350

From house to house, from hill to hill,
Till contemplation had her fill,

About his chequer'd sides I wind,

And leave his brooks and meads behind,
where I lay,

And

groves,

and

grottoes

And vistoes shooting beams of day:

Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal:
The mountains round, unhappy fate!
Sooner or later, of all height,

Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise:
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landskip lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene,
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of nature show,
In all the hues of heaven's bow!
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies!
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires!
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain - heads!
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks!

Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:

The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir, that taper grows,

The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs,

And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gandy as the opening dawn,

Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye!
Deep are his feet in Tawy's food,
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood,
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.

1

'Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
"Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary moulder'd walls.
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile compleat,
Big with the vanity of state;
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sun-beam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

}

And see the rivers, how they run, Through woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep, Like human life, to endless sleep! Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, To instruct our wandering thought; Thus she dresses green and gay, To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,

When will the landskip tire the view!

The fountain's fall, the river's flow,

The woody vallies, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!

}

The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower,
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide;
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

O may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see:
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid;
For, while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and' care.

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,

As on the mountain - turf I lie;
While the' wanton zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep,
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
Search for peace with all your skill:
Open wide the lofty door,.

Seek her on the marble floor.

In vain you search, she is not there;

In vain ye search the domes of care!
Grass and flowers quiet treads,

On the meads, and mountain - heads,
Along with pleasure, close ally'd,
Ever by each other's side:

And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

SHEN STONE.

Wir haben im ersten Theile dieses Handbuchs S. 351 die Biographie dieses Dichters von Johnson mitgetheilt. Hier bemerken wir nur noch nachträglich, dafs Shenstone's Werke sich in den mehrmals angeführten Sammlungen der Englischen Dichter, und zwar bei Anderson im gten und bei Bell im ggsten und 100sten Bande befinden. Sein Leben findet man in Johnson's und Anderson's Biographien, desgleichen im 7ten Bande des Brittischen Plutarch, und vor vielen Ausgaben seiner Werke.

1) THE SKY-LARK.

Song.

Go, tuneful bird, that glad'st the skies,
To Daphne's window speed thy way;
And there on quivering pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.

And if she deign thy notes to hear,

And if she praise thy matin song,
Tell her the sounds that sooth her ear,
To Damon's native plains belong.

Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,
The bird from Indian groves may shine;

But ask the lovely partial maid,

What are his notes compar'd to thine?

Then bid her treat yon witless beau
And all his flaunting race with scorn;

And lend an ear to Damon's woe,

Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.

2) Co L.E M I R A.

A Culinary Eclogue..

Nec tantum Veneris, quantum studiosa culinae,

Night's sable clouds had half the globe o'erspread,

And silence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed:
When love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire,
Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire.

Pensive he lay, extended on the ground,
The little lares kept their vigils round;
The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And pur around, and gently lick his face:

To all his plaints the sleeping curs reply;
And with hoarse snorings imitate a sigh.
Such gloomy scenes with lovers' minds agree,
And solitude to them is best society.

, Could I", he cry'd,,, express, how bright a grace ,, Adorns thy morning hands, and well-wash'd face; Thou wouldst, Colemira, grant what I implore, ,,And yield me love, or wash thy face no more.

,,Ah! who can see, and seeing not admire, Whene'er she sets the pot upon the fire! Her hands outshine the fire, and redder things; ,, Her eyes are blacker than the pots she brings.

But sure no chamber - damsel can compare,

,,When in meridian lustre shines my fair,

When warm'd with dinner's toil in pearly rills, ,,Adown her goodly cheek the sweat distills.

,, Oh! how I long, how ardently desire,

,,To view those rosy fingers strike the lyre! ,,For late, when bees to change their climes began, ,,How did I see them thrum the frying-pan!

With her I should not envy George his queen, Though she in royal grandeur deck'd be seen; Whilst rags, just sever'd from my fair one's gown, ,,In russet pomp and greasy pride hang down..