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GOLDSMITH

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, In nature's simplest charms at first array'd,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Vain transitory splendour! could not all

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling land,
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart

The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,

The country bloomsma garden, and a grave.
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
The host himself no longer shall be found

And even the bare-worn common is deny'd.
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

If to the city sped—What waits him there?
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,

To see profusion that he must not share;
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
These simple blessings of the lowly train,

To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway: Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis-
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,

play,
Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfin'd.

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,

Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train;
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy!

Sure these denote one universal joy!
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey

Are these thy serious thoughts—Ah, turn thine eyes,
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.

'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, detten Between a splendid and an happy land.

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore; Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Hoards, even beyond the miser's wish, abound,

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled;
And rich men flock from all the world around. Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the
That leaves our useful product still the same.

shower,
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
that many poor supply'd;

When idly first, ambitious of the town,
Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;

Do thine,sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
The rote that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Has robb’d the neighbouring fields of half their Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
growth;

At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,

Ah, no. To distant climes a dreary scene,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;

Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Around the world each needful product flies, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
While thus the land adorn’d for pleasure all,

Far different there from all that charm'd before,
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

The various terrors of that horrid shore;
As some fair female unadorn’d and plain, Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
In all the glaring impotence of dress :

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,

Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,

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And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; Farewell, and 0! where'er thy voice be try'd, While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Far different these from every former scene, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, The breezy covert of the warbling grove,

Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that part Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gaio; ing day,

Teach him, that states of native strength possest, That call'd them from their native walks away; Though very poor, may still be very blest; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain While self-dependent power can time defy, For seats like these beyond the western main; As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 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 woe;

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE 1765. He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter The fond companion of his helpless years,

Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

The haunch was a picture for painters to study, And left a lover's for a father's arms.

The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy: With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, Though my stomach was sharp, I could scare ben And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;

regretting And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, To spoil such a delicate picture by eating; And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it io vien, Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief, To be shown to my friends as a piece of verta; In all the silent manliness of grief.

As in some Irish houses, where things are so se, O, luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show: How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride is, How do thy potions with insidious joy,

They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is frydis Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

But hold—let me pause—don't I hear you pronouse: Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce; Boast of a florid vigour not their own.

Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try, At every draught more large and large they grow, By a bounce now and then, to get courage te ty. A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

But, my lord, it's no bounce. I protest in my tuis, Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Bern. Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. To go on with my tale—as I gaz'd on the bauni. Even now the devastation is begun,

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch; And half the business of destruction done;

So I cut it, and sent it to Reyúolds undrest, Even now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik d best. I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Moeroe's: That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

But in parting with these I was puzzled again, Downward they move, a melancholy band,

With the how, and the who, and the where, ssd the Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

when. Contented toil, and hospitable care,

There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-, And kind connubial tenderness, are there;

I think they love venison-I know they love beer. And piety with wishes plac'd above,

There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let bin And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

alone, And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat, Unfit in these degen’rate times of shame,

Your very good mutton's a very good treat; To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry’d; It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a short My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, ea That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; ter'd; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and p.

“What have we got here :-why, this is good eating! A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Your own I suppose—or is it in waiting?"

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, “Why,whose should it be ?” cried I with a flounce But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst.” “ I get these things often ;” but that was a bounce: “ The tripe,” quoth the Jew, with his chocolate “ Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, cheek, Are pleas'd to be kind; but I hate ostentation.” “ I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week:

“ If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, I like these here dinners so pretty and small; * I'm glad I have taken this house in my way, But your friend there, the doctor,eats nothing at all.” To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; “O—Oh!” quoth my friend, “ he'll come on in a No words I insist on't-precisely at three:

trice, We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: be there;

There's a pasty"_“ A pasty!" repeated the Jew; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. “ I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too." Ind, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, “ What the de'il, mon, a pasty!” re-echo'd the Scot; We wanted this venison to make out the dinner! Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.” What say you—a pasty, it shall and it must, “ We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. “ We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. lere, porter-this venison with me to Mile-end; While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay'd, Yo stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear friend!” With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: Chus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, But we quickly found out, for who could mistake Find “nobody with me at sea but myself;".

her? hough I could not help thinking my gentleman That she came with some terrible news from the hasty,

baker: 'et Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Vere things that I never dislik'd in my life, Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. *hough clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop

o next day in due splendour to make my approach, And now that I think on't, the story may stop. -- drove to his door in my own hackney coach. To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,

When come to the place where we all were to dine To send such good verses to one of your taste ; A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine,) You've got an odd something-a kind of discernly friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite ingdumb,

A relish-a taste-sicken'd over by learning; Vith tidings that Johnson and Burke would not

At least, it's your temper, as very well known, come;

That you think very slightly of all that's your own: 'or “ I knew it,” he cried, “ both eternally fail, So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 'he one with his speeches, and th’ other with You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

Thrale; ut no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, Pith two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

RETALIATION. the one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew, "hey're both of them merry, and authors like you; Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was ome think he writes Cinna—he owns to Panurge."

united. Chile thus he described them by trade and by name, If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, hey enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen,

dish. t the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;

Our Dean shall be venison,just fresh from the plains; t the sides there was spinage and pudding made Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; hot;

Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, the middle a place where the pasty-was not. And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their saow, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, nd your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain; o there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: hile the bacon and liver went merrily round:

Our Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see ot what vex'd me most, was that d-m'd Scottish Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: rogue,

To make out the dinner, full certain I am, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; brogue.

That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule, nd, “ madam," quoth he, “ may this bit be my Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. poison,

At a dinner so various, at such a repast,

vour:

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Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, Say, was it that vainly directing his view
Till all my companions sink under the table; To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,

Here Douglas retires from bis toils to relax, Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: mirth:

Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,

Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reAt least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;

clines.
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, When satire and censure encircled his throne,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
such,

Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his over,
throat,

No countryman living their tricks to discover;
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dark.
dining;

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit: As an actor, confest without rival to shine;
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Like an ill judging beauty, his colours he spread,

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, And beplaster'd with rouge, his own natural red. While the owner ne'er kvew half the good that was On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; in't;

'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,

With no reason on earth to go out of his way, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;

He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; If they were not his own by finessing and trick: Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them

[at;

back.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick; What a commerce was yours, while you got and
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,

you gave? As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,

rais'd, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; While he was be-Roscius'd,and you were be-prais'd? A flattering painter, who made it his care

But

peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,

Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, And comedy wonders at being so fine;

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out,

Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.

love, His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud,

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant cresAnd coxcombs alike in their failings alone,

ture, Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their own.

And slander itself must allow him good-nature: Say, where has our poet this malady caught?

He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumperi

own.

Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper. He has not left a wiser or better behind;
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser: His pencil was striking, resistless and grand;
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:

His manners were gentle, complying and bland;
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?

Still born to improve us in every part,
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that: His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah no!

When they judg’d without skill he was still hard of Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn

hearing: ye,

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

stuff,
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He shifted his trumpet, and only took souff,

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