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The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Goldsmith

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Title: The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Goldsmith

Author: Oliver Goldsmith


        
Release date: November 1, 2002 [eBook #3545]
                Most recently updated: September 3, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH ***




[Illustration: Oliver Goldsmith]

OLIVER GOLDSMITH
 (Sir Joshua Reynolds)

 _OXFORD EDITION_




      THE COMPLETE
      POETICAL WORKS
      OF
      OLIVER GOLDSMITH

 Edited with Introduction and Notes
 by
 AUSTIN
      DOBSON
 HON. LL.D. EDIN.




PREFATORY NOTE


      This volume is a reprint, extended and revised, of the _Selected Poems_
      of Goldsmith issued by the Clarendon Press in 1887. It is ‘extended,’
      because it now contains the whole of Goldsmith’s poetry: it is ‘revised’
      because, besides the supplementary text, a good deal has been added in the
      way of annotation and illustration. In other words, the book has been
      substantially enlarged. Of the new editorial material, the bulk has been
      collected at odd times during the last twenty years; but fresh Goldsmith
      facts are growing rare. I hope I have acknowledged obligation wherever it
      has been incurred; I trust also, for the sake of those who come after me,
      that something of my own will be found to have been contributed to the
      literature of the subject.
    

      AUSTIN DOBSON.


      Ealing, _September_, 1906.


CONTENTS

 Introduction
 Chronology of Goldsmith’s Life and Poems

 POEMS
 Descriptive Poems
 The Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society
 The Deserted Village
 Lyrical and Miscellaneous Pieces
 Prologue of Laberius
 On a Beautiful Youth struck Blind with Lightning
 The Gift. To Iris, in Bow Street
 The Logicians Refuted
 A Sonnet
 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec
 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize
 Description of an Author’s Bedchamber
 On seeing Mrs. *** perform in the Character of ****
 On the Death of the Right Hon.***
 An Epigram. Addressed to the Gentlemen reflected on in ‘The Rosciad’, a Poem, by the Author
 To G. C. and R. L.
 Translation of a South American Ode
 The Double Transformation. A Tale
 A New Simile, in the Manner of Swift
 Edwin and Angelina
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
 Song (‘When Lovely Woman,’ etc.)
 Epilogue to _The Good Natur’d Man_
 Epilogue to _The Sister_
 Prologue to _Zobeide_
 Threnodia Augustalis: Sacred to the Memory of Her Late Royal Highness the Princess Dowager of Wales
 Song (‘Let school-masters,’ etc.)
 Epilogue to _She Stoops to Conquer_
 Retaliation
 Song (‘Ah, me! when shall I marry me?’)
 Translation (‘Chaste are their instincts’)
 The Haunch of Venison
 Epitaph on Thomas Parnell
 The Clown’s Reply
 Epitaph on Edward Purdon
 Epilogue for Lee Lewes
 Epilogue written for _She Stoops to Conquer_ (1)
 Epilogue written for _She Stoops to Conquer_ (2)
 The Captivity. An Oratorio
 Verses in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner
 Letter in Prose and Verse to Mrs. Bunbury
 Vida’s Game of Chess

 NOTES
 Introduction to the Notes
 Editions of the Poems
 The Traveller
 The Deserted Village
 Prologue of Laberius
 On a Beautiful Youth struck Blind with Lightning
 The Gift
 The Logicians Refuted
 A Sonnet
 Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec
 An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize
 Description of an Author’s Bedchamber
 On seeing Mrs. *** perform in the Character of ****
 On the Death of the Right Hon. ***
 An Epigram
 To G. C. and R. L.
 Translation of a South American Ode
 The Double Transformation
 A New Simile
 Edwin and Angelina
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
 Song (from _The Vicar of Wakefield_)
 Epilogue (_The Good Natur’d Man_)
 Epilogue (_The Sister_)
 Prologue (_Zobeide_)
 Threnodia Augustalis
 Song (from _She Stoops to Conquer_)
 Epilogue (_She Stoops to Conquer_)
 Retaliation
 Song intended for _She Stoops to Conquer_
 Translation
 The Haunch of Venison
 Epitaph on Thomas Parnell
 The Clown’s Reply
 Epitaph on Edward Purdon
 Epilogue for Lee Lewes’s Benefit
 Epilogue (_She Stoops to Conquer_) (1)
 Epilogue (_She Stoops to Conquer_) (2)
 The Captivity
 Verses in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner
 Letter in Prose and Verse to Mrs. Bunbury
 Vida’s Game of Chess

 APPENDIXES
 Portraits of Goldsmith
 Descriptions of Newell’s Views of Lissoy, etc.
 The Epithet ‘Sentimental’
 Fragments of Translations, etc., by Goldsmith
 Goldsmith on Poetry under Anne and George the First
 Criticisms from Goldsmith’s _Beauties of English Poesy_




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. From Joseph Marchi’s mezzotint of 1770 after the portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
 PANE OF GLASS with Goldsmith’s autograph signature, dated March, 1746, now at Trinity College, Dublin.
 VIGNETTE TO THE TRAVELLER. Drawn by Samuel Wale, and engraved by Charles Grignion.
 HEADPIECE TO THE TRAVELLER. Engraved on wood by Charlton Nesbit for Bulmer’s _Poems of Goldsmith and Parnell_, 1795.
 THE TRAVELLER. From a design by Richard Westall, R. A., engraved on wood by Thomas Bewick for Bulmer’s _Poems of Goldsmith and Parnell_, 1795.
 VIGNETTE TO THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 1770. Drawn and engraved by Isaac Taylor.
 HEADPIECE TO THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Engraved on wood by Charlton Nesbit for Bulmer’s _Poems of Goldsmith and Parnell_, 1795.
 THE WATER-CRESS GATHERER. Drawn and engraved on wood by John Bewick for Bulmer’s _Poems of Goldsmith and Parnell_, 1795.
 THE DEPARTURE. Drawn by Robert Johnson, and engraved on wood by Thomas Bewick for Bulmer’s _ Poems of Goldsmith and Parnell_, 1795.
 EDWIN AND ANGELINA. From an original washed drawing made by Thomas Stothard, R.A., for Aikin’s _Goldsmith’s Poetical Works_, 1805.
 PORTRAIT OF GOLDSMITH, after Sir Joshua Reynolds. From an etching by James Basire on the title-page of _Retaliation_, 1774.
 SONG FROM THE CAPTIVITY. Facsimile of Goldsmith’s writing and signature, from Prior’s _ Life of Oliver Goldsmith, M.B._, 1837, ii, frontispiece.
 GREEN ARBOUR COURT, OLD BAILEY. From an engraving in the _European Magazine_ for January, 1803.
 KILKENNY WEST CHURCH. From an aquatint by S. Alken of a sketch by R. H. Newell (_Goldsmith’s Poetical Works_, 1811).
 HAWTHORN TREE. From the same.
 SOUTH VIEW FROM GOLDSMITH’S MOUNT.  From the same . . . To face p. 183. [This picture is unavailable.]
 THE SCHOOL HOUSE. From the same.
 PORTRAIT OF GOLDSMITH. Drawn by Henry William Bunbury and etched by James Bretherton. From the _Haunch of Venison_, 1776.
 PORTRAIT OF GOLDSMITH. From a silhouette by Ozias Humphry, R.A., in the National Portrait Gallery.
 LISSOY (OR LISHOY) MILL. From an aquatint by S. Alken of a sketch by R. H. Newell (_Goldsmith’s Poetical Works_, 1811).
 THE PARSONAGE. From the same.




INTRODUCTION


      Two of the earlier, and, in some respects, more important _Memoirs_
      of Oliver Goldsmith open with a quotation from one of his minor works, in
      which he refers to the generally uneventful life of the scholar. His own
      chequered career was a notable exception to this rule. He was born on the
      10th of November, 1728, at Pallas, a village in the county of Longford in
      Ireland, his father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, being a clergyman of the
      Established Church. Oliver was the fifth of a family of five sons and
      three daughters. In 1730, his father, who had been assisting the rector of
      the neighbouring parish of Kilkenny West, succeeded to that living, and
      moved to Lissoy, a hamlet in Westmeath, lying a little to the right of the
      road from Ballymahon to Athlone. Educated first by a humble relative named
      Elizabeth Delap, the boy passed subsequently to the care of Thomas Byrne,
      the village schoolmaster, an old soldier who had fought Queen Anne’s
      battles in Spain, and had retained from those experiences a wandering and
      unsettled spirit, which he is thought to have communicated to one at least
      of his pupils. After an attack of confluent small-pox, which scarred him
      for life, Oliver was transferred from the care of this not-uncongenial
      preceptor to a school at Elphin. From Elphin he passed to Athlone; from
      Athlone to Edgeworthstown, where he remained until he was thirteen or
      fourteen years of age. The accounts of these early days are contradictory.
      By his schoolfellows he seems to have been regarded as stupid and heavy,—‘little
      better than a fool’; but they

      admitted that he was remarkably active and athletic, and that he was an
      adept in all boyish sports. At home, notwithstanding a variable
      disposition, and occasional fits of depression, he showed to greater
      advantage. He scribbled verses early; and sometimes startled those about
      him by unexpected ‘swallow-flights’ of repartee. One of these, an
      oft-quoted retort to a musical friend who had likened his awkward antics
      in a hornpipe to the dancing of Aesop,—

        Heralds! proclaim aloud! all saying,

        See _Aesop_ dancing, and his _monkey_ playing,—
      

      reads more like a happily-adapted recollection than the actual impromptu
      of a boy of nine. But another, in which, after a painful silence, he
      replied to the brutal enquiry of a ne’er-do-well relative as to when he
      meant to grow handsome, by saying that he would do so when the speaker
      grew good,—is characteristic of the easily-wounded spirit and
      ‘exquisite sensibility of contempt’ with which he was to enter upon the
      battle of life.

      In June, 1744, after anticipating in his own person, the plot of his later
      play of _She Stoops to Conquer_ by mistaking the house of a
      gentleman at Ardagh for an inn, he was sent to Trinity College, Dublin.
      The special dress and semi-menial footing of a sizar or poor scholar—for
      his father, impoverished by the imprudent portioning of his eldest
      daughter, could not afford to make him a pensioner—were scarcely
      calculated to modify his personal peculiarities. Added to these, his tutor
      elect, Dr. Theaker Wilder, was a violent and vindictive man, with whom his
      ungainly and unhopeful pupil found little favour. Wilder had a passion for
      mathematics which was not shared by Goldsmith, who, indeed, spoke
      contemptuously enough of that science in after life. He could, however, he
      told Malone, ‘turn an Ode of Horace into English better than any of them.’
      But his academic career was not a success.

[Illustration: Goldsmith’s Autograph]
PANE OF GLASS WITH GOLDSMITH’S AUTOGRAPH
 (Trinity
College, Dublin)

      In May, 1747, the year in which his father died,—an event that
      further contracted his already slender means,—he became involved in
      a college riot, and was publicly admonished. From this disgrace he
      recovered to some extent in the following month by obtaining a trifling
      money exhibition, a triumph which he unluckily celebrated by a party at
      his rooms. Into these festivities, the heinousness of which was aggravated
      by the fact that they included guests of both sexes, the exasperated
      Wilder made irruption, and summarily terminated the proceedings by
      knocking down the host. The disgrace was too much for the poor lad. He
      forthwith sold his books and belongings, and ran away, vaguely bound for
      America. But after considerable privations, including the achievement of a
      destitution so complete that a handful of grey peas, given him by a girl
      at a wake, seemed a banquet, he turned his steps homeward, and, a
      reconciliation having been patched up with his tutor, he was received once
      more at college. In February, 1749, he took his degree, a low one, as
      B.A., and quitted the university, leaving behind him, for relics of that
      time, a scratched signature upon a window-pane, a _folio_ Scapula
      scored liberally with ‘promises to pay,’ and a reputation for much
      loitering at the college gates in the study of passing humanity. Another
      habit which his associates recalled was his writing of ballads when in
      want of funds. These he would sell at five shillings apiece; and would
      afterwards steal out in the twilight to hear them sung to the
      indiscriminate but applauding audience of the Dublin streets.

      What was to be done with a genius so unstable, so erratic? Nothing,
      apparently, but to let him qualify for orders, and for this he is too
      young. Thereupon ensues a sort of ‘Martin’s summer’ in his changing life,—a
      disengaged, delightful time when ‘Master Noll’ wanders
      irresponsibly from house to house, fishing and flute-playing, or, of
      winter evenings, taking the chair at the village inn. When at last the
      moment came for his presentation to the Bishop of Elphin, that prelate,
      sad to say, rejected him, perhaps because of his college reputation,
      perhaps because of actual incompetence, perhaps even, as tradition
      affirms, because he had the bad taste to appear before his examiner in
      flaming scarlet breeches. After this rebuff, tutoring was next tried. But
      he had no sooner saved some thirty pounds by teaching, than he threw up
      his engagement, bought a horse, and started once more for America, by way
      of Cork. In six weeks he had returned penniless, having substituted for
      his roadster a sorry jade, to which he gave the contemptuous name of
      Fiddleback. He had also the simplicity to wonder, on this occasion, that
      his mother was not rejoiced to see him again. His next ambition was to be
      a lawyer; and, to this end, a kindly Uncle Contarine equipped him with
      fifty pounds for preliminary studies. But on his way to London he was
      decoyed into gambling, lost every farthing, and came home once more in
      bitter self-abasement. Having now essayed both divinity and law, his next
      attempt was physic; and, in 1752, fitted out afresh by his long-suffering
      uncle, he started for, and succeeded in reaching, Edinburgh. Here more
      memories survive of his social qualities than of his studies; and two
      years later he left the Scottish capital for Leyden, rather, it may be
      conjectured, from a restless desire to see the world than really to
      exchange the lectures of Monro for the lectures of Albinus. At Newcastle
      (according to his own account) he had the good fortune to be locked up as
      a Jacobite, and thus escaped drowning, as the ship by which he was to have
      sailed to Bordeaux sank at the mouth of the Garonne. Shortly afterwards he
      arrived in Leyden. Gaubius and other Dutch professors figure

      sonorously in his future works; but whether he had much experimental
      knowledge of their instructions may be doubted. What seems undeniable is,
      that the old seduction of play stripped him of every shilling; so that,
      like Holberg before him, he set out deliberately to make the tour of
      Europe on foot. _Haud inexpertus loquor,_ he wrote in after days,
      when praising this mode of locomotion. He first visited Flanders. Thence
      he passed to France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, supporting himself
      mainly by his flute, and by occasional disputations at convents or
      universities. ‘Sir,’ said Boswell to Johnson, ‘he _disputed_ his
      passage through Europe.’ When on the 1st February, 1756, he landed at
      Dover, it was with empty pockets. But he had sent home to his brother in
      Ireland his first rough sketch for the poem of _The Traveller_.

