ripeness of thought and learning of Cowley's essays, but they resemble them more closely than any others we possess. In poetry, Shenstone tried different styles; his elegies barely reach mediocrity; his levities, or pieces of humour, are dull and spiritless. His highest effort is the Schoolmistress,' a descriptive sketch in imitation of Spenser, so delightfully quaint and ludicrous, yet true to nature, that it has all the force and vividness of a painting by Teniers or Wilkie. His Pastoral Ballad, in four parts, is also the finest English poem of that order. The pastorals of Spenser do not aim at lyrical simplicity, and no modern poet has approached Shenstone in the simple tenderness and pathos of pastoral song. Mr Campbell seems to regret the affected Arcadianism of these pieces, which undoubtedly present an incongruous mixture of pastoral life and modern manners. But, whether from early associations (for almost every person has read Shenstone's ballad in youth), or from the romantic simplicity, the true touches of nature and feeling, and the easy versification of the stanzas, they are always read and remembered with delight. We must surrender up the judgment to the imagination in perusing them, well knowing that no such Corydons or Phylisses are to be found; but this is a sacrifice which the Faery Queen equally demands, and which few readers of poetry are slow to grant. Johnson quotes the following verses of the first part, with the striking eulogium, that, if any mind denies its sympathy to them, it has no acquaintance with love or nature:

I prized every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh,

And I grieve that I prized them no more.

When forced the fair nymph to forego,

What anguish I felt in my heart! Yet I thought (but it might not be 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.

We subjoin the best part of the Schoolmistress ;' but one other stanza is worthy of notice, not only for its intrinsic excellence, but for its having probably suggested to Gray the fine reflection in his elegy

'Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,' &c. Mr D'Israeli has pointed out this resemblance in his Curiosities of Literature,' and it appears wellfounded. The palm of merit, as well as originality, seems to rest with Shenstone; for it is more natural and just to predict the existence of undeveloped powers and great eminence in the humble child at school, than to conceive they had slumbered through life in the peasant in the grave. Yet the conception of Gray has a sweet and touching pathos, that sinks into the heart and memory. Shenstone's is as follows:

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
Even now sagacious foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakspeare-names that ne'er shall die!
Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.

Cottage of the Schoolmistress, near Hales-Owen, Shropshire.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which learning near her little dome did stowe ; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle wo; For not a wird might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low; And as they looked, they found their horror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

Near to this 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 intermixed, which thence resound, Do learning's little tenement betray; Where sits the dame, disguised 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 dyed 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 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, 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 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 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 affronts--for vile affronts there passed; And warned them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Oh 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 huxter's savoury cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens the 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-covered o'er, Galling full sore the unmoneyed wight, are seen, And goosebrie clad in livery red or green; And here, of lovely dye, the catharine pear, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween; O may no wight e'er penniless come there, Lest, smit with ardent love, he pine with hopeless care.

See, cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies tied, Scattering, like blooming maid, their glances round, With pampered look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. The plum all azure, and the nut all brown; And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honoured names* the inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.

Admired Salopia! that with venial pride Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Famed for her loyal cares in perils tried, Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave: Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave Whose art did first these dulcet cates display! A motive fair to learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray; Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.

A Pastoral Ballad, in Four Parts-1743. 'Arbusta humilesque myricæ.'-VIRG.

I. 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 Ï;

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.
I prized every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh,

And I grieve that I prized them no more.

*Shrewsbury Cakes.

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.

O 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, 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.

[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, 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 per 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.