Beside the public way an oval fount
Of marble sparkled with a silver spray
Of falling rills, collected from above.

The army halted, and their hollow casques
Dipped in the limpid stream. Behind it rose
An edifice, composed of native roots,

And oaken trunks of knotted girth unwrought.
Within were beds of moss. Old battered arms
Hung from the roof. The curious chiefs approach.
These words, engraven on a tablet rude,
Megistias reads; the rest in silence hear:

'Yon marble fountain, by Oileus placed,

To thirsty lips in living water flows;

For weary steps he framed this cool retreat;

A grateful offering here to rural peace,

His dinted shield and helmet he resigned.

O passenger! if born to noble deeds,

Thou would'st obtain perpetual grace from Jove,

Devote thy vigour to heroic toils,

And thy decline to hospitable cares.

Rest here; then seek Oileus in his vale.'

From the 'Athenais,' which is a continuation of the same classic story and landscape, we select the following exquisite description of a night scene:—

Silver Phoebe spreads

A light, reposing on the quiet lake,
Save where the snowy rival of her hue,

The gliding swan, behind him leaves a trail

In luminous vibration. Lo! an isle

Swells on the surface. Marble structures there

New gloss of beauty

To deck the shore.

borrow from the moon

Now silence gently yields
To measured strokes of oars. The orange groves,
In rich profusion round the fertile verge,
Impart to fanning breezes fresh perfumes
Exhaustless, visiting the scene with sweets,
Which soften even Briareus; but the son
Of Gobryas, heavy with devouring care,
Uncharmed, unheeding sits.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE was born at Leasowes, in the parish of HalesOwen, Shropshire, in November, 1714. He was taught to read at what is termed a dame's school, and his venerable preceptress has been immortalized by his poem The Schoolmistress. After suitable preparation he was sent to Pembroke College, Oxford, where he remained four years, but does not appear to have distinguished himself. In 1745, by the death of his parents and an elder brother, the paternal estate came into his possession; and he began from this time, as Dr. Johnson characteristically remarks, 'to point his prospects, to diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters; which he did with such judgment and fancy, as made his little do

main the envy of the great and the admiration of the skillful; a place to be visited by travellers, and copied by designers.'

These great expenditures upon the grounds of Shenstone's estate were not, however, judiciously made; for the property altogether was not worth over three hundred pounds a year; and by devoting so much of his means to external embellishments, he was compelled to live in a dilapidated house, not fit, as he himself expresses it, to receive 'polite friends.' An unfortunate attachment to a young lady, and disappointed ambition-for he aimed at political as well as poetical celebrity-conspired, with his passion for gardening and improvement, to fix him permanently in his solitary situation. He became querulous and dejected, pined at the unequal gifts of fortune, and even contemplated, with a gloomy joy, the complaint of Swift, that he would be 'forced to die in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a hole.' Yet Shenstone was essentially kind and benevolent, and he must at times have experienced exquisite pleasure in his romantic retreat, in which every year would give fresh beauty, and develope more distinctly the creations of his taste and labor.' 'The works of a person that builds,' he says, 'begin immediately to decay, while those of him who plants begin directly to improve." This advantage he possessed, with the additional charm of a love of literature; but he sighed for more than inward peace and satisfaction. He built his happiness on the applause of others, and died in solitude, a votary of the world. His death occurred at Leasowes, on the eleventh of February, 1763.

The works of Shenstone were collected and published after his death by Dodsley. They formed three volumes, the first of which contained his poems, the second, his prose essays, and the third his letters and other pieces. His letters are trifles, but his essays display much ease and grace of style, united to judgment and discrimination. They have not the mellow ripeness of thought and learning of Cowley's essays, but they resemble them more closely than any others in the language. In poetry, Shenstone tried various kinds. His elegies are indifferent; his Levities, or pieces of humor, are dull and spiritless: but his Pastoral Ballad, is the finest poem of that order in the English language. Dr. Johnson quotes the following verses of the first part, with the striking eulogium, that, if any mind denies its sympathy to them, it has no acquaintance with love and nature:

I prized every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh,

And I grieve that I prized them no more.
When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt in my heart!
Yet I thought (but it might not be so)
'Twas with pain she saw me depart.

She gazed as I slowly withdrew,

My path I could hardly discern;

So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.

But of all Shenstone's productions, his highest effort is The Schoolmistress, a descriptive poem in imitation of Spenser, so delightfully quaint and ludicrous, yet true to nature, that it has all the force and vividness of a spirited painting. The following stanza in this poem is worthy of particular notice, not only for its intrinsic excellence, but for having probably suggested to Gray the fine reflection in his elegy

'Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.'

D'Israeli first pointed out this resemblance, in his 'Curiosities of Literature,' and it appears well founded. The stanza is as follows:

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!

Even 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 ere 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.

The best part of this fine poem is found in the following stanzas :

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modest worth neglected lies;
While partial fame doth with her blast adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise;
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit ere it dies;
Such as I oft have chanced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.
In every village marked with little spire,
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame :
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame;
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which learning near her little dome doth stowe;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow,

And work the simple vassals mickle woe;

For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,

But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low;
And as they looked, they found their horror grew,
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door imprisoning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!

The noises intermixed, which thence resound,

Do learning's little tenement betray;

Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled;
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulder thrown;
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair!
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around,
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good woman, gossip n'aunt, forsooth,

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear;

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honoured eld with these revere;

For never title yet so 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 busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impelled by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favour did her past deportment claim; And, if neglect had lavished on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew;

Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak,

But herbs for use and physic, not a few,

Of gray renown, within those borders grew:

The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue:
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;

And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

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 foeman 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 passed 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 e'er return.

In elbow chair (like that of Scottish stem,
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,
In which, when he received his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed)
The matron sat; and some with rank she graced,
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!)
Redressed affronts-for vile affronts there passed;
And warned 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:
Even absent she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,
'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters her 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;