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OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Born 1728. Died 1774.

THE TRAVELLER.

EMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

RE

Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a length'ning chain.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair:
Blest be those feasts, with simple plenty crowned,
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests and pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;

Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.
But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care;

Impelled with steps unceasing to pursue

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet as I follow, flies;

My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot in all the world my own.

THE HAPPIEST SPOT.

BUT, where to find that happiest spot below,

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked negro panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind; As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. From The Traveller.

N

THE VILLAGE CLERGYMAN.

EAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed :
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire and talked the night away,

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty, prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul :
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile,
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

From The Deserted Village.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

WH

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.

From The Vicar of Wakefield.

RETALIATION.

F 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 dean shall be ven'son, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke3 shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour;

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And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour:
Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain;
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain :

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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 10 is lamb;
That Hickey's 11 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.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much;

1 The master of St. James's coffee-house, where the doctor and the friends he has characterised in the poem, occasionally dined.

3 Mr. Edmund Burke.

2 Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland. Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. 5 Mr. Richard Burke, collector for Granada.

Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of The West Indian,'' Fashionable

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Lover,' The Brothers,' and other dramatic pieces.

Dr. Douglas, Bishop of Salisbury.

* David Garrick, Esq.

10 Sir Joshua Reynolds.

• Counsellor John Ridge.

An eminent attorney.

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