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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

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His Damons
This whole-

[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;
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort and mischievous emprise :
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies;
Such as I oft have chanced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame ;
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen-tree,
Which learning near her little dome did stow ;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow;
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse beat low;

And as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I seen, (who has not, may conceive,)
A lifeless phantom near a garden placed;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy

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,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door impris'ning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!

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,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield;
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd;
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind.

Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray'd,
The childish faces of old Eol's train ;
Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd,
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main,

Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?

And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,

The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
"Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged around,
Through pious awe, did term it passing rare;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;
Goody, good woman, gossip, n' aunt, forsooth,

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear:
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere :
For never title yet so mean could prove,

But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came;
Such favour did her past deportment claim:
And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew;

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 pungent radish, biting infant's tongue;

And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;
And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found;
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound,

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
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer;
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found

A sacred shelter for its branches here;

Where edged with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Oh, wassel days! Oh, customs meet and well!
Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere:
Simplicity then sought this humble cell,

Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymn'd such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat :
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All, for the nonce, untuning every string,

Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing.

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