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SONG.

THE heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me:
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.

But how, my Delia, will you meet The man you've lost so long? Will love in all your pulses beat, And tremble on your tongue?

Will you in every look declare

Your heart is still the same; And heal each idly-anxious care Our fears in absence frame?

Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,
When shortly we shall meet;
And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat.

But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove;
If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love:

All I of Venus ask, is this;

No more to let us join :

But grant me here the flattering bliss, To die, and think you mine.

SONG.

SAY, Myra, why is gentle love

A stranger to that mind,

Which pity and esteem can move, Which can be just and kind?

Is it, because you fear to share
The ills that love molest;
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breast?

Alas! by some degree of woe

We every bliss must gain:

The heart can ne'er a transport know, That never feels a pain.

TO THE MEMORY OF

THE FIRST LADY LYTTELTON.

A MONODY.

Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

AT length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,

I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more:
Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song,
And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell;

For Death has stopt that tuneful tongue,

Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can she now be found:
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast? Your bright inhabitant is lost.

You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts Where female vanity might wish to shine, The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye: To your sequester'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales From an admiring world she chose to fly : With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God, The silent paths of wisdom trod, And banish'd every passion from her breast, But those, the gentlest and the best, Whose holy flames with energy divine The virtuous heart enliven and improve, The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's side,

Who now your infant steps shall guide?

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?

O loss beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe!
Now she, alas! is gone.

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore;
From these fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love

To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favoring power, Aonian
maids,

Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
Or under Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store,
Whate'er your ancient sages taught,
Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit
glow?

Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian valleys did you play;
Nor then on Mincio's bank*

Beset with osiers dank,

Nor where Clitumnust rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where through hanging woods,
Steep Aniot pours his floods,

Nor yet where Meles or Ilissus | stray.

Ill does it now beseem,

That, of your guardian care bereft,

To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

Now what avails it that in early bloom, When light fantastic toys

Are all her sex's joys,

With you she search'd the wit of Greece and
Rome;

And all that in her latter days
To emulate her ancient praise
Italia's happy genius could produce;
Or what the Gallic fire

Bright sparkling could inspire,

By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
Or what in Britain's isle,

Most favor'd with your smile,
The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?
Ah! what is now the use

Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd.

*The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth-place of Virgil. †The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.

The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where Hor. ace had a villa.

§ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes. The Ilissus is a river at Athens.

At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
"Tis yours from Death to save,
And in the temple of immortal Fame
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come,
And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb
But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad,
With accents sweet and sad,

Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's un
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;

O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every look

Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke
Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's simplicity,
And uncorrupted Innocence!
Tell how to more than manly sense

She join'd the softening influence
Of more than female tenderness:
How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and
Which oft the care of others' good destroy,
Her kindly-melting heart,
To every want and every woe,
To guilt itself when in distress,
The balm of pity would impart,

And all relief that bounty could bestow!
Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife,

Her gentle tears would fall,
Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to s

Not only good and kind,

But strong and elevated was her mind:
A spirit that with noble pride
Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
That, injur'd or offended, never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffensive light

All pleasing shone; nor ever past
The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand,
And sweet Benevolence's mild command,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast.
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That nor too little nor too much believ'd,
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear.
And without weakness knew to be sincere.
Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,

In life's and glory's freshest bloom, Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomt

So, where the silent streams of Liris glide.
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempests all are fled.
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head
From every branch the balmy flowerets rise,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen

With odors sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend, and th' Idalian queen.
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows:

The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies.

Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,

With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre,

Tun'd by thy skilful hand,

To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
To me resign the vocal shell,
And teach my sorrows to relate
Their melancholy tale so well,
As may ev'n things inanimate,

Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to pity move.

What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? To thee thy mistress in the blissful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand; The joys of wedded love were never thine: In thy domestic care

She never bore a share,

Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every secret grief that fester'd there:

Nor did her fond affection on the bed

Support me, every friend; Your kind assistance lend,

To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. Alas! each friend of mine,

My dear departed love, so much was thine, That none has any comfort to bestow.

My books, the best relief

In every other grief,

Are now with your idea sadden'd all: Each favorite author we together read My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human-kind :
The rolling year its varying course perform'd
And back return'd again;
Another and another smiling came,

And saw our happiness unchang'd remain :
Still in her golden chain

Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind:
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.

O fatal, fatal stroke,

That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd Of rare felicity,

On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd, With soothing hope, for many a future day,

In one sad moment broke!

Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,

Or against his supreme decree

With impious grief complain.

That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade,

Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Was his most righteous will-and be that will

Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,

And charm away the sense of pain:
Nor did she crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

O best of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms,

How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desert grown,
Abandon'd and alone,

Without my sweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil,
What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give?
Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise,
Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts
could raise.

For my distracted mind

What succor can I find?

On whom for consolation shall I call?