      He was now seven-and-twenty. He had seen and suffered much, but he was to
      have further trials before drifting definitely into literature. Between
      Dover and London, it has been surmised, he made a tentative appearance as
      a strolling player. His next ascertained part was that of an apothecary’s
      assistant on Fish Street Hill. From this, with the opportune aid of an
      Edinburgh friend, he proceeded—to use an eighteenth-century phrase—a
      poor physician in the Bankside, Southwark, where least of all, perhaps,
      was London’s fabled pavement to be found. So little of it, in fact, fell
      to Goldsmith’s share, that we speedily find him reduced to the rank of
      reader and corrector of the press to Samuel Richardson, printer, of
      Salisbury Court, author of _Clarissa_. Later still he is acting
      as help or substitute in Dr. Milner’s ‘classical academy’ at Peckham.
      Here, at last, chance seemed to open to him the prospect of a literary
      life. He had already, says report, submitted a manuscript tragedy to
      Richardson’s judgement; and something he said at Dr. Milner’s table
      attracted the attention of an occasional
      visitor there, the bookseller Griffiths, who was also proprietor of the
      _Monthly Review._ He invited Dr. Milner’s usher to try his hand
      at criticism; and finally, in April, 1757, Goldsmith was bound over for a
      year to that venerable lady whom George Primrose dubs ‘the _antiqua
      mater_ of Grub Street’—in other words, he was engaged for bed,
      board, and a fixed salary to supply copy-of-all-work to his master’s
      magazine.

      The arrangement thus concluded was not calculated to endure. After some
      five months of labour from nine till two, and often later, it came
      suddenly to an end. No clear explanation of the breach is forthcoming, but
      mere incompatability of temper would probably supply a sufficient ground
      for disagreement. Goldsmith, it is said, complained that the bookseller
      and his wife treated him ill, and denied him ordinary comforts; added to
      which the lady, a harder taskmistress even than the _ antiqua mater_
      above referred to, joined with her husband in ‘editing’ his articles, a
      course which, hard though it may seem, is not unprecedented. However this
      may be, either in September or October, 1757, he was again upon the world,
      existing precariously from hand to mouth. ‘By a very little practice as a
      physician, and very little reputation as a poet [a title which, as Prior
      suggests, possibly means no more than author], I make a shift to live.’ So
      he wrote to his brother-in-law in December. What his literary occupations
      were cannot be definitely stated; but, if not prepared before, they
      probably included the translation of a remarkable work issued by Griffiths
      and others in the ensuing February. This was the _Memoirs of a
      Protestant, condemned to the Galleys of France for his Religion,_
      being the authentic record of the sufferings of one Jean Marteilhe of
      Bergerac, a book of which Michelet has said that it is ‘written as if
      between earth and heaven.’ Marteilhe, who died at Cuylenberg

      in 1777, was living in Holland in 1758; and it may be that Goldsmith had
      seen or heard of him during his own stay in that country. The translation,
      however, did not bear Goldsmith’s name, but that of James Willington, one
      of his old class-fellows at Trinity College. Nevertheless, Prior says
      distinctly that Griffiths (who should have known) declared it to be by
      Goldsmith. Moreover, the French original had been catalogued in Griffiths’
      magazine in the second month of Goldsmith’s servitude, a circumstance
      which colourably supplies the reason for its subsequent rendering into
      English.

      The publication of Marteilhe’s _Memoirs_ had no influence upon
      Goldsmith’s fortunes, for, in a short time, he was again installed at
      Peckham, in place of Dr. Milner invalided, waiting hopefully for the
      fulfilment of a promise by his old master to procure him a medical
      appointment on a foreign station. It is probably that, with a view to
      provide the needful funds for this expatriation, he now began to sketch
      the little volume afterwards published under the title of _An Enquiry
      into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe_, for towards
      the middle of the year we find him addressing long letters to his
      relatives in Ireland to enlist their aid in soliciting subscriptions for
      this book. At length the desired advancement was obtained,—a
      nomination as a physician and surgeon to one of the factories on the coast
      of Coromandel. But banishment to the East Indies was not to be his
      destiny. For some unexplained reason the project came to nothing; and then—like
      Roderick Random—he presented himself at Surgeons’ Hall for the more
      modest office of a hospital mate. This was on the 21st of December, 1758.
      The curt official record states that he was ‘found not qualified.’ What
      made matters worse, the necessity for a decent appearance before the
      examiners had involved him in new obligations to Griffiths,

      out of which arose fresh difficulties. To pay his landlady, whose husband
      was arrested for debt, he pawned the suit he had procured by Griffiths’
      aid; and he also raised money on some volumes which had been sent him for
      review. Thereupon ensued an angry and humiliating correspondence with the
      bookseller, as a result of which Griffiths, nevertheless, appears to have
      held his hand.

      By this time Goldsmith had moved into those historic but now non-existent
      lodgings in 12 Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey, which have been
      photographed for ever in Irving’s _Tales of a Traveller._ It
      was here that the foregoing incidents took place; and it was here also
      that, early in 1759, ‘in a wretched dirty room, in which there was but one
      chair,’ the Rev. Thomas Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dromore, found him
      composing (or more probably correcting the proofs of) _The Enquiry._
      ‘At least spare invective ’till my book with Mr. Dodsley shall be
      publish’d,’—he had written not long before to the irate Griffiths—‘and
      then perhaps you may see the bright side of a mind when my professions
      shall not appear the dictates of necessity but of choice.’ _The
      Enquiry_ came out on the 2nd of April. It had no author’s name, but
      it was an open secret that Goldsmith had written it; and to this day it
      remains to the critic one of the most interesting of his works. Obviously,
      in a duodecimo of some two hundred widely-printed pages, it was impossible
      to keep the high-sounding promise of its title; and at best its author’s
      knowledge of the subject, notwithstanding his continental wanderings, can
      have been but that of an external spectator. Still in an age when critical
      utterance was more than ordinarily full-wigged and ponderous, it dared to
      be sprightly and epigrammatic. Some of its passages, besides, bear upon
      the writer’s personal experiences, and serve to piece the imperfections of
      his biography. If it brought him no sudden wealth,

      it certainly raised his reputation with the book-selling world. A
      connexion already begun with Smollett’s _Critical Review_ was
      drawn closer; and the shrewd Sosii of the Row began to see the importance
      of securing so vivacious and unconventional a pen. Towards the end of the
      year he was writing for Wilkie the collection of periodical essays
      entitled _The Bee_; and contributing to the same publisher’s
      _Lady’s Magazine_, as well as to _The Busy Body_ of
      one Pottinger. In these, more than ever, he was finding his distinctive
      touch; and ratifying anew, with every fresh stroke of his pen, his bondage
      to authorship as a calling.

      He had still, however, to conquer the public. _The Bee_,
      although it contains one of his most characteristic essays (‘A City
      Night-Piece’), and some of the most popular of his lighter verses (‘The
      Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize’), never attained the circulation essential to
      healthy existence. It closed with its eighth number in November, 1759. In
      the following month two gentlemen called at Green Arbour Court to enlist
      the services of its author. One was Smollett, with a new serial, _
      The British Magazine_; the other was Johnson’s ‘Jack Whirler,’
      bustling Mr. John Newbery from the ‘Bible and Sun’ in St. Paul’s
      Churchyard, with a new daily newspaper, _The Public Ledger_.
      For Smollett, Goldsmith wrote the ‘Reverie at the Boar’s Head Tavern’ and
      the ‘Adventures of a Strolling Player,’ besides a number of minor papers.
      For Newbery, by a happy recollection of the _Lettres Persanes_
      of Montesquieu, or some of his imitators, he struck almost at once into
      that charming epistolary series, brimful of fine observation, kindly
      satire, and various fancy, which was ultimately to become the English
      classic known as _The Citizen of the World_. He continued to
      produce these letters periodically until the August of the following year,
      when they were

      announced for republication in ‘two volumes of the usual _Spectator_
      size.’ In this form they appeared in May, 1762.

      But long before this date a change for the better had taken place in
      Goldsmith’s life. Henceforth he was sure of work,—mere journey-work
      though much of it must have been;—and, had his nature been less
      improvident, of freedom from absolute want. The humble lodgings in the Old
      Bailey were discarded for new premises at No. 6 Wine Office Court, Fleet
      Street; and here, on the 31st of May, 1761, with Percy, came one whose
      name was often in the future to be associated with Goldsmith’s, the great
      Dictator of London literary society, Samuel Johnson. Boswell, who made
      Johnson’s acquaintance later, has not recorded the humours of that supper;
      but it marks the beginning of Goldsmith’s friendship with the man who of
      all others (Reynolds excepted) loved him most and understood him best.

      During the remainder of 1761 he continued busily to ply his pen. Besides
      his contributions to _The Ledger_ and _The British
      Magazine_, he edited _The Lady’s Magazine_, inserting in
      it the _Memoirs of Voltaire_, drawn up some time earlier to
      accompany a translation of the _Henriade_ by his crony and
      compatriot Edward Purdon. Towards the beginning of 1762 he was hard at
      work on several compilations for Newbery, for whom he wrote or edited a
      _History of Mecklenburgh_, and a series of monthly volumes of
      an abridgement of _Plutarch’s Lives_. In October of the same
      year was published the _Life of Richard Nash_, apparently the
      outcome of special holiday-visits to the then fashionable watering-place
      of Bath, whence its fantastic old Master of the Ceremonies had only very
      lately made his final exit. It is a pleasantly gossiping, and not
      unedifying little book, which still holds a respectable place among its
      author’s minor works. But a recently discovered entry in an old ledger
      shows that during the latter half

      of 1762 he must have planned, if he had not, indeed, already in part
      composed, a far more important effort, _The Vicar of Wakefield_.
      For on the 28th of October in this year he sold to one Benjamin Collins,
      printer, of Salisbury, for 21 pounds, a third in a work with that title,
      further described as ‘2 vols. 12mo.’ How this little circumstance,
      discovered by Mr. Charles Welsh when preparing his Life of John Newbery,
      is to be brought into agreement with the time-honoured story, related
      (with variations) by Boswell and others, to the effect that Johnson
      negotiated the sale of the manuscript for Goldsmith when the latter was
      arrested for rent by his incensed landlady—has not yet been
      satisfactorily suggested. Possibly the solution is a simple one, referable
      to some of those intricate arrangements favoured by ‘the Trade’ at a time
      when not one but half a score publishers’ names figured in an imprint. At
      present, the fact that Collins bought a third share of the book from the
      author for twenty guineas, and the statement that Johnson transferred the
      entire manuscript to a bookseller for sixty pounds, seem irreconcilable.
      That _The Vicar of Wakefield_ was nevertheless written, or was
      being written, in 1762, is demonstrable from internal evidence.

      About Christmas in the same year Goldsmith moved into lodgings at
      Islington, his landlady being one Mrs. Elizabeth Fleming, a friend of
      Newbery, to whose generalship this step seems attributable. From the
      curious accounts printed by Prior and Forster, it is clear that the
      publisher was Mrs. Fleming’s paymaster, punctually deducting his
      disbursements from the account current between himself and Goldsmith, an
      arrangement which as plainly indicates the foresight of the one as it
      implies the improvidence of the other. Of the work which Goldsmith did for
      the businesslike and not unkindly little man, there is no very definite
      evidence; but various prefaces,
      introductions, and the like, belong to this time; and he undoubtedly was
      the author of the excellent _ History of England in a Series of
      Letters addressed by a Nobleman to his Son_, published anonymously
      in June, 1764, and long attributed, for the grace of its style, to
      Lyttelton, Chesterfield, Orrery, and other patrician pens. Meanwhile his
      range of acquaintance was growing larger. The establishment, at the
      beginning of 1764, of the famous association known afterwards as the
      ‘Literary Club’ brought him into intimate relations with Beauclerk,
      Reynolds, Langton, Burke, and others. Hogarth, too, is said to have
      visited him at Islington, and to have painted the portrait of Mrs.
      Fleming. Later in the same year, incited thereto by the success of
      Christopher Smart’s _Hannah_, he wrote the Oratorio of _The
      Captivity_, now to be found in most editions of his poems, but never
      set to music. Then after the slow growth of months, was issued on the 19th
      December the elaboration of that fragmentary sketch which he had sent
      years before to his brother Henry from the Continent, the poem entitled
      _The Traveller; or, A Prospect of Society_.

      In the notes appended to _The Traveller_ in the present volume,
      its origin and progress are sufficiently explained. Its success was
      immediate and enduring. The beauty of the descriptive passages, the subtle
      simplicity of the language, the sweetness and finish of the versification,
      found ready admirers,—perhaps all the more because of the contrast
      they afforded to the rough and strenuous sounds with which Charles
      Churchill had lately filled the public ear. Johnson, who contributed a few
      lines at the close, proclaimed _The Traveller_ to be the best
      poem since the death of Pope; and it is certainly not easy to find its
      equal among the works of contemporary bards. It at once raised Goldsmith
      from the condition of a clever newspaper essayist, or—as men like
      Sir John
      Hawkins would have said—a mere ‘bookseller’s drudge,’ to the
      foremost rank among the poets of the day. Another result of its success
      was the revival of some of his earlier work, which, however neglected by
      the author, had been freely appropriated by the discerning pirate. In
      June, 1765, Griffin and Newbery published a little volume of _Essays
      by Mr. Goldsmith_, including some of the best of his contributions
      to _The Bee, The Busy Body, The Public Ledger_, and _The
      British Magazine_, besides ‘The Double Transformation’ and ‘The
      Logicians Refuted,’ two pieces of verse in imitation of Prior and Swift,
      which have not been traced to an earlier source. To the same year belongs
      the first version of a poem which he himself regarded as his best work,
      and which still retains something of its former popularity. This was the
      ballad of _Edwin and Angelina_, otherwise known as _The
      Hermit_. It originated in certain metrical discussions with Percy,
      then engaged upon his famous _Reliques of English Poetry_; and
      in 1765, Goldsmith, who through his friend Nugent (afterwards Lord Clare)
      had made the acquaintance of the Earl of Northumberland, printed it
      privately for the amusement of the Countess. In a revised and amended form
      it was subsequently given to the world in _The Vicar of Wakefield_.

      With the exception of an abortive attempt to resume his practice as a
      medical man,—an attempt which seems to have been frustrated by the
      preternatural strength of his prescriptions,—the next memorable
      thing in Goldsmith’s life is the publication of _The Vicar of
      Wakefield_ itself. It made its appearance on the 27th of March,
      1766. A second edition followed in May, a third in August. Why, having
      been sold (in part) to a Salisbury printer as far back as October, 1762,
      it had remained unprinted so long; and why, when published, it was
      published by Francis Newbery and not by John Newbery, Goldsmith’s

      employer,—are questions at present unsolved. But the charm of this
      famous novel is as fresh as when it was first issued. Its inimitable
      types, its happy mingling of Christianity and character, its wholesome
      benevolence and its practical wisdom, are still unimpaired. We smile at
      the inconsistencies of the plot; but we are carried onward in spite of
      them, captivated by the grace, the kindliness, the gentle humour of the
      story. Yet it is a mistake to suppose that its success was instantaneous.
      Pirated it was, of course; but, according to expert investigations, the
      authorized edition brought so little gain to its first proprietors that
      the fourth issue of 1770 started with a loss. The fifth, published in
      April, 1774, was dated 1773; and had apparently been withheld because the
      previous edition, which consisted of no more than one thousand copies, was
      not exhausted. Five years elapsed before the sixth edition made its tardy
      appearance in 1779. These facts show that the writer’s contemporaries were
      not his most eager readers. But he has long since appealed to the wider
      audience of posterity; and his fame is not confined to his native country,
      for he has been translated into most European languages. Dr. Primrose and
      his family are now veritable ‘citizens of the world.’

