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Dispel the mists of error, and unbind
Where er'n mate walls are taught to fatter state, Those pedant chains that clog the free-born mind. And painted triumphs style Ambition GREAT.* Happy who thus his leisure can employ!
With more delight those pleasing shades I view He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy; Where Condé from an envious court withdrew, Nor veit with pangs that boeier bosoms tear, Where, sick of glory, faction, power, and pride, Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care ;
Sure judge bow empty all, who all had tried!) Safe in the port, yet laboring to sustain
Beneath his palms the weary chief repos'd, Those who still float on the tempestuous main. And life's great scene in quiet virtue clos'd.
So Locke the days of studious quiet spent; 1 With shame that other fam'd retreat I see, So Boyle in wisdom found divine content; Adorn'd by art, disgrac'd by luxury:I So Cambray, worthy of a happier doon,
Where Orleans wasted every vacant hoor, The virtaous slase of Louis and of Rome. In the wild riot of unbounded power;
Good Worster* thus sopports his drooping age, Where feverish debauch and impious love Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage; Staind the mad table and the guilty grove. He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defied,
With these amusements is thy friend detain'd, Firm and intrepid on his country's side,
Pleas'd and instructed in a foreign land; Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest Yet oft a tender wish recalls my mind guide!
From present joys to dearer left behind. O generous warmth! O sanctity divine!
O native isle, fair Freedom's happiest seat! To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine:
At thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat; Learn from his life the duties of the gown; At thought of thee, my heart impatient burns, Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown;
And all my country on my soul returns. Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great,
When shall I see thy fields, whose plenteous grain Nor raise the church a rival to the state :
No power can ravish from th' industrious swain! To error mild, to vice alone severe,
When kiss, with pious love, the sacred earth Seek not to spread the law of lore by fear.
That gave a Barleigh or a Russell birth? The priest who plagues the world can never mend: When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood, No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.
Propt by their care, or strengthend by their blood Let reason and let virtue faith maintain ;
Of fearless independence wisely vain, All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain The proudest slave of Bourbon's race disdain! Me other cares in other climes engage,
Yet, oh! what doubt, what sad presaging voice, Cares that become my birth, and suit my age, Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice; In various knowledge to improve my youth, Bids me contemplate every state around, And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth; From sultry Spain to Norway's icy bound; By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,
Bids their lost rights, their ruin'd glory see:
A nation here I pity and admire,
WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Whose nobles, born to cringe and to command,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, (In courts a mean, in camps a generous band,)
I would approach, but dare not more: From each low tool of power, content receive
Tell me, my heart, if this be love!
Whene'er she speaks, my ravishd ear
No other voice but hers can hear, With happy follies rise above their fate,
No other wit but hers approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend, Who, from the ancients, like the ancients writ,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I do more
Delight in all that pleas'd before, By keen, yet decent, satire skill'd to please,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When, fond of power, of beauty vain, Now sweet Racine, with milder influence, move
Her nets she spread for every swain, The soften'd heart to pity and to love.
I strove to hate, but vainly strove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
The victories of Louis the Fourteenth, painted in the
galleries of Versailles.
1 St. Cloud.
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
of grief surpassing every other woe, The heavy hours are almost past
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
But how, my Delia, will you meet
The man you've lost so long? Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue ?
Will you in every look declare
Your heart is still the same; And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?
Ye tusted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
Nor will she now with fond delight
Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene,
When shortly we shall meet; And try what yet remains between
Of loitering time to cheat.
But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove; If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love:
Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;
The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's flute
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell;
All I of Venus ask, is this;
No more to let us join :
To die, and think you mine.
In vain I look around
O'er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ;
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
'Nor by yon fountain's side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found :
In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound .
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
To your sequester'd dales
And flower-embroider'd vales
From an admiring world she chose to fly :
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breast, Ipse cavà solang cegrum testudine amorem,
But those, the gentlest and the best, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,
Whose holy flames with energy divine Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
The virtuous heart enliven and improve, At length escap'd from every human eye,
The conjugal and the maternal love. From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
By your delighted mother's side, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ?
