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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;
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill fort, and mischievous emprize :
Lend me thy clarion, goddefs! let me try
To found the praise of merit, ere it dies!
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Loft in the dreary fhades of dull obfcurity.

In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly fhed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we fchool-miftrefs name;
Who boafts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven fore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame ;
And oft-times on vagaries idly bent,

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)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of fport, of fong, of pleasure, of repaft;
They ftart, they ftare, they wheel, they look aghaft;
Sad fervitude! fuch comfortless annoy

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er tafte!
Ne fuperflition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vifion empty, vain, his native blifs destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door impris'ning board is feen,
Left weakly wights of fmaller fize fhould fray;
Eager, perdie, to bask of funny day!
The noifes intermix'd, which hence refound,
Do learning's little tenement betray:

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,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trowe,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for fceptre, fhe does wield
Tway birchen fprays; with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark diftruft, and fad repentance fill'd;

And ftedfaft hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chaftisement unkind.

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;
A ruffet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'Twas fimple ruffet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock fo fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, footh to fay, her pupils, rang'd around,
Thro' pious awe, did term it paffing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,

And think, no doubt, fhe been the greateft wight on

ground.

Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good-woman, goffip, n'aunt, forfooth,
Or dame, the fole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear:
Ne wou'd esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere:
For never title yet fo 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 fchool, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her paft deportment claim;
And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, fhe would collect the fame ;

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,
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 marj'ram fweet, in fhepherd's pofie found;
And lavender, whose spikes, of azure bloom,
Shall be, ere-while, in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,

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!
Ere this was banish'd from its lofty spere:
Simplicity then fought this humble cell,

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

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