Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Then will I muse, and pensive say, Why did not these enjoyments last; While innocence allow'd to waste! Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763. 896.-WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. To thee, fair Freedom, I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot or humble inn. "Tis here with boundless power I reign, And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne : Such freedom crowns it at an inn. I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, I fly from falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate, And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackeys else might hope to win; Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, Shenstone.-Born 1714, Died 1763. 897.-WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 'Twas at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, But love had, like the canker-worm, The rose grew pale, and left her cheek- Awake! she cried, thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave: Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. This is the dark and dreary hour Thy pledge and broken oath! Why did you promise love to me, How could you say my face was fair, Why did you say my lip was sweet, That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. But hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you. The lark sung loud; the morning smiled Pale William quaked in every limb, He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret's name, Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, David Mallet.-Born 1700, Died 1765, 898.-EDWIN AND EMMA. Far in the windings of a vale, The safe retreat of health and peace, A humble cottage stood. There beauteous Emma flourished fair, The softest blush that nature spreads Gave colour to her cheek; Such orient colour smiles through heaven, Nor let the pride of great ones scorn That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze, Long had she filled each youth with love, Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, A mutual flame was quickly caught, What happy hours of home-felt bliss His sister, who, like envy formed, To work them harm, with wicked skill, The father, too, a sordid man, Was all unfeeling as the clod From whence his riches grew. Long had he seen their secret flame, In Edwin's gentle heart, a war Denied her sight, he oft behind The spreading hawthorn crept, Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste His cheek, where health with beauty glowed, A deadly pale o'ercast; The parents now, with late remorse, And wearied Heaven with fruitless vows, 'Tis past he cried, but, if your souls Let these dim eyes once more behold She came; his cold hand softly touched, But oh! his sister's jealous care, Forbade what Emma came to say; "My Edwin, live for me!" Now homeward as she hopeless wept, The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed Amid the falling gloom of night, Her startling fancy found In every bush his hovering shade, Alone, appalled, thus had she passed The visionary vale When lo! the death-bell smote her ear, Sad sounding in the gale! Just then she reached, with trembling step, Her aged mother's door : "He's I feel, I feel this breaking heart From her white arm down sunk her headShe shivered, sighed, and died. David Mallet.-Born 1700, Died 1765. 899.-SONG. The smiling morn, the breathing spring, Let us, Amanda, timely wise, 901.-TENDENCIES OF THE SOUL TOWARDS THE INFINITE. Say, why was man so eminently raised Amid the vast creation; why ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limit of his frame; But that the Omnipotent might send him forth In sight of mortal and immortal powers, The great career of justice; to exalt To chase each partial purpose from his breast: And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice Else In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, things, Of devious comets; through its burning signs Exulting measures the perennial wheel Beyond this concave Heaven, their calm abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of Renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene. Akenside.--Born 1721, Died 1770. The form of beauty smiling at his heart, In every breast hath sown these early seeds Or yield the harvest promised in its spring. The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground; When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed, The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn. Such and so various are the tastes of men. O blest of heaven! whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils store Of nature fair imagination culls To charm the enliven'd soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, Fresh pleasure only: for the attentive mind, This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers Refine at length, and every passion wears Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far Of servile custom cramp her generous power; course, The elements and seasons: all declare Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, 903.-AN EPISTLE TO CURIO. Thrice has the spring beheld thy faded fame, Bless'd could my skill through ages make thee shine, And proud to mix my memory with thine. But now the cause that waked my song before, With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil no more. If to the glorious man whose faithful cares, If every tongue its large applauses owed, And saved Corruption at her hopeless hour; And public Justice sanctify th' award, And Freedom's hand protect the impartial bard? Yet long reluctant I forbore thy name, Long watch'd thy virtue like a dying flame, Hung o'er each glimmering spark with anxious eyes, And wish'd and hoped the light again would rise. But since thy guilt still more entire appears, And the first rage of party hate is past; doom : So may my trust from all reproach be free; And Earth and Time confirm the fair decree. There are who say they view'd without amaze The sad reverse of all thy former praise: The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre blinds. Spite of the learned in the ways of vice, And all who prove that each man has his price, I still believed thy end was just and free; And yet, even yet, believe it-spite of thee. Even though thy mouth impure has dared disclaim, Urged by the wretched impotence of shame, |