“ And what is friendship but a name,

“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, A charm tbat lulls to sleep ;

And well my life shall pay; A shade that follows wealth or fame,

I'll seek the solitude he sought, And leaves the wretch to weep?

And stretch me where he lay. “ And love is still an emptier sound,

“ And there forlorn, despairing, hid, The modern fair-one's jest :

I'llay me down and die; On Earth unseen, or only found

'Twas so for me that Edwin did, To warm the turtle's nest.

And so for him will l." “For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, “ Forbid it, Heav'n!” the hermit cry'd, And spurn the sex,” he said:

And clasp'd her to his breast : But while he spoke, a rising blush

The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide, His love-lorn guest betray'd.

'Twas Edwin's self that prest. Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,

“ Turn, Angelina, ever dear, Swift mantling to the view;

My charmer, turn to see Like colours o'er the morning skies,

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, As bright, as transient tou.

Restor'd to love and thee. The bashful look, the rising breast,

“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, Alternate spread alarms :

And ev'ry care resign: The lovely stranger stands confest

And shall we never, never part, A maid in all her charms.

My life my all that's mine? " And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,

“No, never, from this hour to part, A wretch forlorn," she cry'd ;

We'll live and love so true, “ Whose feet unhallou'd thus intrude

The sigh that rends thy constant heart Where Heav'n and you reside.

Shall break thy Edwin's too." « But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. “My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he:

And all bis wealth was mark'd as mine,
He bad but only me.

PUBLISHED IN DR. GOLDSMITH'S VOLUME OF pasarg, “ To win me from his tender arms

1765. Uppumber'd suitors came, Who prais'd me for imputed charms,

SECLUDED from domestic strife, And felt, or feigu'd a Hame.

Jack Book-worin led a college life ;

A felowship at twenty-five “ Each hour a mercenary crowd

Made him the happiest man alive ; With richest proffers strove ;

He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. But never talk'd of love.

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, “ In humble, simplest habit clad,

Could any accident impair? No wealth or pow'r had he;

Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Wisdom and worth were all he had,

Our swain, arriv'd at thirty-six ? But these were all to me.

O had the archer ne'er come down “ And when, beside me in the dale,

To ravage in a country town! He carrol'd lays of love,

Or Flavia been content to stop His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop! And music to the grove.

O had her eyes forgot to blaze!

Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze. “ The blossom op'ning to the day,

0! But let exclamation cease; The dews of Heav'o refin'd,

Her presence banish'd all his peace; Could nought of purity display

So with decorum all things carried, To emulate his mind,

Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was--mar. “ The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

ried. With charms inconstant shine ;

Need we expose to vulgar sight Their charms were his; but, woe to me,

The raptures of the bridal night? Th'inconstancy was mine!

Need we intrude on ballow'd ground,

Or draw the curtains clos'd around? “ For still I try'd each fickle art,

Let it suffice, that each had charms : Importunate and vain;

He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; And while his passion touch'd my heart,

And, though she felt bis usage rough, I triumph’d in his pain.

Yet in a man 'twas well enough. « Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

The honey-moou like lightning fier; He left me to my pride;

The second brought its transports too : And sought a solitude forlorn

A third, a fourth, were not amiss; la secret, where he dy'do

The fift i was friendship mis d with bliss :

But when a twelvemonth pass'd away,

Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack found his goddess made of clay ;

Jack tinds his wife a perfect beauty.
Found all the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain'd behind,

That very face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. But dressing, patching, repartee;

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake, And, just as humour rose or fell,

Dear mercenary beauty, By turns a slattern or a belle;

What annual offøring shall I make "Tis true she dress'd with modern grace, Half naked at a ball or race;

Expressive of my duty ? But when at home, at board or bed,

My beart, a victim to thine eyes, Five greasy night-caps wrapt her head.

Should I at once deliver, Could so much beauty condescend

Say, would the angry fair one prize To be a dull domestic friend?

The gift, who slights the giver ? Could any curtain lectures bring

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, To decency so fine a thing?

My rivals give-and let 'em ; In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;

If gems or gold impart a joy,
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.

I'll give them-when I get 'em.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee :

I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
The 'squire and captain took their stations,

Or rose-bud more in fashion; And twenty other near relations.

Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke

A transitory passion. A sigh in suffocating smoke;

l'll give thee something yet unpaid, While all their hours were past between

Not less sincere than civil : Insulting repartee or spleen.

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid, Thus as her faults each day were known, I'll give thee-to the devil. He thinks her features coarser grown : He fancies ev'ry vice she shows, Or thins her lip, or points her nose ; Whenever rage or enyy rise,

TAE LOGICIANS REFUTED. How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! He knows not how, but so it is,

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. Her face is grown a knowing phyz: And though her fops are wond'rous civil,

Logicians have but ill defin'd He thinks her ugly as the devil.

As rational the human mind; Now, to perplex the ravelled noose,

Reason, they say, belongs to man, As each a diff'rent way pursues,

But let them prove it if they can. While sullen or loquacious strife

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, Promis'd to hold them on for life,

By ratiocinations specious, That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r

Have strove to prove with great precision, Withers the beauty's transient flow'r,

With definition and division, Lo! the small-pox, with borrid glare

Homo est ratione preditum; Leveli'd its terrours at the fair ;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em : And, riling ev'ry youthful grace,

And must in spite of them maintain Left but the remnant of a face.

That man and all his ways are vain ; The glass, grown hateful to her sight,

And that this boasted lord of nature Reflected now a perfect fright :

Is both a weak and erring creature: Each former art she vainly tries

That instinct is a surer guide To bring back lustre to her eyes.

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride; In vain she tries her pastes and credins

And that brute beasts are far before 'em, To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;

Deus est anima brutorum. Her country beaux and city cousins,

Who ever knew an honest brute Lovers no more, flew off by dozens :

At law his neighbour prosecute; The 'squire himself was seen to yield,

Bring action for assault and battery, And e'en the captain quit the field.

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack

O’er plains they ramble unconfin'd, The rest of life with anxious Jack,

No politics disturb their mind; Perceiving others fairly flown,

They eat their meals, and take their sport, Attempted pleasing him alone.

Nor know who's in or out at court; Jack soon was dazzled to behold

They never to the levee go Her present face surpass the old ;

To treat as dearest friend a foe; With modesty her cheeks are dy'd,

They never importune his grace, Humility displaces pride ;

Nor ever cringe to men in place; For tawdry finery, is seen

Nor undertake a dirty job, A person ever neatly clean :

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob; No more presuming on her sway,

Fraught with invective they ne'er go She learns good-nature ev'ry day:

To-folks at Pater-noster-row:

Nojugglers, fidlers, dancing-masters,
No pick pockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupedes;
No single brute his fellow leads;
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's threats 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.

I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, ronchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fillid with a snake-incircled wand;
By classic authors teri'd caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses :
To wit-most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let fuiks only get a touch,
11s soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add 100, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to lieli.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote bim of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
Ilis frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This diff'rence 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,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry 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?




Sure 'twas by Providence design'd,

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

To sare him from Narcissus' fate.






Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
lo 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 so furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'lî frud 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 bis bat,
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 fighty, 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 modem poet's flights,

Good people all, of ev'ry sort,

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

It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race be ran,

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

To comfort friends and foes;
The naked ev'ry 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 began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighb'ring streets

The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so yood 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,

DR. GOLDSMITH, That show'd the rogues they ly'd ;

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF The man recover'd of the bite,

APRIL 3, 1800. The dog it was that dy'd.

E’en have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew,

The budding rose its infant bloom display: THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. John Trott was desir'd by two witty peers,

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, (cheek; To tell them the reason why asses had ears? “An't please you,” quoth John, “ l'm not given I gaz'd, I sigh’d, I caught the tender flame,

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her to letters,

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;

weak. 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.

I send you a small production of the late Dr.

Goldsmith, which has never been published, and

which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I pot secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admira

ble comedy of She Stoops to Conquer, but When lovely woman stoops to folly,

it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the And finds too late that men betray,

part, did not sing. He sung it himself

, in priWhat charm can sooth her melancholy,

vate companies, very agreeably. The tune is a What art can wash her guilt away?

pretty Irish air, called, The Humours of Ba. The only art her guilt to cover,

jamagairy, to which he told me be found it To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,

very difficult to adapt words: but he has sucTo give repentance to her lover,

ceeded very bappily in these few lines. As I And wring his bosom-is, to die.

could sing the tune, and was fond of them, be was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding

bim adieu for that season, little apprehending DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S

that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little BED-CHAMBER.

relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectio

pate care, Where the Red Liou, staring o'er the way,

I am, gentlemen, Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL, Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black cham

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;

There in a lonely rooin, fron bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a


A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,

An me! when shall I marry me?
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
'The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ;

He, fond youth, that could carry me,
The royal game of goose was there in view,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; But I will rally and combat the ruiner:
The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover;
And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
face :

Makes but a penitent and loses a lover.
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,

STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney

board ;

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasures


Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming food of woe But now her wealth and fin'ry fled,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Her hangers-on cut short all;
Quebec in vain sball teach our breasts to glow, The doctors found, when she was dead
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

For Kent-street well may say,
And saw thee fall with joy -pronouncing eyes: That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth more
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead! She had not dy'd to day.

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

LPIT APA ON DR. PARNELL, Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Tuis tomb, inscrit'd to gentle Parnell's name,

- Lost to ev'ry gay delight; May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.

Myra, too sincere for feigning, What beart but feels his swertiy-moral lay,

Fears th' approaching bridal night. That leads to truth through pleasure's Bov'ry Yet why impair thy bright perfection, way!

Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Celestial themes confess'd his tunefui ajd ; Had Myra follow'd my direction,
And Heav'n, thai lent him genius, was repaid. She long bad wanted carise of fear.
Needless to bim the tribute we bestow,
Tje transit ry breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his words shall rise,

While converts think their poet in the skies.


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SONG. EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON 1. Tye wretch, condemn’d with life to part, flere lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Still, still on hope relies; Who long was a bookseller's hack ;

And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise,
He led such a dampable life in this world
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

Hope, like the glimun’ring taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way,
And still, as darker grows the night.

Emits a brighter ray.

Good people all, with one accord,

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, Lament for Madam Blaize,

Still importunate and vain, Who never wanted a good word

To former joys recurring ever, From those who spoke her praise.

And turning all the past to pain ; The needy seldom pass'd her door,

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, And always found her kind;

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! She freely lent to all the poor

And he who wants each other blessing, Who left a pledge behind.

In thee must ever find a foe, She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With mauners wond'rous winning, And never follow'd wicked ways Unless when she was sinning.

A PROLOGUE, At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of nionstrous 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,

What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,

And save from infamy my sinking age! 1 This gentleman was educated at Trinity Col- Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a rear, lege, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, What in the name of dotage drives me here? he eolisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, be obtained his discharge, * This translation was first printed in one of and became a scribbler in the newspapers. lle our author's earliest works, The present State translated Voltaire's Henriade.

of Learning in Europe, 12mo. 1759.


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