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And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, ere-whilo, in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle
And here trim rosemarine, that whilom
crown'd The daintiest garden of the proudest peer ; Ere, driven from its envied site, it found A sacred shelter for its branches here; Where edged with gold its glittering skirts
appear, Oh wassel days! O customs meet and
well! Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere :
Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and
Right well she knew each temper to
descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to
raise ; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of
praise, And other some with baleful sprig she
'frays : E'en absent, she the reins of power doth
hold, i While with quaint arts the giddy crowd
she sways : Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks
behold, 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene
Lo now with state she utters the command ! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; Their books of stature small they take in
hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger wet the letters fair : The work so gay that on their back is
seen, St. George's high achievements does
declare; On which thilk wight that has y.gazing
been, Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent
eve, Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did
mete, If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did
cleave, But in her garden found a summer-seat: Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a song entreat,
All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had
they to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous
lore, And pass'd much time in truly virtuous
deed; And in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when Truth by Popish rage did
bleed ; And tortuous death was true Devotion's
meed; And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her
creed; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did
burn : Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should
Ah luckless he, and born beneath the
beam Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write : As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. For brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues, the stripling's late
delight! And down they drop; appears his dainty
skin, Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.
O ruthful scene! when from a nook
obscure, His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure ; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free : Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle pardon could with dames agree).
To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wings her so that all for pity she could
In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem
faced, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is
placed, The matron sate ; and some with rank she
graced, (The source of children's and of courtiers'
pride!) edress'd affronts, for vile affronts there R pass’d;
And warn’d them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them
No longer can she now her shrieks com
mand; And hardly she forbears, through awful
fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous
hand, To stay harsh Justice in its mid career.
See to their seats they hye with merry glee,
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
behest; And scorns her offer'd love and shuns to be
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. 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 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?”
His face besprent with liquid crystal
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 so I deem aright, transcending worth and
But now Dan Phæbus 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; Admired Salopia! that with venial pride
Famed for her loyal cares in perils try'd,
Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his
grave Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive Whose heart did first these dulcet cates trade,
display! And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest
A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, flowers;
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region For when my bones in grass-green sods are
Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on For never may ye taste more careless hours
their way. In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing!
Shenstone.—Born 1714, Died 1763. But most in courts where proud Ambition
towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair Peace can spring
894.-A PASTORAL BALLAD. Beneath the pompons 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 homo. 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,
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. Each season's stores in order rangèd | Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look. been;
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 goose-b'rie clad in livery red or green ; Beyond all that had pleased me before ; And here of lovely dye, the catherine pear, | But now they are past, and I sigh ; Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween:
And I grieve that I prized them no more. O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hope. | But why do I languish in vain ; less care!
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;
1 I thought that she bade me return.
| '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 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 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.
So much I her accents adore,
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 ?