MISCELLANIES.

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, 1753.1

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT,
WHOM CESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.2

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,
No force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by power, and unappall'd by fear,

With honest thrift I held my honour dear:

1 First printed in the Dublin Edition of Goldsmith's Poems and Plays, 8vo., 1777, p. 79.

2 First printed in "The Present State of Polite Learning," 1759; but omitted in the second edition, which appeared in 1774.

But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard 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 itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel 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.

*

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.1

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,

Homo est ratione præditum;

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;

1 "The following Poem, written by Dr. Swift, is communicated to the public by The Busy Body, 'to whom it was presented by a nobleman of distinguished learning and taste."-The Busy Body, No. 5. It is improperly included in the two editions of Swift by Sir Walter Scott.

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 judges, 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 others' 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.

1 Sir Robert Walpole.

He in his turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small,
Behave alike, for all ape all.

EPIGRAM.

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 1

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, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.

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.

O, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

1 First printed in "The Bee," 1759.

2 "The princess of Eboli, the mistress of Philip II. of Spain, and Maugiron, the minion of Henry III. of France, had each of them lost an eye; and the famous Latin epigram, which Goldsmith has either translated or imitated, was written on them."-LORD BYRON, Works, vol. vi. p. 390.

First printed in "The Busy Body," 1759.

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.

A MADRIGAL.'

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

Fears the 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.

95

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.2

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

1 First printed in "The Bee," 1759.

First printed in "The Bee," 1759. The original is in "Ménagiana," tom. iv. p. 200:-

"Pour témoignage de ma flamme,

ÉTRENNE À IRIS.

Iris, du meilleur de mon âme,
Je vous donne à ce nouvel an
Non pas dentelle, ni ruban,
Non pas essence, non pas pommade,
Quelques boites de marmalade,
Un mouchoir, des gants, un bouquet,
Non pas fleures, ni chapelet.

Quoi donc ? attendez, je vous donne,

O fille plus belle que bonne,

Qui m'avez toujours refusé

Le point si souvent proposé,

Je vous donne-Ah ! le puis-je dire
Oui; c'est trop souffrir le martyre,
Il est temps, de m'emanciper,
Patience va m'échapper,

Fussiez-vous cent fois plus aimable,
Belle Iris, je vous donne-au diable."