Lady Austen's voice and touch still faintly live in two or three pieces which were written for her harpsichord.

Some of the short poems on the other hand are poured from the darker urn, and the finest of them all is the saddest.

There is no need of illustrations unless it be to call attention to a secondary quality less noticed, than those of more importance.

That which used to be specially called "wit," the faculty of ingenious and unexpected combination, such as is shown in the similes of _Hudibras_, was possessed by Cowper in large measure.
A friendship that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation, Like hand-in-hand insurance plates, Most unavoidably creates The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as a needle to the pole, Their humour yet so various-- They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too, Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete; Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour.
Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green) They sleep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares Unmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their heterogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Like that of salts with lemon juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence.
Faint presages of Byron are heard in such a poem as _The Shrubbery_, and of Wordsworth in such a poem as that _To a Young Lady_.

But of the lyrical depth and passion of the great Revolution poets Cowper is wholly devoid.