The works, in verse and prose, of William Shenstone, Esq ::

'Tis Nature here bids pleasing scenes arise,
And wisely gives them Cynthio to revise:
To veil each blemish; brighten every grace;
Yet still preserve the lovely parent's face.
How well the bard obeys, each valley tells;
These lucid streams, gay meads, and lonely cells;
Where modest art in silence lurks conceal'd,
While nature shines so gracefully reveal'd,
That she triumphant claims the total plan,
And, with fresh pride, adopts the work of man.

322

To William Shenstone, Esq; at the Leasowes.

By Mr. Graves.

“Vellem in amicitia sic erraremus!” Hor.

See! the tall youth, by partial fate's decree,
To affluence born, and from restraint set free.
Eager he seeks the scenes of gay resort,
The mall, the rout, the play-house, and the court:
Soon for some varnish'd nymph of dubious fame,
Or powder'd peeress, counterfeits a flame.
Behold him now, enraptur'd, swear and sigh,
Dress, dance, drink, revel, all he knows not why;
Till, by kind fate restor'd to country air,
He marks the roses of some rural fair:
Smit with her unaffected native charms,
A real passion soon his bosom warms;
And, wak'd from idle dreams, he takes a wife,
And tastes the genuine happiness of life.

Thus, in the vacant season of the year,
Some Templar gay begins his wild career.
From seat to seat o'er pompous scenes he flies,
Views all with equal wonder and surprize;
Till, sick of domes, arcades, and temples grown,
He hies fatigu'd, not satisfy'd, to town.
Yet if some kinder Genius point his way
To where the Muses o'er thy Leasowes stray,

323

Charm'd with the sylvan beauties of the place,
Where art assumes the sweets of nature's face,
Each hill, each dale, each consecrated grove,
Each lake, and falling stream, his rapture move.
Like the sage captive in Calypso's grott,
The cares, the pleasures of the world forgot,
Of calm content he hails the genuine sphere,
And longs to dwell a blissful hermit here.

324

VERSES received by the post, from a LADY unknown, 1761.

Health to the Bard in Leasowes' happy groves;
Health, and sweet converse with the Muse he loves!
The humblest votary of the tuneful Nine,
With trembling hand, attempts her artless line,
In numbers such as untaught nature brings;
As flow, spontaneous, like thy native springs.

But ah! what airy forms around me rise?
The russet mountain glows with richer dies;
In circling dance a pigmy crowd appear,
And hark! an infant voice salutes my ear:
‘Mortal, thy aim we know, thy task approve;
‘His merit honour, and his genius love:
‘For us what verdant carpets has he spread,
‘Where nightly we our mystic mazes tread!
‘For us, each shady grove and rural seat,
‘His falling streams and flowing numbers sweet!
‘Didst thou not mark, amid the winding dell,
‘What tuneful verse adorns the mossy cell?
‘There every fairy of our sprightly train
‘Resort, to bless the woodland and the plain.
‘There, as we move, unbidden beauties glow,
‘The green turf brightens, and the violets blow;
‘And there with thoughts sublime we bless the swain,
‘Nor we inspire, nor he attends, in vain.

325

‘Go, simple rhimer! bear this message true;
‘The truths that fairies dictate none shall rue.
‘Say to the bard in Leasowes' happy grove,
‘Whom Dryads honour, and whom Fairies love—
“Content thyself no longer that thy lays,
“By others foster'd, lend to others praise;
“No longer to the favoring world refuse
“The welcome treasures of thy polish'd Muse;
“The scatter'd blooms, that boast thy valu'd name,
“Collect, unite, and give the wreath to fame:
“Ne'er can thy virtues, or thy verse, engage
“More solid praise than in this happiest age,
“When sense and merit's cherish'd by the throne,
“And each illustrious privilege their own.
“Tho' modest be thy gentle Muse, I ween,
“Oh, lead her blushing from the daisy'd green
“A fit attendant on Britannia's Queen.”

Ye sportive elves, as faithful I relate
Th'intrusted mandates of your fairy state,
Visit these wilds again with nightly care;
So shall my kine, of all the herd, repair
In healthful plight to fill the copious pail!
My sheep lie pent with safety in the dale:
My poultry fear no robber in the roost,
My linen more than common whiteness boast:
Let order, peace, and housewifry be mine;
Shenstone, be fancy, fame, and fortune thine.

