1. 85. And thou who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead To linger in the gloomy walks of fate: Hark, how the sacred calm, that breathes around, No more with reason and thyself at strife, Give anxious cares and endless wishes room; to dumb forgetfulness a prey. that is, about to die. The prey of death; 1. 90. pious. In the sense of the Latin pius, meaning affectionate. 1. 91. Cf. note on line 43. 1. 93. For thee. Who is speaking now? Does this change injure the unity? Would the poem be better if it ended, as originally planned, with the stanzas quoted in the note on line 72? 1. 100. Here originally appeared the following stanza: "Him have we seen the greenwood side along, While o'er the heath we hied, our labours done, "I rather wonder," says Mason, "that he rejected this stanza, as it not only has the same sort of Doric delicacy which charms us peculiarly in this part of the poem, but also completes the account of his whole day; whereas, this evening scene being omitted, we have only his morning walk, and his noon-tide repose." 11. 105-112. These two stanzas are inscribed on a monu ment erected to Gray's memory near the church at StokePogis. 1. 109. One morn I missed him on the customed hill. Gray himself heard the breezy call of incense-breathing morn. He was a lover of nature long before it was fashionable to admire wild and rugged scenery, lakes, waterfalls, and mountains. In 1739, fifty years in advance of the times, Gray said of the Alps, "Not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry." And in 1769, one year before Wordsworth was born, he visited the English lakes alone, and wrote back to his friends in the true Wordsworthian style of glassy waters reflecting rocks, woods, fields, and inverted tops of mountains," of lakes alive with breezes, and of the murmur at night of waterfalls inaudible by day. 66 1. 115. for thou canst read. The hoary-headed swain could not read. 1. 116. After this line was inserted, in the third edition, in March, 1751, the following stanza, which was withdrawn in 1753. Mason says the poet thought that it made too long a pause before the reading of the epitaph. 1. 119. "There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; 1. 128. bosom. In apposition with abode, line 126. Select from the poem lines and stanzas which you would like to illustrate if you were an artist. с THE DESERTED VILLAGE OLIVER GOLDSMITH OLIVER GOLDSMITH, whom Thackeray calls the most beloved of English writers, was born November 10, 1728, in the small village of Pallas, Longford county, Ireland. He was the son of the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a poor clergyman, whose character is portrayed in Dr. Primrose of The Vicar of Wakefield and in the parson of The Deserted Village. At the age of eight he suffered a severe attack of smallpox and his face was greatly disfigured. In other respects, moreover, he was not at all prepossessing in appearance. After attending several schools at which he did not distinguish himself, he entered Trinity College, Dublin, in 1744. He assisted in paying his expenses by waiting on table and performing janitor services, but he was not greatly interested in his studies, and was neither contented nor successful. Once, however, he gained a prize of thirty shillings, and to celebrate the event invited a company of young people to his room for a dance, but his tutor suddenly appeared, drove out the dancers, and chastized Goldsmith. Deeply mortified, he ran away and nearly starved to death, but his brother Henry induced him to return, and he was graduated in 1749, the lowest on the list. For two years after leaving college, Goldsmith was ostensibly fitting himself for church orders, but when he presented himself for ordination, because he did not fancy the clerical black, he dressed himself in scarlet breeches and was rejected. Next, he thought of emigrating to America, but the ship sailed without him while he was enjoying himself in the neighboring country. He went home penniless, but his uncle lent him fifty pounds to take him to London to study law. On the way he lost the money by gambling and was forced to return home. His friends next sent him to Edinburgh to study medicine. There for two years he remained until the desire for travel seized him, and he went abroad, ostensibily to study medicine, but really to ramble over Europe as a wandering minstrel. On his return he lived in London which became his permanent home. He failed to make a living at practising medicine or teaching school and gradually engaged in hack work in literature. After writing his Citizen of the World (1760-1761), he made the acquaintance of Johnson and became a member of the famous Literary Club. He was recognized as one of the foremost poets of England on publishing The Traveller in 1764. This date marks the change in his career. Hitherto his life had been a long and bitter struggle with poverty. He had scarcely been able to provide himself with the bare necessities of existence; but from now on his financial difficulties arose, not from insufficient income, but from lack of thrift. He was greatly ridiculed by his utilitarian friends for his lack of common-sense. The needy, whether worthy or unworthy, never sought his sympathy in vain. Taking no thought for the morrow he spent his last cent or went into debt if thereby he could relieve suffering. Even when a poor student in college he gave the blankets of his bed to a homeless woman who had five children. He had a childish love of bright colors and foolishly sought to redeem the deficiencies of his ill-favored person by arraying himself in suits of purple velvet or other gorgeous finery. His lack of practical ability is shown in a story told by Boswell. He says, Johnson one morning received a message that Goldsmith was in deep trouble and was about to be arrested for debt by his landlady. Johnson sent a guinea and as soon as he was dressed went at once to Goldsmith's room where he found that the guinea was already changed and that the impecunious author was about to indulge in a bottle of Madeira. Johnson thrust the cork into the bottle and asked Goldsmith if he knew of any means whereby he might be extricated from his unfortunate position. The latter mentioned a novel that was ready for the press. Johnson took the manuscript and, telling the landlady that he would soon return, sold it to a bookseller for sixty pounds. As Goldsmith discharged his rent he did not fail to scold his landlady roundly for having used him so ill. The book which Johnson sold was The Vicar of Wakefield, which appeared in 1766. It is the first novel in English to present an attractive picture of home life; it has been translated into many languages and has probably done more than any of Goldsmith's other works to keep alive his fame. In 1770 The Deserted |