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And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; ‘Twas simple russet, but it was her own; ‘Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; 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, Nepompous 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 unought 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 lavished 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 o: 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,
Hymnéd 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 'io 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 re

turn.

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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

Ah! luckless he, and born beneath the beam Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write; As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,” Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, Sighed as he sung, and did in tears indite; For brandishing the rod, she doth begin To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight; And down they drop ; appears his dainty skin, Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

0 ruthful scene ! when, from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see, All playful as she sat, she grows demure; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free; Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear; (Ah too remote to ward the shameful blow !) She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow, And gives a loose at last to unavailing wo.

But, ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace!
Or what device his loud laments explain–
The form uncouth of his disguised face—
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain—
The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain'
When he, in abject wise, implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain;
Or when from high she levels well her aim,

And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke

proclaim.

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 covered o'er With boisterous revel rout and wild uproar; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run. Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes I 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,
Oh never may ye taste more careless hours
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers.

* Spenser.

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* Shrewsbury Cakes.

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But her words such a pleasure convey, So much I her accents adore,

Let her speak, and whatever she say, Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmoved, when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly strayed,
If aught in her absence could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bowers?
Are the groves and the yalleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.

ini. Solicitude.

Why will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve
Ere I show you the charms of my love:
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave,
With her wit she engages the free,
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.

0 you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays ;
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown,
But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
0 how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the of my mind!
In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe—oh my Phyllis, 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.”

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower 1
What are pinks in a morn, to compare?
What is eglantine after a shower?

Then the lily no longer is white,
Then the rose is deprived of its bloom,
Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume.”
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

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* 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 service of the young chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common in 1746.

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;

For thou canst weep at every wo,
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, Oh 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.

0 then her mourning-coach was 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 show The pure and lasting love I bore :

Accept, 0 Heaven l of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.

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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 comg. to the virtue and integrity of the natives of

cotland. The original name of the poet was Malloch, which, after his removal to London, and his intimacy with the great, he changed to Mallet, as more easily pronounced by the English. His father kept a small inn at Crieff, Perthshire, where David was born about the year 1700. He attended Aberdeen college, and was afterwards received, though without salary, as tutor in the family of Mr Home of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. He next obtained a similar situation, but with a salary of £30 annum, in the family of the Duke of Montrose. In 1723, he went to London with the duke's family, and next year his ballad of William and Margaret

appeared in Hill's periodical, “The Plain Dealer. He soon numbered among his friends Young, Pope, and other eminent persons, to whom his assiduous attentions, his agreeable manners, and literary taste, rendered his society acceptable. In 1733 he published a satire on Bentley, inscribed to Pope, entitled Verbal Criticism, in which he characterises the venerable scholar as

In error obstinate, in wrangling loud,
For trifles eager, positive, and proud;
Deep in the darkness of dull authors bred,
With all their refuse lumbered in his head.

of Wales, with a salary of £200 per annum; and, in conjunction with Thomson, he produced, in 1740, the Masque of Alfred, in honour of the birth-day of the Princess Augusta. A fortunate second marriage (nothing is known of his first) brought to the poet a fortune of £10,000. The lady was daughter of Lord Carlisle's steward. Both Mallet and his wife professed to be deists, and the lady is said to have surprised some of her friends by commencing her arguments with—'Sir, we deists.” When Gibbon the historian was dismissed from his college at | Oxford for embracing popery, he took refuge in | Mallet's house, and was rather scandalised, he says, than reclaimed, by the philosophy of his host. Wilkes mentions that the vain and fantastic wife of Mallet one day lamented to a lady that her husband suffered in reputation by his name being so often confounded with that of Smollett; the lady wittily answered, “Madam, there is a short remedy ; let your husband keep his own name.’ To gratify Lord Bolingbroke, Mallet, in his preface to the ‘Patriot King,' heaped abuse on the memory of Pope, and Bolingbroke rewarded him by bequeathing to him the whole of his works and manuscripts. When the government became unpopular by the defeat at Minorca, he was employed to defend them, and under the signature of a Plain Man, he published an address imputing cowardice to the admiral of the fleet. He succeeded: Byng was shot, and Mallet was pensioned. On the death of the Duchess of Marlborough, it was found that she had left £1000 to Glover, author of ‘Leonidas,' and Mallet, jointly, on condition that they should draw up from the family papers a life of the great duke. Glover, indignant at a stipulation in the will, that the memoir was to be submitted before publication to the Earl of Chesterfield, and being a high-spirited man, devolved the whole on Mallet, who also received a pension from the second Duke of Marlborough, to stimulate his industry. He pretended to be busy with the work, and in the dedication to a small collection of his poems published in 1762, he stated that he hoped soon to present his grace with something more solid in the life of the first Duke of Marlborough. Mallet had received the solid money, and cared for nothing else. On his death, it was found that not a single line of the memoir had been written. In his latter days the poet held the lucrative situation of Keeper of the Book of Entries for the port of London. He died April 21, 1765. Mallet wrote some theatrical pieces, which, though partially successful on their representation, are now utterly forgotten. Gibbon anticipated, that, if ever his friend should attain poetic fame, it would be acquired by his poem of Amyntor and Theodora. This, the longest of his poetical works, is a tale in blank verse, the scene of which is laid in the solitary island of St Kilda, whither one of his characters, Aurelius, had fled to avoid the religious persecutions under Charles II. Some highly-wrought descriptions of marine scenery, storms, and ship: wreck, with a few touches of natural pathos, and affection, constitute the chief characteristics of the m. The whole, however, even the very names in such a locality, has an air of improbability and extravagance. Another work of the same kind, but inferior in execution, is his poem The Ercursion, written in imitation of the style of Thomson's ‘Seasons.” The defects of Thomson's style are servilely copied; some of his epithets and expres| sions are also borrowed; but there is no approach to his redeeming graces and beauties. Contrary to the dictum of Gibbon, the poetic fame of Mallet rests on his ballads, and chiefly on his “William

s Mallet was appointed under secretary to the Prince

and Margaret, which, written at the age of twentythree, afforded high hopes of ultimate excellence. The simplicity, here remarkable, he seems to have thrown aside when he assumed the airs and dress of a man of taste and fashion. All critics, from Dr Percy downwards, have united in considering “William and Margaret' one of the finest compositions of the kind in our language. Sir Walter Scott conceived that Mallet had imitated an old Scottish tale to be found in Allan Ramsay's ‘Tea-Table Miscellany,’ beginning, There came a ghost to Margaret's door.

The resemblance is striking. Mallet confessed only (in a note to his ballad) to the following verse in Fletcher's ‘Knight of the Burning Pestle:'—

When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

In the first printed copies of Mallet's ballad, the two first lines were nearly the same as the above—

When all was wrapt in dark midnight, And all were fast asleep.

He improved the rhyme by the change; but beautiful as the idea is of night and morning meeting, it may be questioned whether there is not more of Soutlou. awe and affecting simplicity in the old Words.

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 Clad in a wintry cloud;

And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud.

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,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime;

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek—
She died before her time.

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
When injured ghosts complain ;

When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath !

And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep? l

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