ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Dr. S., "To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq; an Elegy" Scots Magazine 25 (March 1763) 162.
1737: William Shenstone
1749: Lady Luxborough
1750 ca.: Rev. Richard Graves
1751: Rev. Richard Jago
1755: Robert Dodsley
1756: John Scott Hylton
1758: Alexander Carlyle
1759: James Woodhouse
1760: Edward Cooper
1760: Rev. Richard Graves
1761: Mrs. John Thomas
1763: Edward Cooper
1763: Rev. Richard Graves
1763: John Cunningham
1763: Edward Cooper
1763: Mary Darwall
1763 ca.: A Lady
1763: Dr. S.
1763: T. H.
1764: Rev. John Langhorne
1765: Cuthbert Shaw
1765: John Oakman
1766: John Scott of Amwell
1769: Thomas Gray
1771: William Roscoe
1771: Rev. Richard Graves
1772: Rev. John Ball
1773: Thomas Lyttleton
1774: Samuel Jackson Pratt
1774: Charles Graham
1776: Rev. Thomas Maurice
1778: Richard Tickell
1778: Old Robin
1779: J. M.
1779: Menassah Dawes
1780: J. W.
1782: Samuel Johnson
1783: Edmond Malone
1784: De Sp—do
1785: H. R.
1787: Robert Burns
1788: John Williams
1789: A Bard of the Wrekin
1791: Isaac D'Israeli
1792: Anna Seward
1792: John Bennet
1793: J. H. C.
1793: Captain John Majoribanks
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1797: Mr. Mott
1798: Anna Seward
1802: George Dyer
1805: Thomas Park
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1806: John F. M. Dovaston
1807: Robert Southey
1808: Anne Grant
1812: A. F.
1814: John Hamilton Reynolds
1814: James Jennings
1815: William Wordsworth
1818: William Hazlitt
1818: David Parkes
1823: David Parkes
1823: T. H.
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1836: Hartley Coleridge
1836: L. L.
1842: C. H. Timperley
1855 ca.: Rev. John Mitford
1859: Leigh Hunt
1880: George Saintsbury
1882: Epes Sargent
1910: Ralph Straus
1670 ca.: Edward Howard
1763: William Shenstone
Ye sacred pow'rs of Harmony! if such
E'er put the sable garb of mourning on;
Now, when no gen'rous eye can weep too much,
Now shed the plaintive tear, for SHENSTONE'S gone!
Nor fled a kindred spirit to the skies
Lamented more by all the tuneful train—
But him they vainly seek, with streaming eyes,
To animate his gentle form again.
Ah! not for this, Death, with officious grasp,
Seiz'd the strung lyre that trembled in his hand;
While to his breast his arms tenacious clasp,
And seraphs round but half-consenting stand!
Ah! not for this, the early sudden call
Some radiant spirit's golden harp to tune;
While humbly he his own on earth let fall,
But, oh! Humanity still thinks too soon!
For SHENSTONE gone, while Silence muses round,
Hear the sad Genius of each grove bewail!
Villas return the melancholy sound,
And Echoes dwell upon the mournful tale!
Sad murmurs waft it down the gurgling brook!
Sad zephyrs sigh it thro' the conscious shade!
To heav'n when he his blissful journey took,
Few pow'rs of song behind their SHENSTONE staid.
SHENSTONE! with what inchanting voice he sung!
How smooth, how chaste, how soft, his numbers flow!
How on each note the ravish'd shepherds hung!
How did their hearts dilate! their bosoms glow!
For oft he fond deceiv'd the lengthen'd hours
To copy Nature, made immortal hence.—
How delicately Love's all-gentle pow'rs
Touch'd into life his nicely-feeling sense!
How few, O Nature, happily excel
In thy prime gifts, simplicity and ease?
Thy careless elegance becomes us well,
Thy ev'ry artless grace, if we would please.
Say, why the labour'd strains neglected flow,
Tho' haughty Learning boasts each splendid line?
Hence, would the self-proud critic deign to know,
Beyond thy test, O Nature! we refine.
How little Art imparts, when all she gives,
Vainly to rival him by thee inspir'd,
Let SHENSTONE tell — but, ah! no SHENSTONE lives!
Else angels mourn a bard from heav'n retir'd.
Heav'n claims its bards, a laurel-circled throng,
Some few revolving signs to mortals lent;
If, fond of man, they tarry here too long,
To call them hence Death's on kind message sent.
Thus he, who grew immortal as he sung
The blissful pair in Eden's happy clime,
Rehearses now, with raptures on his tongue,
To gods the wonders of his throne sublime.
Thus the remembrance all our grief renews,
While we a POPE or ADDISON deplore!
Thus mourns, in elegiac strain, the muse
SHENSTONE, among the first of bards, no more!
But Nature means no triumph o'er her son,
For not unkind she earth of him deprives.—
Let then no more our tears officious run,
SHENSTONE still lives, while she herself survives.