For never title yet so mean could prove,

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

In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stemn,

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 sat; and some with rank she graced, (The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!) Redressed affronts,-for vile affronts there passed; And warned 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: Even absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she

sways;

Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,

'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters her command;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair,
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn securèd are,

To save from finger wet the letters fair:
The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
Saint George's high achievements does declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,

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

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe,
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 filled;
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined,
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air:
'T was simple russet, but it was her own;

'T was her own country bred the flock so fair, "T was her own labor 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 honor eld with these revere;

For never title yet so mean could prove,

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

In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stein,
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 sat; and some with rank she graced,
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!)
Redressed affronts,—for vile affronts there passed;
And warned 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: Even absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she

sways;

Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,

"T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters her command;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair,
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn securèd are,

To save from finger wet the letters fair:
The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
Saint George's high achievements does declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,

Kens the forthcoming rod,-unpleasing sight, I

ween!

But now Dan Phœbus gains the middle sky,
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 im-
plore;

For well may freedom erst so dearly won

Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now:

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound:

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare;

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe;

It rises, roars, rends all outright,-O Vulcan, what a

glow!

'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiery, fearful show,-—

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe.

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil,-all about the faces fiery grow. "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out;" bang, bang, the sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing

blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad;

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I

bode,

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perillous

road,