THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

Auditæ voces, vagitus et ingens,

Infantumque animæ flentes in limine primo.

And mingled sounds and infant plaints we hear,

VIRG.

That pierce the entrance shrill, and wound the tender ear.

ADVERTISEMENT.

What particulars in Spenser were imagined most proper for the Author's imitation on this occasion, are his language, his simplicity, his manner of description, and a peculiar tenderness of sentiment remarkable throughout his works.

AH 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 emprize :
Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of Merit ere it dies,
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name,

Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame,
And oft times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stow ;
Whilom, a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals' mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low;
And as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd,
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.
Near to his dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display,
And at the door imprisoning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray,
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!

The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do Learning's little tenement betray,

Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound,

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield ;
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
'Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentence fill'd,
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join❜d,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind.

Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet pourtray'd,
The childish faces of old ol's train,

Libs, Notus, Auster*: these in frowns array'd, How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main, Were the stern god to give his slaves the reign? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain,

The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown,
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;

'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd 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.

* The south-west wind, south, &c.

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 challeng'd, these she held right dear;
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere :
For never title yet so mean could prove,

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

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame,
Which ever and anon, impell❜d by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came,
Such favour did her past deportment claim;
And if neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she
found.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew,
Where no vain flower disclos'd a gaudy streak,
But herbs for use and physic, not a few
Of gray renown, within those borders grew;
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue,
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb,
And more I fain would sing,disdaining here to rhyme.

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around,
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue,

And plantain ribb'd; that heals the reaper's wound.

And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posy found,
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,

[fume.

And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare per-
And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer,
Ere, driven from its envied site, it found
A sacred shelter for its branches here,

Where edg'd with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Oh wassel days! O customs meet and well!
Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere;
Simplicity then sought this humble cell,

[dwell.
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling
Here oft the dame, on sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete;
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat:
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foe-men did a song entreat,
All for the nonce untuning every string, [sing.
Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to
For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed;
And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,
And tortious death was true Devotion's meed;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,
That n'ould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn:
Ah! dearest lord! forefend, thilk days should e'er
return.