      A selection of _Poems for Young Ladies_, in the ‘Moral’
      division of which he included his own _Edwin and Angelina_; two
      volumes of _Beauties of English Poesy_, disfigured with strange
      heedlessness, by a couple of the most objectionable pieces of Prior; a
      translation of a French history of philosophy, and other occasional work,
      followed the publication of the _Vicar_. But towards the middle
      of 1766, he was meditating a new experiment in that line in which
      Farquhar, Steele, Southerne, and others of his countrymen had succeeded
      before him. A fervent lover of the stage, he detested the vapid and
      colourless ‘genteel’
      comedy which had gradually gained ground in England; and he determined to
      follow up _The Clandestine Marriage_, then recently adapted by
      Colman and Garrick from Hogarth’s _Marriage A-la-Mode_, with
      another effort of the same class, depending exclusively for its interest
      upon humour and character. Early in 1767 it was completed, and submitted
      to Garrick for Drury Lane. But Garrick perhaps too politic to traverse the
      popular taste, temporized; and eventually after many delays and
      disappointments, _The Good Natur’d Man_, as it was called, was
      produced at Covent Garden by Colman on the 29th of January, 1768. Its
      success was only partial; and in deference to the prevailing craze for the
      ‘genteel,’ an admirable scene of low humour had to be omitted in the
      representation. But the piece, notwithstanding, brought the author 400
      pounds, to which the sale of the book, with the condemned passages
      restored, added another 100 pounds. Furthermore, Johnson, whose
      ‘Suspirius’ in _The Rambler_ was, under the name of ‘Croaker,’
      one of its most prominent personages, pronounced it to be the best comedy
      since Cibber’s _Provok’d Husband_.

      During the autumn of 1767, Goldsmith had again been living at Islington.
      On this occasion he had a room in Canonbury Tower, Queen Elizabeth’s old
      hunting-lodge, and perhaps occupied the very chamber generally used by
      John Newbery, whose active life was, in this year, to close. When in
      London he had modest housing in the Temple. But the acquisition of 500
      pounds for _The Good Natur’d Man_ seemed to warrant a change of
      residence, and he accordingly expended four-fifths of that sum for the
      lease of three rooms on the second floor of No. 2 Brick Court, which he
      straightway proceeded to decorate sumptuously with mirrors, Wilton
      carpets, moreen curtains, and Pembroke tables. It was an unfortunate step;
      and he would have done well to remember the _Nil_
      _te quaesiveris extra_ with which his inflexible monitor, Johnson,
      had greeted his apologies for the shortcomings of some earlier lodgings.
      One of its natural results was to involve him in a new sequence of
      task-work, from which he never afterwards shook himself free. Hence,
      following hard upon a _Roman History_ which he had already
      engaged to write for Davies of Russell Street, came a more ambitious
      project for Griffin, _A History of Animated Nature_; and after
      this again, another _History of England_ for Davies. The pay
      was not inadequate; for the first he was to have 250 guineas, for the
      second 800 guineas, and for the last 500 pounds. But as employment for the
      author of a unique novel, an excellent comedy, and a deservedly successful
      poem, it was surely—in his own words—‘to cut blocks with a
      razor.’

      And yet, apart from the anxieties of growing money troubles, his life
      could not have been wholly unhappy. There are records of pleasant
      occasional junketings—‘shoe-maker’s holidays’ he called them—in
      the still countrified suburbs of Hampstead and Edgware; there was the
      gathering at the Turk’s Head, with its literary magnates, for his severer
      hours; and for his more pliant moments, the genial ‘free-and-easy’ or
      shilling whist-club of a less pretentious kind, where the student of mixed
      character might shine with something of the old supremacy of George
      Conway’s inn at Ballymahon. And there must have been quieter and more
      chastened resting-places of memory, when, softening towards the home of
      his youth, with a sadness made more poignant by the death of his brother
      Henry in May, 1768, he planned and perfected his new poem of _The
      Deserted Village_.

      In December, 1769, the recent appointment of his friend Reynolds as
      President of the Royal Academy brought him the honorary office of
      Professor of History to that
      institution; and to Reynolds _The Deserted Village_ was
      dedicated. It appeared on the 26th of May, 1770, with a success equal, if
      not superior, to that of _The Traveller_. It ran through five
      editions in the year of its publication; and has ever since retained its
      reputation. If, as alleged, contemporary critics ranked it below its
      predecessor, the reason advanced by Washington Irving, that the poet had
      become his own rival, is doubtless correct; and there is always a
      prejudice in favour of the first success. This, however, is not an
      obstacle which need disturb the reader now; and he will probably decide
      that in grace and tenderness of description _The Deserted Village_
      in no wise falls short of _The Traveller_; and that its central
      idea, and its sympathy with humanity, give it a higher value as a work of
      art.

      After _The Deserted Village_ had appeared, Goldsmith made a
      short trip to Paris, in company with Mrs. and the two Miss Hornecks, the
      elder of whom, christened by the poet with the pretty pet-name of ‘The
      Jessamy Bride,’ is supposed to have inspired him with more than friendly
      feelings. Upon his return he had to fall again to the old ‘book-building’
      in order to recruit his exhausted finances. Since his last poem he had
      published a short _Life of Parnell_; and Davies now engaged him
      on a _Life of Bolingbroke_, and an abridgement of the _Roman
      History_. Thus, with visits to friends, among others to Lord Clare,
      for whom he wrote the delightful occasional verses called _The Haunch
      of Venison_, the months wore on until, in December, 1770, the
      print-shops began to be full of the well-known mezzotint which Marchi had
      engraved from his portrait by Sir Joshua.

      His chief publications in the next two years were the above-mentioned
      _History of England_, 1771; _Threnodia Augustalis_,
      a poetical lament-to-order on the death of the Princess Dowager of Wales,
      1772; and the abridgement
      of the _Roman History_, 1772. But in the former year he had
      completed a new comedy, _She Stoops to Conquer; or, The Mistakes of a
      Night_, which, after the usual vexatious negotiations, was brought
      out by Colman at Covent Garden on Monday, the 15th of March, 1773. The
      manager seems to have acted Goldsmith’s own creation of ‘Croaker’ with
      regard to this piece, and even to the last moment predicted its failure.
      But it was a brilliant success. More skilful in construction than _The
      Good Natur’d Man_, more various in its contrasts of character,
      richer and stronger in humour and _vis comica_, _She Stoops to
      Conquer_ has continued to provide an inexhaustible fund of laughter
      to more than three generations of playgoers, and still bids fair to retain
      the character generally given to it, of being one of the three most
      popular comedies upon the English stage. When published, it was gratefully
      inscribed, in one of those admirable dedications of which its author above
      all men possessed the secret, to Johnson, who had befriended it from the
      first. ‘I do not mean,’ wrote Goldsmith, ‘so much to compliment you as
      myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived
      many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind
      also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character,
      without impairing the most unaffected piety.’

      His gains from _She Stoops to Conquer_ were considerable; but
      by this time his affairs had reached a stage of complication which nothing
      short of a miracle could disentangle; and there is reason for supposing
      that his involved circumstances preyed upon his mind. During the few
      months of life that remained to him he published nothing, being doubtless
      sufficiently occupied by the undertakings to which he was already
      committed. The last of his poetical efforts was the poem entitled

      _Retaliation_, a group of epitaph-epigrams prompted by some
      similar _jeux d’esprit_ directed against himself by Garrick and other
      friends, and left incomplete at his death. In March, 1774, the combined
      effects of work and worry, added to a local disorder, brought on a nervous
      fever, which he unhappily aggravated by the use of a patent medicine
      called ‘James’s Powder.’ He had often relied upon this before, but in the
      present instance it was unsuited to his complaint. On Monday, the 4th of
      April, 1774, he died, in his forty-sixth year, and was buried on the 9th
      in the burying-ground of the Temple Church. Two years later a monument,
      with a medallion portrait by Nollekens, and a Latin inscription by
      Johnson, was erected to him in Westminster Abbey, at the expense of the
      Literary Club. But although the inscription contains more than one phrase
      of felicitous discrimination, notably the oft-quoted _affectuum potens,
      at lenis dominator_, it may be doubted whether the simpler words used
      by his rugged old friend in a letter to Langton are not a fitter farewell
      to Oliver Goldsmith,—‘Let not his frailties be remembered; he was a
      very great man.’

      In person Goldsmith was short and strongly built. His complexion was
      rather fair, but he was deeply scarred with small-pox; and—if we
      may believe his own account—the vicissitudes and privations of his
      early life had not tended to diminish his initial disadvantages. ‘You
      scarcely can conceive,’ he writes to his brother in 1759, ‘how much eight
      years of disappointment, anguish, and study, have worn me down. . . .
      Imagine to yourself a pale melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles
      between the eye-brows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a big wig; and
      you may have a perfect picture of my present appearance,’ i.e. at thirty
      years of age. ‘I can neither laugh nor drink,’ he goes on; ‘have
      contracted an hesitating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage
      that looks ill-nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into a
      settled melancholy, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it.’
      It is obvious that this description is largely coloured by passing
      depression. ‘His features,’ says one contemporary, ‘were plain, but not
      repulsive,—certainly not so when lighted up by conversation.’
      Another witness—the ‘Jessamy Bride’—declares that ‘his
      benevolence was unquestionable, and his countenance bore every trace of
      it.’ His true likeness would seem to lie midway between the grotesquely
      truthful sketch by Bunbury prefixed in 1776 to the _Haunch of Venison_,
      and the portrait idealized by personal regard, which Reynolds painted in
      1770. In this latter he is shown wearing, in place of his customary wig,
      his own scant brown hair, and, on this occasion, masquerades in a furred
      robe, and falling collar. But even through the disguise of a studio
      ‘costume,’ the finely-perceptive genius of Reynolds has managed to suggest
      much that is most appealing in his sitter’s nature. Past suffering,
      present endurance, the craving to be understood, the mute deprecation of
      contempt, are all written legibly in this pathetic picture. It has been
      frequently copied, often very ineffectively, for so subtle is the art that
      the slightest deviation hopelessly distorts and vulgarizes what Reynolds
      has done supremely, once and for ever.

      Goldsmith’s character presents but few real complexities. What seems most
      to have impressed his contemporaries is the difference, emphasized by the
      happily-antithetic epigram of Garrick, between his written style and his
      conversation; and collaterally, between his eminence as a literary man and
      his personal insignificance. Much of this is easily intelligible. He had
      started in life with few temporal or physical advantages, and with a
      native susceptibility that intensified his defects. Until
      he became a middle-aged man, he led a life of which we do not even now
      know all the degradations; and these had left their mark upon his manners.
      With the publication of _The Traveller_, he became at once the
      associate of some of the best talent and intellect in England,—of
      fine gentlemen such as Beauclerk and Langton, of artists such as Reynolds
      and Garrick, of talkers such as Johnson and Burke. Morbidly
      self-conscious, nervously anxious to succeed, he was at once forced into a
      competition for which neither his antecedents nor his qualifications had
      prepared him. To this, coupled with the old habit of poverty, must be
      attributed his oft-cited passion for fine clothes, which surely arose less
      from vanity than from a mistaken attempt to extenuate what he felt to be
      his most obvious shortcomings. As a talker especially he was ill-fitted to
      shine. He was easily disconcerted by retort, and often discomfited in
      argument. To the end of his days he never lost his native brogue; and (as
      he himself tells us) he had that most fatal of defects to a narrator, a
      slow and hesitating manner. The perspicuity which makes the charm of his
      writings deserted him in conversation; and his best things were momentary
      flashes. But some of these were undoubtedly very happy. His telling
      Johnson that he would make the little fishes talk like whales; his
      affirmation of Burke that he wound into a subject like a serpent; and
      half-a-dozen other well-remembered examples—afford ample proof of
      this. Something of the uneasy jealousy he is said to have exhibited with
      regard to certain of his contemporaries may also be connected with the
      long probation of obscurity during which he had been a spectator of the
      good fortune of others, to whom he must have known himself superior. His
      improvidence seems to have been congenital, since it is to be traced ‘even
      from his boyish days.’ But though it cannot justly be ascribed to any
      reaction from want to sufficiency, it can still less be supposed to have
      been diminished by that change. If he was careless of money, it must also
      be remembered that he gave much of it away; and fortune lingers little
      with those whose ears are always open to a plausible tale of distress. Of
      his sensibility and genuine kindheartedness there is no doubt. And it is
      well to remember that most of the tales to his disadvantage come, not from
      his more distinguished companions, but from such admitted detractors as
      Hawkins and Boswell. It could be no mean individuality that acquired the
      esteem, and deserved the regret, of Johnson and Reynolds.
    

In an edition of Goldsmith’s poems, any extended examination of his
remaining productions would be out of place. Moreover, the bulk of these is
considerably reduced when all that may properly be classed as hack-work has
been withdrawn. The histories of Greece, of Rome, and of England; the
_Animated Nature_; the lives of Nash, Voltaire, Parnell, and Bolingbroke,
are merely compilations, only raised to the highest level in that line because
they proceeded from a man whose gift of clear and easy exposition lent a charm
to everything he touched. With the work which he did for himself, the case is
different. Into _The Citizen of the World_, _The Vicar of Wakefield_,
and his two comedies, he put all the best of his knowledge of human nature, his
keen sympathy with his kind, his fine common-sense and his genial humour. The
same qualities, tempered by a certain grace and tenderness, also enter into the
best of his poems. Avoiding the epigram of Pope and the austere couplet of
Johnson, he yet borrowed something from each, which he combined with a delicacy
and an amenity that he had learned from neither. He himself, in all
probability, would have rested his fame on his three chief metrical efforts,
_The Traveller_, _The Hermit_, and _The Deserted Village_. But,
as is often the case, he is remembered even more favourably by some of those
delightful familiar verses, unprinted during his lifetime, which he threw off
with no other ambition than the desire to amuse his friends.
_Retaliation_, _ The Haunch of Venison_, the _Letter in Prose and
Verse to Mrs. Bunbury_, all afford noteworthy exemplification of that
playful touch and wayward fancy which constitute the chief attraction of this
species of poetry. In his imitations of Swift and Prior, and his variations
upon French suggestions, his personal note is scarcely so apparent; but the two
Elegies and some of the minor pieces retain a deserved reputation. His
ingenious prologues and epilogues also serve to illustrate the range and
versatility of his talent. As a rule, the arrangement in the present edition is
chronological; but it has not been thought necessary to depart from the
practice which gives a time-honoured precedence to _The Traveller_ and
_The Deserted Village_. The true sequence of the poems, in their order of
publication, is, however, exactly indicated in the table which follows this
Introduction.

CHRONOLOGY OF GOLDSMITH’S LIFE AND POEMS.


          1728
        	
          _November 10._ Born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, in the county of
          Longford, Ireland.
        

          1730
        	
          Family remove to Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath.
        

          1731
        	
          Under Elizabeth Delap.
        

          1734
        	
          Under Mr. Thomas Byrne of the village school.
        

          1736–44
        	
          At school at Elphin (Mr. Griffin’s), Athlone (Mr. Campbell’s),
          Edgeworthstown (Mr. Hughes’s).
        

          1744
        	
          _June 11._ Admitted a sizar of Trinity College, Dublin, _‘annum
          agens_ 15.’
        

          1747
        	
          Death of his father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith.
 _May._
          Takes part in a college riot.
 _June 15._ Obtains a Smythe
          exhibition.
 Runs away from college.
        

          1749
        	
          _February 27._ Takes his degree as Bachelor of Arts.
        

          1751
        	
          Rejected for orders by the Bishop of Elphin.
 Tutor to Mr. Flinn.

          Sets out for America (via Cork), but returns.
 Letter to Mrs.
          Goldsmith (his mother).
        

          1752
        	
          Starts as a law student, but loses his all at play.
 Goes to
          Edinburgh to become a medical student.
        

          1753
        	
          _January 13._ Admitted a member of the ‘Medical Society’ of
          Edinburgh.
 _May 8._ Letter to his Uncle Contarine.
 _September
          26._ Letter to Robert Bryanton.
 Letter to his Uncle Contarine.
        

