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that few artificers in the same craft be sufficient, this is the cause that plenty of all things be among them. They do sometimes bring forth an innumerable company of people to amend the highways, if any be broken. Many times also, when they have no such work to be occupied about, an open proclamation is made that they shall bestow fewer hours in work; for the magis. trates do not exercise their citizens against their wills in unneed. ful labours. For why, in the institution of the weal-public, this end is only and chiefly pretended and minded-that what time may possibly be spared from the necessary occupations and affairs of the commonwealth, all that the citizens should withdraw from the bodily service to the free liberty of the mind, and garnishing of the same. For therein they suppose the felicity of this
[THE poems of William Shenstone are well-nigh forgotten. and Delias, his Corydons and Phillises, belong to another age. sale neglect is not just. Shenstone was a country gentleman of elegant taste,
who ruined himself in making his patrimony of the Leasowes, near Hales Owen, the most beautiful of landscape gardens. Here he built and planted, and wrote songs and pastoral ballads. His obelisks and urns have gone to ruin; and when a recent tourist inquired at a bookseller's shop at Hales Owen for a copy of Shenstone's Poems, the worthy lady of the shop said she had never heard of Shenstone, but recommended the works of "Samuel Salt, the Hales Owen teetotal poet." Such is fame. Shenstone was born at the Leasowes, in 1714, and there died in 1763. If he had written nothing but the following charming "Imitation of Spencer," his name ought to be remem bered.]
Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies;
In every village mark'd with little spire,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen-tree,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow;
And as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
So have I seen, (who has not, may conceive,)
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ;
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.
Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do learning's little tenement betray:
Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray'd,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.
Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;
Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear:
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.
One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak ; But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of gray renown, within those borders grew : The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue; The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.
Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around;
And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,
And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perfumc.
And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
A sacred shelter for its branches here;
Where edged with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing.