On truth's memorial of her darling child. Little I thought, when eager to bestow The heart's pure offering on parental woe, How soon my filial pride, and friend most dear, Would claim the "meed of a melodious tear." Dear sacred shades of Cowper! and my Son! Who, in my fond affection, liv'd as one! Congenial inmates! on whose loss I found The sweetest light of life in darkness drown'd! Oft have ye witness'd, while, in this calm cell, Ye watch'd the lonely bard, ye lov'd so well, Oft have ye witness'd, how his struggling mind Labour'd affliction's fetters to unbind, Ere his o'er-burthen'd faculties could cope With that ambitious task of tender hope, To render justice to you both; and frame } Memorials worthy of each honour'd name: } A debt the heart must feel! & truth, and nature claim! } Your smile, dear visionary guests of night! O'er my nocturnal hours breath'd new delight; Made me exult in labour, plann'd for you! Its progress from your inspiration grew: The toil was sweet, that your approvance cheer'd; For what your love inspir'd, that love endear'd. Nor unregarded by the fair, and great, Was your recluse in this sequester'd state; When I began, by just records, to prove How Cowper merited our country's love; The loveliest regent of poetic taste; First of the fair; with all attractions grac'd! Friend of the muses! and herself a muse! Her bright eyes dimm'd with sorrow's sacred dews, The high-born beauty, in whose lot combin'd All--that could charm and grieve a feeling mind, Shar'd with me, in my cell, some pensive hours; Herself most eloquent on Cowper's powers, Urg'd to his willing Eulogist his claim To public gratitude, and purest fame. The memoir, as by gradual toil it grows, Endears the tranquil scene, in which it rose; And sheds, since public favor blest the page, A soothing lustre on my letter'd age. The dues of faithful memory fondly paid To him, devotion's bard! dear sacred shade! Then my paternal hand was prompt to raise To that blest pupil, who had shar'd his praise A similar record of tender truth; The genuine portraiture of studious youth-- Task of such pleasing pain, as pierc'd the heart Of Daedalus, the sire of antient art! When, in fond zeal, his busy hand begun To mould the story of his hapless son, But falter'd, while, o'erwhelm'd in mournful thought, He work'd, and wept upon the work, he wrought. Ah peerless youth! whose highly-gifted hand Could all varieties of skill command, Ere illness undermin'd thy powers to use The Sculptor's chizzel, and the Painter's hues! Had thy ascending talents, unenchain'd, Of studious life the promis'd zenith gain'd, Confederate arts would then have joy'd to see Their English Michael Angelo in thee. But never be it by true love forgot, Thou hast a higher, and a happier lot! The prime of blessings, in a world like this, Is early transit to the realms of bliss: Thence thy pure spirit oft will charm to rest