MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS. WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, A fellowship at twenty five Such pleasures unalloy'd with care, Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains closed around? Let it suffice that each had charms; He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; And though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough. The honey-moon like lightning flew Skill'd in no other arts was she, Could so much beauty condescend In short, by night, 'twas fits for fretting; Thus as her faults each day were known, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes; Now to perplex the ravelled noose, The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright: Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes; In vain she tries her paste and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens; The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And ev'n the captain quit the field. Poor madam now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old : With modesty her cheeks are dyed, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. A NEW SIMILE IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. LONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind; The modern scribbling kind who write, In wit, and sense, and nature's spite : Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, First please to turn to god Mercurius ! You'll find him pictured at full length, In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, Pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right, With wit that's flighty beaming light; Such as to modern bards decreed; A just comparison,-proceed. In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites, For in the modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head. Lastly vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; By classic authors term'd caduceus, And highly famed for several uses. To wit-most wondrously endued, No poppy water half so good; For let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore, Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then ;His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind, Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom'd bites, An equal semblance still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep, This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript, Well! what of that? out with it-stealing; DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug; A window, patched with paper, lent a ray, That dimly showed the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons framed with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William showed his lampblack face. The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five cracked tea-cups dressed the chimneyboard; A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay, A cap by night-a stocking all the day; The following Letter addressed to the Printer of the St James's Chronicle, appeared in that Paper in June, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr Percy. *The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry." vol, i. Book 2. No. 18. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD. "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale "For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share "No flocks that range the valley free "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. "From better habitations spurn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling, and decay; "And what is friendship but a name, "And love is still an emptier sound, "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said; |