WOMAN SPEAKER.

In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appeared a lovely maid,
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 charmed 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, 100 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, oh 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-blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb."

110

SONG. BY A WOMAN.-PASTORALE.

With garlands of beauty the queen of the May No more will her crook or her temples adorn;

Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight."

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-blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb.

CHORUS-ALTRO MODO.

120

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,1
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.

LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH,

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE

OF APRIL 3, 1800.

'EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew,

The budding rose its infant bloom

display:

When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.

1 "Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring."

Collins' Dirge in Cymbeline.

K

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak.

POEMS INTERSPERSED AMONGST GOLD

SMITH'S PROSE WRITINGS,

NOT GENERALLY INCLUDED IN HIS

POETICAL WORKS.

(See Citizen of the World, ii. 87). It is the business of the stage poet to watch the appearance of every new player at his own house, and so come out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper verses. In these nature and the actor may be set to run races, the player always coming off victorious: or nature may mistake him for herself; or old Shakespeare may put on his winding sheet, and pay him a visit, or the tuneful Nine may strike up their harps in his praise; or should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the beauteous Queen of Love, and the naked Graces, are ever waiting. The lady must be herself a goddess bred and born; she must-but you shall have a specimen of one of these poems, which may convey a more precise idea.

ON SEEING MRS. ** PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF ***

OR you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,

And tune my feeble voice to sing thy

praise.

The heartfelt power of every charm divine,

Who can withstand their all commanding shine;

See how she moves along with every grace, While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.

She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this.
As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove;
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around,

And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.

11

(See Citizen of the World, ii. p. 164). I am amazed that none have yet found out the secret of flattering the worthless, and yet of preserving a safe conscience. I have often wished for some method by which a man might do himself and his deceased patron justice, without being under the hateful reproach of self-conviction. After long lucubration, I have hit upon such an expedient, and send you the specimen of a poem upon the decease of a great man, in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly innocent.

OF THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON.*

E muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatched away;
Oh! had he lived another year!
He had not died to-day.

Oh! were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore,

Heroes themselves had fallen behin'
Whene'er he went before.