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And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield

Right well she knew each temper to descry, Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled ; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And some entice with pittance small of praise ;
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays :
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;

Even absent, she the reins of power doth hold, A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ;

While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways ; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;

Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,

'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ;

Lo! now with state she utters her command; And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around,

Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair, 1 Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; Their books of stature small they take in hand, For they in gaping wonderment abound,

Which with pellucid horn secured are, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on

To save from finger wet the letters fair: ground.

The work so gay, that on their back is seen, Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,

St George's high achievements does declare; Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;

On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, Kens the forthcoming rod-unpleasing sight, I ween! Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear;

Ah! luckless he, and born beneath the beam Ne would esteem hinn act as mought behove,

Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write; Who should not honoured eld with these revere;

As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream, * For never title yet so mean could prove,

Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite;

For brandishing the rod, she doth begin One ancient hen she took delight to feed,

To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight; The plodding patter of the busy dame;

And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin, Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,

Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her past deportment claim;

O ruthful scene ! when, from a nook obscure, And, if neglect had lavished on the ground

His little sister doth his peril see, Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; All playful as she sat, she grows demure; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,

She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; What sin it were to waste the sinallest crumb she She meditates a prayer to set him free; found.

Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny

(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak, To her sad grief that swells in either eye, That in her garden sipped the silvery dew; And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak, But herbs for use and physic, not a few,

No longer can she now her shrieks command; Of gray renown, within those borders grew:

And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,

To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue:

To stay harsh justice in its mid career. The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;

On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow !)

She sees no kind domestic visage near,
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,

And soon a flood of tears begins to flow,
Hymnëd such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete; And gives a loose at last to unavailing wo.
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat:

But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace ! Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat

Or what device his loud laments explainHow Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,

The form uncouth of his disguised faceWhile taunting foemen did a song entreat,

The pallid hue that dyes his looks amainAll, for the nonce, untuning every string,

The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ? Uphung their useless lyres small heart had they to When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, sing.

Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain;

Or when from high she levels well her aim, For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,

And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke
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, But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky,
And tortuous death was true devotion's meed; And liberty unbars her prison door;
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn,

And like a rushing torrent out they fly;
That nould on wooden image place her creed ; And now the grassy cirque han covered o'er
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn : With boisterous revel rout and wild uproar;
Ah! dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e'er re- A thousand ways in wanton rings they run.

Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes I implore; In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stem,

For well may freedom erst so dearly won By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,

Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. In which, when he receives his diadem,

Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed), And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; The matron sat; and some with rank she graced, For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid, (The source of children's and of courtiers' pride !)

Oh never may ye taste more careless hours
Redressed affronts-for vile affronts there passed;

In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers.
And warned them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

* Spenser.

Oh vain to seek delight in earthly thing!

But why do I languish in vain ?
But most in courts, where proud ambition towers ; Why wander thus pensively here?

Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?

They tell me, my favourite maid, See in each sprite some various bent appear !

The pride of that valley, is flown; These rudely carol most incondite lay;

Alas! where with her I have strayed, 'Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer

I could wander with pleasure alone.
Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Some builden fragile tenements of clay;

When forced the fair nymph to forego,
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,

What anguish I felt at my heart : With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play; Yet I thought—but it might not be soThilk to the huxter's savoury cottage tend,

'Twas with pain that she saw me depart. In pastry kings and queens the allotted mite to spend. She gazed as I slowly withdrew,

My path I could hardly discern;
Here as each season yields a different store,
Each season's stores in order ranged been ;

So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return. -
Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er,
Galling full sore the unmoneyed wight, are seen, The pilgrim that journies all day
And goosebrie clad in livery red or green ;

To visit some far distant shrine,
And here, of lovely dye, the catharine pear,

If he bear but a relic away, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween;

Is happy, nor heard to repine.
O may no wight e'er penniless come there,

Thus widely removed from the fair,
Lest, smit with ardent love, he pine with hopeless care. Where my vows, my devotion, I owe;
See, cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,

Soft hope is the relic 1 bear,
With thread so white in tempting posies tied,

And my solace, wherever I go.
Scattering, like blooming maid, their glances round,

With pampered look draw little eyes aside;
And must be bought, though penury betide. My banks they are furnished with bees,
The plum all azure, and the nut all brown ;

Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
And here each season do those cakes abide,

My grottos are shaded with trees, Whose honoured names* the inventive city own,

And my hills are white over with sheep. Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises I seldom have met with a loss, known.

Such health do my fountains bestow; Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride

My fountains, all bordered with moss, Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave,

Where the harebells and violets grow.
Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried,

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave :
Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;

Not a beech's more beautiful green,
Whose art did first these dulcet cates display!

