, a cat shut up in a drawer, sufficed to elicit a little jet of poetical delight, the highest and brightest jet of all being _John Gilpin_. Lady Austen's voice and touch still faintly live in two or three pieces which were written for her harpsichord. Some of the short poems on the other hand are poured from the darker urn, and the finest of them all is the saddest. There is no need of illustrations unless it be to call attention to a secondary quality less noticed, than those of more importance. That which used to be specially called "wit," the faculty of ingenious and unexpected combination, such as is shown in the similes of _Hudibras_, was possessed by Cowper in large measure. A friendship that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation, Like hand-in-hand insurance plates, Most unavoidably creates The thought of conflagration. Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as a needle to the pole, Their humour yet so various-- They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too, Their love is so precarious. The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete; Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour. Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green) They sleep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares Unmoved and without quaking. Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their heterogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Like that of salts with lemon juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence.