73 MRS. COWPER, MOTHER OF WILLIAM COWPER. ANNE, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of Ludham Hall. in Norfolk, was married early in life to John Cowper, D.D., Rector of Great Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, and chaplain to George II. Little is recorded of her, but that little is sufficient to shew the amiability of her character.Several of her children died in infancy. Two sons only, William and John, lived to experience the irreparable loss of a fond and judicious mother.She died in her thirty-fourth year, 1737, and was buried at St. Peter's, Berkhampstead; yet she continued to live in the memories of those who had shared so largely in her affections. It is probable that this sad event served to deepen the gloom, if it did not actually produce the morbid melancholy, which threw a shadow over the spirit of the amiable and gifted poet, The affectionate child of six years old missed the nameless attentions of maternal love. His young but sensitive heart yearned for the gentle voice which was wont to soothe his early griefs, and the beaming smile which encouraged to some arduous task: but it was in the utter loneliness of a Public School, and through the long years of weakness and disease which followed, that the extent of his loss was felt. An extract from a letter written to Joseph Hill, Esq., on the death of that gentleman's mother, nearly fifty years after the loss of his own parent, will shew the feelings with which her memory was cherished. "You may remember," he writes, "with pleasure, while you live, a blessing vouchsafed to you so long;* and I, while I live, must regret a comfort of which I was deprived so early. I can truly say that not a week passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day), in which I do not think of her; such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for showing it was so short. But the ways of the Lord are equal; and when I reflect on the pangs she would have suffered, had she been a witness of all mine, I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn that she was hidden in the grave so soon." The Rector, his father, discharged the trust which duty and affection imposed on him to the best of his ability, yet he had not sufficient discernment to discover that the delicate constitution, and still more susceptible mind, of his son, was unfitted to bear the strict discipline of a public school. There are too many ungenerous spirits, who, taking advantage of meek and timid tempers, tyrannize over them. This was the lot of William Cowper, whilst at Westminster school. He, who was afterwards looked up to with respect and love, by admiring This lady lived to the age of eighty-seven, thousands was then, we are told, afraid to raise his eyes above the shoe-buckles of many of his blockhead companions. That a mother should be taken from her offspring at a time when they stand in so much need of her care, is to us inscrutable, but to quote from one of Cowper's beautiful hymns "God is his own interpreter, Perhaps this trial was needful to fit the immortal poet for the great work for which he was designed. When Mrs. Bodham (Cowper's cousin) presented him with a portrait of his mother, he said "I had rather possess that picture than the richest jewel in the British crown; for I loved her with an affection that her death, fifty-two years since, has not in the least abated." The following beautiful lines are extracted from a poem he wrote on the above occasion :— "Oh! that those lips had language! life has passed I will obey-not willingly alone,- And while the face renews my filial grief, A momentary dream that thou art she. But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. That once we call'd the pastoral house our own! The house at Berkhampstead, in which the poet was born, was pulled down by the Rev. Mr. Crofts, the present incumbent, who built another rectory higher up the walk in something the same style— erecting an arbour on the site of the former house, The Frontispiece represents the first house, Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd. Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? My boast is not, that I deduced my birth |