No warmer cups the rural ages knew;
None warmer sought the sires of human kind.
Happy in temperate. peace! their equal days
Felt not th' alternate fits of feeverish mirth
And sick dejection. Still serene and pleas'd,
They knew no pains but what the tender soul
With pleasure yields to, and would ne'er forget.
Bless'd with divine immunity from ails,
Long centuries they liv'd; their only fate
Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death.
Oh! could those worthies, from the world of gods,
Return to visit their degenerate sons,

How would they scorn the joys of modern time,
With all our art and toil, improv'd to pain!

TENDENCY OF ALL THINGS TO DECAY.

WHAT does not fade? The tower that long had stood
The crush of thunder and the warring winds,
Shook by the slow but sure destroyer Time,
Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base.
And flinty pyramids, and walls of brass,
Descend: the Babylonian spires are sunk;
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt, moulder down.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
This huge rotundity we tread, grows old;
And all those worlds that roll around the sun,
The sun himself, shall die; and ancient Night
Again involve the desolate abyss:

Till the great FATHER through the lifeless gloom
Extend his arm to light another world,

And bid new planets roll by other laws.

For through the regiors of unbounded space,
Where unconfin'd Ömnipotence has room,
Being, in various systems, fluctuates still
Between creation and abhorr'd decay;

It ever did, perhaps, and ever will,

New worlds are still emerging from the deep;
The old descending, in their turns to rise.

SHENSTONE'S youth was passed under the instruction of a clergyman, from whom he received a good knowledge of the classics and a taste for the best English literature. In 1732, at the age of eighteen, he entered Oxford University. In 1745,

his paternal estate, the Leasowes, devolved exclusively upon his care, and from this period his life was spent in improving its natural beauties, amusing himself with occasional compositions in prose and poetry, and cultivating the society of his neighbours and visitors. Dodsley, his friend and publisher, wrote an elaborate description of the Leasowes, which drew multitudes to inspect and admire the beauties of the place. Shenstone died in his fiftieth year, after a life, which, though free from crime, seems to have been filled up with trifles, and unadorned by the elevation, or the active benevolence of religion.

Both the moral and poetical character of his writings is generally correct, though not lofty. His Pastoral Ballad contains some fine stanzas, but his Schoolmistress is by far the best of his poetical compositions. It is a natural and pleasing sketch of some of those scenes and characters in childhood, which the mind always loves to retrace. Simplicity and artlessness of description, good sense, benevolent humour, and pathetic tenderness of feeling, are here blended. together in a manner very rare and delightful.

"With all the beauties of the Leasowes in our minds," says Campbell, "it may still be regretted, that instead of devoting his whole soul to clumping beeches, and projecting mottos for summer-houses, he had not gone more into living nature for subjects, and described her interesting realities with the same fond and naive touches, which give so much delightfulness to his portrait of the Schoolmistress."

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd 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,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame,
And oft times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.

Near to his 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 intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do learning's little tenement betray,

Where sits the dame, disguis'd 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 dy'd 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 entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd,
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown,
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'T was simple russet, but it was her own;
'T was her own country bred the flock so fair;
'T was her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd 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 challeng'd, these she held right dear;
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove

Who should not honour'd 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, impell'd by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came,
Such favour did her past deportment claim;
And if neglect had lavish'd 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 sipp'd the silvery dew,

Where no vain flower disclos'd 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 baum, and marygold of cheerful hue,
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb,

And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around,
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue,

And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound.
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posy found,
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound,

To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,

And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume.

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer,

Ere, driven from its envied site, it found

A sacred shelter for its branches here,

Where edg'd with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Oh wassal days! O customs meet and well!

Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere;

Simplicity then sought this humble cell,

Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.

Here oft the dame, on sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;
If winter 't were, 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 foe-men 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 pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed;
And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,
And tortious death was true Devotion's meed;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,
That n' ould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn:
Ah! dearest lord! forfend, thilk days should e'er return.

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:
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewar'd, if little bird their pranks behold,

'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo, now with state she utters the command!
Eftsoon 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 forth coming rod; unpleasing sight, I ween!

THE SCHOOL LET OUT.

BUT now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky,
And Liberty unbars her prison-door,
And like a rushing torrent out they fly,
And now the grassy cirque han cover'd o'er
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar;
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run,
Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastime, 1 implore!
For well may freedom, erst so dearly won,
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.

Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade,
And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers,
For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid,
For never may ye taste more careless hours
In knightly castles, or in ladies' bowers.
O vain to seek delight in earthly thing!

But most in courts, where proud Ambition towers;
Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.

See in each sprite some various bent appear!
These rudely carol, most incondite lay;
Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer
Salute the stranger passing on his way;
Some builden fragile tenements of clay,
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play;
Thilk to the huckster's savoury cottage tend,

In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.

Here as each season yields a different store,
Each season's stores in order ranged been,
Apples with cabbage-net y'cover'd o'er,

Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen, ̄
And gooseberry, clad in livery red or green;
And here of lovely dye the catherine pear,
Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice I ween!
O may no wight e'er pennyless come there,

Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care!