But a sweetbrier entwines it around.
A motive fair to learning's imps he gave,
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray;

Not my fields in the prime of the year
Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.

More charms than my cattle unfold;

Not a brook that is limpid and clear, A Pastoral Ballad, in Four Parts-1743.

But it glitters with fishes of gold. • Arbusta humilesque myricæ.'-VIRG.

One would think she might like to retire

To the bower I have laboured to rear;

Not a shrub that I heard her admire, Ye shepherds, so cheerful and gay,

But I hasted and planted it there. Whose flocks never carelessly roam;

O how sudden the jessamine strove Should Corydon's happen to stray,

With the lilac to render it gay ! Oh! call the poor wanderers home.

Already it calls for my love Allow me to muse and to sigh,

To prune the wild branches away. Nor talk of the change that ye find;

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, None once was so watchful as 1;

What strains of wild melody flow! I have left my dear Phyllis behind.

How the nightingales warble their loves, Now I know what it is to have strove

From thickets of roses that blow! With the torture of doubt and desire ;

And when her bright form shall appear, What it is to admire and to love,

Each bird shall harmoniously join And to leave her we love and admire.

In a concert so soft and so clear, Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn,

As—she may not be fond to resign. And the damps of each evening repel;

I have found out a gift for my fair, Alas! I am faint and forlorn

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.

But let me that plunder forbear, Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,

She will say, 'twas a barbarous deed. I never once dreamt of my vine;

For he ne'er could be true, she averred, May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

Who could rob a poor bird of his young; If I knew of a kid that was mine.

And I loved her the more when I heard
I prized every hour that went by,

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Beyond all that had pleased me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh,

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
And I grieve that I prized them no more.

How that pity was due to a dove;

That it ever attended the bold,
* Shrewsbury Cakes.
And she called it the sister of Love.


Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise: Let his forehead with laurels be crowned,

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The language that flows from the heart,

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; Yet may she beware of his art,

Or sure I must envy the song.

But her words such a pleasure convey,

So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,

Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmoved, when her Corydon sighs ! Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,

These plains and this valley despise ! Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly strayed,

If aught in her absence could please. But where does my Phyllida stray!

And where are her grots and her bowers ! Are the groves and the yalleys as gay,

And the shepherds as gentle as ours ! The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

Why will you my passion reprove !

Why term it a folly to grieve ?
Ere I show you the charms of my love:

She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave,

With her wit she engages the free, With her modesty pleases the grave;

She is every way pleasing to me. O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays; I could lay down my life for the swain,

That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town

Come trooping, and listen the while; Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown,

But I cannot allow her to smile. For when Paridel tries in the dance

Any favour with Phyllis to find, O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-oh my Phyllis, beware

Of a magic there is in the sound. 'Tis his with mock passion to glow,

Tis his in smooth tales to unfold “How her face is as bright as the snow,

And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain,

Wita the notes of his charmer to vie ; How they vary their accents in vain,

Repine at her triumphs, and die.'
To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet;
Then suiting the wreath to his lays,

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
*O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

More sweet than the jessamine's flower ! What are pinks in a morn, to compare?

What is eglantine after a shower! Then the lily no longer is white,

Then the rose is deprived of its bloom, Then the violets die with despite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume,' Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to stray;

I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair, and my passion begun; She smiled, and I could not but love;

She is faithless, and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought:

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought

By a swain more engaging than me. Ah! love every hope can inspire ;

It banishes wisdom the while; And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adorned with a smile. She is faithless, and I am undone ;

Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of a higher degree : It is not for me to explain

How fair and how fickle they be. Alas! from the day that we met,

What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I reared for her pleasure in vain,

In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own ;
Fate never bestowed such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace;

To your deepest recesses I fly ;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase;

I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smiled, and I could not but love;

Was faithless, and I am undone !

Song.-Jemmy Dawson.* Come listen to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,

Nor will you blush to shed a tear.

* Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the young chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common in 1746.

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,

The dismal scene was o'er and past, Do thou a pensive ear incline ;

The lover's mournful hearse retired ; For thou canst weep at every wo,

The maid drew back her languid head, And pity every plaint but mine.

And, sighing forth his name, expired. Young Dawson was a gallant youth,

Though justice ever must prevail, A brighter never trod the plain ;

The tear my Kitty sheds is due ; And well he loved one charming maid,

For seldom shall she hear a tale
And dearly was he loved again.