          1754
        	
          Goes to Leyden. Letter to his Uncle Contarine.
        

          1755
        	
          _February._ Leaves Leyden.
 Takes degree of Bachelor of
          Medicine at Louvain (?).
 Travels on foot in France, Germany,
          Switzerland, and Italy.
 Sketches _The Traveller_.
        

          1756
        	
          _February 1._ Returns to Dover. Low comedian; usher (?);
          apothecary’s journeyman; poor physician in Bankside, Southwark.
        

          1757
        	
          Press corrector to Samuel Richardson, printer and novelist; assistant
          at Peckham Academy (Dr. Milner’s).
 _April._ Bound over to
          Griffiths the bookseller. Quarrels with Griffiths.
 _December
          27._ Letter to his brother-in-law, Daniel Hodson.
        

          1758
        	
          _February._ Publishes _The Memoirs of a Protestant,
          condemned to the Galleys of France for his Religion_.
 Gives
          up literature and returns to Peckham.
 _August._ Leaves
          Peckham. Letters to Edward Mills, Bryanton, Mrs. Jane Lawder.

          Appointed surgeon and physician to a factory on the Coast of
          Coromandel.
 _November (?)._ Letter to Hodson.
 Moves
          into 12 Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey.
 Coromandel appointment
          comes to nothing.
 _December 21._ Rejected at Surgeons’ Hall
          as ‘not qualified’ for a hospital mate.
        

          1759
        	
          _February (?)._ Letter to Henry Goldsmith.
 _March._
          Visited by Percy at 12 Green Arbour Court.
 _April 2._ _Enquiry
          into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe_ published.
          ‘Prologue of Laberius’ (_Enquiry_).
 _October 6._
          _The Bee_ commenced. ‘On a Beautiful Youth struck blind
          with Lightning’ (_Bee_).
 _October 13._ ‘The Gift’
          (_Bee_).
 _October 18._ ‘The Logicians Refuted’ (_Busy
          Body_).
 _October 20._ ‘A Sonnet’ (_Bee_).

          _October 22._ ‘Stanzas on the Taking of Quebec’ (_Busy Body_).

          _October 27._ ‘Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize’ (_Bee_).

          _November 24._ _The Bee_ closed.
        

          1760
        	
          _January 1._ _The British Magazine_ commenced.
 _January
          12._ _The Public Ledger_ commenced.
 _January 24._
          First Chinese Letter published (_Citizen of the World_).

          _May 2._ ‘Description of an Author’s Bedchamber’ (‘Chinese
          Letter’ in _Public Ledger_).
 _October 21._ ‘On
          seeing Mrs. . . . perform,’ etc. (‘Chinese Letter’ in _Public
          Ledger_).
 Editing _Lady’s Magazine_. Compiling
          Prefaces.
 Moves into 6 Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.
        

          1761
        	
          _March 4._ ‘On the Death of the Right Hon. . . . (‘Chinese
          Letter’ in _Public Ledger_).
 _April 4–14._ ‘An
          Epigram’; to G. C. and R. L. (‘Chinese Letter in _Public Ledger_).

          _May 13._ ‘Translation of a South American Ode.’ (‘Chinese
          Letter’ in _Public Ledger_)
 _August 14._ Last
          Chinese Letter published (_Citizen of the World_).

          _Memoirs of M. de Voltaire_ published in _Lady’s
          Magazine_.
        

          1762
        	
          _February 23._ Pamphlet on Cock Lane Ghost published.
 _February
          26._ _History of Mecklenburgh_ published.
 _May 1._
          _Citizen of the World_ published.
 _May 1 to Nov. 1._
          _Plutarch’s Lives_, vol. i to vii, published.
 At Bath
          and Tunbridge.
 _October 14._ _Life of Richard Nash_
          published.
 _October 28._ Sells third share of _Vicar of
          Wakefield_ to B. Collins, printer, Salisbury.
 At Mrs.
          Fleming’s at Islington.
        

          1763
        	
          _March 31._ Agrees with James Dodsley to write a _
          Chronological History of the Lives of Eminent Persons of Great Britain
          and Ireland_. (Never done.)
        

          1764
        	
          ‘The Club,’ afterwards the Literary Club, founded.
 Moves into
          lodgings on the library staircase of the Temple.
 _June 26._
          _History of England, in a series of Letters from a Nobleman to
          his Son_ published.
 _October 31._ Oratorio of _The
          Captivity_ sold to James Dodsley.
 _December 19._ _The
          Traveller_ published.
        

          1765
        	
          _June 4._ _Essays by Mr. Goldsmith_ published. ‘The
          Double Transformation,’ ‘A New Simile’ (_Essays_).

          _Edwin and Angelina_ (_The Hermit_) printed
          privately for the amusement of the Countess of Northumberland.

          Resumes practice as a physician.
        

          1766
        	
          _March 27._ _Vicar of Wakefield_ published. ‘Elegy on
          a Mad Dog’; ‘Olivia’s Song’ (_Vicar of Wakefield_).
 _May
          31._ _Vicar of Wakefield_, 2nd edition.
 _June._
          Translation of Formey’s _Concise History of Philosophy and
          Philosophers_ published.
 _August 29._ _Vicar of
          Wakefield_, 3rd edition.
 _December 15._ _Poems
          for Young Ladies_ published.
        

          1766
        	
          _December 28._ _English Grammar_ written.
        

          1767
        	
          _April._ _Beauties of English Poesy_ published.

          _July 19._ Living in Garden Court, Temple.
 _July 25._
          Letter to the _St. James’s Chronicle_.
 _December 22._
          Death of John Newbery.
        

          1768
        	
          _February 5._ Publishes _The Good Natur’d Man_, a
          Comedy, produced at Covent Garden, January 29. ‘Epilogue to _The
          Good Natur’d Man_.’
 Moves to 2 Brick Court, Middle Temple.

          _May._ Death of Henry Goldsmith.
 Living at Edgware.
        

          1769
        	
          _February 18._ ‘Epilogue to Mrs. Lenox’s _ Sister_.’

          _February 29._ Agreement for ‘a new Natural History of Animals’ (_Animated
          Nature_).
 _May 18._ _Roman History_
          published.
 _June 13._ Agreement for _History of England_.

          _December._ Appointed Professor of History to the Royal Academy.
        

          1770
        	
          _January._ Letter to Maurice Goldsmith.
 _April 24–May 26._
          Portrait by Reynolds exhibited.
 _May 26._ _The Deserted
          Village_ published.
 _July 13._ _Life of Thomas
          Parnell_ published.
 _July._ On the Continent with the
          Hornecks. Letters to Reynolds.
 _September 15._ Agreement for
          abridgement of _Roman History_.
 _December 1._
          Marchi’s print from Reynold’s portrait published.
 _December 19._
          _Life of Bolingbroke_ published.
 _Vicar of
          Wakefield_, 4th edition.
        

          1771
        	
          _Haunch of Venison_ written. (?)
 _August 6._
          _History of England_ published.
 _December 11._
          ‘Prologue to Cradock’s _ Zobeide_.’
        

          1772
        	
          _February 20._ _Threnodia Augustalis_ published.

          Watson’s Engraving of _Resignation_ published.
 _December._
          Abridgement of _Roman History_ published.
        

          1773
        	
          _March 26._ Publishes _She Stoops to Conquer; or, The
          Mistakes of a Night_, a Comedy, produced at Covent Garden, March
          15. ‘Song in _She Stoops to Conquer_,’ ‘Epilogue to _She
          Stoops to Conquer_.’
        

          1773
        	
          _March 24._ Kenrick’s libel in the _London Packet_.

          _March 31._ Letter in the _Daily Advertiser_.
 _May
          8._ _The Grumbler_ produced.
 Projects a _Dictionary
          of Arts and Sciences_.
        

          1774
        	
          _March 25._ Illness.
 _April 4._ Death.
 _April 9._
          ‘Buried 9th April, Oliver Goldsmith, MB, late of Brick-court, Middle
          Temple’ (Register of Burials, Temple Church).
 _April 19._
          _Retaliation_ published.
 _April._ _Vicar of
          Wakefield_, 5th edition (dated 1773).
 _June._ Song
          (‘Ah me, when shall I marry me?’) published.
 _June 28._
          Letters of Administration granted.
 _June._ _An History
          of the Earth and Animated Nature_ published.
 ‘Translation
          from Addison.’ (_History_, etc., 1774.)
        

          1776
        	
          _The Haunch of Venison_ published. ‘Epitaph on Thomas
          Parnell,’ and ‘Two Songs from _The Captivity_ (_Haunch
          of Venison_).
 Monument with medallion by Nollekens erected
          in the south transept of Westminster Abbey.
        

          1777
        	
          _Poems and Plays_ published. ‘The Clown’s Reply,’ ‘Epitaph
          on Edward Purdon’ (_Poems_, etc., 1777).
        

          1779
        	
          _Vicar of Wakefield_, 6th edition.
        

          1780
        	
          _Poetical and Dramatic Works_, Evans’s edition, published.

          ‘Epilogue for Lee Lewes’ (_Poetical, etc., Works_, 1780).
        

          1801
        	
          _Miscellaneous Works_, Percy’s edition, published.
          ‘Epilogues (unspoken) to _She Stoops to Conquer_’ (_Misc.
          Works_, 1801).
        

          1820
        	
          _Miscellaneous Works_, ‘trade’ edition, published. An
          Oratorio’ (_The Captivity_). (_Misc. Works_,
          1820.)
        

          1837
        	
          _Miscellaneous Works_, Prior’s edition, published. ‘Verses
          in Reply to an Invitation to Dinner’; ‘Letter in Prose and Verse to
          Mrs. Bunbury’ (_Misc. Works_, 1837).
 Tablet erected in
          the Temple Church.
        

          1854
        	
          _Goldsmith’s Works_, Cunningham’s edition, published.
          ‘Translation of Vida’s _Game of Chess_’ (_Works_,
          1854, vol. iv).
        

          1864
        	
          _January 5._ J. H. Foley’s statue placed in front of Dublin
          University.




[Illustration: Vignette to ‘The Traveller’]
VIGNETTE TO ‘THE TRAVELLER’
 (Samuel Wale)




DESCRIPTIVE POEMS


 THE TRAVELLER
 
 OR
 
 A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY

 DEDICATION
 TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH


      DEAR SIR,
 I am sensible that the
      friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a
      Dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to
      my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this
      Poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with
      propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many
      parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man,
      who, despising Fame and Fortune, has retired early to Happiness and
      Obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a year.

      I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You
      have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the
      labourers are but few; while you have left the field of Ambition, where
      the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of
      all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from
      different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that
      which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.

      Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a
      country verging to the extremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in
      for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious
      entertainment,

      they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all
      that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon
      the elder’s birthright.

      Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in
      greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it.
      What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and
      Pindaric odes, choruses, anapaests and iambics, alliterative care and
      happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as
      he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error
      is ever talkative.

      But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean Party.
      Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the
      mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what
      contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists
      from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader,
      who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the
      most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally
      admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having
      lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet;
      his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbulence is said to be
      force, and his frenzy fire.

      What reception a Poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank
      verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims
      are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to
      moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be
      equal happiness in states, that are differently governed from our own;
      that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this
      principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few
      can judge, better than yourself, how far these positions are illustrated
      in this Poem.

      I am, dear Sir,
 Your most affectionate Brother,
         
                       
           OLIVER GOLDSMITH.




[Illustration: ]


      THE TRAVELLER
 
 OR
 
 A PROSPECT OF
      SOCIETY


REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania’s plain forsaken lies,                       5
A weary waste expanding to the skies:
Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.                 10

  Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend:
Bless’d be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their ev’ning fire;
Bless’d that abode, where want and pain repair,               15
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Bless’d be those feasts with simple plenty crown’d,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,                      20
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

  But me, not destin’d such delights to share,
My prime of life in wand’ring spent and care,
Impell’d, with steps unceasing, to pursue                     25
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.                     30

  E’en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And, plac’d on high above the storm’s career,
Look downward where a hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide,               35
The pomp of kings, the shepherd’s humbler pride.

  When thus Creation’s charms around combine,
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good, which makes each humbler bosom vain?               40
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glitt’ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown’d,       45
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale,
Ye bending swains, that dress the flow’ry vale,
For me your tributary stores combine;
Creation’s heir, the world, the world is mine!                50

  As some lone miser visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it o’er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,                    55
Pleas’d with each good that heaven to man supplies:
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consign’d,                        60
Where my worn soul, each wand’ring hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows bless’d.

  But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd’ring tenant of the frigid zone                      65
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,                    70
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,
His first, best country ever is, at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,                    75
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind,
As different good, by Art or Nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.              80

  Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at Labour’s earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra’s cliffs as Arno’s shelvy side;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,                   85
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From Art more various are the blessings sent;
Wealth commerce, honour, liberty, content.
Yet these each other’s power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.                    90
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state to one lov’d blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favourite happiness attends,                      95
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This favourite good begets peculiar pain.

  But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies:              100
Here for a while my proper cares resign’d,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind,
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.

  Far to the right where Apennine ascends,                   105
Bright as the summer, Italy extends;
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple’s mould’ring tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene                       110


[Illustration: ]
THE TRAVELLER

(R. Westall)

  Could Nature’s bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes were found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,                     115
Whose bright succession decks the varied year;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives that blossom but to die;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil;                  120
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

  But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,                   125
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manner reign;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And e’en in penance planning sins anew.                      130
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs, not far remov’d the date,
When commerce proudly flourish’d through the state;
At her command the palace learn’d to rise,                   135
Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies;
The canvas glow’d beyond e’en Nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem’d with human form;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display’d her sail;                 140
While nought remain’d of all that riches gave,
But towns unmann’d, and lords without a slave;
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

  Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied              145
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array’d,
The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade;                   150
Processions form’d for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguil’d,
The sports of children satisfy the child;
Each nobler aim, repress’d by long control,                  155
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind:
As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway,
Defac’d by time and tottering in decay,                      160
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed,
And, wond’ring man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

  My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey                 165
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread;
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword;                170
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter ling’ring chills the lap of May;
No Zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.

  Yet still, e’en here, content can spread a charm,          175
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts though small,
He sees his little lot the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;                    180
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,                 185
Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his vent’rous plough-share to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.                    190
At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children’s looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov’d partner, boastful of her hoard,              195
Displays her cleanly platter on the board:
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

  Thus every good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart,                   200
And e’en those ills, that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,                  205
Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast,
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.

  Such are the charms to barren states assign’d;
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin’d.              210
Yet let them only share the praises due,
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few;
For every want that stimulates the breast,
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest.
Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,          215
That first excites desire, and then supplies;
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.            220
Their level life is but a smould’ring fire,
Unquench’d by want, unfann’d by strong desire;
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,                 225
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.

  But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow:
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter’d, unimprov’d the manners run;                       230
And love’s and friendship’s finely pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o’er the mountain’s breast
May sit, like falcons cow’ring on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play                     235
Through life’s more cultur’d walks, and charm the way,
These far dispers’d, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.

  To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.               240
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleas’d with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire!
Where shading elms along the margin grew,                    245
And freshen’d from the wave the Zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch falt’ring still,
But mock’d all tune, and marr’d the dancer’s skill;
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour.                  250
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill’d in gestic lore,
Has frisk’d beneath the burthen of threescore.

