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XXVIII.

“ Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers a strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But offer'd only love.

XXIX. “In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he; A constant heart was all he had,

But that was all to me.

XXX.

“And when, beside me in the dale,

He carol'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.”

XXXI.

“ Whene'er he spoke amidst the train,

How would my heart attend ! And still * delighted e'en to pain,

How sigh for such a friend !

XXXII.

“ And when a little rest I sought,

In sleep's refreshing arms, How have I mended what he taught,

And lent him fancied charms!

1 Var.—the mercenary, &c.
2 Var.—With glitt'ring proffers, &c.

3 This stanza was added by Bishop Percy, and first printed in his edition of the Works, 1801. "Percy states that he had the MS. from Mr. Richard Archdal, an Irish M.P., to whom it had been given by Goldsmith.– En.

4 Most of the editions misprint this “ And till,” &c. Here we have from Goldsmith's own 'Poems for Young Ladies' (1770), “ And still.” -ED.

XXXIII.

“Yet still (and woe betide the hour!)

I spurn'd him from my side,
And still with ill-dissembled power,

Repaid his love with pride.

XXXIV.

“ Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to deplore;
And sought a solitude forlorn,

And ne'er was heard of more.

XXXV.
“ Then since he perish'd by my fault,

This pilgrimage I pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

XXXVI.

“And there in shelt'ring thicket hid,

I'll linger till I die; 'Twas thus for me my lover did,

And so for him will I.”

XXXVII.

“ Thou shalt not thus !” the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:
Th' astonish'd fair one turn'd to chide-

'Twas Edwin's self that prest !

XXXVIII.

For now no longer could he hide,

What first to hide he strove;
His looks resume their youthful pride,

And flush with honest love.

1 Var.—and hapless be the hour. |

XXXIX.

“ Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

XL.

“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign:
And shall we never, never part,

My life my all that's mine?

XLI.

No, never, from this hour to part,

Our love shall still be new;
And the last sigh that rends thy heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too.

XLII.

“ Here amidst sylvan bow'rs we'll rove,

From lawn to woodland stray;
Blest as the songsters of the grove,

And innocent as they.

XLIII.

“ To all that want, and all that wail,

Our pity shall be given,
And when this life of love shall fail,

We'll love again 3 in heav'n.” 4

? Var.—My thou—my all that's mine ? [Some mistake here probably. -Ed.]

2 Var.-Here amidst streams and bow’rs, &c. 3 Var.- We'll love it o'er in heav'n.

4 In 1798 the ‘ Monthly Review' gave place to the charge that Goldsmith had taken his ballad from a French poem called Raimond et Angeline'; and the very same charge was repeated in 1812 through the European Magazine'. Upon both occasions, however, our poet's fame was very effectually vindicated by its being shown that · Raimond et Angeline' bore date 1792-eighteen years later than the poet's death —and was really a translation from Goldsmith's own work done by a M. Leonard. - ED.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

A POEM,

[First published in May, 1770. Percy is wrong in dating it 1769. Seven editions were printed in the author's lifetime, the sixth appearing within a year of the first publication. The principal author's emendations occur in the third and fourth editions.-Ed.]

[DEDICATION.]

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

DEAR SIR, I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel; and I

may

lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, therefore, aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem

to you.

How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I don't pretend to enquire; but I know you will object, (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion, that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry whether the country be depopulating or not: the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the encrease of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. In. deed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear sir, your sincere friend, and ardent admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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