and elevated; in the second, they are more particular and interesting. Both are truly original productions; but the Deserted Village' has less peculiarity, and indeed has given rise to imitations which may stand in some parallel with it; while the Traveller' remains an unique. With regard to GOLDSMITH'S other poems, a few remarks will suffice. The Hermit,' printed in the same year with the Traveller,' has been a very popu. lar piece, as might be expected of a tender tale prettily told. It is called a Ballad,' but I think with no correct application of that term, which properly means a story related in language either naturally or affectedly rude and simple. It has been a sort of fashion to admire these productions; yet in the really ancient ballads, for one stroke of beauty, there are pages of insipidity and vulgarity; and the imitations have been pleasing in proportion as they approached more finished compositions. In GOLDSMITH'S Hermit,' the language is always polished, and often ornamented. The best things in it are some neat turns of moral and pathetic sentiment, given with a simple conciseness that fits them for being retained in the memory. As to the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to recommend it. We have already seen that GOLDSMITH possessed humour; and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces professedly humorous form a part of his poetical remains. His imitations of Swift are happy, but they are imitations. His tale of the Double Transformation' may vie with those of Prior. His own natural vein of easy humour flows freely in his Haunch of Venison' and Retaliation;' the first, an admirable specimen of a very ludicrous story made out of a common incident by the help of conversation and character; the other, an original thought, in which his talent at drawing portraits, with a mixture of the serious and the comic, is most happily displayed. VERSES ON THE DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. EXTRACT FROM A POEM WRITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ. ON THE DEATH OF EMINENT ENGLISH POETS. THE TEARS OF GENIUS. THE village bell tolls out the note of death, The church-way walk, beside the neighb'ring green, She saw the boast of Auburn moved along. With leaning slope and branch irregular, The briar-bound graves shadowing with funeral gloom, B (Sweil'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, And must my children all expire? And struck a muse with every dart: The tribute of a parting lay; Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain, And speak aloud her feelings and her pain! And first, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 'Thou pride of Auburn's dale-sweet bard, farewell! |