So sad, so tender, and so true.
One tender maid she loved him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came :

[Written at an Inn at Henley.] And faultless was her beauteous form,

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire And spotless was her virgin fame.

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; But curse on party's hateful strife,

Nor art thou found in mansions higher That led the favoured youth astray ;

Than the low cot or humble inn. The day the rebel clans appeared,

'Tis here with boundless power I reign, O had he never seen that day !

And every health which I begin Their colours and their sash he wore,

Converts dull port to bright champagne : And in the fatal dress was found ;

Such freedom crowns it at an inn. And now he must that death endure,

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

I fly from falsehood's specious grin ; How pale was then his true love's cheek,

Freedom I love, and form I hate, When Jemmy's sentence reached her ear!

And choose my lodgings at an inn, For never yet did Alpine snows

Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, So pale or yet so chill appear.

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; With faltering voice she weeping said,

It buys what courts have not in store, Oh Dawson, monarch of my heart !

It buys me freedom at an inn. Think not thy death shall end our loves,

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, For thou and I will never part.

Where'er his stages may have been, Yet might sweet mercy find a place,

May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George! without a prayer for thee
My orisons should never close.

The gracious prince that gave him life

DAVID MALLET, author of some beautiful ballad Would crown a never-dying flame;

stanzas, and some florid unimpassioned poems in And every tender babe I bore

blank verse, was a successful but unprincipled liteShould learn to lisp the giver's name.

rary adventurer. He praised and courted Pope But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragged while living, and, after experiencing his kindness, To yonder ignominious tree,

traduced his memory when dead. He earned a disThou shalt not want a faithful friend

graceful pension by contributing to the death of a To share thy bitter fate with thee.

brave naval officer, Admiral Byng, who fell a victim

to the clamour of faction ; and by various other acts O then her mourning-coach was called,

of his life, he evinced that self-aggrandisement was The sledge moved slowly on before ; Though borne in her triumphal car,

his only steady and ruling passion. When JohnShe had not loved her favourite more.

son, therefore, states that Mallet was the only Scot

whom Scotchmen did not commend, he pays a comShe followed him, prepared to view

pliment to the virtue and integrity of the natives of The terrible behests of law ;

Scotland. The original name of the poet was MalAnd the last scene of Jemmy's woes

loch, which, after his removal to London, and his With calm and steadfast eye she saw.

intimacy with the great, he changed to Mallet, as Distorted was that blooming face,

more easily pronounced by the English. His father Which she had fondly loved so long ;

kept a small inn at Crieff, Perthshire, where David And stifled was that tuneful breath,

was born about the year 1700. He attended AberWhich in her praise had sweetly sung:

deen college, and was afterwards received, though

without salary, as tutor in the family of Mr Home And severed was that beauteous neck,

of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. He next obtained a Round which her arms had fondly closed ; similar situation, but with a salary of £30 per anAnd mangled was that beauteous breast,

num, in the family of the Duke of Montrose. In On which her love-sick head reposed :

1723, he went to London with the duke's family, And ravished was that constant heart,

and next year his ballad of William and Margaret She did to every heart prefer ;

appeared in Hill's periodical, . The Plain Dealer. He For though it could its king forget,

soon numbered among his friends Young, Pope, and 'Twas true and loyal still to her,

other eminent persons, to whom his assiduous atten

tions, his agreeable manners, and literary taste, Amid those unrelenting flames

rendered his society acceptable. In 1733 he pubShe bore this constant heart to see ;

lished a satire on Bentley, inscribed to Pope, enBut when 'twas mouldered into dust,

titled Verbal Criticism, in which he characterises the Now, now, she cried, I follow thee.

venerable scholar as My death, my death alone can show

In error obstinate, in wrangling loud, The pure and lasting love I bore :

For trifles eager, positive, and proud ; Accept, o Heaven ! of woes like ours,

Deep in the darkness of dull authors bred, And let us, let us weep no more.

With all their refuse lumbered in his head.

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Mallet was appointed under secretary to the Prince and Margaret,' which, written at the age of twentyof Wales, with a salary of £200 per annum ; and, in three, afforded high hopes of ultimate excellence. conjunction with Thomson, he produced, in 1740, the The simplicity, here remarkable, he seems to have Masque of Alfred, in honour of the birth-day of the thrown aside when he assumed the airs and dress of Princess Augusta. Afortunate second marriage a man of taste and fashion. All critics, from Dr (nothing is known of his first) brought to the poet Percy downwards, have united in considering . Wila fortune of £10,000. The lady was daughter of liam and Margaret' one of the finest compositions of Lord Carlisle's steward. Both Mallet and his wife the kind in our language. Sir Walter Scott conprofessed to be deists, and the lady is said to have ceived that Mallet had imitated an old Scottish tale surprised some of her friends by commencing her to be found in Allan Ramsay's • Tea-Table Miscelarguments with-'Sir, we deists. When Gibbon lany,' beginning, the historian was dismissed from his college at Oxford for embracing popery, he took refuge in

