And tir'd, like me, with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'ft fucceeding times;
Then fhall thy friend; nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forfake his Cambrian fhade;
In virtue's caufe once more exert his rage,
Thy fatire point, and animate thy page.
In Imitation of SPENCER.
This poem is one of thofe happineffes in which a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all Shenftone which any way approaches it in merit; and, though I dislike the imitations of our old English poets in general, yet, on this minute. fubject, the antiquity of the ftyle produces a very ludicrous folemnity.
H me! full forely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modeft worth neglected lies;
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill fort, and mischievous emprize :
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To found the praise of merit, ere it dies!
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Loft in the dreary fhades of dull obfcurity.
In ev'ry village mark'd with little fpire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we school-mistress name;
Who boafts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven fore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame;
And oft-times on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are forely fhent.
And all in fight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did ftowe;
Whilom a twig of fmall regard to fee,
Tho' now fo wide its waving branches flow;
And work the fimple vaffals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs fhudder'd, and their pulfe beat low;
And, as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And fhap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I feen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd ;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of fport, of fong, of pleasure, of repaft;
They ftart, they ftare, they wheel, they look aghaft;
Sad fervitude! fuch comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste !
Ne fuperftition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vifion empty, vain, his native blifs destroy.
Near to this dome is found a patch fo green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door impris'ning board is feen,
Left weakly wights of fmaller fize fhould ftray;
Eager, perdie, to bask of funny day!
The noises intermix'd, which hence refound,
Do learning's little tenement betray:
Where fits the dame, difguis'd in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven fnow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for fceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen fprays; with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark distruft, and fad repentance fill'd;
And stedfaft hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chaftisement unkind.
Few but have ken'd, in femblance meet pourtray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train ;
Libs, Notus, Aufter: thefe in frowns array'd, How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main, Were the ftern god to give his flaves the rein ? And were not she rebellions breasts to quell, And were not the her ftatutes to maintain,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.
A ruffet ftole was o'er her shoulders thrown ;
A ruffet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
"Twas fimple ruffet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock fo fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, footh to fay, her pupils, rang'd around,
Thro' pious awe, did term it paffing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, fhe been the greateft wight on
Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, goffip, n'aunt, forfooth,
Or dame, the fole additions she did hear;
Yet these she challeng'd, these fhe held right dear:
Ne wou'd efteem him act as mought behove,
Who fhould not honour'd eld with these revere :
For never title yet fo mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.
One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the bufy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her paft deportment claim;
And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, fhe would collect the fame;
For well fhe knew, and quaintly cou'd expound, What fin it were to wafte the smallest crumb the found.
Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak That in her garden fipp'd the filv'ry dew; Where no vain flow'r difclos'd a gaudy streak ; But herbs for use, and phyfic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew : The tufted bafil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and mary-gold of chearful hue; The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would fing, difdaining here to rhime.
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