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

When genius grac'd with lineal splendor glows,
When title shines with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flow'ry pomp it shews;
The pride, the perfume of the regions round.

Then learn, ye fair! to soften splendor's ray;
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temperate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.

Pity the sandal'd swain, the shepherd's boy;
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull appulse of vulgar joy,
He mourns his lot; he wishes, merits fame.

In vain to groves and pathless vales we fly;
Ambition there the bow'ry haunt invades;
Fame's awful rays fatigue the courtier's eye,
But gleam still lovely thro' the checquer'd shades.

Vainly, to guard from love's unequal chain,
Has fortune rear'd us in the rural grove;
Should ---'s eyes illume the desart plain,
Ev'n I may wonder, and ev'n I must love.

Nor unregarded sighs the lowly hind;
Tho' you contemn, the gods respect his vow;
Vindictive rage awaits the scornful mind,
And vengeance, too severe! the gods allow.

On Sarum's plain I met a wand'ring fair;
The look of sorrow, lovely still she bore:
Loose flow'd the soft redundance of her hair,
And, on her brow, a flow'ry wreath she wore.

Oft stooping as she stray'd, she cull'd the pride
Of ev'ry plain; she pillag'd ev'ry grove!
The fading chaplet daily she supply'd,
And still her hand some various garland wove.

Erroneous fancy shap'd her wild attire;
From Bethlem's walls the poor lympatic stray'd;
Seem'd with her air her accent to conspire,
When, as wild fancy taught her, thus she said:

“Hear me, dear youth! oh hear an hapless maid,
Sprung from the scepter'd line of ancient kings!
Scorn'd by the world, I ask thy tender aid;
Thy gentle voice shall whisper kinder things.

The world is frantic—fly the race profane—
Nor I, nor you, shall its compassion move;
Come friendly let us wander, and complain,
And tell me, shepherd! hast thou seen my love?

My love is young—but other loves are young;
And other loves are fair, and so is mine;
An air divine discloses whence he sprung;
He is my love, who boasts that air divine.

No vulgar Damon robs me of my rest,
Ianthe listens to no vulgar vow;
A prince, from gods descended, fires her breast;
A brilliant crown distinguishes his brow.

What, shall I stain the glories of my race?
More clear, more lovely bright than Hesper's beam?
The porc'lain pure with vulgar dirt debase?
Or mix with puddle the pellucid stream?

See thro' these veins the saphire current shine!
'Twas Jove's own nectar gave th'etherial hue:
Can base plebeian forms contend with mine!
Display the lovely white, or match the blue?

The painter strove to trace its azure ray;
He chang'd his colours, and in vain he strove;
He frown'd—I smiling view'd the faint essay;
Poor youth! he little knew it flow'd from Jove.

Pitying his toil, the wond'rous truth I told;
How am'rous Jove trepann'd a mortal fair;
How thro' the race the generous current roll'd,
And mocks the poet's art, and painter's care.

Yes, from the gods, from earliest Saturn, sprung
Our sacred race; thro' demigods, convey'd;
And he, ally'd to Phoebus, ever young,
My god-like boy, must wed their duteous maid.

Oft, when a mortal vow profanes my ear,
My sire's dread fury murmurs thro' the sky;
And should I yield—his instant rage appears,
He darts th'uplifted vengeance—and I die.

Have you not heard unwonted thunders roll!
Have you not seen more horrid light'nings glare!
'Twas then a vulgar love ensnar'd my soul:
'Twas then—I hardly scap'd the fatal snare.

'Twas then a peasant pour'd his amorous vow,
All as I listen'd to his vulgar strain;—
Yet such his beauty—wou'd my birth allow,
Dear were the youth, and blissful were the plain.

But oh! I faint! why wastes my vernal bloom,
In fruitless searches ever doom'd to rove?
My nightly dreams the toilsome path resume,
And I shall die—before I find my love.

When last I slept, methought, my ravish'd eye,
On distant heaths his radiant form survey'd;
Tho' night's thick clouds encompass'd all the sky,
The gems that bound his brow, dispell'd the shade.

O how this bosom kindled at the sight!
Led by their beams I urg'd the pleasing chace;
'Till, on a sudden, these with-held their light—
All, all things envy the sublime embrace.

But now no more—behind the distant grove,
Wanders my destin'd youth, and chides my stay:
See, see, he grasps the steel—forbear my love—
Ianthe comes; thy princess hastes away.”

Scornful she spoke, and heedless of reply
The lovely maniac bounded o'er the plain;
The piteous victim of an angry sky!
Ah me! the victim of her proud disdain!

University of Virginia Library

ELEGY XVI. He suggests the advantages of birth to a person of merit, and the folly of a superciliousness that is built upon that sole foundation.