Cotswouldia.

326

On the discovery of an echo at Edgbaston. By ---/---

Ha! what art thou, whose voice unknown
Pours on these plains it's tender moan?
Art thou the nymph in Shenstone's dale,
Who dost with plaintive note bewail
That he forsakes th'Aonian maids,
To court inconstant rills and shades?
Mourn not, sweet nymphs—alas, in vain
Do they invite, and thou complain—

Yet while he woo'd the gentle throng,
With liquid lay and melting song,
The listening herd around him stray'd,
In wanton frisk the lambkins play'd,
And every Naïad ceas'd to lave
Her azure limbs amid the wave.
The Graces danc'd; the rosy band
Of Smiles and Loves went hand in hand;
And purple Pleasures strew'd the way
With sweetest flowers: and every ray
Of each fond Muse, with rapture fir'd,
To glowing thought his breast inspir'd.
The hills rejoic'd, the valleys rung,
All nature smil'd, while Shenstone sung.

327

So charm'd his lay; but now no more—
Ah! why dost thou repeat—“no more?”
Ev'n now he hies to deck the grove,
To deck the scene the muses love;
And soon again will own their sway,
And thou resound the peerless lay,
And with immortal numbers fill
Each rocky cave and vocal hill.

328

VERSES by Mr. Dodsley, on his first arrival at the LEASOWES, 1754.

“How shall I fix my wandering eye? Where find
“The source of this enchantment? Dwells it in
“The woods? or waves there not a magic wand
“O'er the translucent waters? Sure, unseen,
“Some favoring power directs the happy lines
“That sketch these beauties; swells the rising hills,
“And scoops the dales, to Nature's finest forms,
“Vague, undetermin'd, infinite; untaught
“By line or compass, yet supremely fair.”
So spake Philenor, as with raptur'd gaze
He travers'd Damon's farm. From distant plains
He sought his friend's abode: nor had the fame
Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.

And thus the swain, as o'er each hill and dale,
Thro' lawn or thicket he pursu'd his way:
“What is it gilds the verdure of these meads
“With hues more bright than fancy paints the flowers
“Of Paradise? What Naïad's guiding hand
“Leads, thro' the broider'd vale, these lucid rills,
“That, murmuring as they flow, bear melody
“Along their banks; and thro' the vocal shades,
“Improve the music of the woodland choir?
“What pensive Dryad rais'd yon solemn grove,
“Where minds contemplative, at close of day
“Retiring, muse o'er Nature's various works,

329

“Her wonders venerate, or her sweets enjoy—
“What room for doubt? Some rural deity,
“Presiding, scatters o'er th'unequal lawns,
“In beauteous wildness, yon fair-spreading trees;
“And mingling woods and waters, hills and dales,
“And herds and bleating flocks, domestic fowl,
“And those that swim the lake, sees rising round
“More pleasing landskips than in Tempe's vale
“Penéus water'd. Yes, some sylvan god
“Spreads wide the varied prospect; waves the woods,
“Lifts the proud hills, and clears the shining lakes;
“While, from the congregated waters pour'd,
“The bursting torrent tumbles down the steep
“In foaming fury; fierce, irregular,
“Wild, interrupted, cross'd with rocks and roots
“And interwoven trees; till, soon absorb'd,
“An opening cavern all it's rage entombs.
“So vanish human glories! Such the pomp
“Of swelling warriours, of ambitious kings,
“Who fret and strut their hour upon the stage
“Of busy life, and then are heard no more!

“Yes, 'tis enchantment all—And see, the spells,
“The powerful incantations, magic verse,
“Inscrib'd on every tree, alcove, or urn.—
“Spells!—Incantations!—ah, my tuneful friend!
“Thine are the numbers! thine the wond'rous work!—
“Yes, great magician! now I read thee right,
“And lightly weigh all sorcery, but Thine.
“No Naïad's leading step conducts the rill;

330

“Nor sylvan god presiding skirts the lawn
“In beauteous wildness, with fair-spreading trees;
“Nor magic wand has circumscrib'd the scene.
“'Tis thine own taste, thy genius that presides,
“Nor needs there other deity, nor needs
“More potent spells than they.”—No more the swain,
For lo, his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn
Advancing, leads him to the social dome.

331

To Mr. R. D. on the Death of Mr. Shenstone.

