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Alive, thee foe thy dreadful vigor fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes;
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

STANZAS.*

Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

Imitated from the French.t

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

[First printed in " The Bee," 1759.]

[First printed in "The Bee," 1759. The original is in Ménagiana, tom. iv. p. 200:

ÉTRENNE À IRIS.

"Pour témoignage de ma flamme,

Iris, du meilleur de mon âme,

Je vous donne à ce nouvel an,
Non pas dentelle, ni ruban,

What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em ;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them—when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose
A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I'll give theeah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.

Non pas essence, non pas pommade,
Quelques boites de marmalade,
Un mouchoir, des gants, un bouquet,
Non pas fleures, ni chapelet.

Quoi donc attendez, je vou donne,
O fille plus belle que bonne,
Qui m'avez toujours refusé

Le point si souvent proposé,

Je vous donne.-Ah! le puis-je dire?
Oui; c'est trop souffrir le martyre,
Il est temps de m'emanciper,

Patience va m'échapper,

Fussiez-vous cent fois plus aimable,

Belle Iris, je vous donne-au diable."]

131

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,—
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,—

Unless when she was sinning.

[These lines were first printed in "The Bee," 1759. Mr. Croker observes, in a communication to the editor:-" The elegy on Madam Blaize, and the better part of that on the Death of a Mad Dog, are closely imitated from a well-known French string of absurdities called 'La Chanson du fameux la Galisse; one of many versions of which you will find in the Ménagiana, vol. iii. p. 29. I shall select two or three stanzas as examples:

"Messieurs, vous plait-il d'ouir

L'air du fameux la Galisse,

Il pourra vous rejouir,

Pourvu qu'il vous divertisse.

On dit que dans ses amours,

Il fut caressé des belles,

Qui le suivirent toujours,

Tant qu'il marche devant elles.

Il fut par un triste sort,

Blessé d'une main cruelle;
On croit, puisqu'il est mort,-
Que la plaie était mortelle."]

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumbered in her pew,—
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,-
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead,

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.*

Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;

[First printed, in 1760, in "The Citizen of the World." See vol. ii. p. 127. On this subject Goldsmith had projected an heroi-comic poem, as appears by one of his letters to his brother (see Life, ch. viii.); and with a few variations it forms the description of the alehouse in the "Deserted Village." See p. 73 of the present volume.]

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread:
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The royal Game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;*
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lampblack 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 scor'd,†
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

* [Viz. 1. "Urge no healths; 2. Profane no divine ordinances; 3. Touch no state matters; 4. Reveal no secrets; 5. Pick no quarrels; 6. Make no comparisons; 7. Maintain no i opinions; 8. Keep no bad company; 9. Encourage no vice; 10. Make no long meals; 11. Repeat no grievances; 12. Lay no wagers."]

["And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his appearance, in order to dun him for the reckoning:

"Not with that face, so servile and so gay,
That welcomes every stranger that can pay,

With sulky eye he smoaked the patient man,

Then pulled his breeches tight, and thus began," &c.

All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends, with whom they do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier, and more agreeable species of composition than prose, and could a man live by it, it were not unpleasant employment to be a poet." -Letter to his Brother. See Life, ch. viii.]

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