The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh balm, and marigold of cheerful hue:
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb;

And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

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 foeman did a song entreat, All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And passed much time in truly virtuous deed;
And, in those elfins' ears would oft deplore
The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed,
And tortuous death was true devotion's meed;
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed;
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn:
Ah! dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e'er return.

In elbow chair (like that of Scottish stem,
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced,
In which, when he received 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,
"Twill 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 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,
Sighed 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 sat, 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.

But now Dan Phoebus 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 implore;
For well may freedom erst so dearly won
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,
Oh never may ye taste more careless hours
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers.
Oh 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 building fragile tenements of clay;
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play;
Thilk to the huxter's savoury cottage tend,

In pastry kings and queens the alloted 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 the unmoneyed wight, are seen,
And goosebrie 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 penniless 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 tied,
Scattering, like blooming maid, their glances round,
With pampered 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 honoured names* the 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 tried,

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.

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, an elegant poet and a nervous writer, was the son of a baker, and was born in 1715. Early attracting the attention of Lord Montfort, he obtained, through the influence of that nobleman, admittance into Westminster school, and there enjoyed the honor of winning the poetic prize. From Westminster he passed to Clare Hall, Cambridge, of which, in 1742, he became fellow, and soon after entered the family of Lord Jersey, as tutor to his son. The leisure which the comforts and independence of his situation afforded him, left him at liberty to turn his thoughts to the drama, and he produced two tragedies, the Roman Father and Creusa, both of which were received with applause. In 1754, he accompanied his noble pupil, and Lord Nuneham, on the continent, and after visiting the different

* Shrewsbury cakes.

courts of Germany, he returned through Italy, Switzerland, France, and Holland, to England, having been abroad a little more than two years.

The views of Rome, and the monuments of her departed greatness, were not lost on the imagination of a man of such genius; and on his return he, accordingly, gave to the public his Elegy, written at Hautvilliers, his Ode on the Campagna of Rome, and five Eclogues. By the interest of Lady Jersey, he was appointed secretary and register to the Order of the Bath, and two years after he succeeded Cibber in the honorable office of poet laureate. Thus deservedly raised to comfortable independence, he continued the friend and associate of the two noblemen over whose education he had so carefully presided, and the many days which he passed in honorable hospitality, and in cheerful conversation, at Nuneham and Middleton parks, were proofs of the goodness of his heart, as much as of the virtues, and of the grateful generosity of his pupils. In the midst of these pleasing assiduities of friendship, he devoted much of his time to the Muses, and besides the occasional odes which loyalty and official duty claimed from his pen, he wrote the School for Lovers, a comedy performed at Drury-lane in 1762, and a satirical poem under the title of Charge to the Poets. Whitehead's death occurred on the fourteenth of April, 1785, at the mansion of the generous patron with whom he had passed so great a portion of his life.

Besides the performances already mentioned, Whitehead wrote an easy and playful poem entitled Variety, the popularity of which is permanently fixed. Of this poem the following concluding lines form the moral :

The moral of my tale is this:
Variety 's the soul of bliss;

But such variety alone

As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power
The life-blood pours its genial store;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there;

So real happiness below
Must from the heart sincerely flow;
Nor, listening to the syren's song,
Must stray too far, or rest too long.
All human pleasures thither tend;
Must there begin, and there must end;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.

THOMAS GRAY, author of the Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, was born at Cornhill, London, on the twenty-sixth of December, 1716. His father was, by profession, a scrivener; and though a 'respectable citizen,' he was a man of so harsh and violent a temper, that his wife was compelled

to separate from him. Cast, by this circumstance, upon her own resources, the excellent mother of Gray commenced the millinery business, with a sister as her partner; and so far succeeded as to be able to bestow upon her son a learned education, first at Eton, and afterwards at the university of Cambridge. The painful domestic circumstances of his youth gave a tinge of melancholy and pensive reflection to Gray's mind, which is visible in all his poetry. At Eton the young student had secured the friendship of Horace Walpole, son of the English prime minister; and when his college education was completed, Walpole induced him to accompany him on a tour through France and Italy. After they had passed about a year together, exploring the natural beauties, antiquities, and picture galleries of Rome, Florence, Naples, and other important places, a quarrel took place between them, the travellers separated, and Gray returned to England. Walpole took the blame of this difference on himself, as he was vain and volatile, and not disposed to trust in the better knowledge and somewhat fastidious tastes of his associate.

Gray, immediately after his return, repaired to Cambridge to take his degree in civil law, but without intending to follow the profession. His father was now dead, and though his mother's fortune was small, still they possessed sufficient to supply all their wants. He fixed his residence at Cambridge; and amidst its noble libraries and learned society, passed most of the remainder of his life. He devoted himself chiefly to classical learning, though not without attending to architecture, antiquities, natural history, and other branches of useful knowledge. His retired life was varied by occasional visits to London, where he would revel among the treasures of the British Museum; and by frequent excursions to the country, to pass brief periods with his learned and attached friends. In 1765, Gray took a journey into Scotland, and at Glammis Castle met his brother poet, Beattie. He also penetrated into Wales, and journeyed to Cumberland and Westmoreland, to view the scenery of the lakes. The letters in which he describes these excursions are remarkable for elegance and precision, for correct and extensive observations, and for a dry scholastic humor peculiar to the poet.

On his return from these agreeable holidays, Gray would set himself calmly down in his college retreat, pore over his favorite authors, compile tables of chronology or botany, moralize on 'all he felt and all he saw,' correspond with his friends, and occasionally venture into the realms of poetry and imagination. He had studied the Greek and Latin poets with such intense devotion and critical care, that their very spirit and essence seem to have sunk into his mind, and colored all his efforts at original composition. At the same time his knowledge of human nature, and his sympathy with the world, were varied and profound. Tears fell unbidden among the classic flowers of fancy, and in his almost monastic cell, his heart vibrated to the finest tones of humanity. In 1747, Gray published his Ode to Eton College, and two years after appeared his Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. His Pindaric Odes appeared in 1757, but met