Behind some door, in melancholy thought,
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines,
Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment resigns;
And deems it shame, if he to peace

inclines: And many a sullen look ascance is sent, Which for his dame's annoyance he

designs; And still the more to pleasure him she's

bent, The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past

resent.

Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be ! But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment

see, Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler

fires : Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres, All coward arts, is Valour's generous

heat ; The firm fixt breast which fit and right re.

quires, Like Vernon's patriot soul! more justly

great Than Craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false

Deceit.

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. The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, Attend and conn their tasks with mickle

care : By turns, astony'd, every twig survey, And, from their fellows' hateful wounds,

beware; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may

share; Till fear has taught them a performance

moet, And to the well-known chest the dame

repair; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth

them greet, And ginger-bread y-rare ; now certes, doubly

sweet! See to their seats they hye with merry glee, And in beseemly order sitten there ; All but the wight of bum y-galled, he Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm,

and chair; (This hand in mouth y-fixed, that rends his

hair ;) And eke with snubs profound, and heaving

breast, Convulsions intermitting ! does declare

His grievous wrong ; his dame's unjust And scorns her offer'd love and shuns to be

caress'd. His face besprent with liquid erystal

shines, His blooming face that seems a purple

flower,
Which low to earth its drooping head de-

clines,
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic power !
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour :
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower

shall claim, If 80 I deem aright, transcending worth and

fame.

Yet nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits

appear! E'en now sagacious Foresight points to

show A little bench of heedless bishops here, And there a chancellor in embryo, Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er

shall die ! Though now he crawl along the ground so

low, Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on

high, Wisheth, poor starveling elf ! his paper kite

may fly.

behest;

And this perhaps, who, censuring the

design, Low lays the house which that of cards

doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fate incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field ; And, sour'd by age, profound h

he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrillid Surveys mine work; and levels many a

sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, " What

stuff is here?" But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle

skie, And Liberty unbars her prison-door ; And like a rushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque han cover' d o'er

The pilgrim that journeys all day

To visit some far distant shrine, If he bear but a relique away,

Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely removed from the fair,

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft Hope is the relique I bear,

And my solace wherever I go.

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.

PART II.
My banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep ;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow : My fountains all border'd with moss,

Where the harebells and violets grow. 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.

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 everyway 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.

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.

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.

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 wonld rob a poor bird of its young : And I loved her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

'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.

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.

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 ?

Then the lily no longer is white;

The rose is deprived of its bloom ; Then the violets die with despite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume. Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace;

To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;

I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smiled—and I could not but love; Was faithless—and I am undone !

Shenstone-Born 1714, Died 1763.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise : Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The language that flows from the heart,

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; Yet may she beware of his art,

Or sure I must envy the song.

PART IV.

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep; They have nothing to do but to stray;

I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my passion begun; She smiled--and I could not but love;

She is faithless-and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought:

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought,

By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah ! love every hope can inspire ;

It banishes wisdom the while ;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

She is faithless, and I am undone ;

Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of a higher degree: It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.

895.-ODE TO MEMORY. O memory! celestial maid ! Who glean’st the flowerets cropt by

Time;
And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preservest the blossoms of our prime;
Bring, bring those moments to my mind
When life was new, and Lesbia kind.
And bring that garland to my sight,

With which my favour'd crook she bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptured ear convey
The gentle things she deign'a to say.
And sketch with care the Muse's bower,

Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side ;
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.
The song it 'vails not to recite-

But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more

bright
Than other banks, than other streams :
Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume thy beauties not their own!
And paint that sweetly vacant scene,

When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breathed in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends ;
As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,

On thy expressive power depends ;
Nor would exchange thy glowing lines,
To live the lord of all that shines.
But let me chase those vows away

Which at ambition's shrine I made;
Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place.

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 travella 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.

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 ?
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.