Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favor place,
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone:-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS;

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.†

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may there fore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.

OVERTURE.-A solemn Dirge.

Air-Trio.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe! When truth and virtue reach the skies, 'Tis ours to weep the want below.

Chorus.

When truth and virtue, &c.

* [Printed from the copy belonging to Mr. Isaac Reed, who has written on the title-page: This poem was written, or, as he says, compiled by Dr. Oliver Goldsmith. It is very scarce, and ought to be in his works." It was performed in the Great Room, Soho Square, the 20th February 1772. The composer was Signor Vento; the speakers Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy; and the singers Mr. Champness, Mr. Dine, and Mrs. Jameson -See Life, ch. xxi.]

+ [Daughter of Frederick II., Duke of Saxe Gotha, and mother of King George III.]

MAN Speaker.

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to Kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour-
Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery;
But when to pomp and power are join'd,
An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth and rank and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!

E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,

Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load:
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free;
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

SONG. By a MAN.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,
In the hopes of being blest.
Ev'ry added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,

And ev'ry shock that malice offers,

Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN Speaker.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fateDeath with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, Determin'd took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round,

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore

The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross,-

They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. By a MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!

If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN Speaker.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature;
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,

May put off life and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity;

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.