For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed; And, in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed; And tortious death was true devotion's meed; And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn; Ah! dearest Lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er return. In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac'd, The matron sate; and some with rank she grac'd, (The source of children's and of courtier's pride!) Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd; And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to descry; Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are; To save from finger wet the letters fair: The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween! Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, No longer can she now her shrieks command'; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace? Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face? The pallid hue that dyes his locks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain? When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim. * Spenser. The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, And, from their fellows' hateful wounds beware; See to their seats they hye with merry glee, His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd. His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, ; Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower shall claim, If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. Behind some door, in melancholy thought, Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows' joyance careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns; And deems its shame if he to peace inclines; And many a sullen look ascance is sent, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past resent. Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! Yet, nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear! A little bench of heedless bishops here, Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so, As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die! Though now he crawl along the ground so low, Nor weeting how the muse should soar on high, Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly. And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid fate incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field; And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd Surveys mine work; and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is "here?" But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, And liberty unbars her prison-door; And like a rushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque had cover'd o'er With boisterous revel-rout, and wild uproar; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I implore! For well may freedom erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts where proud ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. See in each sprite some various bent appear ! In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend. Here, as each season yields a different store, Galling full-sore the unmoney'd wight, are seen; See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, Scattering like blooming maid their glances round, With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. The plumb all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names * th' inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises know, * Shrewsbury cakes. |