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In the Manner of Swift.

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious, ¡ Have strove to prove, with great precision,

With definition and division, Homo est ratione preditum; But for my soul I cannot credit'em: And must in spite of them maintain That man and all his ways are vain; And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature: That instinct is a surer guide Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; And that brute beasts are far before 'em, Deus est anima brutorum. Who ever knew an honest brute At law his neighbour prosecute; Bring action for assault and battery, Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd; No politics disturb their mind : They eat their meals, and take their sport; Nor know who's in or out at court: They never to the levee go To treat as dearest friend a foe: They never importune his grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:* Fraught with invective they ne'er go To folks at Paternoster-row: No jugglers, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pickpockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds: No single brute his fellow leads: Brutes never meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape. Like man, he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion: But both in malice and grimaces A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him, humbly, cringing, wait Upon the minister of state: View him soon after to inferiors, Aping the conduct of superiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators: At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters, Their masters' manners still contract, And footmen lords and dukes can act; Thus at the court, both great and small Behave alike--for all ape all.

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 pictur'd 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, learning 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 a 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-incircled wand;
By classic authors term’d. Caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses :
To wit-most wondrously endu'd,
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 twin'd
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 Tartarus, with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks

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Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of

She Stoops to Conquer." Ar me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the ruiner : Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false-one pursuing her,

Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

* Sir Robert Walpole.

A window, patch'd with paper,

lent a ray, That dimly shew'd 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, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William shew'd his lamp-black

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 scor'd, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

On the Death of a Mad Dog.
Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond'rous short,

It cannot hold you long.
In Isling-town there was a man,

Or whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran-

Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad

When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique þegan, The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To ev'ry Christian eye, And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew'd the rogues they ly’d: The man recover'd of the bite;

The dog it was that died.



Imitated from the Spanish. SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity, than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.

STANZAS. ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. Oh, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes ; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead !

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

THE CLOWN'S REPLY. JOHN TROTT was desir'd by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears? “ An't please you," quoth John, “ I'm not given to

letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses."

Edinburgh, 1753.

STANZAS ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray; What charm can sooth 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 !

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way! Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. ; Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below: More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies.


EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's hack: He led such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.


CHAMBER. WAERE the Red Lion, staring, o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;

* This person was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade. Goldsmith's epitaph is nearly a translation from al i ttle piece of De Cailly's, called La Mort du Sire Estienne.



MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word

From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor

Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning, And never follow'd wicked ways

Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumber'd in her pew

But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow'd her

When she has walk'd before. But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short-all; The doctors found, when she was dead,

Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say, That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.

Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman
Knight, whom Cæsar forced upon the Stage.
Preserved by Macrobins

What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by power, and unappal'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my board of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven himself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame,
And caneet at threescore a life of fame:
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well :
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

SONG. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,

Lost to every gay delight; Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection,

Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had Myra follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear.


A Tragedy. In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore The distant climates and the savage shore; When wise astronomers to India steer, And quit for Venus many a brighter here; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling; Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of tradingYet, ere he lands, has order'd me before, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? our reck’ning sure is lost ! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord! what a sultry climate am I under! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder :

[Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em

[Pit. Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em

(Balconies. Here ill-conditioned oranges abound

[Stage. And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:

[Tasting them. Th’ inhabitants are cannibals, I fear: I heard a hissing-there are serpents here! 0, there the people are-best keep my distance; Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; Our ship’s well stor'd-in yonder creek we've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure ; lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war. What no reply to promises so ample? -- I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

The wretch condemn’d with life to part,

Still, still, on hope relies;
And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimm’ring taper's light,

Adornis and cheers the way,
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain. Thou, like the world, the oppress’d oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

* This translation was first printed in one of Goldsmith's earliest works, “ The present State of Learning in Europe," 12mo. 1759.




In the Character of Harlequin, at his Benefit.

WHAT! five long acts-and all to make us wiser ! HOLD! prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;

Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience.

Had she consulted me, she should have made My pride forbids it ever should be said,

Her moral play a speaking masquerade; My heels eclips'd the honours of my head';

Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage That I found humour in a pyeball vest,

Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking; [Takes off his mask.

Have pleas'd our eyes, and say'd the pain of Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?

thinking. Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;

Well, since she thus has shewn her want of skill, In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,

What if I give a masquerade ?—I will. The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.

But how? aye, there's the rub! (pausing)—I've got How hast thoú fill'd the scene with all thy brood

my cue: Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!

The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses ;


[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Whose only plot it is to break our noses ;

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false And from above the dangling deities.

spouses ! And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close behind 'em, May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do!

Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em. No-I will act-I'l vindicate the stage:

There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.

To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. Off! Off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns ! These in their turn, with appetites as keen, The maddening monarch revels in my veins.

Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme: Miss, not yet full' fifteen, with fire uncommon, Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !--soft- Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 'twas but a dream.