“Thee, shepherd, thee, the woods and desart caves,
“With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
“And all their echoes mourn.”
Milt.

'Tis past! my friend; the transient scene is clos'd!
The fairy pile, th'enchanted vision rais'd
By Damon's magic skill, is lost in air!

What tho' the lawns and pendant woods remain,
Each tinkling stream, each rushing cataract,
With lapse incessant echoes thro' the dale?
Yet what avails the lifeless landskip now?
The charm's dissolv'd; the Genius of the wood,
Alas! is flown—for Damon is no more.

As when from fair Lyceum, crown'd with pines,
Or Mænalus, with leaves autumnal strew'd,
The tuneful Pan retires; the vocal hills
Resound no more, and all Arcadia mourns.

Yet here we fondly dreamt of lasting joys:
Here we had hop'd, from noisy throngs retir'd,
To drink large draughts of friendship's cordial stream;
In sweet oblivion wrapt, by Damon's verse,
And social converse, many a summer's day.

332

Romantic wish! In vain frail mortals trace
Th'imperfect sketch of human bliss—whilst yet
Th'enraptur'd sire his well-plann'd structure views,
Majestic rising 'midst his infant groves:
Sees the dark laurel spread its glossy shade,
Its languid bloom the purple lilack blend,
Or pale laburnum drop it's pensile chain:
Death spreads the fatal shaft, and bids his heir
Transplant the cypress round his father's tomb.

Oh! teach me then, like you, my friend, to raise
To moral truths my groveling song; for, ah!
Too long, by lawless fancy led astray,
Of nymphs and groves I've dreamt, and dancing fawns
Or Naïad leaning o'er her tinkling urn.
Oh! could I learn to sanctify my strains
With hymns, like those by tuneful Meyrick sung—
Or rather catch the melancholy sounds
From Warton's reed, or Mason's lyre—to paint
The sudden gloom that damps my soul—But see!
Melpomene herself has snatch'd the pipe,
With which sad Lyttelton his Lucia mourn'd;
And plaintive cries, my Shenstone is no more!

R. G.

333

VERSES written at the Gardens of William Shenstone, Esquire, near Birmingham, 1756.

“Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes
“Angulus ridet.”
Hor

Would you these lov'd recesses trace,
And view fair Nature's modest face?
See her in every field-flower bloom?
O'er every thicket shed perfume?
By verdant groves, and vocal hills,
By mossy grotts, near purling rills,
Where'er you turn your wondering eyes,
Behold her win without disguise.

What tho' no pageant trifles here,
As in the glare of courts, appear;
Tho' rarely here be heard the name
Of rank, or title, power, or fame;
Yet, if ingenuous be your mind,
A bliss more pure and unconfin'd
Your step attends—Draw freely nigh,
And meet the Bard's benignant eye:
On him no pedant forms await,
No proud reserve shuts up his gate;
No spleen, no party views controul
That warm benevolence of soul,

334

Which prompts the friendly generous part,
Regardless of each venal art;
Regardless of the world's acclaim;
And courteous with no selfish aim.
Draw freely nigh, and welcome find,
If not the costly, yet the kind.
Oh, he will lead you to the cells
Where every Muse and Virtue dwells,
Where the green Dryads guard his woods,
Where the blue Naïads guide his floods;
Where all the Sister-Graces gay,
That shap'd his walk's meandring way,
Stark-naked, or but wreath'd with flowers,
Lie slumbering soft beneath his bowers.

Wak'd by the stock-dove's melting strain,
Behold them rise! and, with the train
Of nymphs that haunt the stream or grove,
Or o'er the flowery champain rove,
Join hand in hand—attentive gaze—
And mark the dance's mystic maze.

“Such is the waving line,” they cry,
“For ever dear to Fancy's eye!
“Yon stream that wanders down the dale,
“The spiral wood, the winding vale,
“The path which, wrought with hidden skill,
“Slow twining scales yon distant hill
“With fir invested—all combine
“To recommend the waving line.

335

“The wreathed rod of Bacchus fair,
“The ringlets of Apollo's hair,
“The wand by Maïa's offspring born,
“The smooth volutes of Ammon's horn,
“The structure of the Cyprian dame,
“And each fair female's beauteous frame,
“Shew, to the pupils of Design,
“The triumphs of the Waving Line.”

