THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER. 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, Awed 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 stowe ; 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 shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. So have I seen (who has not may conceive), Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste! Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. Near to this 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, disguised 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 dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the hare-bell 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 fill'd; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd, And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown : A russet kirtle fenced 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, 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 would esteem him act as mought behove, vere: 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, Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, 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 disclosed a gaudy streak; But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, Of grey 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 marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found; And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare perfume. And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd The daintiest garden of the proudest peer; Oh wassel days! O customs meet and well! Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell. 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 foemen 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 tortious death was true devotion's meed; |