Ah! where is nuw the hand whose tender care At least, ye Nine, her spotless name
With golden characters her worth engrave.
Come then, ye virgin-sisters, come, O wretched father! left alone,
And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe, With accents sweet and sad, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn Perform the duties that you doubly owe!
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn;
O come, and to this fairer Laura pay
Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
From these fond arms, that vainly strove How eloquent in every look
|Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly spoke! To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd, Could not your favoring power, Aonian Left all the taint of modish vice behind, maids,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree Could not, alas! your power prolong her date, With candid Truth's simplicity,
For whom so oft in these inspiring shades, And uncorrupted Innocence !
She join'd the softening influence
of more than female tenderness : Your ancient bards sublimely thought,
How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit! Which oft the care of others' good destroy, glow ?
Her kindly-melting heart,
To every want and every woe, Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,
To guilt itself when in distress,
The balm of pity would impart,
Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife, Nor where Clitumnust rolls his gentle stream, Her gentle tears would fall, Nor where through hanging woods,
|Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all Steep Aniot pours his floods, Nor yet where Meles ♡ or Ilissus || stray.
Not only good and kind,
But strong and elevated was her mind :
A spirit that with noble pride
On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize;
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain.
A wit that, temperately bright,
With inoffensive light
All pleasing shone ; nor ever past
The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;
And sweet Benevolence's mild command, Or what in Britain's isle,
And bashful Modesty, before it cast. Most favor'd with your smile,
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd, The powers of Reason and of Fancy join'd
That nor too little nor too much believ'd, To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear, Ah! what is now the use
And without weakness knew to be sincere. Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd. Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,
In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the tomb * The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth place of Virgil.
| The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, Propertius.
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, I The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where lor. When now the wintry tempests all are fled, ace had a villa.
And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, $ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head : supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melisigenes. From every branch the balmy flowerets rise | The Ilissus is a river at Athens.
On every bough the golden fruits are seen ..
With odors sweet it fills the smiling skies,
Support me, every friend ;
Alas! each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine, The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief
In every other grief, Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers,
Are now with your idea sadden'd all: With never-fading myrtles twin'd,
Each favorite author we together read And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
dead. Arise, and hither bring the silver lyre, Tun'd by thy skilful hand,
We were the happiest pair of human-kind : To the soft notes of elegant desire,
The rolling year its varying course perform'd
And back return'd again;
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain :
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind :
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. Rough mountain oaks, and desert rocks, to pity move.
O fatal, fatal stroke,
That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine?
Of rare felicity, To thee thy mistress in the blissful band
On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, Of Hymen never gave her hand;
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form’d,
In one sad moment broke
Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay;
Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign, Would heal thy wounded heart
Or against his supreme decree Of every secret grief that fester'd there:
With impious grief complain. Nor did her fond affection on the bed
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head Was his most righteous will — and be that will Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
Would thy fond love his grace to her control, With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name. And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul
Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
No—rather strive thy grovelling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze, How can my soul endure the loss of thee? That heavenly radiance of eternal light, How in the world, to me a desert grown,
In which enthron'd she now with pity sees Abandon'd and alone,
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss;
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, What pleasures now can pall’d Ambition give? Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, It does not to its sovereign good ascend. Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, could raise.
And seek those regions of serene delight,
Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate For my distracted mind
No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss What succor can I find ?