Then gaze, and mark that union sweet,
Where fair convex and concave meet;
And while, quick shifting as you stray,
The vivid scenes on fancy play;
The lawn, of aspect smooth and mild;
The forest ground, grotesque and wild;
The shrub that scents the mountain gale;
The stream rough dashing down the dale.
From rock to rock, in eddies tost;
The distant lake in which 'tis lost;
Blue hills gay beaming thro' the glade;
Lone urns that solemnize the shade;
Sweet interchange of all that charms
In groves, meads, dingles, rivulets, farms!
If aught the fair confusion please,
With lasting health, and lasting ease,
To him who form'd the blissful bower,
And gave thy life one tranquil hour;
Wish peace and freedom—these possest,
His temperate mind secures the rest.

336

But if thy soul such bliss despise,
Avert thy dull incurious eyes;
Go fix them there, where gems and gold,
Improv'd by art, their power unfold;
Go try in courtly scenes to trace
A fairer form of Nature's face:
Go scorn simplicity—but know,
That all our heart-felt joys below,
That all which virtue loves to name,
Which art consigns to lasting fame,
Which fixes wit or beauty's throne,
Derives its source from her alone.

Arcadio.

337

To William Shenstone, Esq; in his Sickness.

By Mr. Woodhouse.

Ye flow'ry plains, ye breezy woods,
Ye bowers and gay alcoves,
Ye falling streams, ye silver floods,
Ye grottoes, and ye groves!

Alas! my heart feels no delight,
Tho' I your charms survey;
While he consumes in pain the night,
In languid sighs the day.

The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse;
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.

Restrain, ye flowers, your thoughtless pride,
Recline your gaudy heads;
And sadly drooping, side by side,
Embrace your humid beds.

Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade,
Your lofty summits rear!
Ah why, in wonted charms array'd,
Expand your leaves so fair!

338

For lo, the flowers as gayly smile,
As wanton waves the tree;
And tho' I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.

Ah, should the fates an arrow send,
And strike the fatal wound,
Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Or fence your beauties round?

But hark, perhaps, the plumy throng
Have learnt my plaintive tale,
And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating in the gale.

Ah no! they chant a sprightly strain
To soothe an amorous mate;
Unmindful of my anxious pain
And his uncertain fate.

But see, these little murmuring rills
With fond repinings rove;
And trickle wailing down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.

Oh mock not if, beside your stream,
You hear me too repine;
Or aid with sighs your mournful theme,
And fondly call him mine.

339

Ye envious winds, the cause display,
In whispers as ye blow,
Why did your treacherous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?

Did he not plant the shady bower,
Where you so blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flower,
To make your breezes sweet?

And must he leave the wood, the field,
The dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The guardian of the plain?

Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?
That round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.

Preserve him, mild Omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God,
Who clear'st the paths of life and sense,
Or stop'st them at thy nod.

Blest pow'r, who calm'st the raging deep,
His valued health restore,
Nor let the sons of Genius weep,
Nor let the Good deplore.

340

But if thy boundless Wisdom knows
His longer date an ill,
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will.

For happy, happy were the change,
For such a god-like mind,
To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.

And tho', to share his pleasures here,
Kings might their state forego:
Yet must he feel such raptures there,
As none can taste below.

341

VERSES left on a Seat, the Hand unknown.

O Earth! to his remains indulgent be,
Who so much care and cost bestow'd on thee!
Who crown'd thy barren hills with useful shade,
And chear'd with tinkling rills each silent glade;
Here taught the day to wear a thoughtful gloom,
And there enliven'd Nature's vernal bloom.
Propitious earth! lie lightly on his head,
And ever on his tomb thy vernal glories spread!

342

CORYDON, A PASTORAL.

To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq.

I

Come, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
And see our lov'd Corydon laid:
Tho' sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let the sad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In sooth, he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd in his elegant strain,
The Graces that glow'd in his mind.

II

On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins, that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat—and your master bemoan:
His musick was artless and sweet,
His manners as mild as your own.

III

No verdure shall cover the vale,
No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And Winter discolor the year.

343

No birds in our hedges shall sing
(Our hedges so vocal before,)
Since he that should welcome the spring,
Can greet the gay season no more.

IV

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd and envy'd his lays,
But which of them equall'd his song?
Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus—let me break it in twain.

J. Cunningham.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

VERSES TO Mr. SHENSTONE.

Written on a Ferme Ornée, near Birmingham.