THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. In Imitation of SPENCER. This poem is one of thofe happineffes in which a poet excels himself, as there is nothing in all Shenstone which any way approaches it in merit; and, though I dislike the imitations of our old English poets in general, yet, on this minute fubject, the antiquity of the ftyle produces a very ludicrous folemnity. AF H me! full forely is my heart forlorn, To think how modeft worth neglected lies; In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are forely flient. And all in fight doth rise a birchen tree, Which Learning near her little dome did stowe; Whilom a twig of fmall regard to fee, Tho' now fo wide its waving branches flow; And work the fimple vaffals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs fhudder'd, and their pulfe beat low; And, as they look'd, they found their horror grew, And fhap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view. So have I feen (who has not, may conceive) May no bold Briton's riper age e'er tafte! Near to this dome is found a patch so green, Where fits the dame, difguis'd in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her Her cap, far whiter than the driven fnow, And ftedfaft hate, and sharp affliction join'd, Few but have ken'd, in femblance meet pourtray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train ; Libs, Notus, Aufter: these in frowns array'd, How then would fare or earth, or fky, or main, Were the ftern god to give his flaves the rein? And were not she rebellious breafts to quell, And were not fhe her ftatutes to maintain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. A ruffet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; And think, no doubt, fhe been the greateft wight on ground. Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear: But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, For well she knew, and quaintly cou'd expound, What fin it were to wafte the fmalleft crumb fhe found, Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak That in her garden fipp'd the filv'ry dew; Where no vain flow'r difclos'd a gaudy streak; But herbs for use, and phyfic, not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew: The tufted bafil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and mary-gold of chearful hue; The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would fing, disdaining here to rhime. Yet Yet euphrafy may not be left unfung, And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare [perfume. And here trim rofmarine, that whilom crown'd The daintieft garden of the proudest peer; Ere, driven from its envied fite, it found A facred shelter for its branches here; Where, edg'd with gold, its glitt'ring skirts appear, O waffel days! O customs meet and well! Nor ever would the more with Thane and lordling [dwell. Here oft the dame, on sabbath's decent eve, Hymned fuch pfalms as Sternhold forth did mete; If winter 'twere, fhe to her hearth did cleave; But in her garden found a fummer feat: Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat How Ifrael's fons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foe-men did a fong intreat, All, for the nonce, untuning ev'ry string, Up hung their useless lyres-fmall heart had they to fing. Vol. I. E For |