6

And to thy just, thy gentle hand
Submits the fasces of her sway;

While spirits blest above, and men below,

Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.

VIII.

Through the wild waves, as they roar,
With watchful eye, and dauntless mien,
Thy steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rock, nor seek the shore:
The Star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrors of the deep.'

85

90

N

MISCELLANEOUS.

A LONG STORY.

ADVERTISEMENT.-Gray's 'Elegy,' previous to its publication, was handed about in MS., and had, amongst other admirers, the Lady Cobham, who resided in the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis. The performance inducing her to wish for the author's acquaintance, Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to introduce her to it. These two ladies waited upon the author at his aunt's solitary habitation, where he at that time resided, and not finding him at home, they left a card behind them. Mr Gray, surprised at such a compliment, returned the visit; and as the beginning of this intercourse bore some appearance of romance, he gave the humorous and lively account of it which the 'Long Story' contains.

1 IN Britain's isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building1 stands :
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the power of fairy hands,

2 To raise the ceiling's fretted height,

Each pannel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,

And passages that lead to nothing.

1 'Pile of building: ' the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of Viscountess Cobham. The style of building which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton.

3 Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper1 led the brawls:
The seal and maces danced before him.

4 His bushy beard and shoe-strings green,

His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet,
Moved the stout heart of England's Queen,

Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

5 What, in the very first beginning,
Shame of the versifying tribe!

Your history whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?

6 A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

7 The first came cap-à-pie from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

8 The other Amazon kind Heaven

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire ;
But Cobham had the polish given,

And tipp'd her arrows with good nature.

9 To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her;

1 'Lord-Keeper: Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. Brawls were a sort of a figure-dance then in vogue.

Melissa is her nom de guerre;

Alas! who would not wish to please her!

10 With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long, they hid their armour;
And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen,
In pity to the country farmer.

11 Fame, in the shape of Mr P-t,
(By this time all the parish know it),
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked imp they call a Poet,

12 Who prowl'd the country far and near,

Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer,
And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants.

13 My Lady heard their joint petition, Swore by her coronet and ermine, She'd issue out her high commission

To rid the manor of such vermin.

14 The heroines undertook the task;

Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,

But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

15 The trembling family they daunt ;

They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,

And upstairs in a whirlwind rattle.

16 Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-scurry round the floor,

And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

17 Into the drawers and china pry,

Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,

Or creased like dog's-ears in a folio!

18 On the first marching of the troops,
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey'd him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.

19 So Rumour says; (who will believe?)
But that they left the door a-jar,
Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.

20 Short was his joy: he little knew
The power of magic was no fable;
Out of the window, whisk! they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.

21 The words too eager to unriddle,
The Poet felt a strange disorder;
Transparent birdlime form'd the middle,
And chains invisible the border.

22 So cunning was the apparatus,

The powerful pothooks did so move him,
That will-he, nill-he, to the great house
He went as if the devil drove him.