While sullen or loquacious strife The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright: Each former art she vainly tries Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack For tawdry finery is seen No more presuming on her sway, A NEW SIMILE. IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.(') Long had I sought in vain to find Imprimis; pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. With wit that's flighty, learning light; In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : (1) [Printed in the Essays, 1765.] And here my simile unites; Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, Though ne'er so much awake before, Now to apply, begin we then :— His wand 's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twin'd, Denote him of the reptile kind; Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom❜d bites; An equal semblance still to keep, Alike, too, both conduce to sleep. This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript; Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover Merc'ry had a failing: Well! what of that? out with it-stealing; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he : But ev❜n this deity's existence Our modern bards! why, what a pox Are they-but senseless stones and blocks. STANZAS ON WOMAN.(1) When lovely Woman stoops to folly, The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. (2) Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wond'rous short,— (1) First printed in the "Vicar of Wakefield," in 1766.] (2) ["This specimen of Goldsmith's poetical powers is wonderfully pathetic. It is sweet as music, and polished like a gem."—Mrs. BARBAULD.] (3) First printed in the "Vicar of Wakefield," 1766, though probably In Islington there was a man, A kind and gentle heart he had, And in that town a dog was found, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, written at an earlier period; perhaps in 1760, as we find in the "Citizen of the World," (see vol. ii. p. 277), an amusing paper in which Goldsmith ridicules the fear of mad dogs as one of those epidemic terrors to which the people of England are occasionally prone.] |