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Behind some door, in melancholy thought,
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
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
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
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
shall claim, If 80 I deem aright, transcending worth and
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
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
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar;
Whose heart did first these dulcet cates
display! A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region
striy ; Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.
Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763.
Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring
894.-A PASTORAL BALLAD. Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, See in each sprite some various bent
Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; appear !
Should Corydon's happen to stray, These rudely carol most incondite lay;
Oh! call the poor wanderers home. Those sauntering on the green, with jocund
Allow me to muse and to sigh, leer
Nor talk of the change that ye find; Salute the stranger passing on his way;
None once was so watchful as I; Some builden fragile tenements of clay ;
I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
Now I know what it is, to have strove With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to With the torture of doubt and desire ; play ;
What it is to admire and to love, Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend,
And to leave her we love and admire. In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn, to spend.
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn : Here, as each season yields a different
-I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. store, Each season's stores in order rangèd Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine: Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er,
May I lose both my pipe and my crook, Galling full sore the unmoney'd wight, are If I knew of a kid that was mine! seen;
I prized ev'ry hour that went by,
And I grieve that I prized them no more.
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain, See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? With thread so white in tempting posies They tell me, my favourite maid, tied,
The pride of that valley, is flown; Scattering like blooming maid their glances
Alas! where with her I have stray'd, round,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
What anguish I felt at my heart !
My path I could hardly discern; Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's So sweetly she bade me adien, praises known;
I thought that she bade me return.
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.
Whose murmur invites one to sleep ;
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 ;
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 ;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
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 vanish from every eye.
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.
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.
It banishes wisdom the while ;
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
Preservest the blossoms of our prime;
With which my favour'd crook she bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright
Which then my festive temples crown'd;
Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
That shines on Cherwell's verdant side ;
But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more
When, all beneath the poplar bough,
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 ;
On thy expressive power depends ;
Which at ambition's shrine I made;
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;
Around the room I jovial rode :
Why did not these enjoyments last;
While innocence allow'd to waste !
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;
Just opening to the view.
Consumed her early prime;
She died before her time.
Come from her midnight grave :
Thy love refused to save.
When injured ghosts complain ;
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 ?
And yet that face forsake ?
Yet leave that heart to break ?
And made the scarlet pale ?
Believe the flattering tale ?
Those lips no longer red :
And every charm is fled.
This winding-sheet I wear :
Till that last morn appear.
A long and last adieu !
Who died for love of you.
With beams of rosy red :
And raving left his bed.
Where Margaret's body lay ;
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.
Clad in a wintry cloud;
That held her sable shroud.
When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.