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With odors sweet it fills the smiling skies,
Support me, every friend ;
Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine, The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and That none has any comfort to bestow. dies.
My books, the best relief
In every other grief, Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all: With never-fading myrtles twind,
Each favorite author we together read And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
dead. Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre, Tun'd by thy skilful hand,
We were the happiest pair of human-kind : To the soft notes of elegant desire,
The rolling year its varying course perform'd
And back return'd again;
And saw our happiness unchang’d remain :
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind :
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to pity move.
O fatal, fatal stroke,
That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?
Of rare felicity, To thee thy mistress in the blissful band
On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, Of Hymen never gave her hand ;
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formid,
In one sad moment broke S
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay ;
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, Would heal thy wounded heart
Or against his supreme decree Of every secret grief that fester'd there:
With impious grief complain. Nor did her fond affection on the bed
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Was his most righteous will —and be that will Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
Would thy fond love his grace to her control, With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
No-rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze, How can my soul endure the loss of thee? That heavenly radiance of eternal light, How in the world, to me a desert grown,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees Abandon'd and alone,
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss ;
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, What pleasures now can pallid Ambition give? Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
Evin the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, could raise.
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate For my distracted mind
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss What succor can I find ?
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore, On whom for consolation shall I call ? There yield up all his power, ne'er to divide you more
OLIVER GOLDSMITH, an eminent poet, and a mis- uncommon favor. Although this was a gainful cellaneous writer, was born in 1729, according to year to him, yet thoughtless profusion, and a habit one account, at Elphin; according to another, at of gaming, left him at its close considerably in debt Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. From In the two succeeding years he supplied the book. his father, who was a clergyman, he received a sellers with a “Grecian History," and " A History literary education, and was sent at an early period of the Earth and Animated Nature,” the last to Dublin College. Thence he was removed as a chiefly taken from Buffon. He had planned some medical student to the University of Edinburgh, other works, but these were cut off by his untimely where he continued from 1751 to the beginning of death. In March 1774 he was attacked with the 1754. From the slight tincture of science which symptoms of a low fever; and having taken, upon he seems to have acquired, it is probable that he his own judgment, an over-dose of a powerful paid little attention to the studies of the place; and medicine, he sunk under the disease, or the reme. his necessity for quitting Edinburgh to avoid paying dy, and died on the tenth day, April 4th. He was a debt, said to have been contracted by a fellow. buried, with little attendance, in the Temple student, augurs but little for his moral character. Church; but a monument has since been raised With these unfavorable beginnings, in the midst of to his memory, with a Latin inscription by Dr. penury, he resolved to indulge his curiosity in a Johnson. visit to the continent of Europe ; and after a long Goldsmith was a man of little correctness either ramble, and various fortunes, he found means to get in his conduct or his opinions, and is rather ad. back 10 England in 1758. For a considerable mired for his genius, and beloved for his benevotime he supported himself by his pen, in an obscure lence, than solidly esteemed. The best part of his situation, when, in 1765, he suddenly blazed out as character was a warmth of sensibility, which made a poet, in his “ Traveller; or, A Prospect of Socie- him ready to share his purse with the indigent, and ty.” It was at the instigation of Dr. Johnson that in his writings rendered him the constant ad vocaic he enlarged this piece, and finished it for publica of the poor and oppressed. The worst feature was tion; and that eminent critic liberally and justly a malignant envy and jealousy of successful rivals, said of it, that “there had not been so fine a poem which he often displayed in a manner not less ri. since Pope's time.” It was equally well received diculous than offensive. He was one of those who by the public; and conferred upon Goldsmith a are happier in the use of the pen than the longue; celebrity which introduced him to some of the most his conversation being generally confused, and not distinguished literary characters of the time. seldom absurd ; so that the wits with whom he kept
The poet continued to pursue his career, and, company seem rather to have made him their butt in 1766, was published his novel of “The Vicar of than to have listened to him as an equal. Yel, Wakefield,” which was received with deserved ap- perhaps, no writer of his time was possessed of plause, and has ever since borne a distinguished more true humor, or was capable of more poig. rank among similar compositions. Some of his nancy in marking the foibles of individuals. This most pleasing and successful works in prose were talent he has displayed in a very amusing manner given to the world about this time; and he paid his in his unfinished poem of “Retaliation," written respects to the Theatre, by a comedy entitled • The as a kind of retort to the jocular attacks made upon Good-Natured Man,” acted at Covent-Garden in him in the Literary Club. Under the mask of 1768, which, however, defects of plot, and igno- Epitaphs, he has given masterly sketches of some rance of dramatic effect, rendered not very success of the principal members, with a mixture of serious ful. His poetical fame reached its summit in 1770, praise and good-humored raillery. It may indeed by the publication of “The Deserted Village," a be said that the latter sometimes verges into tartdelightful piece, which obtained general admiration. ness, which is particularly the case with his delineaThe price offered by the bookseller, amounting to tion of Garrick. nearly five shillings a couplet, appeared to Gold. On the whole, his literary fame must be consid. smih so enormous, that he at first refused to take ered as rising the highest in the character of a poet, it, but the sale of the poem convinced him that he for it would be difficuit, in the compass of English might fairly appropriate to himself that sum out of verse, to find pieces which are read with more the profits. In 1772 he produced another comedy, gratification than his Traveller and his Deserted entitled “She Stoops to Conquer; or, The Mistakes Village. There are, besides, his elegant ballad of of a Night;" and though in character and plot it The Hermit, his stanzas or Woman, and some short made a near approach to farce, yet such were its humorous and miscellaneous pieces, which are omic powers that the audience received it with never without interest.
