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Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! 15 This seems a barren1 and a dangerous coast.

Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!

Yon ill-forboding cloud seems big with thunder:

[Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em

Here trees of stately size-and turtles in 'em.2

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound

[Pit. 20

[Balconies. [Stage.

And apples, [takes up one and tastes it] bitter apples strew

the ground.

3

The place is uninhabited, I fear:

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
Oh, there the natives are, a dreadful race!
The men have tails, the women paint the face.
No doubt the're all barbarians.-Yes, 'tis so;
I'll try to make palaver with them though:

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[Making signs.*

'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.
Good savages, our Captain craves assistance: 5
Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid her,
His Honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

Or you may chance to spoil" a thriving trade.

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His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 35 Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What? no reply to promises so ample?

-I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

1 Var.-a rocky, &c.

2 Var.-billing turtles in 'em.

3 Var.-The inhabitants are cannibals, &c.

4 These four lines are not in the early editions.-ED.

5 Var.-Oh, there the people are best keep my distance:

Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance.

6 Cradock gave the profits of the performance to Mrs. Yates, who played the heroine.-ED.

7 Var.-And we may chance to drive, &c.

8 Goldsmith's note, sent to Cradock with this Prologue, will be found with the Letters at the end of vol. i.—ED.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

[This piece was produced upon the occasion of the death of Augusta of Saxe Gotha, the relict of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and mother of George III., and was performed at Mrs. Conely's, or "the Great Room," Soho Square, Feb. 20, 1772. The only separate edition, which so appeared without Goldsmith's name, seems to have been the usual pamphlet one for selling " at the doors," on the evening of performance. This exists, but is very rare. The poet's name does not appear upon the work, probably because he deemed it, as he says below, "a compilation rather than a poem." Steevens and Reed suggested that it should be included in Goldsmith's works; and Chalmers first (1810) so included it, printing from a copy given by the author to Cradock, and then in the possession of Nichols. See also note 2 at p. 106, and the letter to Cradock dated "Sunday Morning," with the Letters in vol. i.-ED.]

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 therefore 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 adapted in a period of time equally short.

SPEAKERS-Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy.

SINGERS-Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson; with Twelve Chorus Singers.

THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNOR VENTO.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.

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!

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When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

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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!

20

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

Alas! they never had thy hate;

Unmoved, 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;

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

In vain, to drive thee from the right,

A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashion'd 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!

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

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

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But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.

With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing pow'r,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore

The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

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'Chalmers's version runs this song on to the lines for the "Man Speaker," but has the same words then repeated under "Song by a man," &c.-ED.

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.-BASSO, STACCATO, SPIRITOSO.

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-

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65

70

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As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

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

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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;

85

For as the line of life conducts me on

'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair,

To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,

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