way

With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school :
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew ;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew,
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre-
sage,

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge :
In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill;
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue
still;

While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound,

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around-, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot.Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place : The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the

door ;

The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of

goose;

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendour! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;

Careful to see the mantling bliss go round : Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art:
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born
sway;

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay! 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted

ore,

And shouting folly hails them from her shore; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a

name

That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth,
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half
their growth;

His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,

When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd;
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd,
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While scourged by famine from the smiling
land,

The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms-a garden and a grave.

Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride! If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,

And even the bare-worn common is denied.

If to the city sped-What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long drawn pomps display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn

thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn,
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the
shower,

With beavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before,

The various terrors of that horrid shore ;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance
crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murderous still than
they ;

| While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that

parting day

That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exile, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their
last,

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!
The good old sire, the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a
tear,

And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee !

How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse thy pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own :
At every draught more large and large they
grow,

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Tili sapp'd their strength, and every part un
sound,

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the
sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety, with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest tame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride.

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength pos-
sest,

Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift de-

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em ;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give-but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion :
Such short-lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil:
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee-to the devil.

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPILOGUE

TO THE

COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser?

Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me, she should have made Her moral play a speaking masquerade; Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;

Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,

What if I give a masquerade?—I will. But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]-I've got my cue : The world's a masquerade, the masquers you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside 'em,

Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em. There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore: These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler and takes up the

lion;

Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round
parade,
Looking, as who should say, dam'me! whose
afraid? [ Mimicking.]

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white;
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man is
black!

Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,

Suspend your conversation while I sing.

Mrs Bulkl. Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue of singing,

A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set-
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette.

Miss Call. What if we leave it to the house?
Mrs Bulkl. The bouse!-Agreed.
Miss Catl. Agreed.

Mrs Bulkl. And she whose party's largest shall proceed.

And first, I hope you'll readily agree
I've all the critics and the wits for me.
They, I am sure will answer my commands,
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands:
What! no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.

Miss Catl. I'm for a different set.-Old men whose trade is

Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

Recitative.

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,

Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling.

AIR.-Cotillon.

Turn my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye,
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Da Capo.

Mrs Bulkl. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ;

Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train,

Of French frisseurs and nosegays justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once-a-year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen
here;

Lend me your hands.-O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle.

Miss Catl. Ay, take your travellers-travellers indeed!

Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.

Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.

AIR.-A bonny young Lad is my Jockey.

I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, And be unco merry when you are but gay; When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. Mrs Bulkl. Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit,

Make but of all your fortune one va toute: Ye Jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds.-Done, done, with you, with you."

Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, "My Lord,-Your Lordship misconceives the case."

Doctors, who cough and answer every mis fortuner,

I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner : Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party.

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?

The Moon, says be;-but I affirm the Stage:
At least in many things, I think I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses;
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for Operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on.
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The Gamester too, whose wits all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stored,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment :-the crea-

ture

Still stoops among the low to copy nature.

Yes, he's far gone;-and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.*

This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr Goldsmith to Dr Percy (now Bishop of Dromore,) for what Conedy it was intended is not remembered.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON;

POETICAL EPISTLE

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer

or fatter

Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a plat

ter;

The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammond of bacon hangs up for a show; But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,

They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is. fried in.

But hold let me pause-don't I hear you