‘_Cockermouth, in Cumberland, June 1st, 1775, at the house of George Bowes, hatter._ ‘P.S. With respect to the trifling Poem inclosed, I meant only to ease my own heart by it: should it reach yours, it will be more than I can expect.’ HOPE; OR, THE DELUSION. ‘Advance, soft soother of the mind, Oh! hither bend, a welcome guest: Sweet Hope! stray hither, here thou’lt find Those sanguine thoughts, that please thee best. Fair Fancy bring, thy darling child, Deck’d in loose robes of Alpine white: With thee, her happy Parent, wild She wings her bold, romantic flight. Blest pair! I’ll sing, inspir’d by you, Of wealth bestow’d to noble ends, Of sweet enchanting scenes in view, Of future times and faithful friends. Tho’ my sweet William, prattling youth, For bread oft begs in accents meek; Matilda, fairest flower of truth, Droops on my breast her dew-dipt cheek. Tho’ the big tears run down my face To see her aspect wan and mild, And hear her lov’d affection trace My care-mark’d features in our child. Tho’ fortune lowly bows my neck, And cares not for the wretch’s groan,— Yet smile but Hope, or Fancy beck, And I’ll ascend her star-built throne. Now, now, I mount! Behold me rise! Hope lends me strength, and Fancy wings, Oh! listen to the magic lies, Which fleeting, faithless Fancy sings! With Independence truly blest, Of some neat cot she styles me lord, Where Age and Labour love to rest, Where healthy viands press the board. Now lay me down, kind nymph, at ease Beneath yon verdant mountain’s brow, Where wanton zephyrs fan the trees, Where violets spring, and waters flow. What joys—delusive charmer, hold! Despair has seiz’d my thick’ning blood: Her lips how pale! Her cheek how cold! Matilda faints for want of food!’ The foregoing stanzas have been given less for the poetry than the history they contain. The distress which they paint did not, it seems, reach Garrick’s heart: at least Mr Holcroft left Cockermouth some time after without having received an answer to his letter. Whether his wife died before or after he left Cockermouth, I do not know; but there is an epitaph on Mrs. Holcroft, written about this period, in which he feelingly laments her loss. Beauty, Love, and Truth lie here: Passenger, a moment stay! Breathe a sigh, and drop a tear, O’er her much-lamented clay.