DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, pagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; The morn was cold, he views with keen desire With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, THE HERMIT. A BALLAD. The following letter, addressed to the Printer of he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit | me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these • The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. L book 2. No. 18. things as trifles at best) told me with his usual goodhumour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy dis. lic should never have known that he owes me the position of some of your correspondents, the pub hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Note. On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult "The Life of Dr. Goldsmith," under the year 1765. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale "For here forlorn and lost I tread, "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share My blessing and repose. "No flocks that range the valley free, "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch And gaily press'd, and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest; "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. "L'or shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush Surprised he sees new beauties rise, "And ah! forgive a stranger rude, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. "My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who praised me for imparted charms, And felt, or feign'd a flame. "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd But never talk'd of love. "In humble, simplest habit clad, "And when, beside me in the dale, "The blossom opening to the day, To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to el Their constancy was mine. "For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain: "Till quite dejected with my scorn, And sought a solitude forlorn, ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.* Good people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song, fn Islington there was a man, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, This dog and man at first were friends; Around from all the neighb'ring streets And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH, DEAR SIR, I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you de. cline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a-year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among un polished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and music come This, and the following poem, appeared in "The Vicar of in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a Wakefield," which was published in the year 1765. less laborious entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, that favour once shown to her, and though but My heart úntravell'd fondly turns to thee; younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right. Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, Yet, however this art may be neglected by the And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. powerful, it is still in great danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Where all the ruddy family around Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; And learn the luxury of doing good. Or press the bashful stranger to his food, criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man, after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force, and his phrensy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I can not tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDsmith.. THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY." REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, In this poem, as it passed through different editions, several alterations were made, and some additional verses introduced. We have flowed the ninth edition, which was the st that appeared in the lifetime of the author. But me, not destined such delights to share, E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round, As some lone miser, visiting his store, Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, Whatever sweets salute the northern sky But where to find that happiest spot below, Nature, a mother kind alike to all, But let us try these truths with closer eyes, Far to the right where Appenine ascends, Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey |