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Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declar'd how much he knew,
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, times and tides presage ;
And e'en the story ran that he could guage.
In arguing too the parson own'd his skill;
For, e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still ;
While words of learned length and thundtring sound,
Amazód the gazing rustics, rangʻd around;
And still they gaz'd-and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
V.- Story of Palemon and Lavinia.-THOMPSON.
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends,
And fortune smil'd deceitful, on her birth.
For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widowód mother, feeble, old
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty conceal'd.
Together, thus they shun'd the cruel scorn,
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion and low minded pride ;
Almost on nature's common bounty fed ;
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content, and careless of tomorrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure,
As is the lilly, or the mountain snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers;
Or, when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithless fortune promisód once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star
Of evening, slone in tears. A native grace
Sat, fair proportion'd, on her polish'd liinbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadora'd, adorn'd the most.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse, amid the close embowering woods.
As in the hollow breast of Appenine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises, far froin human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild ;
So flourished blooining, and unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia; till at length compell'd
By strong Necessity's supreme command,
With smiling patience in her looks, she went
To glean Palemon's fields. — The pride of swains
Palemon was; the generous and the rich ;
Who led the rural life, in all its joy
And elegance, such as Arcadian song
Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times,
When tyrant Custom had not shackled man,
But, free to follow nature, was the mode.
He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes
Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper train
To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye,
Unconscious of her power, and turning quick,
With unaffected blushes, from his gaze:
He saw her charming; but he saw not half
The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd.
That very moment love and chaste desire
Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown;
For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh
(Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn)
Should his heart own a gleaner in the field;
And thus in secret to his soul he sighód.
“Wbat pity that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense, And more than vulgar goodnese seems to dwell, Should be devoted to the rede embrace Of some indecent clown ! She looks, me thinks, Of old Acasto's line; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; Now to the dust gone down, his houses, lands, And once fair spreading family, dissolvéd.
'Tis said that in some lone, obscure retreat,
Urgʻd by remembrance sad, and decent pride,
Far from those scenes which knew their better days,
His aged widow and his daughter live,
Whom yet my fruitless search could never find
; Romantic wish! would this the daughter were."
When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Or bountiful Acasto—who can speak The mingled passions that surpriz'd his heart, And through his nerves, in shivóring transport ran ! Then blaz d his smother'd flame, avowód, and bold ! And as he viewód her, ardent oʻer and oʻer, Love, gratitude and pity wept at once. Confusód and frighten'. at his sudden tears, Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom ; As thus Palemon, passionate and just, Pour'd out the pious rapture of his soul.
“ And art thou, then, Acastoʻs dear remains ? She whom my restless gratitude has sought So long in vain ? () yes ! the very same, The soften'd image of my noble friend; Alive his every feature, every look, More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring ! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourish'd up my fortune! say, ah! where, In what sequester'd desert bast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted heaven ! Into such beauty spread and blown so fair, Though poverty.s cold wind and rushing rain, Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years. O let me now into a richer soil. Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and showers Diffuse tlreir warmest, largest influence ; And of my garden be the pride and joy. Ill it befits thee, ch! 'it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores, Though vast, were little to his ampler lieart, The father of a country, thus to pick very
refuse of those harvest fields, Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from ihy hand,
But ill applied to such a rugged task ;
The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine;
If to the various blessings which thy house
Has on me lavished thou wilt add that bliss,
That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee.”
Here ceas'd the youth; yet still his speakiog eye
Express'd the secret triumph of his soul,
With conscious virtue, gratitude and love,
Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd.-
Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm
Of goodness irresistable, and all
In sweet disorder lost-she blush'd consent.
The news immediate to her mother brought,
While pierc'd with anxious thought, she pin'd away
The lonely moments for Lavina's fate :
Amaz'd and scarce believing what she heard,
-Joy seiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam
Of setting life shone on her evening hours:
Not less enrapturód than the happy pair,
Who flourish'd long in tender bliss, and rearód
A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves,
And good the grace of all the country round.
VI. --Celadon and Amelia.- 1b.
And his Amelia were a matchless pair,
With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace,
The same, distinguish'd by their sex alone.
Hers, the mild lusture of the blooming morn,
And his the radiatice of the risen day.
They lov'd. But such their guiltless passion was,
As in the dawn of time, inform'd the heart
Of innocence and undissembling truth.
'Twas friendship, heighten'd by the mutual wishi,
The enchanting hope and sympathetic glow
Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all
To love, each was to each a dearer self;
Supremely happy in th' awaken'd power
Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades,
Still, in harmonious intercourse, they liv'd
The rural day, and talk'd the flowing hearts
Or sigh'd and look'd--unutterable things.
So passéd their life, a clear united stream, By care unruffled, till, in evil hour, The tempest caught them on the tender walk, Heedless how far and where its mazes stray'd ; While, with each other bless'd creative love Still bade eternal Eden smile around. Presaging instant fate, her bosom heavid Unwonted sighs; and stealing oft a look Towórds the big gloom, on Celadon her eye Fell tearful, wetting her disorder'd cheek. In vain assuring love and confidence In heaven repress'd her fear; it grew, and shook Her frame near dissolution. He perceivód Th’ unequal conflict; and, as angels look On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, With love illumin'd high. 6-Fear not," he said, “ Sweet innocence! thou stranger to offence And inward storm! He who yon skies involves In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee, With kiod regard. O'er thee the secret shaft, That wastes at midnight, or th' undreaded hour Of noon, flies harmless; and that very voice Which thunders terrour through the guilty heart, With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine. 'Tis safety to be near thee, sure, and thus To clasp perfection !" From his void embrace, (Mysterious Heaven!) that moment to the ground, A blacken'd corse was struck the beauteous maid. But who can paint the lover as he stood, Piercéd by severe amazement, bating life, Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe. VII.- Description of Mab, Queen of the Fairies.
SHAKESPEARE: SHE is the fancy's midwife; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone, On the forefinger of an Alderman; Drawn by a team of little atomies, Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; Her waggon spokes, made of long spinner's legs : The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; The traces, of the smallest spider's web;