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With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Hearen shield their short-lived pastimes, I

implore ! For well may Freedom erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the


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Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive

trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest

flowers ; For when my bones in grass-green sods are

laid, For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts where proud Ambition

towers ; Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can

spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of

king. See in each sprite some various bent

appear! These rudely carol most incondite lay; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund

leer Salute the stranger passing on his way; Some builden fragile tenements of clay; Some to the standing lake their courses

bend, With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to


Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite

to spend. Here, as each season yields a different

store, Each season's stores in order rangèd

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,

Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers homo. Allow me to muse and to sigh,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I ;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind.


Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er, Galling full sore the unmoney'd wight, are

seen ; And goose-b’rie clad in livery red or green ; And here of lovely dye, the catherine pear, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween :

O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hope

less care ! See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies

tied, Scattering like blooming maid their glances

round, With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside ; And must be bought, though penury

betide. The plum all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names the inventive city

own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's

praises known;

Now I know what it is, to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire ; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn :

- I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine :
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I prized ev'ry hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before ; But now they are past, and I sigh ;

And I grieve that I prized them no more. But why do I languish in vain ;

Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain,

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd,

I could wander with pleasure, alone. When forced the fair nymph to forego,

What anguish I felt at my heart ! Yet I thought—but it might not be som

'Twas with pain that she saw mo depart. She gazed, as I slowly withdrew ;

My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

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Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,

And bring the hobby I bestrode;
When, pleased, in many a sportive ring,

Around the room I jovial rode :
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.
Then will I muse, and pensive say,

Why did not these enjoyments last;
How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste !
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

Shenstone. Born 1714, Died 1763.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,

That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.
But love had, like the canker.worm,

Consumed her early prime ;
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek-

She died before her time.
Awake! she cried, thy true love calls,

Come from her midnight grave :
Now let thy pity hear the maid

Thy love refused to save.
This is the dark and dreary hour

When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,

To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden-vow,

And give me back my troth. Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep ? Why did you swear my eyes were bright,

Yet leave those eyes to weep ?
How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?


To thee, fair Freedom, I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn. 'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne :

Such freedom crowns it at an inn. I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,

I fly from falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; It buys what courts have not in store,

It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.

Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763.

Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale ?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red :
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,

And every charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is ;

This winding-sheet I wear :
And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.
But hark! the cock has warned me hence;

A long and last adieu !
Come see, false man, how low she lies,

Who died for love of you.
The lark sung loud; the morning smiled

With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quaked in every limb,

And raving left his bed.
He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay ;
And stretched him on the green-grass turf

That wrapt her breathless clay.
And thrice he called on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore ;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spake never more !
David Mallet.-Born 1700, Died 1765.

897.-WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 'Twas at the silent solemn hour,

When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at Williain's feet.

Her face was like an April morn

Clad in a wintry cloud ;
And clay.cold was her lily hand

That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear

When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear,

When death has reft their crown.

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