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

The morn dispens'd a dubious light,
A sullen mist had stolen from sight
Each pleasing vale and hill;
When Damon left his humble bowers
To guard his flocks, to fence his flowers,
Or check his wandering rill.

Tho' school'd from fortune's paths to fly,
The swain beneath each lowr'ing sky,
Would oft his fate bemoan;

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That he, in sylvan shades, forlorn!
Must waste his chearless ev'n and morn,
Nor prais'd, nor lov'd, nor known.

No friend to fame's obstreperous noise,
Yet to the whispers of her voice,
Soft murmuring, not a foe:
The pleasures he thro' choice declin'd,
When gloomy fogs depress'd his mind,
It griev'd him to forego.

Griev'd him to lurk the lakes beside,
Where coots in rushy dingles hide,
And moorcooks shun the day;
While caitiff bitterns, undismay'd,
Remark the swain's familiar shade,
And scorn to quit their prey.

But see, the radiant sun once more
The brightening face of heaven restore,
And raise the doubtful dawn;
And more to gild his rural sphere,
At once the brightest train appear,
That ever trod the lawn.

Amazement chill'd the shepherd's frame,
To think Bridgewater's honour'd name
Should grace his rustic cell;

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That she, on all whose motions wait
Distinction, titles, rank and state,
Should rove where shepherds dwell.

But true it is, the generous mind,
By candour sway'd, by taste refin'd,
Will nought but vice disdain;
Nor will the breast where fancy glows
Deem every flower a weed, that blows
Amid the desart plain.

Beseems it such, with honour crown'd,
To deal its lucid beams around,
Nor equal meed receive:
At most such garlands from the field,
As cowslips, pinks, and pansies yield,
And rural hands can weave.

Yet strive, ye shepherds, strive to find,
And weave the fairest of the kind,
The prime of all the spring;
If haply thus yon lovely fair
May round her temples deign to wear
The trivial wreaths you bring.

O how the peaceful halcyons play'd,
Where'er the conscious lake betray'd
Athenia's placid mien;
How did the sprightlier linnets throng,
Where Paphia's charms requir'd the song.
'Mid hazel copses green;

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Lo, Dartmouth on those banks reclin'd,
While busy fancy calls to mind
The glories of his line;
Methinks my cottage rears its head,
The ruin'd walls of yonder shed,
As thro' enchantment, shine.

But who the nymph that guides their way?
Could ever nymph descend to stray
From Hagley's fam'd retreat?
Else by the blooming features fair,
The faultless make, the matchless air,
'Twere Cynthia's form compleat.

So would some tuberose delight,
That struck the pilgrim's wondering sight
'Mid lonely desarts drear;
All as at Eve, the sovereign flower
Dispenses round its balmy power,
And crowns the fragant year.

Ah, now no more, the shepherd cry'd,
Must I ambition's charms deride,
Her subtle force disown;
No more of fawns or fairies dream,
While fancy, near each crystal stream,
Shall paint these forms alone.

By low-brow'd rock, or pathless mead,
I deem'd that splendour ne'er should lead
My dazled eyes astray

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But who, alas! will dare contend,
If beauty add, or merit blend
Its more illustrious ray?

Nor is it long—O plaintive swain!
Since Guernsey saw, without disdain,
Where, hid in woodlands green,
The partner of his early days,
And once the rival of his praise,
Had stol'n thro' life unseen.

Scarce faded is the vernal flower,
Since Stamford left his honour'd bower
To smile familiar here:
O form'd by nature to disclose
How fair that courtesy which flows
From social warmth sincere.

Nor yet have many moons decay'd,
Since Pollio sought this lonely shade,
Admir'd this rural maze:
The noblest breast that virtue fires,
The graces love, the muse inspires,
Might pant for Pollio's praise.

Say Thomson here was known to rest,
For him yon vernal seat I drest,
Ah, never to return!
In place of wit, and melting strains,
And social mirth, it now remains
To weep beside his urn.

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Come then, my Lelius, come once more,
And fringe the melancholy shore
With roses and with bays,
While I each wayward fate accuse,
That envy'd his impartial muse
To sing your early praise.

While Philo, to whose favour'd sight,
Antiquity, with full delight,
Her inmost wealth displays;
Beneath yon ruins moulder'd wall
Shall muse, and with his friend recal!
The pomp of ancient days.

Here too shall Conway's name appear,
He prais'd the stream so lovely clear,
That shone the reeds among;
Yet clearness could it not disclose,
To match the rhetoric that flows
From Conway's polish'd tongue.

Ev'n Pitt, whose servent periods roll
Resistless, thro' the kindling soul
Of senates, councils, kings!
Tho' form'd for courts, vouchsaf'd to rove
Inglorious, thro' the shepherd's grove,
And ope his bashful springs.

But what can courts discover more,
Than these rude haunts have seen before,
Each fount and shady tree?

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Have not these trees and fountains seen
The pride of courts, the winning mien
Of peerless Aylesbury?

And Grenville, she whose radiant eyes
Have mark'd by slow gradation rise
The princely piles of Stow;
Yet prais'd these unembellish'd woods,
And smil'd to see the babbling floods
Thro' self-worn mazes flow.

Say Dartmouth, who your banks admir'd,
Again beneath your caves retir'd,
Shall grace the pensive shade;
With all the bloom, with all the truth,
With all the sprightliness of youth,
By cool reflection sway'd?

Brave, yet humane, shall Smith appear,
Ye sailors, tho' his name be dear,
Think him not yours alone:
Grant him in other spheres to charm,
The shepherd's breasts tho' mild are warm,
And ours are all his own.

O Lyttelton! my honour'd guest,
Could I describe thy generous breast,
Thy firm, yet polish'd mind;
How public love adorns thy name,
How fortune too conspires with fame;
The song should please mankind.

The Duchess of Bridgewater, married to Sir Richard Littelton.

They were school-fellows.

University of Virginia Library

A PASTORAL ODE,

To the Honourable Sir RICHARD LYTTELTON.