And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining.
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit:
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient ;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
in short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir-
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't:
The pupil of impulse, it forced 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!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ;
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all :
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flatt'ring painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
* Mr. Richard Burke: he fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times. The Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.
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 crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their feelings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased 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 men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last-and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax-
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines;
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines.
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 Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenricks† shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New Lawders 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.
+ Dr. William Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of The School of Shakespeare."
James Macpherson, who had lately published a worthless translation of the Iliad of Homer.
Here lies David Garrick-describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man :
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
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 :
Though 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 pleased 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 Kenricks,* ye Kellys,† and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised!
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;
* Dr. William Kenrick, as a reviewer, was noted for his bitterness.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of "False Delicacy," "Word to the Wise," &c. Mr. William Woodfall, editor of the Morning Chronicle.
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.*
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 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 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 Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind.
* The following lines by Garrick are far more severe than those of Goldsmith:
JUPITER AND MERCURY. A. FABLE.
Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay-I will make an odd fellow.
Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and much dross;
Without cause to be pleased, without cause to be cross;
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions.
Now mix these ingredients, which warm'd in the baking,
Turn'd to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail:
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet;
Though a mixture so odd, he must merit great fame,
And among brother mortals-be Goldsmith his name ;
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him-to make us sport here.
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 judged without skill he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.
[After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord † from a friend of the late Doctor Goldsmith.]
Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave‡ man :
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun,—
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon-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 liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar ;
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall § confess'd him a wit.
* Sir Joshua Reynolds was deaf.
+ Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being affected with the itch of punning.
§ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
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