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

From a lone tow'r with rev'rend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awak'd a tender sigh;
Still, as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from ev'ry eye.

So droop'd, I ween, each Briton's breast of old,
When the dull curfew spoke their freedom fled;
For sighing as the mournful accent roll'd,
Our hope, they cry'd, our kind support, is dead!

'Twas good Palemon—near a shaded pool,
A group of ancient elms umbrageous rose;
The flocking rooks, by instinct's native rule,
This peaceful scene, for their asylum, chose.

A few small spires, to Gothic fancy fair,
Amid the shades emerging, struck the view;
'Twas here his youth respir'd its earliest air;
'Twas here his age breath'd out its last adieu.

One favour'd son engag'd his tenderest care;
One pious youth his whole affection crown'd:
In his young breast the virtues sprung so fair,
Such charms display'd, such sweets diffus'd around.

But whilst gay transport in his face appears,
A noxious vapour clogs the poison'd sky;
Blasts the fair crop—the sire is drown'd in tears,
And, scarce surviving, sees his Cynthio die!

O'er the pale corse we saw him gently bend;
Heart-chill'd with grief—my thread, he cry'd, is spun!
“If heav'n had meant I shou'd my life extend,
Heav'n had preserv'd my life's support, my son.

Snatch'd in thy prime! alas the stroke were mild,
Had my frail form obey'd the fates' decree!
Blest were my lot, O Cynthio! O my child!
Had heav'n so pleas'd, and I had dy'd for thee.”

Five sleepless nights he stem'd this tide of woes;
Five irksome suns he saw, thro' tears, forlorn!
On his pale corse the sixth sad morning rose;
From yonder dome the mournful bier was borne.

'Twas on those downs, by Roman hosts annoy'd,
Fought our bold fathers; rustic, unrefin'd!
Freedom's plain sons, in martial cares employ'd!
They ting'd their bodies, but unmask'd their mind.

'Twas there, in happier times, this virtuous race,
Of milder merit, fix'd their calm retreat;
War's deadly crimson had forsook the place,
And freedom fondly lov'd the chosen seat.

No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,
To swell with empty sounds a spotless name;
If fost'ring skies, the sun, the show'r were blest,
Their bounty spread; their field's extent the same.

Those fields, profuse of raiment, food, and fire,
They scorn'd to lessen, careless to extend;
Bade luxury, to lavish courts aspire,
And avarice, to city-breasts descend.

None, to a virgin's mind, prefer'd her dow'r;
To fire with vicious hopes a modest heir:
The sire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r,
Assign'd him virtue; and his lot was fair.

They spoke of fortune, as some doubtful dame,
That sway'd the natives of a distant sphere;
From lucre's vagrant sons had learnt her fame,
But never wish'd to place her banners here.

Here youth's free spirit, innocently gay,
Enjoy'd the most that innocence can give,
Those wholesome sweets that border virtue's way;
Those cooling fruits, that we may taste and live.

Their board no strange ambiguous viand bore;
From their own streams their choicer fare they drew,
To lure the scaly glutton to the shore,
The sole deceit their artless bosom knew!

Sincere themselves, ah too secure to find
The common bosom, like their own, sincere!
'Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;
'Tis her own poison bids the viper fear.

Sketch'd on the lattice of th'adjacent fane,
Their suppliant busts implore the reader's pray'r;
Ah gentle souls! enjoy your blissful reign,
And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.

For sure, to blissful realms the souls are flown,
That never flatter'd, injur'd, censur'd, strove;
The friends of science! music, all their own;
Music, the voice of virtue and of love!

The journeying peasant, thro' the secret shade,
Heard their soft lyres engage his list'ning ear;
And haply deem'd some courteous angel play'd;
No angel play'd—but might with transport hear.

For these the sounds that chase unholy strife!
Solve envy's charm, ambition's wretch release!
Raise him to spurn the radiant ills of life:
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.

Farewel, pure spirits! vain the praise we give,
The praise you sought from lips angelic flows;
Farewel! the virtues which deserve to live,
Deserve an ampler bliss than life bestows.

Last of his race, Palemon, now no more
The modest merit of his line display'd;
Then pious Hough Vigornia's mitre wore—
Soft sleep the dust of each deserving shade.

The penns of Harborough; a place whose name in the Saxon language, alludes to an army. And there is a tradition that there was a battle fought, on the Downs adjoining, betwixt the Britons and the Romans.

Harborough Downs.

University of Virginia Library

ELEGY XV. In memory of a private family in Worcestershire.