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

Born near the scene for Kenelm's fate renown'd
I take my plaintive reed, and range the grove,
And raise my lay, and bid the rocks resound
The savage force of empire, and of love.

Fast by the centre of yon' various wild,
Where spreading oaks embow'r a Gothic fane;
Kendrida's arts a brother's youth beguil'd;
There nature urg'd her tend'rest pleas in vain.

Soft o'er his birth, and o'er his infant hours,
Th'ambitious maid cou'd every care employ;
Then with assiduous fondness cropt the flow'rs,
To deck the cradle of the princely boy?

But soon the bosom's pleasing calm is flown;
Love fires her breast; the sultry passions rise;
A favour'd lover seeks the Mercian throne,
And views her Kenelm with a rival's eyes.

How kind were fortune, ah! how just were fate,
Wou'd fate or fortune Mercia's heir remove!
How sweet to revel on the couch of state!
To crown at once her lover and her love!

See, garnish'd for the chace, the fraudful maid
To these lone hills direct his devious way;
The youth, all prone, the sister guide obey'd,
Ill-fated youth! himself the destin'd prey.

But now, nor shaggy hill, nor pathless plain,
Forms the lone refuge of the silvan game;
Since Lyttelton has crown'd the sweet domain
With softer pleasures, and with fairer fame.

Where the rough bowman urg'd his headlong steed,
Immortal bards, a polish'd race, retire;
And where hoarse scream'd the strepent horn, succeed
The melting graces of no vulgar lyre.

See Thomson, loit'ring near some limpid well,
For Britain's friend the verdant wreath prepare!
Or, studious of revolving seasons, tell,
How peerless Lucia made all seasons fair!

See --- from civic garlands fly,
And in these groves indulge his tuneful vein!
Or from yon' summit, with a guardian's eye,
Observe how freedoms hand attires the plain!

Here Pope!—ah never must that tow'ring mind
To his lov'd haunts, or dearer friend, return!
What art! what friendships! oh! what fame resign'd!
—In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.

Where is the breast can rage or hate retain,
And these glad streams and smiling lawns behold?
Where is the breast can hear the woodland strain,
And think fair freedom well exchang'd for gold.

Thro' these soft shades delighted let me stray,
While o'er my head forgotten suns descend!
Thro' these dear valleys bend my casual way,
'Till setting life a total shade extend!

Here far from courts, and void of pompous cares,
I'll muse how much I owe mine humbler fate:
Or shrink to find, how much ambition dares,
To shine in anguish, and to grieve in state!

Canst thou, O sun! that spotless throne disclose,
Where her bold arm has left no sanguine stain?
Where, shew me where, the lineal scepter glows,
Pure, as the simple crook that rules the plain?

Tremendous pomp! where hate, distrust, and fear,
In kindred bosoms solve the social tie;
There not the parent's smile is half sincere;
Nor void of art the consort's melting eye.

There with the friendly wish, the kindly flame,
No face is brighten'd, and no bosoms beat;
Youth, manhood, age, avow one forbid aim,
And ev'n the beardless lip essays deceit.

There coward rumours walk their murd'rous round;
The glance, that more than rural blame instills;
Whispers, that ting'd with friendship doubly wound,
Pity that injures, and concern that kills.

Their anger whets, but love can ne'er engage;
Caressing brothers part but to revile;
There all men smile, and prudence warns the wise,
To dread the fatal stroke of all that smile.

There all are rivals! sister, son, and sire,
With horrid purpose hug destructive arms;
There soft-ey'd maids in murd'rous plots conspire,
And scorn the gentler mischief of their charms.

Let servile minds one endless watch endure;
Day, night, nor hour, their anxious guard resign;
But lay me, fate! on flow'ry banks, secure,
Tho' my whole soul be, like my limbs, supine.

Yes, may my tongue disdain a vassal's care;
My lyre resound no prostituted lays;
More warm to merit, more elate to wear
The cap of freedom, than the crown of bays.

Sooth'd by the murmurs of my pebbled flood,
I wish it not o'er golden sands to flow;
Chear'd by the verdure of my spiral wood,
I scorn the quarry, where no shrub can grow.

No midnight pangs the shepherd's peace pursue;
His tongue, his hand, attempts no secret wound;
He sings his Delia, and if she be true,
His love at once, and his ambition's crown'd.

Kenelm in the Saxon heptarchy was heir to the kingdom of Mercia; but being very young at his father's death, was, by the artifices of his sister and her lover, depriv'd of his crown and life together. The body was found in a piece of ground near the top of Clent Hill, exactly facing Mr. Shenstone's house: near which place a church was afterwards erected to his memory, still used for divine worship, and called St. Kenelm's. See Plot's History of Staffordshire.

University of Virginia Library

ELEGY XXIII. Reflections suggested by his situation.