  So bless’d a life these thoughtless realms display,        255
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here:
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e’en imaginary worth obtains,                             260
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleas’d, they give to get esteem,           265
Till, seeming bless’d, they grow to what they seem.

  But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise;
For praise too dearly lov’d, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;                  270
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another’s breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,                        275
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year;
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.                 280

  To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom’d in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,                       285
Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow;
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat’ry roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore;                  290
While the pent ocean rising o’er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom’d vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,                      295
A new creation rescu’d from his reign.

  Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.                          300
Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here displayed. Their much-lov’d wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts;
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,                305
E’en liberty itself is barter’d here.
At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,                     310
And calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.

  Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old!
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold;
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;                315
How much unlike the sons of Britain now!

  Fir’d at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than fam’d Hydaspes glide.              320
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on ev’ry spray;
Creation’s mildest charms are there combin’d,
Extremes are only in the master’s mind!
Stern o’er each bosom reason holds her state,                325
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by,
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion’d, fresh from Nature’s hand;              330
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagin’d right, above control,
While e’en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.

  Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur’d here,         335
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;
Too bless’d, indeed, were such without alloy,
But foster’d e’en by Freedom, ills annoy:
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;               340
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell’d.
Ferments arise, imprison’d factions roar,                    345
Repress’d ambition struggles round her shore,
Till over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.

  Nor this the worst. As nature’s ties decay,
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway,                      350
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;
Time may come, when stripp’d of all her charms,              355
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil’d, and poets wrote for fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour’d die.               360

  Yet think not, thus when Freedom’s ills I state,
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great;
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,
Far from my bosom drive the low desire;
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel                 365
The rabble’s rage, and tyrant’s angry steel;
Thou transitory flower, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favour’s fostering sun,
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure,
I only would repress them to secure:                         370
For just experience tells, in every soil,
That those who think must govern those that toil;
And all that freedom’s highest aims can reach,
Is but to lay proportion’d loads on each.
Hence, should one order disproportion’d grow,                375
Its double weight must ruin all below.

  O then how blind to all that truth requires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspires!
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast-approaching danger warms:                   380
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their own;
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom when themselves are free;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,                   385
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam,
Pillag’d from slaves to purchase slaves at home;
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;                390
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.

  Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour,
When first ambition struck at regal power;
And thus polluting honour in its source,                     395
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.
Have we not seen, round Britain’s peopled shore,
Her useful sons exchang’d for useless ore?
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers bright’ning as they waste;               400
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where scatter’d hamlets rose,
In barren solitary pomp repose?
Have we not seen, at pleasure’s lordly call,                 405
The smiling long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay’d,
The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
Forc’d from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main;                  410
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thund’ring sound?

  E’en now, perhaps as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways;
Where beasts with man divided empire claim,                  415
And the brown Indian marks with murd’rous aim;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,                    420
Casts a long look where England’s glories shine,
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine.

  Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind:
Why have I stray’d from pleasure and repose,                 425
To seek a good each government bestows?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure.             430
Still to ourselves in every place consign’d,
Our own felicity we make or find:
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonising wheel,                         435
Luke’s iron crown, and Damiens’ bed of steel,
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own.




[Illustration: Vignette to ‘The Deserted Village’]
VIGNETTE TO ‘THE DESERTED VILLAGE’

(Isaac Taylor)




THE DESERTED VILLAGE


 DEDICATION
 
 TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS


      DEAR SIR,
 I can have no expectations in
      an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish
      my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that
      art in which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the severity of
      your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting
      interest therefore aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be
      indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever
      made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He
      is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you.

      How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical
      parts of this attempt, I don’t pretend to enquire; but I know you will
      object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the
      opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the
      disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet’s own imagination.
      To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe
      what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country
      excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I
      allege; and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those
      miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place
      to enter into an enquiry, whether the country be depopulating or not; the
      discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an
      indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I
      want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.

      In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the
      increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern
      politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the
      fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and
      all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous. Still
      however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to
      think those luxuries prejudicial to states, by which so many vices are
      introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has been
      poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the
      sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right.

      I am, Dear Sir,

      Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer,

          OLIVER GOLDSMITH.




[Illustration: ]




THE DESERTED VILLAGE


SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer’d the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s lingering blooms delay’d:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,                      5
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter’d o’er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear’d each scene;
How often have I paus’d on every charm,
The shelter’d cot, the cultivated farm,                       10
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp’d the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp’ring lovers made;
How often have I bless’d the coming day,                      15
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey’d;                     20
And many a gambol frolick’d o’er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tir’d,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir’d;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,                   25
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter’d round the place;
The bashful virgin’s side-long looks of love,
The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove:           30
These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e’en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled.

  Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,               35
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain:                  40
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But chok’d with sedges, works its weedy way.
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,                    45
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o’ertops the mould’ring wall;
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.                   50

  Ill fares the land, to hast’ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,                  55
When once destroy’d, can never be supplied.

  A time there was, ere England’s griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain’d its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more:               60
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

  But times are alter’d; trade’s unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter’d hamlets rose,                 65
Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask’d but little room,                70
Those healthful sports that grac’d the peaceful scene,
Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

  Sweet AUBURN!  parent of the blissful hour,                 75
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power.
Here as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin’d grounds,
And, many a year elaps’d, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,              80
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

  In all my wand’rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and GOD has given my share—
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,                   85
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life’s taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn’d skill,              90
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations pass’d,                  95
Here to return—and die at home at last.

  O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How happy he who crowns in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;                       100
Who quits a world where strong temptations try
And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state                       105
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue’s friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceiv’d decay,
While Resignation gently slopes the way;                     110
And, all his prospects bright’ning to the last,
His Heaven commences ere the world be pass’d!


[Illustration: ]
The Water-cress gatherer

(John Bewick)

  Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I pass’d with careless steps and slow,             115
The mingling notes came soften’d from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low’d to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;             120
The watchdog’s voice that bay’d the whisp’ring wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,                       125
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widow’d, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;                  130
She, wretched matron, forc’d in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,                     135
The sad historian of the pensive plain.

  Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil’d,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher’s modest mansion rose.                  140
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e’er had chang’d, nor wished to change his place;
Unpractis’d he to fawn, or seek for power,                   145
By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skill’d to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand’rings, but reliev’d their pain;           150
The long-remember’d beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allow’d;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,                     155
Sat by his fire, and talk’d the night away;
Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder’d his crutch, and show’d how fields were won.
Pleas’d with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;                   160
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

  Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e’en his failings lean’d to Virtue’s side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,                        165
He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt, for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledg’d offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov’d each dull delay,
Allur’d to brighter worlds, and led the way.                 170

  Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay’d,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,             175
And his last falt’ring accents whisper’d praise.

  At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn’d the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain’d to pray.              180
The service pass’d, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow’d with endearing wile,
And pluck’d his gown, to share the good man’s smile.
His ready smile a parent’s warmth express’d,                 185
Their welfare pleas’d him, and their cares distress’d;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,           190
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

  Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill’d to rule,                195
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace
The day’s disasters in his morning face;                     200
Full well they laugh’d, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d;
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,                      205
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar’d how much he knew;
’Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e’en the story ran that he could gauge.                  210
In arguing too, the parson own’d his skill,
For e’en though vanquish’d, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thund’ring sound
Amazed the gazing rustics rang’d around,
And still they gaz’d, and still the wonder grew,             215
That one small head could carry all he knew.

  But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumph’d, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,             220
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir’d,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir’d,
Where village statesmen talk’d with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace                           225
The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The white-wash’d wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish’d clock that click’d behind the door;
The chest contriv’d a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;                   230
The pictures plac’d for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill’d the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,                 235
Rang’d o’er the chimney, glisten’d in a row.

  Vain, transitory splendours! Could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart;                240
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,
No more the wood-man’s ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brown shall clear,               245
Relax his pond’rous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press’d,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.                   250

  Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,                 255
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin’d:
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array’d,                260
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.

  Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey              265
The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay,
’Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;                270
Hoards, e’en beyond the miser’s wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Nor so the loss. The man of wealth and pride                 275
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robb’d the neighbouring fields of half their growth,     280
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies:
While thus the land adorn’d for pleasure, all                285
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

  As some fair female unadorn’d and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrow’d charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes:                 290
But when those charms are pass’d, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray’d,                     295
In nature’s simplest charms at first array’d;
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While scourg’d by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;                  300
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.

  Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside,
To ’scape the pressure of continuous pride?
If to some common’s fenceless limits stray’d,                305
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e’en the bare-worn common is denied.

  If to the city sped—What waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;                     310
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin’d
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow creature’s woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,                315
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign
Here, richly deck’d, admits the gorgeous train;              320
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e’er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes         325
Where the poor houseless shiv’ring female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless’d,
Has wept at tales of innocence distress’d;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;               330
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer’s door she lays her head,
And, pinch’d with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,                      335
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

  Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E’en now, perhaps by cold and hunger led,
At proud men’s doors they ask a little bread!                340

  Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm’d before,            345
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;                    350
Those pois’nous fields with rank luxuriance crown’d,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,              355
And savage men more murd’rous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag’d landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,                  360
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter’d thefts of harmless love.




[Illustration: ]
THE DEPARTURE

(Thomas Bewick)

  Good heaven! what sorrows gloom’d that parting day,
That call’d them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass’d,                 365
Hung round their bowers, and fondly look’d their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish’d in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shudd’ring still to face the distant deep,
Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep.               370
The good old sire, the first prepar’d to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others’ woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish’d for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovlier in her tears,                   375
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover’s for a father’s arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless’d the cot where every pleasure rose                380
And kiss’d her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp’d them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

  O Luxury! thou curs’d by Heaven’s decree,                  385
How ill exchang’d are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own;                      390
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till sapp’d their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

  E’en now the devastation is begun,                         395
And half the business of destruction done;
E’en now, methinks, as pond’ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land:
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with ev’ry gale,                     400
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety, with wishes plac’d above,                         405
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;               410
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,                   415
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and Oh! where’er thy voice be tried,
On Torno’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,                     420
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th’ inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth; with thy persuasive strain
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possess’d,         425
Though very poor, may still be very bless’d;
That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour’d mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.                     430




LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS

PIECES




LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS

PIECES

PART OF A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND

SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS


A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CAESAR FORCED

UPON THE STAGE


PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.


    WHAT! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage,
    And save from infamy my sinking age!
    Scarce half alive, oppress’d with many a year,
    What in the name of dotage drives me here?
    A time there was, when glory was my guide,             5
    Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
    Unaw’d by pow’r, and unappall’d by fear,
    With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
    But this vile hour disperses all my store,
    And all my hoard of honour is no more.                10
    For ah! too partial to my life’s decline,
    Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;
    Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
    Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please.
    Here then at once, I welcome every shame,             15
    And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
    No more my titles shall my children tell,
    The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
    This day beyond its term my fate extends,
    For life is ended when our honour ends.               20




ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND WITH LIGHTNING

(_Imitated from the Spanish._)

        SURE ’twas by Providence design’d,
          Rather in pity, than in hate,
        That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
          To save him from Narcissus’ fate.




THE GIFT

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, CONVENT GARDEN


        SAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,
          Dear mercenary beauty,
        What annual offering shall I make,
          Expressive of my duty?

        My heart, a victim to thine eyes,               5
          Should I at once deliver,
        Say, would the angry fair one prize
          The gift, who slights the giver?

        A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
          My rivals give—and let ’em;                  10
        If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
          I’ll give them—when I get ’em.

        I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose,
          Or rose-bud more in fashion;
        Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose        15
          A transitory passion.

        I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,
          Not less sincere, than civil:
        I’ll give thee—Ah! too charming maid,
          I’ll give thee—To the devil.                 30




THE LOGICIANS REFUTED

      IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT


    LOGICIANS have but ill defin’d
    As rational, the human kind;
    Reason, they say, belongs to man,
    But let them prove it if they can.
    Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,                         5
    By ratiocinations specious,
    Have strove to prove with great precision,
    With definition and division,
    _Homo est ratione praeditum,_—
    But for my soul I cannot credit ’em;                  10
    And must in spite of them maintain,
    That man and all his ways are vain;
    And that this boasted lord of nature
    Is both a weak and erring creature;
    That instinct is a surer guide                        15
    Than reason-boasting mortals’ pride;
    And that brute beasts are far before ’em,
    _Deus est anima brutorum_.
    Who ever knew an honest brute
    At law his neighbour prosecute,                       20
    Bring action for assault and battery,
    Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
    O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,
    No politics disturb their mind;
    They eat their meals, and take their sport,           25
    Nor know who’s in or out at court;
    They never to the levee go
    To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
    They never importune his grace,
    Nor ever cringe to men in place;                      30
    Nor undertake a dirty job,
    Nor draw the quill to write for B——b.
    Fraught with invective they ne’er go
    To folks at Pater-Noster-Row;
    No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,                 35
    No pick-pockets, or poetasters,
    Are known to honest quadrupeds;
    No single brute his fellow leads.
    Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
    Nor cut each others’ throats, for pay.                40
    Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape
    Comes nearest us in human shape;
    Like man he imitates each fashion,
    And malice is his ruling passion;
    But both in malice and grimaces                       45
    A courtier any ape surpasses.
    Behold him humbly cringing wait
    Upon a minister of state;
    View him soon after to inferiors,
    Aping the conduct of superiors;                       50
    He promises with equal air,
    And to perform takes equal care.
    He in his turn finds imitators;
    At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
    Their master’s manners still contract,                55
    And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
    Thus at the court both great an small
    Behave alike—for all ape all.




A SONNET


        WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
          Lost to every gay delight;
        MYRA, too sincere for feigning,
          Fears th’ approaching bridal night.

        Yet, why impair thy bright perfection?         5
          Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
        Had MYRA followed my direction,
          She long had wanted cause of fear.




STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE


    AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
      Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
    Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
      And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.

    O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe,             5
      Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;
    QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
      Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

    Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
      And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:        10
    Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead—
      Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!




AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX,
 MRS. MARY BLAIZE


        GOOD people all, with one accord,
          Lament for Madam BLAIZE,
        Who never wanted a good word—
          _From those who spoke her praise._

        The needy seldom pass’d her door,              5
          And always found her kind;
        She freely lent to all the poor,—
          _Who left a pledge behind._

        She strove the neighbourhood to please,
          With manners wond’rous winning,             10
        And never follow’d wicked ways,—
          _Unless when she was sinning._

        At church, in silks and satins new,
          With hoop of monstrous size,
        She never slumber’d in her pew,—              15
          _But when she shut her eyes._

        Her love was sought, I do aver,
          By twenty beaux and more;
        The king himself has follow’d her,—
          _When she has walk’d before._                 20

        But now her wealth and finery fled,
          Her hangers-on cut short all;
        The doctors found, when she was dead,—
          _Her last disorder mortal._

        Let us lament, in sorrow sore,                25
          For Kent-street well may say,
        That had she liv’d a twelve-month more,—
          _She had not died to-day._




DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BEDCHAMBER


    WHERE the Red Lion flaring o’er the way,
    Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
    Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,
    Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
    There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,             5
    The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;
    A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,
    That dimly show’d the state in which he lay;
    The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
    The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:            10
    The royal game of goose was there in view,
    And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
    The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
    And brave prince William show’d his lamp-black face:
    The morn was cold, he views with keen desire           15
    The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
    With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,
    And five crack’d teacups dress’d the chimney board;
    A nightcap deck’d his brows instead of bay,
    A cap by night—a stocking all the day!                 20




ON SEEING MRS. ** PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF ****


    FOR you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,
    And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
    The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
    Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
    See how she moves along with every grace,              5
    While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
    She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
    Ye gods! what transport e’er compared to this.
    As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
    With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove,     10
    ’Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,
    And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
    Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
    And felt her charms, without disguise, within.




