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. 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 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 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? The pride of that valley, is flown; What anguish I felt at my heart! My path I could hardly discern ; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. 1 Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. 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 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? O you that have been of her train, I could lay down my life for the swain, Come trooping, and listen the while; For when Paridel tries in the dance And his crook is bestudded around; '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, i Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Then will I muse, and pensive say, Why did not these enjoyments last; While innocence allow'd to waste! Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763. 896.-WRITTEN AT AN INN AT To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 'Tis here with boundless power I reign, I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763. 897.-WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 'Twas at the silent solemn hour, Her face was like an April morn 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, But love had, like the canker-worm, The rose grew pale, and left her cheek- 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 Why did you promise love to me, How could you say my face was fair, Why did you say my lip was sweet, That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: 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 Pale William quaked in every limb, 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, David Mallet.-Born 1700, Died 1765, |