O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their own :

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo;

Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, Down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural Virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore and darken all the strand.
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care,

And kind connubial Tenderness, are there;
And Piety with wishes placed above,
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,

45062A

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell; and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ;

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;

Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE

THE HERMIT;

A BALLAD.

The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767.

SIR,-As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published ; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humor, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cen

Friar of Orders Gray. Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. i, book 2, No. 17.

to, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his frendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.—I am, Sir, yours, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE HERMIT.

'TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning as I go.'

'Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.

'Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will.

'Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.