In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem,
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed,
The matron sate; and some with rank she graced,
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!)
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd;
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise; And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays: Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways; Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks behold, "Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo now with state she utters the command! Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are; To save from finger wet the letters fair : The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does declare; On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forthcoming rod, unpleasing sight, I ween!

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write !
As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite.
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight!
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, His little sister doth his peril see : All playful as she sate, she grows demure; She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; She meditates a prayer to set him free: Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, (If gentle pardon could with dames agree) To her sad grief that swells in either eye, And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.

No longer can she now her shrieks command; And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous hand, To stay harsh justice in its mid career. On thee she calls, on thee her parent dear! (Ah! too remote to ward the shameful blow!) She sees no kind domestic visage near, And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.

But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace? Or what device his loud laments explain? The form uncouth of his disguised face? The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain? When he, in abject wise, implores the dame, Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain; Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim.

The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: By turns, astony'd, every twig survey, And, from their fellow's hateful wounds beware; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them greet, And gingerbread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet. See to their seats they hye with merry glee, And in beseemly order sitten there; All but the wight of bum y-galled, he Abhorreth bench and stool, and fourm, and chair; (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair;) And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, Convulsions intermitting, does declare

His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd.

His eye besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face that seems a purple flower,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear'd and sully'd by a vernal shower.
O the hard bosoms of despotic power!
All, all, but she, the author of his shame,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour:
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower, shall
claim,

If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.

Behind some door, in melancholy thought, Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows' joyance careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns; And deems it shame if he to peace inclines; And many a sullen look askance is sent, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past resent.

Yet, nursed with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
Even now sagacious foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellour in embryo,

Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,

As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die! Though now he crawl along the ground so low, Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high, Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.

And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid fate incline, And many an epic to his rage shall yield; And many a poet quit the Aonian field: And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd, Surveys mine work and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here?"

:

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie, And liberty unbars her prison-door: And like a rushing torrent out they fly, And now the grassy cirque han covered o'er With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; A thousand ways in wanton rings they run, Heaven shield their short-lived pastimes, I imFor well may freedom erst so dearly won, [plore! Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.

Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts where proud ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.

See in each sprite some various bent appear! These rudely carol most incondite lay; Those sauntering on the green, with jocund leer Salute the stranger passing on his way; Some builden fragile tenements of clay; Some to the standing lake their courses bend, With pebbles smooth at duck-and-drake to play; Thilk to the huckster's savory cottage tend, In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.

Here, as each season yields a different store, Each season's stores in order ranged been; Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er, Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight, are seen; And goose-'brie clad in livery red or green; And here of lovely dye, the catharine pear, Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween: O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless

care !

See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, Scattering, like blooming maid, theirglances round, With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. The plum all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises

known.

Admired Salopia! that with venial pride Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Famed for her loyal cares in perils try'd, Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave: Ah! 'midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave, Whose art did first these dulcet cates display! A motive fair to learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray; Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their way*.

ELEGY,

DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND ON THE MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOCH.

WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his downeast eye?

That eye where mirth, where fancy used to shine! Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh;

Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine. Art thou not lodged in fortune's warm embrace! Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace

That wins the friend, or that enchants the fair!

Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore;
Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,

And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.
For oh that nature on my birth had frown'd,
Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell!
Then had my bosom 'scaped this fatal wound,
Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewell.
But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,

My youth her vain licentious bliss admired; In Fortune's train the syren Flattery smiled, And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspired.

Of folly studious, even of vices vain,

Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay! I chased the guileless daughters of the plain, Nor dropp'd the chase till Jessy was my prey.

[* "When I bought Spenser first," says Shenstone, ¦¦ "I read a page or two of The Faerie Queene,' and cared not to proceed. After that Pope's Alley,' made me consider him ludicrously; and in that light, I think one may read him with pleasure." We owe the Schoolmistress to this ill-taste and this complete misconception of Spenser. Mr. Disraeli has an entertaining paper on Shenstone, but has omitted to mention that the first sketch of the School

mistress, in twelve stanzas, is in Shenstone's first publica

tion.]

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn, The wretched swain your sport survey: He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;

He sees his flock-no more in circles feed; Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye swains, conclude

That nature smiles for you alone; Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude, The proud, the selfish boast disown; Yours be the produce of the soil: O may it still reward your toil! Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants ask support in vain ?