OF THE DEATH OF THE LEFT HON. ***


        YE Muses, pour the pitying tear
          For Pollio snatch’d away;
        O! had he liv’d another year!—
          _He had not died to-day._

        O! were he born to bless mankind,               5
          In virtuous times of yore,
        Heroes themselves had fallen behind!—
          _Whene’er he went before._

        How sad the groves and plains appear,
          And sympathetic sheep;                       10
        Even pitying hills would drop a tear!—
          _If hills could learn to weep._

        His bounty in exalted strain
          Each bard might well display;
        Since none implor’d relief in vain!—           15
          _That went reliev’d away._

        And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
          His obsequies forbid,
        He still shall live, shall live as long!—
          _As ever dead man did._                        20




AN EPIGRAM
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTED
      ON IN
 THE ROSCIAD, A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR

        Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail,
 His pen he
        prostitutes t’ avoid a gaol.             

                 ROSCOM.


        LET not the _hungry_ Bavius’ angry stroke
        Awake resentment, or your rage provoke;
        But pitying his distress, let virtue shine,
        And giving each your bounty, _let him dine_;
        For thus retain’d, as learned counsel can,      5
        Each case, however bad, he’ll new japan;
        And by a quick transition, plainly show
        ’Twas no defect of yours, but _pocket low_,
        That caused his _putrid kennel_ to o’erflow.




TO G. C. AND R. L.


    ’TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together,
    ’Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
    This, I believe, between us great or small,
    You, I, he, wrote it not—’twas Churchill’s all.




TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE


        IN all my Enna’s beauties blest,
          Amidst profusion still I pine;
        For though she gives me up her breast,
          Its panting tenant is not mine.




THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION
 
 A TALE


    SECLUDED from domestic strife,
    Jack Book-worm led a college life;
    A fellowship at twenty-five
    Made him the happiest man alive;
    He drank his glass and crack’d his joke,           5
    And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.

      Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,
    Could any accident impair?
    Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfix
    Our swain, arriv’d at thirty-six?                 10
    O had the archer ne’er come down
    To ravage in a country town!
    Or Flavia been content to stop
    At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop.
    O had her eyes forgot to blaze!                   15
    Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.
    O!——But let exclamation cease,
    Her presence banish’d all his peace.
    So with decorum all things carried;
    Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married.  20

      Need we expose to vulgar sight
    The raptures of the bridal night?
    Need we intrude on hallow’d ground,
    Or draw the curtains clos’d around?
    Let it suffice, that each had charms;             25
    He clasp’d a goddess in his arms;
    And though she felt his usage rough,
    Yet in a man ’twas well enough.

      The honey-moon like lightning flew,
    The second brought its transports too.            30
    A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
    The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:
    But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,
    Jack found his goddess made of clay;
    Found half the charms that deck’d her face        35
    Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
    But still the worst remain’d behind,
    That very face had robb’d her mind.

      Skill’d in no other arts was she
    But dressing, patching, repartee;                 40
    And, just as humour rose or fell,
    By turns a slattern or a belle;
    ’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace,
    Half naked at a ball or race;
    But when at home, at board or bed,                45
    Five greasy nightcaps wrapp’d her head.
    Could so much beauty condescend
    To be a dull domestic friend?
    Could any curtain-lectures bring
    To decency so fine a thing?                       50
    In short, by night, ’twas fits or fretting;
    By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.
    Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
    Of powder’d coxcombs at her levy;
    The ’squire and captain took their stations,      55
    And twenty other near relations;
    Jack suck’d his pipe, and often broke
    A sigh in suffocating smoke;
    While all their hours were pass’d between
    Insulting repartee or spleen.                     60

      Thus as her faults each day were known,
    He thinks her features coarser grown;
    He fancies every vice she shows,
    Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
    Whenever rage or envy rise,                       65
    How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
    He knows not how, but so it is,
    Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
    And, though her fops are wond’rous civil,
    He thinks her ugly as the devil.                  70

      Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,
    As each a different way pursues,
    While sullen or loquacious strife,
    Promis’d to hold them on for life,
    That dire disease, whose ruthless power           75
    Withers the beauty’s transient flower:
    Lo!  the small-pox, whose horrid glare
    Levell’d its terrors at the fair;
    And, rifling ev’ry youthful grace,
    Left but the remnant of a face.                   80

      The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
    Reflected now a perfect fright:
    Each former art she vainly tries
    To bring back lustre to her eyes.
    In vain she tries her paste and creams,           85
    To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
    Her country beaux and city cousins,
    Lovers no more, flew off by dozens:
    The ’squire himself was seen to yield,
    And e’en the captain quit the field.              90

      Poor Madam, now condemn’d to hack
    The rest of life with anxious Jack,
    Perceiving others fairly flown,
    Attempted pleasing him alone.
    Jack soon was dazzl’d to behold                   95
    Her present face surpass the old;
    With modesty her cheeks are dy’d,
    Humility displaces pride;
    For tawdry finery is seen
    A person ever neatly clean:                      100
    No more presuming on her sway,
    She learns good-nature every day;
    Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
    Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.




A NEW SIMILE
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT


    LONG had I sought in vain to find
    A likeness for the scribbling kind;
    The modern scribbling kind, who write
    In wit, and sense, and nature’s spite:
    Till reading, I forget what day on,                5
    A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon,
    I think I met with something there,
    To suit my purpose to a hair;
    But let us not proceed too furious,
    First please to turn to god Mercurius;            10
    You’ll find him pictur’d at full length
    In book the second, page the tenth:
    The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
    And now proceed we to our simile.

      Imprimis, pray observe his hat,                 15
    Wings upon either side—mark that.
    Well! what is it from thence we gather?
    Why these denote a brain of feather.
    A brain of feather! very right,
    With wit that’s flighty, learning light;          20
    Such as to modern bard’s decreed:
    A just comparison,—proceed.

      In the next place, his feet peruse,
    Wings grow again from both his shoes;
    Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear,           25
    And waft his godship through the air;
    And here my simile unites,
    For in a modern poet’s flights,
    I’m sure it may be justly said,
    His feet are useful as his head.                  30

      Lastly, vouchsafe t’observe his hand,
    Filled with a snake-encircl’d wand;
    By classic authors term’d caduceus,
    And highly fam’d for several uses.
    To wit—most wond’rously endu’d,                   35
    No poppy water half so good;
    For let folks only get a touch,
    Its soporific virtue’s such,
    Though ne’er so much awake before,
    That quickly they begin to snore.                 40
    Add too, what certain writers tell,
    With this he drives men’s souls to hell.

      Now to apply, begin we then;
    His wand’s a modern author’s pen;
    The serpents round about it twin’d                45
    Denote him of the reptile kind;
    Denote the rage with which he writes,
    His frothy slaver, venom’d bites;
    An equal semblance still to keep,
    Alike too both conduce to sleep.                  50
    This diff’rence only, as the god
    Drove souls to Tart’rus with his rod,
    With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
    Instead of others, damns himself.

      And here my simile almost tript,                55
    Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
    Moreover, Merc’ry had a failing:
    Well! what of that? out with it—stealing;
    In which all modern bards agree,
    Being each as great a thief as he:                60
    But ev’n this deity’s existence
    Shall lend my simile assistance.
    Our modern bards! why what a pox
    Are they but senseless stones and blocks?


[Illustration: ]
EDWIN AND ANGELINA

(T. Stothard)




EDWIN AND ANGELINA
 
 A BALLAD


        ‘TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
           And guide my lonely way,
         To where yon taper cheers the vale
           With hospitable ray.

        ‘For here, forlorn and lost I tread,           5
           With fainting steps and slow;
         Where wilds immeasurably spread,
           Seem length’ning as I go.’

        ‘Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries,
          ‘To tempt the dangerous gloom;              10
         For yonder faithless phantom flies
           To lure thee to thy doom.

        ‘Here to the houseless child of want
           My door is open still;
         And though my portion is but scant,          15
           I give it with good will.

        ‘Then turn to-night, and freely share
           Whate’er my cell bestows;
         My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
           My blessing and repose.                    20

        ‘No flocks that range the valley free
           To slaughter I condemn:
         Taught by that power that pities me,
           I learn to pity them.

        ‘But from the mountain’s grassy side          25
           A guiltless feast I bring;
         A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
           And water from the spring.

        ‘Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo;
           All earth-born cares are wrong:            30
         Man wants but little here below,
           Nor wants that little long.’

         Soft as the dew from heav’n descends,
           His gentle accents fell:
         The modest stranger lowly bends,             35
           And follows to the cell.

         Far in a wilderness obscure
           The lonely mansion lay;
         A refuge to the neighbouring poor
           And strangers led astray.                  40

         No stores beneath its humble thatch
           Requir’d a master’s care;
         The wicket, opening with a latch,
           Receiv’d the harmless pair.

         And now, when busy crowds retire             45
           To take their evening rest,
         The hermit trimm’d his little fire,
           And cheer’d his pensive guest:

         And spread his vegetable store,
           And gaily press’d, and smil’d;             50
         And, skill’d in legendary lore,
           The lingering hours beguil’d.
      
         Around in sympathetic mirth
           Its tricks the kitten tries;
         The cricket chirrups in the hearth;          55
           The crackling faggot flies.

         But nothing could a charm impart
           To soothe the stranger’s woe;
         For grief was heavy at his heart,
           And tears began to flow.                   60

         His rising cares the hermit spied,
           With answ’ring care oppress’d;
        ‘And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried,
          ‘The sorrows of thy breast?

        ‘From better habitations spurn’d,             65
           Reluctant dost thou rove;
         Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,
           Or unregarded love?

        ‘Alas! the joys that fortune brings
           Are trifling, and decay;                   70
         And those who prize the paltry things,
           More trifling still than they.

        ‘And what is friendship but a name,
           A charm that lulls to sleep;
         A shade that follows wealth or fame,         75
           But leaves the wretch to weep?

        ‘And love is still an emptier sound,
           The modern fair one’s jest:
         On earth unseen, or only found
           To warm the turtle’s nest.                 80
      
        ‘For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
           And spurn the sex,’ he said:
         But, while he spoke, a rising blush
           His love-lorn guest betray’d.

         Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise,        85
           Swift mantling to the view;
         Like colours o’er the morning skies,
           As bright, as transient too.

         The bashful look, the rising breast,
           Alternate spread alarms:                   90
         The lovely stranger stands confess’d
           A maid in all her charms.

        ‘And, ah!  forgive a stranger rude,
           A wretch forlorn,’ she cried;
        ‘Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude           95
           Where heaven and you reside.

        ‘But let a maid thy pity share,
           Whom love has taught to stray;
         Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
           Companion of her way.                     100

        ‘My father liv’d beside the Tyne,
           A wealthy lord was he;
         And all his wealth was mark’d as mine,
           He had but only me.

        ‘To win me from his tender arms              105
           Unnumber’d suitors came;
         Who prais’d me for imputed charms,
           And felt or feign’d a flame.
      
         Each hour a mercenary crowd
           With richest proffers strove:             110
         Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,
           But never talk’d of love.

        ‘In humble, simplest habit clad,
           No wealth nor power had he;
         Wisdom and worth were all he had,           115
           But these were all to me.

        ‘And when beside me in the dale
           He caroll’d lays of love;
         His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
           And music to the grove.                   120

        ‘The blossom opening to the day,
           The dews of heaven refin’d,
         Could nought of purity display,
           To emulate his mind.

        ‘The dew, the blossom on the tree,           125
           With charms inconstant shine;
         Their charms were his, but woe to me!
           Their constancy was mine.

        ‘For still I tried each fickle art,
           Importunate and vain:                     130
         And while his passion touch’d my heart,
           I triumph’d in his pain.

        ‘Till quite dejected with my scorn,
           He left me to my pride;
         And sought a solitude forlorn,              135
           In secret, where he died.

        ‘But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
           And well my life shall pay;
         I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
           And stretch me where he lay.              140

        ‘And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
           I’ll lay me down and die;
        ’Twas so for me that Edwin did,
           And so for him will I.’

        ‘Forbid it, heaven!’ the hermit cried,       145
           And clasp’d her to his breast:
         The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,
          ’Twas Edwin’s self that prest.

        ‘Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
           My charmer, turn to see                   150
         Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
           Restor’d to love and thee.

        ‘Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
           And ev’ry care resign;
         And shall we never, never part,             155
           My life—my all that’s mine?

        ‘No, never from this hour to part,
           We’ll live and love so true;
         The sigh that rends thy constant heart
           Shall break thy Edwin’s too.’             160




ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG


        Good people all, of every sort,
          Give ear unto my song;
        And if you find it wond’rous short,
          It cannot hold you long.

        In Islington there was a man,                  5
          Of whom the world might say,
        That still a godly race he ran,
          Whene’er he went to pray.

        A kind and gentle heart he had,
          To comfort friends and foes;                10
        The naked every day he clad,
          When he put on his clothes.

        And in that town a dog was found,
          As many dogs there be,
        Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,        15
          And curs of low degree.

        This dog and man at first were friends;
          But when a pique began,
        The dog, to gain some private ends,
          Went mad and bit the man.                   20

        Around from all the neighbouring streets
          The wond’ring neighbours ran,
        And swore the dog had lost his wits,
          To bite so good a man.

        The wound it seem’d both sore and sad         25
          To every Christian eye;
        And while they swore the dog was mad,
          They swore the man would die.

        But soon a wonder came to light,
          That show’d the rogues they lied:           30
        The man recover’d of the bite,
          The dog it was that died.




SONG
 
 FROM ‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’


        WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
          And finds too late that men betray,
        What charm can soothe her melancholy,
          What art can wash her guilt away?

        The only art her guilt to cover,               5
          To hide her shame from every eye,
        To give repentance to her lover,
          And wring his bosom, is—to die.




EPILOGUE TO ‘THE GOOD NATUR’D MAN’


    As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
    To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
    Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend
    For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,
    Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,             5
    And make full many a bitter pill go down.
    Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
    And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out.
    ‘An Epilogue—things can’t go on without it;
    It could not fail, would you but set about it.’       10
    ‘Young man,’ cries one—a bard laid up in clover—
    ‘Alas, young man, my writing days are over;
    Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I:
    Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.’
    ‘What I? dear Sir,’ the Doctor interposes             15
    ‘What plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
    No, no; I’ve other contests to maintain;
    To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane:
    Go, ask your manager.’ ‘Who, me? Your pardon;
    Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.’     20
    Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance,
    Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
    As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
    At the Pit door stands elbowing a way,
    While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,       25
    He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
    His simp’ring friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
    Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;
    He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
    But not a soul will budge to give him place.          30
    Since then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform
    ‘To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm’—
    Blame where you must, be candid where you can;
    And be each critic the _Good Natur’d Man._




EPILOGUE TO ‘THE SISTER’


    WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!
    Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
    Had she consulted _me_, she should have made
    Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
    Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage            5
    Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
    My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking;
    Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking.
    Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,
    What if I give a masquerade?—I will.                     10
    But how? ay, there’s the rub! (_pausing_)—I’ve got my cue:
    The world’s a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.
                                (_To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery._)
    ——, what a group the motley scene discloses!
    False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
    Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside ’em,        15
    Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride ’em.
    There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once more
    To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
    These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
    Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen,                      20
    Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
    Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman:
    The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
    And tries to kill, ere she’s got power to cure.
    Thus ’tis with all—their chief and constant care         25
    Is to seem everything but what they are.
    Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
    Who seems to have robb’d his vizor from the lion;
    Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
    Looking as who should say, D——! who’s afraid?            30
                                                (_Mimicking_)

    Strip but his vizor off, and sure I am
    You’ll find his lionship a very lamb.
    Yon politician, famous in debate,
    Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
    Yet, when he deigns his real shape t’ assume,            35
    He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
    Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
    And seems to every gazer all in white,
    If with a bribe his candour you attack,
    He bows, turns round, and whip—the man’s a black!        40
    Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?
    If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
    Well then a truce, since she requests it too:
    Do you spare her, and I’ll for once spare you.