There came a ghost to Margaret's door. | Mallet's house, and was rather scandalised, he says, The resemblance is striking. Mallet confessed only than reclaimed, by the philosophy of his host. (in a note to his ballad) to the following verse in Wilkes mentions that the vain and fantastic wife of Fletcher's ‘Knight of the Burning Pestle :-Mallet one day lamented to a lady that her husband suffered in reputation by his name being so often

When it was grown to dark midnight, confounded with that of Smollett ; the lady wittily

And all were fast asleep, answered, “Madam, there is a short remedy ; let

In came Margaret's grimly ghost, your husband keep his own name.' To gratify Lord

And stood at William's feet. Bolingbroke, Mallet, in his preface to the Patriot In the first printed copies of Mallet's ballad, the two King, heaped abuse on the memory of Pope, and first lines were nearly the same as the aboveBolingbroke rewarded him by bequeathing to him the whole of his works and manuscripts. When

When all was wrapt in dark midnight, the government became unpopular by the defeat at

And all were fast asleep. Minorca, he was employed to defend them, and He improved the rhyme by the change; but beauti. under the signature of a Plain Man, he published ful as the idea is of night and morning meeting, it an address imputing cowardice to the admiral of the fleet. He succeeded : Byng was shot, and Mallet may be questioned whether there is not more of was pensioned. On the death of the Duchess of Mari- superstitious awe and affecting simplicity in the old

words. borough, it was found that she had left £1000 to Glover, author of · Leonidas,' and Mallet, jointly, on condition that they should draw up from the

William and Margaret. family papers a life of the great duke. Glover, in

'Twas at the silent solemn hour, dignant at a stipulation in the will, that the memoir

When night and morning meet; was to be submitted before publication to the Earl

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, of Chesterfield, and being a high-spirited man, de

And stood at William's feet. volved the whole on Mallet, who also received a pension from the second Duke of Marlborough, to Her face was like an April morn stimulate his industry. He pretended to be busy Clad in a wintry cloud; with the work, and in the dedication to a small col- And clay-cold was her lily hand lection of his poems published in 1762, he stated That held her sable shroud. that he hoped soon to present his grace with some

So shall the fairest face appear thing more solid in the life of the first Duke of Marlborough. Mallet had received the solid money,

When youth and years are flown :

Such is the robe that kings must wear, and cared for nothing else. On his death, it was

When death has reft their crown. found that not a single line of the memoir had been written. In his latter days the poet held the lucra- Her bloom was like the springing flower, tive situation of Keeper the Book of Entries for That sips the silver dew; the port of London. He died April 21,' 1765.

The rose was budded in her cheek, Mallet wrote some theatrical pieces, which, though Just opening to the view. partially successful on their representation, are now utterly forgotten. Gibbon anticipated, that, if ever

But love had, like the canker-worm, his friend should attain poetic fame, it would be

Consumed her early prime; acquired by his poem of Amyntor and Theodora. The rose grew pale, and left her cheek

She died before her time. This, the longest of his poetical works, is a tale in blank verse, the scene of which is laid in the solitary

Awake! she cried, thy true love calls, island of St Kilda, whither one of his characters, Come from her midnight grave: Aurelius, had fled to avoid the religious perse

Now let thy pity hear the maid cutions under Charles II. Some highly-wrought

Thy love refused to save. descriptions of marine scenery, storms, and shipwreck, with a few touches of natural pathos and This is the dark and dreary hour affection, constitute the chief characteristics of the When injured ghosts complain; poem, The whole, however, even the very names When yawning graves give up their dead, in such a locality, has an air of improbability and To haunt the faithless swain. extravagance. Another work of the same kind, but

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, inferior in execution, is his poem The Excursion, written in imitation of the style of Thomson's

Thy pledge and broken oath ! * Seasons.' The defects of Thomson's style are

And give me back my maiden-vow, servilely copied; some of his epithets and expres

And give me back my troth. sions are also borrowed; but there is no approach to Why did you promise love to me, his redeeming graces and beauties. Contrary to And not that promise keep? the dictum of Gibbon, the poetic fame of Mallet Why did you swear my eyes were bright, rests on his ballads, and chiefly on his William

Yet leave those eyes to weep !

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