many years has known no abatement. Those who wish to ascertain his precise rank among English poets will find many valuable remarks in an Essay on the Poetry of Goldsmith, by Dr. Aikin, prefixed to a beautiful edition of his poems published in 1804; and in a Critica! Life of Dr. Goldsmith, by Mr. Egerton Brydges, in the fifth volume of his Censura Literaria. The present edition of his poems is copied from the octavo principally, with the addition of the Threnodia Augustalis, a piece which has hitherto escaped the researches of his editors. It is now printed from a copy given by the author to his friend Joseph Cradock, esq. of Gumley, author of Zobeide, &c. and obligingly lent to me by Mr. Nichols. If it adds little to his fame, it exhibits a curious instance of the facility with which he gratified his employers on a very short notice. POEMS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. THE TRAVELLER: OR, A PRO- TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office; where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and music come in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at length supplant her, they engross all that favour once shewn to her, and, though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care, and happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for errour is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbulence is said to be force, and his phrenzy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse, to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear sir, your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE TRAVELLER. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 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 ap pear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, As some lone miser, visiting his store, 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 labour's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is supply'd 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, honour, 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; [vails And honour sinks where commerce long preHence ev'ry state, to one lov'd blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone: Each to the fav'rite 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 blasť. Far to the right, where Appennine 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; Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; 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; And ev'nin penance planning sins anew. At her command the palace learnt to rise, Yet still the loss of wealth is here supply'd An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread: Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; And drags the struggling savage into day. Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And e'eu those hills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more, Such are the charms to barren states assign'd: Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd: That first excites desire and then supplies; But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; These, far dispers'd, on tim'rous pinions fly, To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain: Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, Yet would the village praise my wond'rous pow'r, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, |