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| IN every village marked with little spire, | |
| Embowered 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; | 5 |
| They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, | |
| Awed by the power of this relentless dame, | |
| And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent, | |
| For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent. | |
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| And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, | 10 |
| Which Learning near her little dome did stow, | |
| Whilom a twig of small regard to see, | |
| Though now so wide its waving branches flow, | |
| And work the simple vassals mickle woe; | |
| For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, | 15 |
| But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low, | |
| And as they looked they found their horror grew, | |
| And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. | |
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| So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) | |
| A lifeless phantom near a garden placed, | 20 |
| So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, | |
| Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast; | |
| They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast; | |
| Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy | |
| May no bold Briton’s riper age e’er taste! | 25 |
| Ne superstition clog his dance of joy, | |
| Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. | |
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| 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, | 30 |
| Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, | |
| Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! | |
| The noises intermixed, which thence resound, | |
| Do Learning’s little tenement betray; | |
| Where sits the dame disguised in look profound, | 35 |
| And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. | |
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| Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, | |
| Emblem right meet of decency does yield; | |
| Her apron, dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, | |
| As is the harebell that adorns the field; | 40 |
| And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield | |
| Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, | |
| With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled, | |
| And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, | |
| And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. | 45 |
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