Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness ruled the hour, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire With woful measures wan Despair, But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; And ever and anon he beat The double drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed, Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; Bubbling runnels joined the sound: Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole: Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; To some unwearied minstrel dancing: As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. Oh Music! sphere-descended maid, 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Cecilia's mingled world of sound. Confirm the tales her sons relate. SHENSTONE. WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763), is perhaps more celebrated for his trees and his shrubbery, than for his poetry. Some of his poetry, however, is written in a style of great sweetness, and is full of true touches of nature. His Pastoral Ballad is still read, notwithstanding its affected Arcadianism, its Phyllises and Corydons, and all that sort of stuff, which so long continued to be the pest of English pastorals. None of our poets have in fact approached Shenstone in the simple tenderness and pathos of pastoral song. Besides his pastorals, he wrote a short and singularly beautiful poem in imitation of Spenser, entitled the Schoolmistress, which it would be treason not to quote in a compilation like the present. THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 25* (293) |