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After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England-shamed in me."

William Shenstone.

Born 1714.

Died 1763.

Shropshire, in

spent most of did with such He published

SHENSTONE was born at the Leasowes, in Hales-Owen, November 1714. Though ambitious of literary fame, he his time in ornamenting his patrimonial home, which he judgment as made it the admiration of all who saw it. some pleasing elegies and ballads, of which the chief are "The Schoolmistress," which appeared in 1742, immortalising his early instructress, and "A Pastoral Ballad." He died at the Leasowes on 11th February 1763.

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

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 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 did stow;
Whilome 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 died 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 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;

For never title yet so mean could prove,

But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

YE shepherds, so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Oh! call the poor wanderers home.

Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I ;

I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

Now I know what it is to have strove

With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love,

And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn

I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine.
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.

But why do I languish in vain?
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have strayed,
I could wander with pleasure alone.

When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that 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.

The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine,
If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.

Thus widely removed from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe;
Soft hope is the relic I bear,

And my solace, wherever I go.

Thomas Gray.

Born 1716.

Died 1771.

GRAY was born in Cornhill, London, 26th November 1716, and received his early education at Eton. He afterwards entered at Cambridge to study for the law. Having become intimate with Horace Walpole, he was induced to join him in a tour on the Continent. On his return in 1741, he applied himself to literary schemes, which he had not energy to carry out. His father having died and left him rich enough to carry out what plans he preferred, he passed the greater part of his life in the enjoyment of the learned society of Cambridge, and poring over his favourite authors. He was appointed in 1768 Professor of Modern History, with a salary of £400 a year; but he seems to have entirely neglected the duties, from inability to bring his mind to the effort necessary to prepare the lectures. His "Ode to Eton College" appeared in 1747, and his “Elegy" in 1751; the latter became at once exceedingly popular, and is the poem on which his fame as a poet chiefly rests. He died July 30, 1771.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON

COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey;

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way!

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain:

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which inthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run, they look behind;
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possessed;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast.
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

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