ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND
BY LIGHTNING.
IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.
UMINE Acon dextro capta est Leonida sinistro,
Et poterat forma vincere uterque Deos.
Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede puellæ :
Sic tu cæcus Amor sic erit, illa Venus.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND
BY LIGHTNING.
URE 'twas by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus'* fate.
EEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to ev'ry 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.
* Narcissus fell in love with his own image in a brook, and died of self-love.
SONG FROM THE "VICAR OF WAKEFIELD."
HEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm 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.
Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but omitted because the actress who played Miss Hardcastle did not sing.
H me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty but fail to relieve me,
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner!
Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover;
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent and loses a lover.
PRINTED IN 1774, AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH. R. GOLDSMITH and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-House.-One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.
This song Goldsmith used to sing to a pretty Irish air, called "The Humours of Ballamaguiry."
Or old, when Scarron* his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united:
If our landlordt supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself—and he brings the best dish:
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burkes shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains
;
Our Will|| shall be wild fowl of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour ;
Our Cumberland's** sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglast+ is pudding, substantial and plain ;
Our Garrick's‡‡ a salad-for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge§§ is anchovy, and Reynolds|||| is lamb;
That Hickey's¶¶ a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine; let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
* Paul Scarron was a popular French author; the husband of the celebrated Madame de Maintenon. He was extremely poor, and the feasts described by Goldsmith were his mode of entertaining his friends. 1610, died 1660.
+ The landlord of the coffee-house.
Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry.
§ The Right Hon. Edmund Burke, the celebrated orator.
Mr. William Burke, a relation of Edmund Burke, and M.P. for Bedwin. Secretary to General Conway.
¶ Mr. Richard Burke, youngest brother of Edmund Burke, and Recorder of Bristol.
†† Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of Salisbury.
§§ John Ridge, a barrister in the Irish courts.
Sir Joshua Reynolds.
¶¶ An Irish lawyer.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth ;
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt-
At least, in six weeks, I could not find them out ;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining.
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit:
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't : The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam-
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard,† whose fate I must sigh at:
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest‡-and now breaking a limb!
* Thomas Townshend, afterwards Lord Sydney.
Richard Burke.
He had recently fractured his arm.
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball;
Now teasing and vexing-yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick ;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wished to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine!
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines.
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I feared for your safety, I feared for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture—
* The Rev. Dr. Dodd, a popular preacher, who was hung for forgery. + Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern under the title of "The School of Shakespeare." He was a man of no principle; he had severely libelled Goldsmith.
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