But though the various harvest gild your plains,
Does the mere landscape feast your eye?

Or the warm hope of distant gains
Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice

The source of your delight profound,
Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,
Purpling a whole horizon round?
Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:
But though, the pebbled shores among,
It mimic no unpleasing song,
The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleased ye see the thickets bloom, Unpleased the spring her flowery robe resume; Unmoved the mountain's airy pile, The dappled mead without a smile. O let a rural conscious Muse,

For well she knows, your froward sense accuse; Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square, And span the massy trunk, before you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor yet ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train, If haply from your haunts ye stray To waste with us a summer's day, Exclude the taste of every swain, Nor our untutor'd sense disdain : 'Tis Nature only gives exclusive right To relish her supreme delight; She, where she pleases kind or coy, Who furnishes the scene and forms us to enjoy.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicious aid refined;

Lo! not a hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,
Or valley winds, or fountain flows,

Or purple heath is tinged, in vain :
For such the rivers dash the foaming tides,
The mountain swells, the dale subsides;
Even thriftless furze detains their wandering
sight.

And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

Why brand these pleasures with the name Of soft, unsocial toils, of indolence and shame! Search but the garden, or the wood,

Let yon admired carnation own,
Not all was meant for raiment or for food,
Not all for needful use alone;

There while the seeds of future blossoms dwell, 'Tis colour'd for the sight, perfumed to please the smell.

Why knows the nightingale to sing?

Why flows the pine's nectareous juice! Why shines with paint the linnet's wing? For sustenance alone? For use? For preservation? Every sphere Shall bid fair pleasure's rightful claim appear. And sure there seem, of humankind,

Some born to shun the solemn strife;

Some for amusive tasks design'd,

To soothe the certain ills of life;

Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose, New founts of bliss disclose,

Call forth refreshing shades, and decorate repose.

ODE TO MEMORY

O MEMORY! celestial maid!

Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preservest the blossoms of our prime ; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind.

And bring that garland to my sight,

With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright
Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptured ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say.

And sketch with care the Muses' bower,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side;
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

The song it 'vails not to recite

But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams,
Those banks and streams appear'd more bright
Than other banks, than other streams:
Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume thy beauties not their own!

And paint that sweetly vacant scene,
When, all beneath the poplar bough,
My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breathed in verse one cordial vow :
That nothing should my soul inspire,
But friendship warm, and love entire.

Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb'd of sight, On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines.

But let me chase those vows away Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid : Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place.

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,

And bring the hobby I bestrode ; When, pleased, in many a sportive ring, Around the room I jovial rode : Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu, And bring the whistle that I blew. Then will I muse, and pensive say,

Why did not these enjoyments last; How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste!
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

HENRY CAREY was a musician by profession,

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land,
Is half so sweet as Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her mother she sells laces long,

To such as please to buy 'em :

But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
(I love her so sincerely)
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:
But, let him bang his belly full,

I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week,
I dearly love but one day;
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm dress'd all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

[* Carey in the third Edition of his Poems, published in 1729, before "the Ballad of Sally in our Alley," has placed this note:

THE ARGUMENT.

"A vulgar error having long prevailed among many persons, who imagine Sally Salisbury the subject of this ballad, the Author begs leave to undeceive and assure them it has not the least allusion to her, he being a stranger to her very name at the time this Song was composed. For as innocence and virtue were ever the boundaries to his Muse, so in this little poem he had no other view than to set forth the beauty of a chaste and disinterested passion, even in the lowest class of human life. The real occasion was this: a Shoemaker's 'Prentice making holiday with his Sweetheart, treated her with a sight of Bedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying-chairs, and all the elegancies of Moorfields: from whence proceeding to the Farthing-pie-house, he gave her a collation of buns, cheese-cakes, gammon of bacon, stuff'd beef, and bottled ale; through all which scenes the Author dodged them (charmed with the simplicity of their courtship), from whence he drew this little sketch of nature; but being then young and obscure, he was very much ridiculed by some of his acquaintance for this performance; which nevertheless made its way into the polite world, and amply recompensed him by the applause of the divine Addison, who was pleased (more than once) to mention it with approbation," p. 127. There was some attempt to rob Carey of his right to his ballad, as there was to rob Denham, Garth, and Akenside, but it did not succeed then, though it occasioned uneasiness to the author, nor will it now, when it can affect him no more.]