The answer, not given by Cowper, is “A Kiss.” The riddle was first published in _The Gentleman’s Magazine_ in 1806. In a later number the following answer was given, the initials “J. T.” being appended to it:―― A riddle by Cowper Made me swear like a trooper, But my anger, alas! was in vain; For remembering the bliss Of beauty’s soft kiss, I now long for such riddles again. In _Notes and Queries_ April 2, 1887, a poem was printed as having been written by William Cowper, but not hitherto included in his works. This gave rise to some controversy, the general opinion being, that although probably not actually written by Cowper, the poem was a by no means poor imitation of his lighter style. BLESS MY HEART, HOW COLD IT IS. Hark! the blustering Boreas blows. See! the waters round are froze. The trees that skirt the dreary plain All day a murmuring cry maintain; The trembling forest hears their groan, And sadly answers moan for moan. Such is the tale, O’er hill and dale, Each traveller may behold it is; While low and high Are heard to cry, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!” Now slumbering sloth, that cannot bear The question of the piercing air, Lifts up her unkempt head, and tries, But cannot from her bondage rise; The while the housewife swiftly throws Around the wheel, and quickly shows The healthful cheek industry brings (It is not in the gift of Kings). To her long life, Devoid of strife, And justly, too, unfolded is, The while the sloth To stir is loth, And trembling cries, “How cold it is!” Now lisps Sir Fopling, tender weed, All shivering like a shaken reed, “How sharp the wind attacks my back! John, put some list across that crack; Go, sandbag all the sashes round, And see there’s not an air-hole found.” Indulgence pale Tells this sad tale Till he in furs enfolded is; Still, still complains, O’er all his pains, “Bless my heart, how cold it is!” Now the poor newsman from the town Explores his way across the down, His frozen fingers sadly blows, And still he seeks, and still it snows. “Go take his paper, Richard, go, And give a dram to make him glow.” Such was thy cry, Humanity, More precious far than gold it is, Such gifts to deal, When newsmen feel, All clad in snow, how cold it is. Humanity, delightful tale, When we feel the winter gale, May the cit in ermined coat Lend his ear to sorrow’s note; And when with misery’s weight oppressed A fellow sits, a shivering guest, Full, ample may his bounty flow, To cheer the bosom dulled by woe. In town or vale, Where’er the tale Of real grief unfolded is, Oh, may he give The means to live To those who feel how cold it is,