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

I ne'er must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor, with Italian sounds, deceive the day.

Down yonder brook my crystal bev'rage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,
And, from my grove, I hear the throstle sing.

My fellow swains! avert your dazled eyes;
In vain allur'd by glitt'ring spoils they rove;
The fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompence, in love.

They gave you vigour from your parent's veins;
They gave you toils; but toils your sinews brace;
They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains,
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.

To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To sing soft carrols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grotts, and echoing vales assign'd!

Would'st thou, my Strephon, love's delighted slave!
Tho' sure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave?
And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear.

Ill fare my peace, but ev'ry idle toy,
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,
Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.

O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,
When love deplores the tyrant pow'r of gain!
Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,
I rise superior, and the rich disdain.

Oft from the stream, slow-wandering down the glade,
Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound;
“Some miser weds, I cry, the captive maid,
“And some fond lover sickens at the sound.”

Not Somerville, the muse's friend of old,
Tho' now exalted to yon ambient sky,
So shun'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,
So lov'd the pure, the generous breast, as I.

Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendships, ev'n his self, resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,
And to a ducate's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my friend, with taste, with science blest,
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;
Restore thy dear idea to my breast,
The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.

Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,
The charms of independence let us sing;
Blest with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.

Crœsus.

University of Virginia Library

ELEGY IX. He describes his disinterestedness to a friend.