Poems and plays. By Oliver Goldsmith, M.B. To which is prefixed, the life of the author:

POEMS, BY DR. GOLDSMITH.

A PROLOGUE, WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A Roman Knight, whom CAESAR forced upon the Stage.

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.* 1.1

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, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside; Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappal'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; For ah! too partial to my life's decline, Caesar persuades, submission must be mine; Him I obey, whom Heav'n itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please. Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame, 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.

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, And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.

SUCH pleasures unallay'd with care, Could any accident impair? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix, Our swain arriv'd at thirty-six? 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! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze. O!—But let exclamation cease, Her presence banish'd all his peace. So with decorum all things carry'd; Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was—married.

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; He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; And, tho' she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

THE honey-moon like light'ning flew, The second brought its transports too. A third, a fourth, were not amiss, The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss: But, when a twelvemonth pass' away, Jack found his goddess made of clay; Found half the charms that deck'd her face, 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; 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, Five greasy night-caps wrap'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? 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, 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.

THUS as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown; He fancies ev'ry vice she shews Or thins her lip, or points her nose: Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phyz; And, tho' her fops are wond'rous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil.

NOW, to perplex the ravell'd nooze, 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, 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.

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, 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 ev'n the captain quit the field.

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 dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old; With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility displaces pride; For taudry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway She learns good nature ev'ry 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, A chapter out of Took'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; 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, 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;

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, 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.

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

NOW to apply, begin we then; His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twin'd, 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.

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, 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: 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?

A DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug; A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: 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 shew'd his lamp-black face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd, And five crack'd tea cups dress'd the chimney board; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

THE HERMIT. A BALLAD.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXV.

THE FOLLOWING LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE, Appeared in that Paper, in JUNE, 1767.

SIR,

AS there is nothing I dislike so much as news-paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, be|cause I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misin|formed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of hav|ing taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one * 1.2 by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces

in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me, with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the frag|ments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I am, SIR, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE HERMIT.

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, "With fainting steps and slow; "Where wilds immeasurably spread, "Seem length'ning as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang'rous gloom; "For yonder faithless phantom flies "To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want, "My door is open still; "And tho' my portion is but scant, "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.

"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 "A guiltless feast I bring; "A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, "And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; "All earth-born cares are wrong: "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, And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket op'ning with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair.

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

And spread his vegetable store, And gayly prest, and smil'd; And, skill'd in legendary lore, The ling'ring hours beguil'd.

Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies.

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

His rising cares the hermit spy'd, With answ'ring care opprest: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd, "Reluctant dost thou rove: "Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings, "Are trifling and decay; "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, "And 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.

"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.

Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise, 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: The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah, forgive a stranger rude, "A wretch forlorn," she cry'd;

"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude "Where heav'n 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.

"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, "Unnumber'd suitors came; "Who prais'd me for imputed charms, "And selt, or feign'd a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary croud "With richest proffers strove: "Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, "But never talk'd of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad, "No wealth or pow'r had he; "Wisdom and worth were all he had, "But these were all to me.

"The blossom op'ning to the day, "The dews of heav'n refin'd, "Could nought of purity display, "To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossoms of the tree, "With charms inconstant shine; "Their charms were his, but wo to me, "Their constancy was mine.

"For still I try'd each fickle art, "Importunate and vain; "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, "In secret, where he dy'd.

"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.

"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, Heav'n!" the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear, "My charmer, turn to see

"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, "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."

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of ev'ry sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Isling-ton there was a man, 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; The naked ev'ry day he clad, When he put on his cloaths.

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

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

Around from all the neighb'ring 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, To ev'ry christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That shew'd the rogues they ly'd, The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that dy'd.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

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

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

THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXV.

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH.

DEAR SIR,

I AM sensible that the friendship between us can ac|quire no new force from the ceremonies of a Dedica|tion; 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 for|merly 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 sa|cred office, where the harvest is great, and the la|bourers 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 unpo|lished nations; but in a country verging to the ex|tremes of refinement, Painting and Music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less labori|ous entertainment, they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all that favour once shewn to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right.

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, chorusses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Every absur|dity 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 danger|ous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judg|ment, 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 tyger, 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 mur|dered 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 phrenzy fire.

What reception a Poem may find, which has nei|ther abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I can|not 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 shew, that there may be equal happi|ness 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 car|ried 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.

THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* 1.3

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor, Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 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 length'ning chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where chearful guests retire To pause from toil and trim their ev'ning fire; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair:

Blest 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, 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 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.

Ev'n 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 an hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 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? 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 splendor crown'd, 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.

As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Thus to my breast alternates passions rise, Pleas'd with each good that heav'n 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, Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 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, 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, And estimate the blessings which they share, Tho' 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.

Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is supply'd On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side; And though the rocky crested summits frown, 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 pow'r so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails, And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence ev'ry state to one lov'd blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone. Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; 'Till, carried to excess in each domain, This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: 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 ev'ry blast.

Far to the right where Appennine ascends, 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.

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, 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; 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, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign, Though poor, luxurious, though submissive, vain, Though grave, yet trifling, zealous, yet untrue, And ev'n in penance planning sins anew. 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 learnt to rise, Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; The canvass 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; While naught 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 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; Processions form'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, The sports of children satisfy the child; Each nobler aim represt by long controul, 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 tott'ring in decay, 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 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. 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, ev'n here, content can spread a charm, 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; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loath his vegetable meal; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Chearful at morn he wakes from short repose, 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. At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed; Smiles by his chearful fire, and round surveys His childrens looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 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, And ev'n 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, 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. Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to flame, Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a mould'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, Till buried in debauch, the bliss expires.

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, 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 Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, These far dispers'd, on tim'rous 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.

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, 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 wond'rous pow'r, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 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 blest a life these thoughtless realms display, 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 ev'n imaginary worth obtains, 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, Till, seeming blest, 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. 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, And trims her robes of frize 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 weigh the solid worth of self applause.

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, 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. 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 crouded mart, the cultivated plain, 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. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display'd. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, Ev'n 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, And calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.

Heav'ns! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 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 Hydaspis glide, 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 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; Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagin'd right, above controul, While ev'n the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man.

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too blest indeed, were such without alloy, But foster'd ev'n by Freedom ills annoy;

That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; 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, Represt ambition struggles round her shore, Till over-wrought, the gen'ral system feels Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels.

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, 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; Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, 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.

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great; Ye pow'rs of truth that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; Thou transitory flow'r, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring sun, Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure:

For just experience tells, in ev'ry 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, 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: But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal pow'r 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, 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 bear my swelling heart; 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 pow'r; And thus polluting honour in its source, 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; 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, 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; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound?

Ev'n now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dang'rous ways; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 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 wo, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centers in the mind: Why have I stray'd, from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows? In ev'ry 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. Still to ourselves in ev'ry 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 ax, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, To men remote from pow'r but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE, A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXIX.

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 admira|tion, 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 dedi|cation I ever made was to my brother, because I lov|ed 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 meer mechanical parts of this attempt, I don't pretend to inquire; 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 on|ly 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 inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here at|tempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopulat|ing, or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent poli|tician, 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 in|veigh 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 nati|onal 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, meerly 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.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty chear'd the lab'ring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd. Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when ev'ry 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 ev'ry charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill, The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade, For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, 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; And many a gambol frolic'd o'er the ground, And slights 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, 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. These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught ev'n toil to please; These round thy bow'rs their chearful influence shed, These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bow'rs 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; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choak'd with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desart walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries. Sunk are thy bow'rs 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.

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, When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When ev'ry 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: 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, Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp repose; And ev'ry want to luxury ally'd, And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 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, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r. 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, 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 giv'n my share—

I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bow'rs 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 shew my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 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 blest is he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; 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 dang'rous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, His Heav'n com mences ere theworld be past!

Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 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; The watch-dog'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. For now the sounds of population fail, No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is sled. All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 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, The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 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 ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent 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, 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, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their wo; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call, 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.

Beside the bed where parting life was lay'd, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last fault'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. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; Ev'n 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 exprest, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' 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, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and ev'ry truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; 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, 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 ev'n the story ran that he could gauge:

In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en tho' vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 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, 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 The parlour splendors 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 draw'rs by day; 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 flow'rs and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

Vain transitory splendor! cou'd not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 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 brow shall clear, 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 prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

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, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfin'd. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards, ev'n 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 product still the same.

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride, Takes up a space that many poor supply'd; 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 neighb'ring fields of half their growth, 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 In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes: But when those charms are past, 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, In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 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 contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And ev'n the bare-worn common is deny'd.

If to the city sped—What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's wo. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 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 deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crouds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles ere annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; 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 show'r, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?

Ev'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud mens doors they ask a little bread!

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 wo. Far different there from all that charm'd before, 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; 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, 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 ev'ry former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, Hurg round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewel, 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.

The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for other's wo; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave, His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 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 blest the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose; And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curst by heav'n's decree, 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. At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo; Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

Ev'n now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Ev'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 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, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degen'rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd, My shame in crouds, my solitary pride. Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well, Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 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 possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, Dear mercenary beauty, What annual off'ring shall I make Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 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. If gems, or gold, import 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 off'rings but disclose 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.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNEL.

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle PARNEL'S name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, That leads to truth thro' pleasure's flow'ry way? Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; And Heav'n, 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.

EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS.

WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser! Our auth'ress 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 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 shewn her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade?—I will. But how? ay, there's the rub!

[pausing]

—I've got my cue: The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.

[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd 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. 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 pow'r to cure. Thus 'tis with all—their chief and constant care Is to seem ev'ry thing—but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid?

[Mimicking.

Strip but this 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, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, And seems to ev'ry gazer, all in white, If with a bribe his candour you attack, He bows, turns round, and whip—the man is black! 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.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON, A POETIC EPISTLE, TO LORD CLARE.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXV.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON, A POETIC EPISTLE, TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy, Tho' my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help re|gretting, To spoil such a delicate picture by eating; I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view, To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu: As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.

But hold—let me pause—don't I hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce; Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try, 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. Burn.* 1.4 To go on with my tale—as I gaz'd on the haunch; I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 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 Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, 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 Higgins—Oh! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 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 center'd, 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? 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, 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. 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; No stirring—I beg—my dear friend—my dear friend! Thus snatching his hat, he brusht 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;"* 1.5 Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendor to make my approach, 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, 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, They both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some thinks 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.

At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinnage 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, 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, And, madam, quoth he, may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on; Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst. The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 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:

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-echo'd the Scot; Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that. We'll all keep a corner, the lady cried out; We'll all keep a corner was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks 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. 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— 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; 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.

FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

SONG.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And ev'ry pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, Adorns and chears the way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.

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

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo? And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe.

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, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.'

Edinburgh, 1753.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 1.6

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.

AN ELEGY ON THE 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, 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, 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,— But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has followed her,— When she has walk'd before.

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, For Kent-street well may say, That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,— She had not dy'd to-day.

RETALIATION: A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXXIV. AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house.—One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting, produced the following poem.

RETALIATION: A POEM.

OF old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If our * 1.7 landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish: Our † 1.8 dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; Our ‡ 1.9 Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our § 1.10 Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And ‖ 1.11 Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour:

Our * 1.12 Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain, And † 1.13 Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: Our ‡ 1.14 Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That § 1.15 Ridge is anchovy, and ‖ 1.16 Reynolds is lamb; That ¶ 1.17 Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith, a goosberry 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; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good ** 1.18 dean, re-united to earth, Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 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 * 1.19 Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, To persuade † 1.20 Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; Tho' 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. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest ‡ 1.21 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, 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.

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! * 1.22 Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! Now teazing 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.

Here † 1.23 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, 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 croud Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud,

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 To find out mens virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here * 1.24 Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re|clines: When satire and censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our † 1.25 Dodds shall be pious, our ‡ 1.26 Kenricks shall lecture; § 1.27 Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, Our ‖ 1.28 Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New ¶ 1.29 Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.

Here lies * 1.30 David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine; 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. 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: Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 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; '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 † 1.31 Kenricks, ye ‡ 1.32 Kellys, and § 1.33 Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave?

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, While he was beroscius'd, and you were beprais'd? But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: 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 * 1.34 Kellys above.

Here † 1.35 Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 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: 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,— He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here ‡ 1.36 Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind; His pencil was striking, resistless and grand; His manners were gentle, complying and bland; 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, Corregios and stuff, He shifted his * 1.37 trumpet, and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

AFTER the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, * 1.38 from a friend of the late doc|tor Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, Tho' he merrily liv'd, he is now a † 1.39 grave man: Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun; 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; 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;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfall * 1.40 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, 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) † 1.41 Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.

Merry Whitefoord, farewel! 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."

Notes

• * 1.1

  This translation was first printed in one of our Author's earliest works, the Present State of Learning in Europe. 12mo. 1759.
• * 1.2

  The Friar of Orders Gray.—Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. 1, p. 243.
• * 1.3

  In this poem several alterations were made, and some new verses added, as it passed through different editions.—We have printed from the ninth, which was the last edition published in the lifetime of the author.
• * 1.4

  Lord Clare's nephew.
• * 1.5

  See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor—12^o. 1769.
• * 1.6

  This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.
• * 1.7

  The master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the doc|tor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasion|ally dined.
• † 1.8

  Doctor Barnard, dean of Derry in Ireland.
• ‡ 1.9

  Mr. Edmund Burke, member for Wendover, and one of the greatest orators in this kingdom.
• § 1.10

  Mr. William Burke, late secretary to general Conway, and member for Bedwin.
• ‖ 1.11

  Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada.
• * 1.12

  Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West-Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.
• † 1.13

  Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.
• ‡ 1.14

  David Garrick, esq; joint patentee and acting manager of the Theatre-Royal, Drury-lane.
• § 1.15

  Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar.
• ‖ 1.16

  Sir Joshua Reynolds, president of the Royal Academy.
• ¶ 1.17

  An eminent attorney.
• ** 1.18

  Vide Page 85.
• * 1.19

  Vide Page 85.
• † 1.20

  Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
• ‡ 1.21

  Vide Page 85.
• * 1.22

  Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 85. This gentleman hav|ing slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retri|butive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.
• † 1.23

  Vide page 86.
• * 1.24

  Vide page 86.
• † 1.25

  The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
• ‡ 1.26

  Mr. Kenrick lately read lectures at the Devil tavern, un|der the title of 'The School of Shakespeare.'
• § 1.27

  James Macpherson, esq; who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.
• ‖ 1.28

  Vide page 87.
• ¶ 1.29

  Vide page 86.
• * 1.30

  Vide page 86.
• † 1.31

  Vide page 89.
• ‡ 1.32

  Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
• § 1.33

  Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.
• * 1.34

  Vide page 90.
• † 1.35

  Vide page 86.
• ‡ 1.36

  Ibid.
• * 1.37

  Sir Joshua Reynolds is so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
• * 1.38

  Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
• † 1.39

  Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.
• * 1.40

  Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
• † 1.41

  Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with hu|morous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.