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86

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, an eminent poet, and a mis- [uncommon favor. Although this was a gainfo! cellaneous writer, was born in 1729, according to year to him, yet thoughtless profusion, and a habi one account, at Elphin; according to another, at of gaming, left him at its close considerably index Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. From In the two succeeding years he supplied the book his father, who was a clergyman, he received a sellers with a "Grecian History," and "A History literary education, and was sent at an early period of the Earth and Animated Nature," the to Dublin College. Thence he was removed as a chiefly taken from Buffon. He had planned som medical student to the University of Edinburgh, other works, but these were cut off by his untimely where he continued from 1751 to the beginning of death. In March 1774 he was attacked with the 1754. From the slight tincture of science which symptoms of a low fever; and having taken, upu he seems to have acquired, it is probable that he his own judgment, an over-dose of a powerta. paid little attention to the studies of the place; and medicine, he sunk under the disease, or the reme his necessity for quitting Edinburgh to avoid paying dy, and died on the tenth day, April 4th. He s a debt, said to have been contracted by a fellow-buried, with little attendance, in the Temple student, augurs but little for his moral character. Church; but a monument has since been riset With these unfavorable beginnings, in the midst of to his memory, with a Latin inscription by It. penury, he resolved to indulge his curiosity in a Johnson.

visit to the continent of Europe; and after a long

Goldsmith was a man of little correctness eier ramble, and various fortunes, he found means to get in his conduct or his opinions, and is rather adback to England in 1758. For a considerable mired for his genius, and beloved for his benery time he supported himself by his pen, in an obscure lence, than solidly esteemed. The best part of bis situation, when, in 1765, he suddenly blazed out as character was a warmth of sensibility, which made a poet, in his "Traveller; or, A Prospect of Socie-him ready to share his purse with the indigent, ty." It was at the instigation of Dr. Johnson that in his writings rendered him the constant advocaz he enlarged this piece, and finished it for publica- of the poor and oppressed. The worst feature tion; and that eminent critic liberally and justly a malignant envy and jealousy of successful nak said of it, that "there had not been so fine a poem which he often displayed in a manner not less since Pope's time." It was equally well received diculous than offensive. by the public; and conferred upon Goldsmith a celebrity which introduced him to some of the most distinguished literary characters of the time.

He was one of those wh are happier in the use of the pen than the tongue his conversation being generally confused, and seldom absurd; so that the wits with whom he kep The poet continued to pursue his career, and, company seem rather to have made him their batt in 1766, was published his novel of "The Vicar of than to have listened to him as an equal. Yet Wakefield," which was received with deserved ap- perhaps, no writer of his time was possessed of plause, and has ever since borne a distinguished more true humor, or was capable of more po rank among similar compositions. Some of his nancy in marking the foibles of individuals. Th most pleasing and successful works in prose were talent he has displayed in a very amusing manner given to the world about this time; and he paid his in his unfinished poem of Retaliation," writ respects to the Theatre, by a comedy entitled "The as a kind of retort to the jocular attacks made up Good-Natured Man," acted at Covent-Garden in him in the Literary Club. Under the mask a 1768, which, however, defects of plot, and igno- Epitaphs, he has given masterly sketches of some rance of dramatic effect, rendered not very success- of the principal members, with a mixture of seriou ful. His poetical fame reached its summit in 1770, praise and good-humored raillery. It may indee by the publication of "The Deserted Village," a be said that the latter sometimes verges into tart delightful piece, which obtained general admiration. ness, which is particularly the case with his delinea The price offered by the bookseller, amounting to tion of Garrick.

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nearly five shillings a couplet, appeared to Gold- On the whole, his literary fame must be consid smith so enormous, that he at first refused to take ered as rising the highest in the character of a poek - it, but the sale of the poem convinced him that he for it would be difficult, in the compass of English might fairly appropriate to himself that sum out of verse, to find pieces which are read with more the profits. In 1772 he produced another comedy, gratification than his Traveller and his Deserted entitled "She Stoops to Conquer; or, The Mistakes Village. There are, besides, his elegant ballad of of a Night;" and though in character and plot it The Hermit, his stanzas on Woman, and some short made a near approach to farce, yet such were its humorous and miscellaneous pieces, which are comic powers that the audience received it with never without interest.

THE TRAVELLER.

OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
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 to see,
My heart, untravel'd, 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 ev'ning fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair;

Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or 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 destin'd such delights to share,
My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care;
Impell'd 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 of all the world my own.
Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendor
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale,
Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale,
For me your tributary stores combine;
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine.

[crown'd,

As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er,
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

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 diff'rent good, by Art or Nature giv'n
To diff'rent nations, makes their blessings ev'n.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent;
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content:
Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails,
And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone:
Each to the favorite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies:
Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry blast.
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends :
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between
With memorable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found,
That proudly rise or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And ev'n in penance planning sins anew.

Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, All evils here contaminate the mind,
May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;

That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs; not far remov'd the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd thro' the state,
At her command the palace learnt to rise,
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies;

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