kind friends aided him, watched him through his periods of
despair and provided for his simple wants. He was passionately fond of
pets, and was happiest in caring for his rabbits, cats and other
animals. He liked gardening, too, and spent a great deal of energy upon
his plants.

Cowper was one of the finest correspondents that ever wrote, and his
graceful and humorous letters are still read with pleasure by all who
know them. Strangely enough, his gloominess rarely found its way into
his poetry, which often was highly amusing, as you know who have read
_John Gilpin_. _The Task_ is his greatest poem, though there are many
short ones of great beauty.

Cowper was sincere and honest, and used good judgment in everything that
did not concern himself. Occasionally he became dissatisfied with the
style of poetry then most popular, because it was written so strictly
according to rule and because heart and nature were all forgotten. What
he wrote was different; putting his truthful eyes on birds and flowers,
on fine scenery and on noble men and women, he wrote exactly as he saw,
and let his fine sentiment and loving heart find gracious expression.
The result was that he led the way for Wordsworth, the greater man, who
brought our poetry back from the bonds of formality and made it
beautiful, sincere and true.

The final years of Cowper were sad ones. Mrs. Unwin was stricken with
paralysis, and the poet repaid her years of care and protection by an
unfailing attention that lasted till she died. It is said that after the
one heart-breaking cry he uttered when he saw her dead body, he never
again mentioned her name, though he lived for four years. His end came
peacefully enough, in April, 1800.

When Cowper was fifty-six years old his cousin sent to him from Norfolk
a picture of his mother, who had then been dead for half a century. How
vivid a recollection of her loving care remained to the saddened man may
be seen in the poem.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM

O that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine,--thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,--
The art that baffle