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore, On whom for consolation shall I call ? | There yield up all his power, ne'er to divide you more
OLIVER GOLDSMITH, an eminent poet, and a mis-funcommon favor. Although this was a gainful cellaneous writer, was born in 1729, according to year to him, yet thoughtless profusion, and a habit one account, at Elphin; according to another, at of gaming, left him at its close considerably in debt Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland. From In the two succeeding years he supplied the book. his father, who was a clergyman, he received a sellers with a “Grecian History," and " A History literary education, and was sent at an early period of the Earth and Animated Nature," the last to Dublin College. Thence he was removed as a chiefly taken from Buffon. He had planned some medical student to the University of Edinburgh, other works, but these were cut off by his untimely where he continued from 1751 to the beginning of death. In March 1774 he was attacked with the 1754. From the slight tincture of science which symptoms of a low fever; and having taken, upon he seems to have acquired, it is probable that he his own judgment, an over-dose of a powerful paid little attention to the studies of the place; and medicine, he sunk under the disease, or the remehis necessity for quitting Edinburgh to avoid paying dy, and died on the tenth day, April 4th. He was a debt, said to have been contracted by a fellow. buried, with little attendance, in the Temple student, augurs but little for his moral character. Church ; but a monument has since been raised With these unfavorable beginnings, in the midst of to his memory, with a Latin inscription by Dr. penury, he resolved to indulge his curiosity in a Johnson. visit to the continent of Europe ; and after a long Goldsmith was a man of little correctness either ramble, and various fortunes, he found means to get in his conduct or his opinions, and is rather adback 10 England in 1758. For a considerable mired for his genius, and beloved for his benevotime he supported himself by his pen, in an obscure lence, than solidly esteemed. The best part of his situation, when, in 1765, he suddenly blazed out as character was a warmth of sensibility, which made a poet, in his “ Traveller; or, A Prospect of Socie- him ready to share his purse with the indigent, and ty." It was at the instigation of Dr. Johnson that in his writings rendered him the constant advocate he enlarged this piece, and finished it for publica of the poor and oppressed. The worst feature was tion; and that eminent critic liberally and justly a malignant envy and jealousy of successful rivals, said of it, that "there had not been so fine a poem which he often displayed in a manner not less ri. since Pope's time." It was equally well received diculous than offensive. He was one of those who by the public; and conferred upon Goldsmith a are happier in the use of the pen than the tongue; celebrity which introduced him to some of the most his conversation being generally confused, and not distinguished literary characters of the time. seldom absurd ; so that the wits with whom he kept
The poet continued to pursue his career, and, company seem rather to have made him their butt in 1766, was published his novel of "The Vicar of than to have listened to him as an equal. Yet, Wakefield," which was received with deserved ap- perhaps, no writer of his time was possessed of plause, and has ever since borne a distinguished more true humor, or was capable of more poig. rank among similar compositions. Some of his nancy in marking the foibles of individuals. This most pleasing and successful works in prose were talent he has displayed in a very amusing manner given to the world about this time ; and he paid his in his unfinished poem of “Retaliation," written respects to the Theatre, by a comedy entitled "The as a kind of retort to the jocular attacks made upon Good-Natured Man," acted at Covent-Garden in him in the Literary Club. Under the mask of 1768, which, however, defects of plot, and igno- Epitaphs, he has given masterly sketches of some rance of dramatic effect, rendered not very success of the principal members, with a mixture of serious ful. His poetical fame reached its summit in 1770, praise and good-humored raillery. It may indeed by the publication of “The Deserted Village," a be said that the latter sometimes verges into tartdelightful piece, which obtained general admiration. ness, which is particularly the case with his delineaThe price offered by the bookseller, amounting to tion of Garrick. nearly five shillings a couplet, appeared to Gold. On the whole, his literary fame must be consid. smih so enormous, that he at first refused to take ered as rising the highest in the character of a poet, it, but the sale of the poem convinced him that he for it would be difficuit, in the compass of English might fairly appropriate to himself that sum out of verse, to find pieces which are read with more the profits. In 1772 he produced another comedy, gratification than his Traveller and his Deserted entitled “She Stoops to Conquer; or, The Mistakes Village. There are, besides, his elegant ballad of of a Night;" and though in character and plot it The Hermit, his stanzas or \Voman, and some short made a near approach to farce, yet such were its humorous and miscellaneous pieces, which are omic powers that the audience received it with never without interest.