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On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!)

She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.

But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace?

Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain?

When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim.

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

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

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.

Sce 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 play;

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 been;

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 hopeless 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;

Admired Salopia! that with venial pride Fyes her bright form in Severn's ambient

wave,

Famed for her loyal cares in perils try'd, Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave:

Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his

grave

Whose heart did first these dulcet cates display!

A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray;

Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.

Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763.

894.-A PASTORAL BALLAD.

PART I.

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home. 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.

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 so-
"Twas with pain that she saw me 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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Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire To the bower I have labour'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and

groves,

What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear, As-she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood - pigeons breed:

But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I loved her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to-a dove : That it ever attended the bold;

And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore, Let her speak, and whatever she say, Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmoved when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise ?
Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease? Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

If aught, in her absence, could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

PART III.

Why will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She's fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;

I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the
town

Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe-oh my Phyllis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.

'Tis his with mock passion to glow,

"Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain, With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whispers, "more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower!
What are pinks in a morn to compare ?
What is eglantine after a shower?

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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.

896.-WRITTEN AT AN INN AT
HENLEY.

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.

897.-WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'Twas at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William'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.

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 hér 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?

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,

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