he had the misfortune to be smitten with the rage of improvement. The Leasowes was converted into a poet's farm, and at length rivalled the pastoral plains of Arcadian romance. Woods, walks, sylvan deities, seats, cascades, and inscriptions, displaced the productions of Ceres, and the flocks that should have fed and clothed the proprietor. It is for ever to be regretted that his fortune was not equal to his taste. He dissipated his estate in adorning it; and though it still continues one of the most beautiful fermès ornèes in the kingdom, it involved him in debts, which disturbed his peace, and probably shortened his days. He died in 1763, and was buried in Hales Owen Churchyard. The sensibility of Shenstone and his delicate and refined feelings are conspicuous in every page of his writings. As a pastoral and classic poet, he remains unrivalled; and had his fortune been equal to his benevolence, he would probably have been, what he deserved to be, as happy as he was amiable. Rejecting the unjust severity of Johnson, and the fastidious disdain of Gray, I shall adopt the opinions of Graves and Dodsley, both men of candour, liberality and judgment. They assert, in the language of affection, sanctioned by experience, that he was the warmest and most affectionate friend, and never an inveterate enemy; that nothing could be more amiable than his social, or more unexceptionable than his moral character. And Mr. Anderson, agreeably to the honorable practice of his character, has, in his valuable, though voluminous edition of the whole of the British Poets, thus tenderly defended him from the censure incurred by converting his farm into pleasure grounds. "If he chose to resign. emolument for the charms of ease and independence, he had a right to employ his own patrimony as he thought proper." More especially as he was unconnected by any ties; which, had they subsisted, might, and no doubt would, have operated on his good heart, in full force to have allowed their claims. ELEGY. Ophelia's Urn. TO MR. GRAVES. THROUGH the dim veil of evening's dusky shade, But you secure shall pour your sad complaint, The glimmering twilight and the doubtful dawn Where soft Ophelia's dear remains are laid. She keeps late vigils on her urn reclin'd, There fame, her clarion pendant at her side, Then young simplicity, averse to feign, Shall unmolested breathe her softest sigh: And candour with unwonted warmth complain, And innocence indulge a wailful cry. Then elegance, with coy judicions hand, Shall cull fresh flowrets for Ophelia's tomb : And beauty chide the Fates' severe command, That show'd the frailty of so fair a bloom! And fancy then, with wild ungovern'd woe, Shall her lov'd pupil's native taste explain; For mournful fable all her hues forego, And ask sweet solace for the muse in vain! Ah, gentle forms, expect no fond relief; Too much the sacred Nine their loss deplore: Well may ye grieve, nor find an end of grief— Your best, your brightest favourite is no more. ELEGY. He describes his vision to an acquaintance. "Cætera per terras omnes animalia, &c. ON distant heaths, beneath autumnal skies, Where toil in peaceful slumber clos'd the day. While the rude storm alone distress'd mine ear. As led by Orwell's winding banks I stray'd, VIRG. The sounding winds were hush'd, and all was fair. Instant a grateful form appear'd confest; White were his locks, with awful scarlet crown'd, And livelier far than Tyrian seem'd his vest, That with the glowing purple ting'd the ground. "Stranger, he said, amid this pealing rain, Benighted, lonesome, whither would'st thou stray? Does wealth or power thy weary step constrain? Reveal thy wish, and let me point the way. For know I trod the trophy'd paths of power; I bade low hinds the towering ardour share; Low at my feet the suppliant peer My smile was transport, and my frown was fate." Ah me! said I, nor power I seek, nor gain; And, from his friend's condolence, hopes a cure. He, the dear youth, to whose abodes I roam, Which oaks embosom, and which hills defend. Yet, though averse to gold in heaps amass'd, Too proud with servile tone to deign address; But tell me, thou! that, like a meteor's fire, Must I not groan beneath a guilty load, Praise him I scorn, and him I love betray? Does not felonious envy bar the road ? Or falsehood's treacherous foot beset the way ? Say, should I pass through favour's crowded gate, Nurs'd in the shades by freedom's lenient care, And when proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes, Oh! if these ills the price of power advance, |