Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face;

Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now? the men of health,
Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll,
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke

To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made ev'n thick-lipped musing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile

Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now,

And dumb as the green turf that covers them.

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Here all the mighty troublers of the Earth,

Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas of blood;
Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains,
Who ravaged kingdoms, and laid empires waste,
And, in a cruel wantonness of power,
Thinned states of half their people, and gave up
To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent,
Lie hushed, and meanly sneak behind the covert.
Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn
That haunts and dogs them like an injured ghost
Implacable. Here, too, the petty tyrant,
Whose scant domains geographer ne'er noticed,
And well for neighbouring grounds, of arm as short,
Who fixed his iron talons on the poor,

And gripped them like some lordly beast of prey;
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing Hunger,

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And piteous plaintive voice of Misery; 225 (As if a slave was not a shred of Nature,

Of the same common nature with his lord;)

Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipped, Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kins

man;

Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground, 230 Precedency's a jest; vassal and lord,

Grossly familiar, side by side consume.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE

FROM THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS

АH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest Worth neglected lies.
While partial Fame doth with her blasts 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 School-mistress 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 oft-times, 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 did stowe;

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Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow;
And work the simple vassal's 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.

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden placed;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!

35 Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,

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No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

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,

45 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 trowe,
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 stedfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 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:

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