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But soon as Dan Apollo rose,
Full jolly creature home he goes,

He feels his back the less;
His honest tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,
Which made him want success.

With lusty livelyhed he talks,
He seems a dancing as he walks,

His story soon took wind;
And beauteous Edith sees the youth
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.

The story told, Sir Topaz moved, The youth of Edith erst approved,

To see the revel scene:

At close of eve he leaves his home, And wends to find the ruin'd dome All on the gloomy plain.

As there he bides, it so befel,

The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall;

Up spring the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.

But, certes, sorely sunk with woe,
Sir Topaz sees the elfin show,

His spirits in him die :

When Oberon cries, "A man is near, A mortal passion, cleped fear,

Hangs flagging in the sky."

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents faultering, ay for ruth,
Intreats them pity grant;
For als he been a mister wight,
Betray'd by wandering in the night,

To tread the circled haunt.

"A losell vile," at once they roar ; "And little skill'd of fairy lore,

Thy cause to come we know: Now has thy kestrel courage fell; And fairies, since a lie you tell,

Are free to work thee woe."

Then Will, who bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;
There, like a tortoise in a shop,
He dangled from the chamber top,
Where whilome Edwin hung.

The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,

They sit, they drink, and eat; The time with frolic mirth beguile, And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while Till all the rout retreat.

By this the stars began to wink,

They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down y-drops the knight:
For never spell by fairy laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alɔne, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er:
But wot ye well his harder lot!
His seely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroked my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,

"Thus some are born, my son," she cries, "With base impediments to rise,

And some are born with none.

"But virtue can itself advance
To what the favourite fools of chance
By fortune seem'd design'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind *.

THE BOOK-WORM.

COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day
The book-worm, ravening beast of prey,
Produced by parent earth, at odds,
As fame reports it, with the gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand authors' lives:
Through all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to serve him for a skin.
Observe him nearly, lest he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of fancy go
To tear some modern wretch below.
On every corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter 's forced to give?
'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live!

From leaf to leaf, from song to song,
He draws the tadpole form along;
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er ;
He turns, he doubles, there he past,
And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest servants of the Muse!

[* Never was the old manner of speaking more happily applied, or a tale better told, than this.-GOLDSMITH.]

(Nay, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His roses nipp'd in every page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for every single deed,
Relentless justice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,

To pile a sacred altar here;

Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit, You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ ; You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain; Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,-there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes This venerable dust I lay, From manuscripts just swept away.

The goblet in my hand I take, (For the libation 's yet to make,) A health to poets! all their days

May they have bread, as well as praise ;
Sense may they seek, and less engage
In papers fill'd with party-rage;
But if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Muses, make them poor again!

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I strike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar floats with red;
And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, To see what dangers threat the year: Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench ! What lean translations out of French! "Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, Sprints before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene, The sacred altar should be clean. Oh had I Shadwell's second bays, Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your works till now,) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine (That only way you please the Nine); But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey do. Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin I hang the scales that braced it in ; I hang my studious morning-gown, And write my own inscription down.

"This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done;

These, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat.
Here ignorance and hunger found
Large realms of wit to ravage round:
Here ignorance and hunger fell:
Two foes in one I sent to hell.
Ye poets, who my labours see,
Come share the triumph all with me!
Ye critics! born to vex the Muse,
Go mourn the grand ally you lose."

AN IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES.
RELENTLESS Time! destroying power,
Whom stone and brass obey,
Who givest to every flying hour
To work some new decay;

Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy secret saps prevail,
And ruin man, a nice machine,
By nature form'd to fail.

My change arrives; the change I meet
Before I thought it nigh.

My spring, my years of pleasure fleet,
And all their beauties die.

In age I search, and only find
A poor unfruitful gain,
Grave wisdom stalking slow behind,
Oppress'd with loads of pain.

My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys inspire;
My errors cherish'd hope to smile
On newly-born desire.

But now experience shows, the bliss
For which I fondly sought,
Not worth the long impatient wish,

And ardour of the thought.

My youth met Fortune fair array'd,
In all her pomp she shone,
And might perhaps have well essay'd
To make her gifts my own:

But when I saw the blessings shower
On some unworthy mind,

I left the chase, and own'd the power
Was justly painted blind.

I pass'd the glories which adorn
The splendid courts of kings,
And while the persons moved my scorn,
I rose to scorn the things.

My manhood felt a vigorous fire

By love increased the more; But years with coming years conspire To break the chains I wore.

In weakness safe, the sex I see

With idle lustre shine; For what are all their joys to me, Which cannot now be mine?

But hold-I feel my gout decrease,

My troubles laid to rest,

And truths which would disturb my peace Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll

In sad reflection flies;

Ye fondling passions of my soul !
Ye sweet deceits! arise.

I wisely change the scene within,
To things that used to please;
In pain, philosophy is spleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er:
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee, they life possest, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest."

Those with bending osier bound, That nameless have the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, (Which ere our set of friends decay, Their frequent steps may wear away,)

A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.

Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,
"Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)

It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from amongst the bones.

When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I !
They view me like the last of things;
They make, and then they draw, my strings.
Fools! if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.

Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun :
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body placed,
A few, and evil years, they waste:
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day*.

[* The great fault of this piece is, that it is in eightsyllable lines, very improper for the solemnity of the subject; otherwise the poem is natural, and the reflections just.-GOLDSMITH.]

THE HERMIT.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway:
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost :

So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow;
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.

To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,)
He quits his cell: the pilgrim staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before;
Then with the sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass : But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. Then near approaching, Father, hail! he cried, And hail, my son, the reverend sire replied; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceived the road; Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey; Nature in silence bid the world repose; When near the road a stately palace rose: There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home: Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive: the liveried servants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good.

Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play: Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe: His cup was vanish'd; for in secret guise The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. He stopp'd with silence,walk'd with trembling heart, And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part: Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward.

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. "Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around; It owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.

As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest);
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls:
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,
(Each hardly granted) served them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pondering hermit view'd,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude:
And why should such, within himself he cried,
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside!
But what new marks of wonder soon took place,
In every settling feature of his face,

When from his vest the young companion bore
That cup, the generous landlord own'd before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; The sun emerging opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather courts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought

With all the travel of uncertain thought :

His partner's acts without their cause appear,
"Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky,
Again the wanderers want a place to lie,
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low nor idly great:
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue, kind.

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, Then bless the masion, and the master greet: Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies:

Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To Him who gives us all, I yield a part; From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, When the grave household round his hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.

At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose ; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride (Ostrange return!) grew black, and gasp'd, and died. Horror of horrors! what, his only son! How look'd our hermit when the fact was done? Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his

heart.

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues; the country lay Perplex'd with roads; a servant show'd the way: A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find; the servant trod before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in; Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes; He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, Detested wretch!-But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man:

His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form etherial burst upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ;
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke).

Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne : These charms success in our bright region find, And force an angel down to calm thy mind; For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky; Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.

Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.

The Maker justly claims that world he made,
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends:
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The Power exerts his attributes on high;
Your actions uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.

What strange events can strike with more
surprise,

Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?

Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust !

The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be goodWho made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross the silver runs below.

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half wean'd his heart from God; (Child of his age) for him he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run! But God, to save the father, took the son.

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