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Or Flavia been content to stop

At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop. Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roo had her eyes forgot to blaze!

man Knight, whom Cæsar forced upon the Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze! stage. Preserved by Macrobius.*

0but let exclamations cease, What! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage,

Her presence banish'd all his peace. And save from infamy my sinking age!

So with decorum all things carried; Scarce half alive, opprest with many a year,

Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was-marned. What in the name of dotage drives me here? Need we expose to vulgar sight A time there was, when glory was my guide, The raptures of the bridal night? Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside; Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Unawed by power, and unappallid by fear, Or draw the curtains closed around? With honest thrift I held my honour dear: Let it suffice, that each had charms; But this vile hour disperses all my store,

He clasp'd a goddess in his arms;
And all my hoard of honour is no more; And though she felt his usage rough,
For ah! too partial to my life's decline,

Yet in a man 'twas well enough.
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,

The honey-moon like lightning flew,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.

The second brought its transports too; Here then at once I welcome every shame,

A third, a fourth, were not amiss, And cancel at threescore a life of fame;

The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:

But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
No more my tities shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;

Jack found his goddess made of clay;

Found half the charms that deck'd her faco
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worse 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. SECLUDED from domestic strife

'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Jack Book-worm led a college life;

Half naked at a ball or race; A fellowship at twenty-five

But when at home, at board or bed, Made him the happiest man alive;

Five greasy night-caps wrapp'd her head. He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,

Could so much beauty condescend And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.

To be a dull domestic friend? Such pleasures, unallay'd with care,

Could any curtain lectures bring Could any accident impair?

To decency so fine a thing ? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ?

By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. O had the archer ne'er come down

Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy To ravage in a country town!

Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ;

The 'squire and captain took their stations, *This translation was first printed in one of our author's And twenty other near relations: earliest works. “ The Present State of Learning in Europe," Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 12mo. 1759; but was omitted in the second edition, which ap. A sigh in suffocating smoke; peared in 1774.

+ This and the following pocm were published by Dr. Gold. While all their hours were past between smith in his volume of Earys, which appeared in 1765. Insulting repartee or spleen.

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 age 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 phiz;
And though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised 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 every 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 even 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 dyed,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
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.

But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius
You'll find him pictured 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 bards 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 the 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,
Filld with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term’d caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses.
To wit-most wondrously endued,
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.
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 twined,
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 difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postcript.
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 even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?



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 Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair.


things as trifles at best) told me with his usual goodDESCRIPTION

humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare

into a ballad of his own. He then read me his litAUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. tle Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv

ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disInvites each passing stranger that can pay;

position of some of your correspondents, the pubWhere Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham- lic should never have known that he owes me the pagne,

hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendRegale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;

ship and learning for communications of a much There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;

more important nature.

I am, Sir, A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,

Yours, etc. That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; Note. On the subject of the preceding letter, The royal game of goose was there in view, the reader is desired to consult " The Life of Dr. And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; Goldsmith,” under the year 1765. The seasons, framed with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black

THE HERMIT; face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire

A BALLAD The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,

And guide my lonely way, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard;

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

"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 dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.
The following letter, addressed to the Printer of

he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that par “Here to the houseless child of want
in June, 1767.

My duor is open still;

And though my portion is but scant, SIR,

I give it with good will. As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit “Then turn to-night, and freely share me to be as concise as possible in informing a cor- Whate'er my cell bestows, respondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's My rushy couch and frugal fare, Travels because I thought the book was a good My blessing and repose. one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the

“No flocks that range the valley free, bookseller that it was then first published; but in

To slaughter I condemn; that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading

Taught by that Power that pities me, was not extensive enough to set me right.

I learn to pity them: Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, “But from the mountain's grassy side from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not A guiltless feast I bring; think there is any great resemblance between the A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad And water from the spring. is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some

“Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; years ago; and he (as we both considered these

All earth-born cares are wrong; *The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol.

Man wants but little here below, I book 2 No. 18.

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven 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

Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received 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 gaily prcss'd, and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.
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 soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care opprest; "And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried,

“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,

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. "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.

Surprised 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 cried; “Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

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. “My father lived 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 praised me for imparted charms,

And felt, or feign'd a flame. “Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; 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,

But these were all to me.
“And when, beside me in the dale,

He carroll'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.
“The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of Heaven refined, Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

“The dew, the blossom on the tree,

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; 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 died.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

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:
The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay; P'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, Heaven!" the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide

'Twas Edwin's self that press’d. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.
“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every 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."

When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,
What charms can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is to die.






Good people all of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,

I am sensible that the friendship between us can

acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dediAnd if you find it wondrous short,

cation; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to It can not hold you long.

prefix your name to my attempts, which you de. In Islington there was a man,

cline giving with your own. But as a part of this Of whom the world might say,

poem was formerly written to you from SwitzerThat still a godly race he ran,

land, the whole can now, with propriety, be only Whene'er he went to pray.

inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon A kind and gentle heart he had,

many parts of it, when the reader understands, that To comfort friends and foes;

it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and The naked every day he clad,

fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscuriWhen he put on his clothes.

ty, with an income of forty pounds a-year. And in that town a dog was found,

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of As many dogs there be,

your humble choice. You have entered upon a Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,

sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the And curs of low degree.

labourers are but few; while you have left the field

of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the This dog and man at first were friends;

harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds But when a pique began,

of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, The dog, to gain some private ends,

from different systems of criticism, and from the Went mad, and bit the man.

divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame Around from all the neighb'ring streets is the wildest. The wond'ring neighbours ran,

Poetry makes a principal amusement among unAnd swore the dog had lost his wits, polished nations; but in a country verging to the To bite so good a man.

extremes of refinement, painting and music come * This, and the following poem, appeared in "The Vicar of in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. I less laborious entertainment, they at first rival

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