Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere Simplicity then sought this humble cell, Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.

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, forfend thilk days should e'er

return.

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, 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!)

Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

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:
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
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 unfold.

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
ween!

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 wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh justice in its mid career. 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 fellow's hateful wounds beware;
Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share;
Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
And to the well-known chest the dame repair;
Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them

greet,

And gingerbread 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-fix'd, 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 caress'd.

His eyes besprent with liquid crystal shines, His blooming face that seems a purple flower,

["When I bought Spenser first," says Shenstone, "I read a page or two of The Fairie Queene,' and cared not to proceed. After that Pope's Alley, made me consider him ludicrously; and in that light, I think one may read him with pleasure." We owe the Schoolmistress to this ill-taste and this complete misconception of Spenser.

Mr. Disraeli has an entertaining paper on Shenstone, bu has omitted to mention that the first sketch of the Schoo. mistress, in twelve stanzas, is in Shenstone's first publi cation.]

ELEGY,

DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND ON THE MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.

WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his down-
cast eye?
[shine?
That eye where mirth, where fancy used to
Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;
Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.

Art thou not lodged in fortune's warm embrace?
Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care?
Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace
That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair?

Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;

Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,

And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.

For oh that nature on my birth had frown'd,

Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell!
Then had my bosom 'scaped this fatal wound,
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell.

But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
My youth her vain licentious bliss admired;
In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smiled,
And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspired.

Of folly studious, even of vices vain,

Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay! I chased the guileless daughters of the plain, Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey. Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name, Expense, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love. School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles, I clothed each feature with affected scorn; I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles,

And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.

Then, while the fancied rage alarm'd her care,
Warm to deny, and zealous to disprove;
I bade my words the wonted softness wear,
And seized the minute of returning love.
To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?
Will yet thy love a candid ear incline!
Assured that virtue, by misfortune prest,

Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine.

Nine envious moons matured her growing shame: Erewhile to flaunt it in the face of day; When, scorn'd of virtue, stigmatized by fame, Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay.

Henry," she said, "by thy dear form subdued, See the sad relics of a nymph undone!

I find, I find, this rising sob renew'd:

I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.

Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,

[turn? When will the morn's once pleasing scenes reYet what can morn's returning ray supply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn!

Alas! no more that joyous morn appears

That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, And tinged a mother's glowing cheek with shame.

The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,

The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain, And talk of truth and innocence alone.

If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,

For we are spotless, Jessy, we are pure.

Ye flowers that well reproach a nymph so frail; Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare? The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.

Now the grave old alarm the gentler young;

And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee:
Trembles each lip, and falters every tongue,

That bids the morn propitious smile on me.
Thus for your sake I shun each human eye;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu:
To die I languish, but I dread to die,

Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you. Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove, And let me silent seek some friendly shore; There only, banish'd from the form I love,

My weeping virtue shall relapse no more. Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name;

Be such the meed of some more artful fair; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, That pity gave what love refused to share. Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread; Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I fed!

Not such the precepts from his lips I drew! Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair,

Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; Envy may slight a face no longer fair;

And pity welcome to my native soil." She spoke nor was I born of savage race;

Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,

And vow'd to waste her life in prayers for mine.

I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;

I saw her breast with every passion heave: I left her-torn from every earthly friend; Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave! Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose;

The billows raged, the pilot's art was vain; O'er the tall mast the circling surges close; My Jessy-floats upon the watery plain! And see my youth's impetuous fires decay;

Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,

From Jessy floating on her watery bier!

FROM "RURAL ELEGANCE."

AN ODE TO THE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET.*

WHILE orient skies restore the day,

And dew-drops catch the lucid ray ;
Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,
Will aught the muse inspire!
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the sacred lyre!

Ye rural thanes, that o'er the mossy down
Some panting, timorous hare pursue;
Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?
Say, does she smooth her lawns for you?
For you does Echo bid the rocks reply,
And, urged by rude constraint, resound the jovial
cry!

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn,

The wretched swain your sport survey:
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He sees his flock-no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye swains, conclude

That nature smiles for you alone;

Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,
The proud, the selfish boast disown;
Yours be the produce of the soil:
O may it still reward your toil!
Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants ask support in vain!

But though the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye?

Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee supply?

Is not the red-streak's future juice

The source of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:
But though, the pebbled shores among,
It mimic no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.
Unpleased ye see the thickets bloom,
Unpleased the spring her flowery robe resume:
Unmoved the mountain's airy pile,
The dappled mead without a smile.
O let a rural conscious Muse,

For well she knows, your froward sense accuse; Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square, And span the massy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor yet, ye learn'd, nor yet, ye courtly train, If haply from your haunts ye stray To waste with us a summer's day, Exclude the taste of every swain, Nor our untutor'd sense disdain : "Tis Nature only gives exclusive right To relish her supreme delight; She, where she pleases kind or coy, Who furnishes the scene and forms us to enjoy.

[* The Lady Hertford of Thomson's Spring.]

ODE TO MEMORY.

O MEMORY! celestial maid!

Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Tîme; 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'd 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.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.*

Or all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land,
Is half so sweet as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her mother she sells laces long,

To such as please to buy 'em:
But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
(I love her so sincerely,)
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:

[* Carey in the third Edition of his Poems, published in 1729, before the Ballad of Sally in our Alley," has placed this note:

THE ARGUMENT.

"A vulgar error having long prevailed among many persons, who imagine Sally Salisbury the subject of this ballad, the Author begs leave to undeceive and assure them it has not the least allusion to her, he being a stranger to her very name at the time this Song was composed. For as innocence and virtue were ever the boundaries to his Muse, so in this little poem he had no other view than to set forth the beauty of a chaste and disinterested passion, even in the lowest class of human life. The real occasion was this: a Shoemaker's 'Prentice making holiday with his Sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying-chairs, and all the

But, let him bang his belly full,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week,
I dearly love but one day;
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dress'd all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

elegancies of Moorfields: from whence proceeding to the Farthing-pie-house, he gave her a collation of buns, cheesecakes, gammon of bacon, stuff'd beef, and bottled ale: through all which scenes the Author dodged them, (charmed with the simplicity of their courtship.) from whence he drew this little sketch of nature; but being then young and obscure, he was very much ridiculed by some of his acquaintance for this performance; which nevertheless made its way into the polite world, and amply recompensed him by the applause of the divine Addison, who was pleased (more than once) to mention it with approbation," p. 127. There was some attempt to rob Carey of his right to his ballad, as there was to rob Denham, Garth, and Akenside, but it did not succeed then, though it occasioned uneasiness to the author, nor will it now, when it can affect him no more.]