(Coeval near with that) all ragged show,

Long lashed by the rude winds. Some rift half down Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top,

That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have happened

here;

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead' men have come again, and walked about;
And the great bell has tolled, unrung, untouched.
(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.)

Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen,

By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,
The school boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to keep his courage up,
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below.
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,

Who gather round and wonder at the tale

Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly,

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That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand

O'er some new-opened grave; and, strange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

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Insidious Grave! - how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one?

A tie more stubborn far than Nature's band.
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweetner of life, and solder of society,

90 I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me,
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.

Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,

Anxious to please. -Oh! when my friend and I
95 In some thick wood have wandered heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along

In grateful errors through the underwood,

100 Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note:
The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower
105 Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury

Of dress - Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seemed too too much in haste; still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness

Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,

110 Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

Dull Grave! - thou spoilest the dance of youthful blood,

Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now? the men of health,
Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll,
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke

To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made ev'n thick-lipped musing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile

Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now,

And dumb as the green turf that covers them.

Here all the mighty troublers of the Earth,
Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas of blood;
Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains,
Who ravaged kingdoms, and laid empires waste,
And, in a cruel wantonness of power,
Thinned states of half their people, and gave up
To want the rest; now, like a storm that's spent,
Lie hushed, and meanly sneak behind the covert.
Vain thought! to hide them from the general scorn
That haunts and dogs them like an injured ghost
Implacable. - Here, too, the petty tyrant,
Whose scant domains geographer neʼer noticed,
And well for neighbouring grounds, of arm as short,
Who fixed his iron talons on the poor,

And gripped them like some lordly beast of prey;
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing Hunger,

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And piteous plaintive voice of Misery; 225 (As if a slave was not a shred of Nature,

Of the same common nature with his lord;)

Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipped, Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kins

man;

Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground, 230 Precedency's a jest; vassal and lord,

Grossly familiar, side by side consume. * * * **

WILLIAM SHENSTONE

FROM THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS

АH 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 marked with little spire,
Embowered in trees, and hardly known to Fame,
There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we School-mistress 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 unconned, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stowe;

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