The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there'sno retreating ; And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

Thus 'tis with all their chief and constant care
"Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Is to seem every thing but what they are.
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion; And cavill'd at his image in the flood:

Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round pa“ The deuce confound,” he cries, these drumstick

rade, shanks,

Looking, as who should say, Damme! who's afraid ? They neither have my gratitude nor thanks:

[Mimicking. They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead! Strip but his vizor off, and sure I am But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head.

You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! Yon politician, famous in debate,
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now.” Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
While thus he spoke, astonish'd! to his view

Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Hoicks! hark forward ! came thund'ring from behind, Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind :

And seems to every gazer all in white, He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;

If with a bribe his candour you attack, He starte, he pants, he takes the circling maze. He bows, turns round, and whip--the man's in At length his silly head, co priz'd before,

black! Is taught bis former folly to deplore;

Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
Whilst his long limbs conspire to set him free, If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.

Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
[Taking a jump through the stage door. Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you,


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JAMES THOMSON, the son of a minister well petty competition and private malignity, where merit esteemed for his piety and diligence, was born Sep- might soon become conspicuous, and would find. ternber 7th, 1700, at Ednam, in the shire of Roxburgh, friends as soon as it became reputable to befriend it. of which his father was pastor. His mother, whose A lady who was acquainted with his mother, adname was Hume, inherited as co-heiress a portion vised him to the journey, and promised some coun. of a small estate. The revenue of a parish in Scot- tenance or assistance, which at last he never reland is seldom large; and it was probably in commi-ceived; however, he justified his adventure by her seration of the difficulty with which Mr. Thomson encouragement, and came to seek in London patron. supported his family, having nine children, that Mr. age and fame. Riccarton, a neighbouring minister, discovering in At his arrival he found his way to Mr. Mallet, James uncommon promises of future excellence, un- then tutor to the sons of the Duke of Montrose. He dertook to superintend his education, and provide him had recommendations to several persons of consebooks.

quence, which he had tied up carefully in his handHe was taught the common rudiments of learning kerchief; but as he passed along the street, with the at the school of Jedburg, a place which he delights to gaping curiosity of a new.comer, his attention was recollect in his poem of “ Autumn;" but was not upon every thing rather than his pocket, and his maconsidered by his master as superior to common gazine of credentials was stolen from him. boys, though in those early days he amused his pa- His first want was a pair of shoes. For the supply tron and his friends with poetical compositions ; of all his necessities, his whole fund was his Winter, with which, however, he so little pleased himself, which for a time could find no purchaser ; till, at that on every new-year's day he threw into the fire last, Mr, Millan was persuaded to buy it at a low all the productions of the foregoing year.

price; and this low price he had for some time reaFrom the school he was removed to Edinburgh, son to regret; but, by accident, Mr. Whatley, a man where he had not resided two years when his father

not wholly unknown among authors, 'happening to died, and left all his children to the care of their turn his eye upon it, was so delighted that he ran mother, who raised upon her little estate what money from place to place celebrating its excellence. Thoma mortgage could afford, and, removing with her son obtained likewise the notice of Aaron Hill, wbom, family to Edinburgh, lived to see her son rising into being friendless and indigent, and glad of kindness, eminence.

he courted with every expression of servile adulation. The design of Thomson's friends was to breed him Winter was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton, a minister. He lived at Edinburgh, as at school, but attracted no regard from him to the author; till without distinction or expectation, till, at the usual Aaron Hill awakened his attention by some verses time, he performed a probationary exercise by ex- addressed to Thomson, and published in one of the plaining a psalm. His diction was so poetically newspapers, which censured the great for their nego splendid, that Mr. Hamilton, the professor of Divi. lect of ingenious men. Thomson then received a nity, reproved him for speaking language unintelli- present of twenty guineas, of which he gives this gible to a popular audience; and he censured one of account to Mr. Hill: his expressions as indecent, if not profane.

“ I hinted to you in my last, that on Saturday This rebuke is reported to have repressed his “ morning I was with Sir Spencer Compton. A thoughts of an ecclesiastical character, and he pro- “ certain gentleman, without my desire, spoke to bably cultivated with new diligence his blossoms of

“ him concer

me; his answer was, that I had poetry, which, however, were in some danger of a “ never come near him. Then the gentleman put blast; for, submitting his productions to some who “ the question, If he desired that I should wait on thought themselves qualified to criticise, he heard of “ him ? He returned, he did. On this, the gentlenothing but faults; but, finding other judges more man gave me an introductory Letter to him. He favourable, he did not suffer himself to sink into “ received me in what they commonly call a civil despondence.

manner; asked me some common-place questions ; He easily discovered that the only stage on which “ and made me a present of twenty guineas. I am a poet could appear, with any hope of advantage, very ready to own that the present was larger than was London; a place too wide for the operation of “ my performance deserved; and shall ascribe it to

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