showing him equally capable of exciting emotions of tenderness and compassion. Here almost all the imagery is familiar to our eyes, and all the sentiments to our hearts. We seem rather to remember what the poet describes, than to receive information from his lines; we acknowledge without hesitation the fidelity of his outline; we instantaneously grow acquainted with every interesting object; each "rural sight and sound;" the hamlet, its humble, children, and their saintly pastor; their joys and their sorrows. We share their sufferings, and shed tears over the downfal of their

happiness, when, at the poet's bidding, this lovely pageant vanishes; and for the mansion of festivity, and the fields which industry had taught to smile, we behold only a ruin and a desert.

Whether or not this, and other poems of Goldsmith, would bear the test of a critical inquisition, is a question that does not belong to my present purpose; which is to exhibit him in a far higher capacity than that of a versifier: as A MORAL INSTRUCTOR, WHOSE TALENTS WERE UNIFORMLY DIRECTED TO THE GREAT AND PRAISEWORTHY END OF COMMUNICATING TO

HIS COUNTRYMEN A PARTIALITY FOR THE DICTATES OF VIRTUE. And this he has done so effectually, that, in reading his lines, we are more apt to weigh the thoughts they contain, than the powers that produced them; and, overlooking the graces and sweetness by which his verse is distinguished, to dwell with intense admiration on the sub

stance.

In support of this remark, I shall extract only a few passages from the Deserted Village; the construction of which, however beautiful, is scarcely ever adverted to by the multitudes who

are enraptured with the images which they present to the mind.

Nothing of its kind can be more finished than the picture of the villageclergyman: but the simile employed to illustrate the poet's account of his strict performance of the pastoral office, the affection he feels for his people, and the persevering piety by which he wins them to paths of holiness and peace, if not matchless, has never been excelled:

"And as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.”

If this idea can be equalled by an

other, in any language, ancient or modern, it is by that with which the portrait concludes:

"To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n; But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and mid-way leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head."

His heart and his taste must be alike

vitiated; who unmoved could contemplate the subject of the following lines, or be insensible to the melody with which they flow:

༞ ༔ ༔

"Ah! turn thine eyes,

Where the poor, houseless, shiv'ring female lies: