Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charms the senses,
While pity harmonized the whole.
The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say, "No more shall my crook or my temples adorn: I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return; But, alas! that return I never shall see:
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,
There promised a lover to come-but, ah me!
'Twas Death-'twas the death of my mistress that came.
But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."
Song.-By a Woman.
Pastorale.
With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is removed, and shall never return!
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.
On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
The tears of her country shall water her tomb
FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV., AFTER THE AUTHOR 8 DEATH,
(Dr 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.)
Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united :
If our landlord* 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 Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Wills 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 Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick'stt 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'sTT 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?
The master of the St James's coffee-house.
† Dr Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland. I The Right Hon. Edmund Burke
& Mr William Burke, late secretary to General Conway.
5 Mr Richard Burke, collector of Granada.
Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the West-Indian, &c.
** Dr Douglas, canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury).
David Garrick, Esq.
$5 Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Counsellor John Ridge of the Irish bar.
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.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd 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 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That Sly-boots was - 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, narrow'd 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, unemploy'd, 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!†
Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
Mr Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
Mr Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.
As often we wish'd 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 fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds
shall be pious, our Kenricks † shall lecture;
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countrymen living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
The Rev. Dr. William Dodd.
Dr Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of Tue School of Shakspeare."
James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poct of all antiquity.
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
"Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls † so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye:
He was, could he help it?-a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
* Mr Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, &c.
+ Mr William Woodfall, printer of Morning Chronicle.
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