PROLOGUE TO ‘ZOBEIDE’


    IN these bold times, when Learning’s sons explore
    The distant climate and the savage shore;
    When wise Astronomers to India steer,
    And quit for Venus, many a brighter here;
    While Botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,         5
    Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;
    When every bosom swells with wond’rous scenes,
    Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens:
    Our bard into the general spirit enters,
    And fits his little frigate for adventures:              10
    With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
    He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading—
    Yet ere he lands he ’as ordered me before,
    To make an observation on the shore.
    Where are we driven? our reck’ning sure is lost!         15
    This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.
    —— what a sultry climate am I under!
    Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.
                                  (_Upper Gallery._)
    There Mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen ’em—
                                  (_Pit._)
    Here trees of stately size—and turtles in ’em—           20
                                  (_Balconies._)
    Here ill-condition’d oranges abound—
                                  (_Stage._)
    And apples (_takes up one and tastes it_), bitter apples
      strew the ground.
    The place is uninhabited, I fear!
    I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!
    O there the natives are—a dreadful race!                 25
    The men have tails, the women paint the face!
    No doubt they’re all barbarians.—Yes, ’tis so,
    I’ll try to make palaver with them though;
                                   (_Making signs._)
    ’Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.
    Good Savages, our Captain craves assistance;             30
    Our ship’s well stor’d;—in yonder creek we’ve laid her;
    His honour is no mercenary trader;
    This is his first adventure; lend him aid,
    Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.
    His goods, he hopes are prime, and brought from far,     35
    Equally fit for gallantry and war.
    What! no reply to promises so ample?
    I’d best step back—and order up a sample.




THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
      OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS
 THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.


 OVERTURE—A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR—TRIO.


       ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
         And waken every note of woe;
       When truth and virtue reach the skies,
         ’Tis ours to weep the want below!

      CHORUS.

       When truth and virtue, etc.                         5

      MAN SPEAKER.

        The praise attending pomp and power,
          The incense given to kings,
        Are but the trappings of an hour—
          Mere transitory things!
      The base bestow them: but the good agree            10
      To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
        But when to pomp and power are join’d
        An equal dignity of mind—
    When titles are the smallest claim—
        When wealth and rank and noble blood,             15
        But aid the power of doing good—
    Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

        Bless’d spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom
        Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
          How hast thou left mankind for heaven!          20
        Even now reproach and faction mourn.
        And, wondering how their rage was borne,
          Request to be forgiven.
        Alas! they never had thy hate:
          Unmov’d in conscious rectitude,                 25
          Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
        Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.
        In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,
          A thousand gifts would fortune send;
        In vain, to drive thee from the right,            30
          A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:
    Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,
    And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.
    Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
    Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity!             35
        Virtue, on herself relying,
          Ev’ry passion hush’d to rest,
        Loses ev’ry pain of dying
          In the hopes of being blest.
        Ev’ry added pang she suffers                      40
          Some increasing good bestows,
        Ev’ry shock that malice offers
          Only rocks her to repose.

      SONG. BY A MAN—AFFETTUOSO.

        Virtue, on herself relying,
          Ev’ry passion hush’d to rest,                   45
        Loses ev’ry pain of dying
          In the hopes of being blest.

        Ev’ry added pang she suffers
          Some increasing good bestows,
        Ev’ry shock that malice offers,                   50
          Only rocks her to repose.


      WOMAN SPEAKER.

      Yet, ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate—
        Death, with its formidable band,
      Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
        Determin’d took their stand:                      55
      Nor did the cruel ravagers design
        To finish all their efforts at a blow;
        But, mischievously slow,
      They robb’d the relic and defac’d the shrine.
        With unavailing grief,                            60
        Despairing of relief,
      Her weeping children round
        Beheld each hour
        Death’s growing power,
      And trembled as he frown’d.                         65

      As helpless friends who view from shore
      The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
        While winds and waves their wishes cross—
      They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
      Not to assist, but to bewail                        70
        The inevitable loss.
      Relentless tyrant, at thy call
      How do the good, the virtuous fall!
    Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
    But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.          75

      SONG.  BY A MAN.—BASSO.—STACCATO.—SPIRITOSO.

      When vice my dart and scythe supply,
      How great a king of terrors I!
      If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
      Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
      Fall, round me fall, ye little things,              80
      Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
      If virtue fail her counsel sage,
      Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

      MAN SPEAKER.

      Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
      Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;          85
      Let us prize death as the best gift of nature—
      As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
      When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
      May put off life and be at rest for ever.
      Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, 90
      May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
      The preparation is the executioner.
      Death, when unmasked, shows me a friendly face,
      And is a terror only at a distance;
      For as the line of life conducts me on              95
      To Death’s great court, the prospect seems more fair.
      ’Tis Nature’s kind retreat, that’s always open
      To take us in when we have drained the cup
      Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
          In that secure, serene retreat,                100
          Where all the humble, all the great,
            Promiscuously recline;
          Where wildly huddled to the eye,
          The beggar’s pouch and prince’s purple lie,
            May every bliss be thine.                    105
      And ah!  bless’d spirit, wheresoe’er thy flight,
      Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
      May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
      May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
      May peace that claimed while here thy warmest love, 110
      May blissful endless peace be thine above!

      SONG. BY A WOMAN.—AMOROSO.

          Lovely, lasting Peace below,
          Comforter of every woe,
          Heav’nly born, and bred on high,
          To crown the favourites of the sky—             115
          Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
          This world itself, if thou art here,
          Is once again with Eden blest,
          And man contains it in his breast.

      WOMAN SPEAKER.

      Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,      120
      Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
      Celestial-like her bounty fell,
      Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
      Want pass’d for merit at her door,
        Unseen the modest were supplied,                  125
      Her constant pity fed the poor—
        Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
      And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy shrine,
        And art exhausts profusion round,
      The tribute of a tear be mine,                      130
        A simple song, a sigh profound.
      There Faith shall come, a pilgrim gray,
      To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
      And calm Religion shall repair
      To dwell a weeping hermit there.                    135
      Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
      To blend their virtues while they think of thee.


      AIR. CHORUS.—POMPOSO.

      Let us, let all the world agree,
      To profit by resembling thee.

      PART II
 
 OVERTURE—PASTORALE

      
 MAN SPEAKER.


    FAST by that shore where Thames’ translucent stream
      Reflects new glories on his breast,
    Where, splendid as the youthful poet’s dream,
      He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest—
    Where sculptur’d elegance and native grace              5
    Unite to stamp the beauties of the place,
      While sweetly blending still are seen
      The wavy lawn, the sloping green—
    While novelty, with cautious cunning,
    Through ev’ry maze of fancy running,                   10
      From China borrows aid to deck the scene—
    There, sorrowing by the river’s glassy bed,
      Forlorn, a rural bard complain’d,
    All whom Augusta’s bounty fed,
      All whom her clemency sustain’d;                     15
    The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
    The modest matron, clad in homespun gray,
    The military boy, the orphan’d maid,
    The shatter’d veteran, now first dismay’d;
    These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,            20
          And, as they view
          The towers of Kew,
    Call on their mistress—now no more—and weep.

      CHORUS.—AFFETTUOSO.—LARGO.

    Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
    Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes—                    25
    Let all your echoes now deplore
    That she who form’d your beauties is no more.

      MAN SPEAKER.

    First of the train the patient rustic came,
      Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,
    Bending at once with sorrow and with age,              30
      With many a tear and many a sigh between;
    ‘And where,’ he cried, ‘shall now my babes have bread,
      Or how shall age support its feeble fire?
    No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
      Nor can my strength perform what they require;       35
    Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare—
    A sleek and idle race is all their care.
    My noble mistress thought not so:
      Her bounty, like the morning dew,
    Unseen, though constant, used to flow;                 40
      And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.’

      WOMAN SPEAKER.

    In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
    The pious matron next was seen—
    Clasp’d in her hand a godly book was borne,
    By use and daily meditation worn;                      45
    That decent dress, this holy guide,
    Augusta’s care had well supplied.
    ‘And ah!’ she cries, all woe-begone,
      ‘What now remains for me?
    Oh!  where shall weeping want repair,                  50
      To ask for charity?
    Too late in life for me to ask,
      And shame prevents the deed,
    And tardy, tardy are the times
      To succour, should I need.                           55
    But all my wants, before I spoke,
      Were to my Mistress known;
    She still reliev’d, nor sought my praise,
      Contented with her own.
    But ev’ry day her name I’ll bless,                     60
      My morning prayer, my evening song,
    I’ll praise her while my life shall last,
      A life that cannot last me long.’

      SONG. BY A WOMAN.

    Each day, each hour, her name I’ll bless—
      My morning and my evening song;                      65
    And when in death my vows shall cease,
      My children shall the note prolong.

      MAN SPEAKER.

    The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
      Scarr’d, mangled, maim’d in every part,
    Lopp’d of his limbs in many a gallant fight,           70
      In nought entire—except his heart.
    Mute for a while, and sullenly distress’d,
    At last the impetuous sorrow fir’d his breast.
        ‘Wild is the whirlwind rolling
          O’er Afric’s sandy plain,                        75
        And wild the tempest howling
          Along the billow’d main:
        But every danger felt before—
        The raging deep, the whirlwind’s roar—
        Less dreadful struck me with dismay,               80
        Than what I feel this fatal day.
    Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
    Oswego’s dreary shores shall be my grave;
    I’ll seek that less inhospitable coast,
    And lay my body where my limbs were lost.’             85

      SONG. BY A MAN.—BASSO. SPIRITOSO.

      Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield,
    Shall crowd from Crecy’s laurell’d field,
      To do thy memory right;
    For thine and Britain’s wrongs they feel,
    Again they snatch the gleamy steel,                    90
      And wish the avenging fight.

      WOMAN SPEAKER.

        In innocence and youth complaining,
          Next appear’d a lovely maid,
        Affliction o’er each feature reigning,
          Kindly came in beauty’s aid;                     95
        Every grace that grief dispenses,
          Every glance that warms the soul,
        In sweet succession charmed the senses,
          While pity harmonized the whole.
    ‘The garland of beauty’—’tis thus she would say—     100
      ‘No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
    I’ll not wear a garland—Augusta’s away,
      I’ll not wear a garland until she return;
    But alas! that return I never shall see,
      The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,     105
    There promised a lover to come—but, O me!
      ’Twas death,—’twas the death of my mistress that came.
    But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
      I’ll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
    On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,  110
      And the new-blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb.’


      SONG. BY A WOMAN.—PASTORALE.

    With garlands of beauty the queen of the May
      No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
    For who’d wear a garland when she is away,
      When she is remov’d, and shall never return.        115

    On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac’d,
      We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
    And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
      And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.

      CHORUS.—ALTRO MODO.

    On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac’d,       120
      We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
    And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
      And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.




SONG
 
 FROM ‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’


    LET school-masters puzzle their brain,
      With grammar, and nonsense, and learning;
    Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
      Gives ‘genus’ a better discerning.
    Let them brag of their heathenish gods,                5
      Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians:
    Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods,
      They’re all but a parcel of Pigeons.
                      Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

    When Methodist preachers come down
      A-preaching that drinking is sinful,                10
    I’ll wager the rascals a crown
      They always preach best with a skinful.
    But when you come down with your pence,
      For a slice of their scurvy religion,
    I’ll leave it to all men of sense,                    15
      But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
                      Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

    Then come, put the jorum about,
      And let us be merry and clever;
    Our hearts and our liquors are stout;
      Here’s the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.            20
    Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
      Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;
    But of all the birds in the air,
      Here’s a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
                      Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.




EPILOGUE TO ‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’


    WELL, having stoop’d to conquer with success,
    And gain’d a husband without aid from dress,
    Still, as a Bar-maid, I could wish it too,
    As I have conquer’d him, to conquer you:
    And let me say, for all your resolution,               5
    That pretty Bar-maids have done execution.
    Our life is all a play, compos’d to please,
    ‘We have our exits and our entrances.’
    The First Act shows the simple country maid,
    Harmless and young, of ev’ry thing afraid;            10
    Blushes when hir’d, and, with unmeaning action,
    ‘I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.’
    Her Second Act displays a livelier scene—
    Th’ unblushing Bar-maid of a country inn,
    Who whisks about the house, at market caters,         15
    Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
    Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
    The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
    On ’Squires and Cits she there displays her arts,
    And on the gridiron broils her lovers’ hearts:        20
    And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
    Even Common-Councilmen forget to eat.
    The Fourth Act shows her wedded to the ’Squire,
    And Madam now begins to hold it higher;
    Pretends to taste, at Operas cries _caro_,              25
    And quits her _Nancy Dawson_, for _Che faro_,
    Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride,
    Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside;
    Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
    ’Till having lost in age the power to kill,       30
    She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
    Such, through our lives, the eventful history—
    The Fifth and Last Act still remains for me.
    The Bar-maid now for your protection prays.
    Turns Female Barrister, and pleads for Bayes.     35




[Illustration: ]
PORTRAIT OF GOLDSMITH

AFTER REYNOLDS

(Vignette to ‘Retaliation’)




RETALIATION
 
 A POEM


OF old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;      5
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour:
Our Cumberland’s sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain:             10
Our Garrick’s a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey’s a capon, and by the same rule,               15
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who’d not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter! more wine, let me sit while I’m able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;               20
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

  Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mix’d reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,             25
At least, in six weeks, I could not find ’em out;
Yet some have declar’d, and it can’t be denied ’em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide ’em.

  Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;           30
Who, born for the Universe, narrow’d his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,     35
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the _right_ to pursue the _expedient._         40
In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, Sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

  Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in’t;
The pupil of impulse, it forc’d him along,                 45
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.    50

  Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball,           55
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish’d to have Dick back again.                60

  Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,          65
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;           70
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view                 75
To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

  Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:            80
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When Satire and Censure encircl’d his throne,
I fear’d for your safety, I fear’d for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,                85
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;             90
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

  Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confess’d without rival to shine:             95
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster’d with rouge his own natural red.           100
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
’Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn’d and he varied full ten times a day.
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick        105
If they were not his own by finessing and trick,
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas’d he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow’d what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;           110
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper’d the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,           115
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts you rais’d,
While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-prais’d!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:               120
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will.
Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

  Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,  125
And slander itself must allow him good nature:
He cherish’d his friend, and he relish’d a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser!
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:                130
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can’t accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest! Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye!    135
He was, could he help it?—a special attorney.

  Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a better or wiser behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;            140
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg’d without skill he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 145
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.


 POSTSCRIPT

      After the Fourth Edition of this Poem was printed, the Publisher received
      an Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith,
      inclosed in a letter, of which the following is an abstract:—

      ‘I have in my possession a sheet of paper, containing near forty lines in
      the Doctor’s own hand-writing: there are many scattered, broken verses, on
      Sir Jos. Reynolds, Counsellor Ridge, Mr. Beauclerk, and Mr. Whitefoord.
      The Epitaph on the last-mentioned gentleman is the only one that is
      finished, and therefore I have copied it, that you may add it to the next
      edition. It is a striking proof of Doctor Goldsmith’s good-nature. I saw
      this sheet of paper in the Doctor’s room, five or six days before he died;
      and, as I had got all the other Epitaphs, I asked him if I might take it.
      “_In truth you may, my Boy_,” (replied he,) “_for it will be of no
      use to me where I am going._”’

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he _merrily_ liv’d, he is now a ‘grave’ man;
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish’d a joke, and rejoic’d in a pun;               150
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flatt’ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter’d around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily _bons mots_ half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;          155
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

  What pity, alas! that so lib’ral a mind
Should so long be to news-paper essays confin’d;
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content ‘if the table he set on a roar’;              160
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall confess’d him a wit.

  Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,                 165
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine:
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
_Cross-readings, Ship-news_, and _Mistakes of the Press._
                                                          170

  Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for _thy_ sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy mem’ry I cannot refuse,
‘Thou best humour’d man with the worst humour’d muse.’




SONG
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN

‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’


     AH me! when shall I marry me?
       Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me:
     He, fond youth, that could carry me,
       Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

     But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:                5
       Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover:
     She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
       Makes but a penitent, loses a lover.




TRANSLATION


     CHASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire,
     No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;
     The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,
     The simple plumage, or the glossy down
     Prompt not their loves:—the patriot bird pursues         5
     His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues.
     Hence through their tribes no mix’d polluted flame,
     No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame;
     But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true,
     Thinks black alone is beauty’s favourite hue.           10
     The nightingale, with mutual passion blest,
     Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest;
     While the dark owl to court its partner flies,
     And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes.




THE HAUNCH OF VENISON
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD
      CLARE


THANKS, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never rang’d in a forest, or smok’d in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting  5
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of _virtù_;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:                    10
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold—let me pause—Don’t I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,              15
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

  But, my Lord, it’s no bounce:  I protest in my turn,
It’s a truth—and your Lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.
To go on with my tale—as I gaz’d on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;          20
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undress’d,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
’Twas a neck and a breast—that might rival M—r—’s:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,              25
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There’s H—d, and C—y, and H—rth, and H—ff,
I think they love venison—I know they love beef;
There’s my countryman H—gg—ns—Oh! let him
alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.                    30
But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton’s a very good treat;
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt,
It’s like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,                   35
An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, enter’d;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil’d as he look’d at the venison and me.
‘What have we got here?—Why, this is good eating!
Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting?’                   40
‘Why, whose should it be?’ cried I with a flounce,
‘I get these things often;’—but that was a bounce:
‘Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleas’d to be kind—but I hate ostentation.’

  ‘If that be the case, then,’ cried he, very gay,          45
‘I’m glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words—I insist on’t—precisely at three:
We’ll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I’d ask my Lord Clare.        50
And now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you—a pasty? it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter!—this venison with me to Mile-end;             55
No stirring—I beg—my dear friend—my dear friend!
Thus snatching his hat, he brush’d off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow’d behind.

  Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
‘And nobody with me at sea but myself’;                     60
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never dislik’d in my life,
Though clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,          65
I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.

  When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber’d closet just twelve feet by nine:)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;         70
‘For I knew it,’ he cried, ‘both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t’other with Thrale;
But no matter, I’ll warrant we’ll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,                    75
They[’re] both of them merry and authors like you;
The one writes the _Snarler_, the other the _Scourge_;
Some think he writes _Cinna_—he owns to _Panurge._’
While thus he describ’d them by trade, and by name,
They enter’d and dinner was serv’d as they came.            80

  At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty—was not.
Now, my Lord as for tripe, it’s my utter aversion,          85
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round.
But what vex’d me most was that d—’d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue;   90
And, ‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curs’d,
But I’ve eat of your tripe till I’m ready to burst.’
‘The tripe,’ quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,       95
‘I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week:
I like these here dinners so pretty and small;
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.’
‘O—Oh!’ quoth my friend, ‘he’ll come on in a trice,
He’s keeping a corner for something that’s nice:           100
There’s a pasty’—‘A pasty!’ repeated the Jew,
‘I don’t care if I keep a corner for’t too.’
‘What the de’il, mon, a pasty!’ re-echoed the Scot,
‘Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for thot.’
‘We’ll all keep a corner,’ the lady cried out;             105
‘We’ll all keep a corner,’ was echoed about.
While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay’d,
With look that quite petrified, enter’d the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak’d Priam in drawing his curtains by night.              110
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven
Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop—                    115
And now that I think on’t, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it’s but labour misplac’d
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You’ve got an odd something—a kind of discerning—
A relish—a taste—sicken’d over by learning;                120
At least, it’s your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that’s your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.




EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL


     THIS tomb, inscrib’d to gentle Parnell’s name,
     May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
     What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
     That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way!
     Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid;             5
     And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
     Needless to him the tribute we bestow—
     The transitory breath of fame below:
     More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
     While Converts thank their poet in the skies.          10




THE CLOWN’S REPLY


     JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
     To tell them the reason why asses had ears?
     ‘An’t please you,’ quoth John, ‘I’m not given to letters,
     Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
     Howe’er, from this time I shall ne’er see your graces,  5
     As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.’




EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON


          HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
            Who long was a bookseller’s hack;
          He led such a damnable life in this world,—
            I don’t think he’ll wish to come back.




EPILOGUE FOR MR. LEE LEWES


     HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
     I’d speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
     My pride forbids it ever should be said,
     My heels eclips’d the honours of my head;
     That I found humour in a piebald vest,                  5
     Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
                                (_Takes off his mask._)
     Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
     Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth,
     In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
     The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.          10
     How has thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood,
     Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu’d!
     Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
     Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
     Whilst from below the trap-door Demons rise,           15
     And from above the dangling deities;
     And shall I mix in this unhallow’d crew?
     May rosined lightning blast me, if I do!
     No—I will act, I’ll vindicate the stage:
     Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.         20
     Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
     The madd’ning monarch revels in my veins.
     Oh! for a Richard’s voice to catch the theme:
     ‘Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!—soft—
       ’twas but a dream.’
     Aye, ’twas but a dream, for now there’s no retreating: 25
     If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
     ’Twas thus that Aesop’s stag, a creature blameless,
     Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
     Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
     And cavill’d at his image in the flood.                30
     ‘The deuce confound,’ he cries, ‘these drumstick shanks,
     They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
     They’re perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
     But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.
     How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!         35
     My horns! I’m told horns are the fashion now.’
     Whilst thus he spoke, astonish’d, to his view,
     Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew.
     ‘Hoicks! hark forward!’ came thund’ring from behind,
     He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:          40
     He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
     He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
     At length his silly head, so priz’d before,
     Is taught his former folly to deplore;
     Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,      45
     And at one bound he saves himself,—like me.
                 (_Taking a jump through the stage door._)




EPILOGUE
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN FOR

‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’

      
    

      _Enter_ MRS. BULKLEY, _who curtsies
      very low as beginning to speak. Then enter_ MISS CATLEY,
      _who stands full before her, and curtsies to the audience._

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

    HOLD, Ma’am, your pardon. What’s your business here?

      MISS CATLEY.
    

    The Epilogue.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

            The Epilogue?

      MISS CATLEY.
    

                            Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

    Sure you mistake, Ma’am. The Epilogue, _I_ bring it.

      MISS CATLEY.
    

    Excuse me, Ma’am. The Author bid _me_ sing it.

      _Recitative._
    

    Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,      5
    Suspend your conversation while I sing.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

    Why, sure the girl’s beside herself: an Epilogue of singing,
    A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
    Besides, a singer in a comic set!—
    Excuse me, Ma’am, I know the etiquette.                10

      MISS CATLEY.
    

    What if we leave it to the House?

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

                     The House!—Agreed.

      MISS CATLEY.
    

                                            Agreed.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

        And she, whose party’s largest, shall proceed.
        And first I hope, you’ll readily agree
        I’ve all the critics and the wits for me.
        They, I am sure, will answer my commands:              15
        Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands.
        What! no return? I find too late, I fear,
        That modern judges seldom enter here.

      MISS CATLEY.
    

    I’m for a different set.—Old men, whose trade is
    Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies;—          20

      _Recitative._
    

    Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
    Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling:—

      _Air—Cotillon._
    

          Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
            Strephon caught thy ravish’d eye;
          Pity take on your swain so clever,                   25
            Who without your aid must die.
                        Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu!
                        Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho!
                                                (_Da capo._)

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

          Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
          Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.       30
          Ye travell’d tribe, ye macaroni train,
          Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain,
          Who take a trip to Paris once a year
          To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,
          Lend me your hands.—Oh! fatal news to tell:          35
          Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.

      MISS CATLEY.
    

          Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!
          Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
          Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern
          The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.          40

      _Air—A bonny young lad is my Jockey._

          I’ll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
          And be unco merry when you are but gay;
          When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
          My voice shall be ready to carol away
                 With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey            45
                 With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

          Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
          Make but of all your fortune one _va toute_;
          Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
          ‘I hold the odds.—Done, done, with you, with you;’   50
          Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,
          ‘My Lord,—your Lordship misconceives the case;’
          Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,
          ‘I wish I’d been called in a little sooner:’
          Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty;        55
          Come, end the contest here, and aid my party.

 MISS CATLEY.
 
 _Air—Ballinamony._

          Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
          Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;
          For sure I don’t wrong you, you seldom are slack,
          When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back; 60
              For you’re always polite and attentive,
              Still to amuse us inventive,
              And death is your only preventive:
                Your hands and your voices for me.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

          Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,       65
          We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

      MISS CATLEY.
    

          And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
          What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

          Agreed.


      MISS CATLEY.
    

          Agreed.

      MRS. BULKLEY.
    

                        And now with late repentance,
          Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.            70
          Condemn the stubborn fool who can’t submit
          To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.
                                              (_Exeunt._)




EPILOGUE
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN FOR

‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’


     THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,
     A treasury for lost and missing things;
     Lost human wits have places assign’d them,
     And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
     But where’s this place, this storehouse of the age?        5
     The Moon, says he:—but _I_ affirm the Stage:
     At least in many things, I think, I see
     His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
     Both shine at night, for, but at Foote’s alone,
     We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.                 10
     Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
     And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
     But in this parallel my best pretence is,
     That mortals visit both to find their senses.
     To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits             15
     Come thronging to collect their scatter’d wits.
     The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
     Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
     Hither the affected city dame advancing,
     Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,               20
     Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
     Quits the _Ballet_, and calls for _Nancy Dawson._
     The Gamester too, whose wit’s all high or low,
     Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
     Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,              25
     Finds his lost senses out, and pay his debts.
     The Mohawk too—with angry phrases stored,
     As ‘D— —, Sir,’ and ‘Sir, I wear a sword’;
     Here lesson’d for a while, and hence retreating,
     Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.          30
     Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
     But find no sense—for they had none to lose.
     Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser
     Our Author’s the least likely to grow wiser;
     Has he not seen how you your favour place,                35
     On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
     Without a star, a coronet or garter,
     How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
     No high-life scenes, no sentiment:—the creature
     Still stoops among the low to copy nature.                40
     Yes, he’s far gone:—and yet some pity fix,
     The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.




THE CAPTIVITY
      AN
 ORATORIO




      THE PERSONS.


          FIRST ISRAELITISH PROPHET.
          SECOND ISRAELITISH PROPHET.
          ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
          FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
          SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
          CHALDEAN WOMAN.
          CHORUS  OF YOUTHS  AND VIRGINS.

 SCENE—The Banks of the River Euphrates, near
      Babylon.




      THE CAPTIVITY
 
 ACT I—SCENE I.

      
 _Israelites sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates._


      FIRST PROPHET.
 
 RECITATIVE.

    YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
    Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
    Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
    And turn to God, your Father and your Friend.
    Insulted, chain’d, and all the world a foe,             5
    Our God alone is all we boast below.

      FIRST PROPHET.
 
 AIR.

        Our God is all we boast below,
          To him we turn our eyes;
        And every added weight of woe
          Shall make our homage rise.                  10

      SECOND PROPHET.

        And though no temple richly drest,
          Nor sacrifice is here;
        We’ll make his temple in our breast,
          And offer up a tear.
            [_The first stanza repeated by the Chorus._


      SECOND PROPHET.
 
 RECITATIVE.

    That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise,       15
    And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
    Ye fields of Sharon, dress’d in flow’ry pride,
    Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide,
    Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown’d,
    Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around,          20
    These hills how sweet! Those plains how wond’rous fair,
    But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there!

      AIR.

        O Memory, thou fond deceiver,
          Still importunate and vain;
        To former joys recurring ever,                 25
          And turning all the past to pain;

        Hence intruder, most distressing,
          Seek the happy and the free:
        The wretch who wants each other blessing,
          Ever wants a friend in thee.                 30

      FIRST PROPHET.
 
 RECITATIVE.

    Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin’d,
    Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
    Have we not cause for triumph when we see
    Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
    Are not this very morn those feasts begun?             35
    Where prostrate error hails the rising sun?
    Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
    For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
    And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly,
    When impious folly rears her front on high?            40
    No; rather let us triumph still the more,
    And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.

      AIR.

        The triumphs that on vice attend
        Shall ever in confusion end;
        The good man suffers but to gain,              45
        And every virtue springs from pain:

        As aromatic plants bestow
        No spicy fragrance while they grow;
        But crush’d, or trodden to the ground,
        Diffuse their balmy sweets around.             50

      SECOND PROPHET.
 
 RECITATIVE.

    But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near;
    The sounds of barb’rous pleasure strike mine ear;
    Triumphant music floats along the vale;
    Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale;
    The growing sound their swift approach declares;—      55
    Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.

      _Enter_ CHALDEAN PRIESTS _attended._
      
 FIRST PRIEST.
 
 AIR.

    Come on, my companions, the triumph display;
      Let rapture the minutes employ;
    The sun calls us out on this festival day,
      And our monarch partakes in the joy.                 60


      SECOND PRIEST.

    Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,
      Both similar blessings bestow;
    The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
      And our monarch enlivens below.

      A CHALDEAN WOMAN.
 
 AIR.

    Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure;                  65
    Love presents the fairest treasure,
      Leave all other joys for me.

      A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.

    Or rather, Love’s delights despising,
    Haste to raptures ever rising
      Wine shall bless the brave and free.                 70

      FIRST PRIEST.

    Wine and beauty thus inviting,
    Each to different joys exciting,
      Whither shall my choice incline?

      SECOND PRIEST.

    I’ll waste no longer thought in choosing;
    But, neither this nor that refusing,                   75
      I’ll make them both together mine.

      RECITATIVE.

    But whence, when joy should brighten o’er the land,
    This sullen gloom in Judah’s captive band?
    Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
    Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?             80
    Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
    The day demands it; sing us Sion’s song.
    Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir,
    For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre?

      SECOND PROPHET.

    Bow’d down with chains, the scorn of all mankind,      85
    To want, to toil, and every ill consign’d,
    Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
    Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
    No, never! May this hand forget each art
    That speeds the power of music to the heart,           90
    Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
    Or join with sounds profane its sacred mirth!

      FIRST PRIEST.
    

    Insulting slaves! If gentler methods fail,
    The whips and angry tortures shall prevail.
                    [_Exeunt Chaldeans_

      FIRST PROPHET.
    

    Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer;         95
    We fear the Lord, and know no other fear.

      CHORUS.
    

        Can whips or tortures hurt the mind
        On God’s supporting breast reclin’d?
        Stand fast, and let our tyrants see
        That fortitude is victory.
                        [_Exeunt._




      ACT II.
 
 _Scene as before._ CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.


      

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