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OF AN

A BALLAD

things as trifles at best) told me with his usual goodDESCRIPTION

humour, 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 litAUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. tle Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv

ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

worth printing; and, were it not for the busy dis. Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt , and Parson's black cham- lic should never have known that he owes me the

position of some of your correspondents, the pubpagne,

hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendRegale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;

ship and learning for communications of a inuch There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;

more important nature.

I am, Sir, A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,

Yours, etc. That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; Note.—On the subject of the preceding letter,
The royal game of goose was there in view, the reader is desired to consult “The Life of Dr.
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; Goldsmith,” under the year 1765.
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black

THE HERMIT;
face.
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,

“Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way, And five crack'd tea-cups dress’d the chimneyboard;

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

“For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow;

Where wilds immeasurably spread,
THE HERMIT.

Seem length’ning as I go."

“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,
A BALLAD.

To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.
The following letter, addressed to the Printer of

he St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that pa “Here to the houseless child of want per in June, 1767.

My dvor is open still;

And though my portion is but scant, SIR,

I give it with good will. As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit| “Then turn to-night, and freely sharo me to be as concise as possible in informing a cor Whate'er my cell bestows, respondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's My rushy couch and frugal fare, Travels because I thought the book was a good My blessing and repose. one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the

“No flocks that range the valley free, bookseller that it was then first published; but in

To slaughter I condemn; that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading

Taught by that Power that pities me. was not extensive enough to set me right.

I learn to pity them: Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, “But from the mountain's grassy side from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not A guiltless feast I bring; think there is any great resemblance between the

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad And water from the spring. is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some

“Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares foreg years ago; and he (as we both considered these

All earth-born cares are wrong; *The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol.

Man wants but little here below, L book 2 No. 18.

Nor wants that little long."

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

The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighb'ri poor

And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm’d his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd, and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
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,

Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trilling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.
"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?
“And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest. "l'or shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex,” he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush

Flis love-lorn guest betray'd

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view:
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.
"And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,” she cried; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside. “But let a maid thy pity share,

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,

No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"And when, beside me in the dale,

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

And music to the grove.
“The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of Heaven refined, Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind. “The dew, the blossom on tne tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to wel

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,

He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recoverd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will l.”
"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide-

'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

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

Restored to love and thee.
"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,

My life-my all that's mine?
"No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

STANZAS ON WOMAN.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,
What charms can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is to die.

THE TRAVELLER;

OR,

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

AN ELEGY

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH.
ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.*

DEAR SIR,
Good people all of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,

I AM sensible that the friendship between us can

acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dediAnd if you find it wondrous short, It can hot hold you long.

cation ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to

prefix your name to my attempts, which you de. in Islington there was a man,

cline giving with your own. But as a part of this Of whom the world might say,

poem was formerly written to you from SwitzerThat still a godiy race he ran,

land, the whole can now, with propriety, be only Whene'er he went to pray.

inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon A kind and gentle heart he had,

many parts of it, when the reader understands, that To comfort friends and foes;

it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and The naked every day he clad,

fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscuriWhen he put on his clothes.

ty, with an income of forty pounds a-year. And in that town a dog was found,

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of

your humble choice. You have entered upon a As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,

sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the And curs of low degree.

labourers are but few; while you have left the field

of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the This dog and man at first were friends;

harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds But when a pique began,

of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, The dog, to gain some private ends,

from different systems of criticism, and from the Went mad, and bit the man.

divisions of party, that which pursues poetical famo Around from all the neighb'ring streets is the wildest. The wond'ring neighbours ran,

Poetry makes a principal amusement among unAnd swore the dog had lost his wits," polished nations; but in a country verging to tho To bite so good a man.

extremes of refinement, painting and music come This, and the following poem, appeared in " The Vicar or in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. less laborivus 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 úntravellid 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, criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests

. To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; and iambics, alliterative care and happy neg'igence! Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; And every stranger finds a ready chair; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. Where all the ruddy family around But there is an enemy to this art still more dan. Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail

, gerous, -I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the Or press the bashful stranger to his food,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; mind is once infected with this disease, it can only And learn the luxury of doing good. find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from

But me, not destined such delights to share, pursuing man, after having once preyed upon hu. My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; man flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his Impellid, with steps unceasing, to pursue appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, readers generally admire some half-witted thing, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, the character of a wise one. Him they dignify And find no spot of all the world my own. with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force, and E’en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, his phrensy fire.

I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; What reception a poem may find, which has And placed on high above the storm's career, neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, Look downward where an hundred realms appear; I can not tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, aims are right. Without espousing the cause of The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?

When thus Creation's charms around combine, be cqual happiness in states that are differently

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain governed from our own; that every state has a par. That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? ticular principle of happiness

, and that this princi- Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, ple in each may be carried

to a mischievous excess. These little things are great to little man; There are few can judge better than yourself how And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I

Exults in all the good of all mankind. am dear Sir, your most affectionate brother,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendous

crown'd;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
THE TRAVELLER; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;

For me your tributary stores combine:
OR,

Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!

As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup-
A weary waste expanding to the skies;

plies;

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, • In this poem, as it passed through different editions, seve. To see the hoard of human bliss so small; ral alterations were made, and some additional verses introduced. We have flowed the ninth edition, which was the And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find reft that appeared in the lifetime of the author.

Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

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A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, , Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;

These here disporting own the kindred soil, But where to find that happiest spot below, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; Who can direct, when all pretend to know?

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone

To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And his long nights of revelry and ease :

And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. The naked negro, panting at the line,

In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; His first, best country, ever is at home.

And e'en in penance planning sins anew. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, All evils here contaminate the mind, And estimate the blessings which they share, That opulence departed leaves behind; Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, An equal portion dealt to all mankind; When commerce proudly flourish'd through the As different good, by art or nature given,

state; To different nations makes their blessings even. At her command the palace learn'd to rise,

Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies; Nature, a mother kind alike to all,

The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is supplied

The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form:

Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, On Jura's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;

Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; And though the rocky crested summits frown,

While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.

But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave. From art more various are the blessings sent

And late the nation found with fruitless skill Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content.

Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive to the rest.

Yet, still the loss of wealth is herc supplied
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind
Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, An easy compensation seem to find.
Conforms and models life to that alone. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd
Each to the favourite happiness attends, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
And spurris the plan that aims at other ends; Processions form’d for piety and love,
Till, carried to excess in each domain,

A mistress or a saint in every grove. This favourite good begets peculiar pain. By sports like these are all their cares beguiled, But let us try these truths with closer eyes,

The sports of children satisfy the child; And trace them through the prospect as it lies;

Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, Here for a while my proper cares resign'd,

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;

While low delights, succeeding fast behind, Like yon neglected shrub at randoin cast,

In happier meanness occupy the mind :

As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.

Defaced by time and tottering in decay, Far to the right where Appenine ascends, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ;

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey

Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion treul, The sons of Italy were surely blest.

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread Whatever fruits in different climes were found, No product here the barren hills afford, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, Whose bright succession decks the varied year; But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

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