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, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; His first, best country, ever is at home. Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, A weary waste expanding to the skies;
And estimate the blessings which they share, Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee: An equal portion dealt to all mankind : Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, As diff'rent good, by Art or Nature giv'n And drags at each remove a length'ning chain. To diff'rent nations, makes their blessings ev'n. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
Nature, a mother kind alike to all, And round his dweiling guardian saints attend; Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire With food as well the peasant is supplied To pause from woil, and trim their ev'ning fire ; On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And though the rocky-crested summits frown, And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair;
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, From art more various are the blessings sent; Where all the ruddy family around
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content: Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest, Or sigh with pity at sorne mournful tale;
That either seems destructive of the rest. Or press the boshful stranger to his food,
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, And learn the luxury of doing good.
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. But me, not destin'd such delights to share, Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone, My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care; Conforms and models life to that alone: Impellid with steps unceasing to pursue
Each to the favorite happiness attends, Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Till, carried to excess in each domain, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ;
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And find no spot of all the world my own. And trace them through the prospect as it lies
Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd, sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; And, plac'd on high above the storm's career, Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, Look downward where an hundred realms appear; That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry blast. Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. Bright as the summer, Italy extends :
When thus creation's charms around combine, Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found,
These here disporting own the kindred soil, Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; As some lone miser, visiting his store,
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still; And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to man supplies; Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; To see the hoard of human bliss so small; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vair: And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue ; Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
And ev'n in penance planning sins anew.
But where to find that happiest spot below, For wealth was theirs; not far remov'd the date, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? When commerce proudly flourish'd thro' the state , The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
At her command the palace learnt to rise, Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies :
The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature warm, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: But bind him to his native mountains more. Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Such are the charms to barren stales assign'd Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd: While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, Yet let them only share the praises due, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : If few their wants, their pleasures are but few , And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest : Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; That first excites desire, and then supplies ; From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, An easy compensation seem to find.
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to flame, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade: Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Processions form’d for piety and love,
Their level life is but a mould'ring fire, A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove.
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; By sports like these are all their cares beguild, Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer The sports of children satisfy the child:
On some high festival of once a year, Each nobler aim, represt by long control,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; In happier meanness occupy the mind:
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but luw; As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay,
Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run; There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; Falls blunted from each indurated heart. And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. May sit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest:
My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey But all the gentler morals, such as play Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Thro' life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, These, far dispers’d, on tim'rous pinions fly, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : To sport and Nutter in a kinder sky. No product here the barren hills afford
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword: I turn; and France displays her bright domain : No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May : Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, How often have I led thy sportive choir, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. With luneless pipe, beside the murm’ring Loire !
Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, Where shading elms along the margin grew, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew: Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts iho'small, And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'ring still, He sees his little lot the lot of all;
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancers' skill Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
Yet would the village praise my wond'rous pow'r. To shame the meanness of his humble shed; And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days To make him lothe his vegetable meal;
Have led their children thro' the mirthful maze ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Each wish contracting, fits himn to the soil. Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore. Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; Thus idly busy rolls their world away : With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, Or drives his vent'rous plowshare to the steep;
For honor forms the social temper here :
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, He sits him down the monarch of a shed; Il shists, in splendid traffic, round the land : Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; And all are taught an avarice of praise; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, Displays her cleanly platter on the board : Till, sceming blest, they grow to what they seem And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
But while this softer art their bliss supplies, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. It gives their follies also room to rise ;
Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart For praise too dearly lov’d, or warmly sought, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rise, And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art And dear that hill which lift him to the storms; Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds hör daily cheer, Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,
llence all obedience bows to these alone, Lifi the tall rampire's artificial pride.
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow;
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I stale,
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 !
The rabble's rage, the tyrant's angry steel ;
Thou transitory flow'r, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favor's sost’ring sun;
That those who think must govern those that toil
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,
Ils double weight must ruin all below.
Oh 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:
Heav'ns! how unlike their Belgic sires of old! Contracting regal pow'r to stretch their own;
When I behold a factious band agree
Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown,
Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour,
And thus, polluting honor in its source,
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
Like faring tapers bright'ning as they waste?
Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
And over fields where scaiter'd hamlets rose,
Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call,
The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train,
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays