Mrs. Unwin, worn down by long fatigues, is at last smitten by paralysis; and she whose life has been spent in serving must herself be served; the poor poet bringing to that service all the instincts of affection, and the wavering purpose of a shattered mind. Yet out of this new gloom and {253} these terrors of the home comes that faultless little poem inscribed to "My Mary." "Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of Orient light, My Mary. "For could I view--nor them--nor thee What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary. "Partakers of thy sad decline Thy hands their little force resign, Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary." But here, as before, quotation counts for nothing; it cannot bring to mind the mellowness and the tenderness which lurk in so many of the lines and in all the flowing measure of the little poem. Mrs. Unwin has embalmment in it that will keep her memory alive, longer than would any tomb in Westminster. Well, Mrs. Unwin dies at last in the town of East Dereham, Norfolk, where they had taken her for "diversion"; and the poor poet died there three years later and was buried beside her. {254} They were three dreary years--which followed upon her death--for him and for those about him. From time to time he touched a little bit of old work, but put no joy in it; distraught--weary--smileless--only waiting. [Sidenote: Cowper's poetry.] Critics are agreed that we shall not rank him among the great poets; but he comes nearer to their rank than anybody in his day believed possible. He is so true; he is so tender; he is so natural. If in his longer poems there is sometimes a lack of last finish, and an overplus of language--there is a frankness of utterance and a billowy undulation of movement that have compensating charms. He loves Nature as a boy loves his play; his humanities are wakened by all her voices. He not only seizes upon exterior effects with a painter's eye and hand, but he has a touch which steals deeper meanings and influences and transfers them into verse that flows softly and quietly as summer brooks. He cannot speak or rhyme but the odors of the country cling to his words. There is no crazy whirl of expletives which would apply to a hundred scenes, but clear, forceful epithet, full of singleness of story:-- {255}