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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.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her past deportment claim;
And, if neglect had favished on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.
Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew;

Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak,

But herbs for use and physic, not a few,

Of gray renown, within those borders grew:
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,.
Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue:
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat:
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All for the nonce, untuning every string,

Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing.
For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
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,
And tortuous death was true devotion's meed;
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn:
Ah, dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e'er return!

In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stem,
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed)
The matron sat; and some with rank she graced
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!),
Redressed affrouts-for vile affronts there passed;
And warned them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry,
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise;
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,
And some entice with pittance small of praise;
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays:
Even absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,
"Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters her command;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair,
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn secured are,
To save from finger wet the letters fair:
The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
St. George's high achievements does declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod-unpleasing sight, I ween!

From 'A Pastoral Ballad '—1743.

Arbusta humilesque myricæ.-VIRG.

[Though lowly shrubs and trees that shade the plain.-DRYDEN.]

ABSENCE.

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.

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When forced the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not he 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,

HOPE.

My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains, all bordered with moss.
Where the harebells and violets grow.

And my solace wherever I go.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendril of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweetbriar entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I prized every hour that went by

were

This stanza, and the four lines beginning: greatly admired by Johnson, who said: If any mind denies its sympathy to them, it has no acquaintance with love or nature.'

One would think she might like to retire To the bower I have laboured to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,

What strains of wild melody flow; How the nightingales warble their loves, From thickets of roses that blow !

And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear
As-she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair,. I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;

But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say, 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averred. Who could rob a poor bird of his young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue..

SOLICITUDE.

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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-O my Phy lis, 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, With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs and die.' . . .

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. ...

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Song-Jemmy

Come listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;

Dawson.*

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 ser

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou canst weep at every woe,
And pity every plaint but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he loved one charming maid,
And dearly was he loved again.

One tender maid she loved him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came;
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party's hateful strife,
That led the favoured youth astray;
The day the rebel clans appeared

O had he never seen that day!

Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest
wound.

How pale was then his true love's cheek,
When Jemmy's sentence reached her

ear?

For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale or yet so chill appear.

With faltering voice she weeping said:
'O Dawson, monarch of my heart!
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.

"Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
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
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

'But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be dragged

To yonder ignominious tree,
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee.'

O then her mourning-coach w`s called,
The sledge moved slowly on before;
Though borne in her triumphal car,
She had not loved her favourite more.

She followed him, prepared to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly loved so long; And stifled was that tuneful breath, Which in her praise had sweetly sung :

And severed was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly
closed;

And mangled was that beauteous breast
On which her love-sick head reposed:

And ravished was that constant heart,
She did to every heart prefer;
For though it could its king forget,
"Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames

She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas mouldered into dust,

Now, now,' she cried, 'I follow thee.

'My death, my death alone can shew

The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.'

The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retired;
The maid drew back her languid head,
And, sighing forth his name, expired.

Though justice ever must prevail,
The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true.

vice of the Young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington Common in 1746. The incident occurred as described in the ballad. A pardon was expected, and Dawson was to have been married the same day. The young lady followed him to the scaffold. She got near enough,' as stated in a letter written at the time. to see the fire kindled which was to consume that heart which she knew was so much devoted to her, and all the other dreadful preparations for his fate. without being guilty of any of those extravagances which her friends had apprehended. But when all was over, and that she found he was no more, she drew her head back into the coach. and crying out: My dear, I follow thee-I follow thee! Sweet Jesus, receive both our souls together." fell on the neck of her companion, and expired the very moment she was peaking.'

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 ;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom at an inn.

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.

DAVID MALLET.

DAVID MALLET, author of some beautiful ballad stanzas, and some florid unimpassioned poems in blank verse, was a successful but unprincipled literary adventurer. He praised and courted Pope while living, and, after experiencing his kindness, traduced his memory when dead. He earned a disgraceful pension by contributing to the death of a brave naval officer, Admiral Byng, who fell a victim to the clamour of faction; and by various other acts of his life, he evinced that self-aggrandisement was his only steady and ruling passion. When Johnson, therefore, states that Mallet was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend, he pays a compliment to the virtue and integrity of the natives of Scotland. The original name of the poet was Malloch. When the clan Macgregor was abolished by an act of the privy-council in 1603, and subsequently by acts of parliament, some of the clansmen took this name of Malloch, of which two Gaelic etymologies have been given. One derives it from Mala, a brow or eyebrow, and another from Mallaich, the cursed or accursed. Mallet's father is said to have kept an inn at Crieff, in Perthshire; but a recent editor of the poet,* upon grounds not merely plausible but very probable, believes him to have been the son of parents of a less humble condition of life-a family of Mallochs settled upon the farm of Dunruchan, near Muthill, Perthshire, the head of which family was one of three on the great estates of Perth who rode on saddles, that being a dignity not permitted or too costly for

others.

The Dunruchan Mallochs were concerned in the rebellions of 1715 and 1745, and sunk to poverty. David is first found in the situation of janitor of the High School of Edinburgh-a menial office rarely given to one so young as Mallet, who was then not more than fifteen or sixteen. He held the office for half a year, his full salary being ten pounds Scots, or 16s. 8d. This was in 1718. He then studied for a time under Professor Ker of Aberdeen, to whose kindness he was much indebted, and he was afterwards received, though without salary, as tutor in the family of Mr. Home of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. He

* Ballads and Songs by David Mallet. Edited by Dr. Dinsdale, 1857.

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