Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their wo.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around:
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these bevond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
While her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.
Oh, Luxury! thou cursed 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 vigour 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 shane in crowds, my solitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss and all my wo,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
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 fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
And slighted Truth, with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states, of native strength possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very bless'd;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependant power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
RETALIATION.
FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774.
[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for RETALIATION, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.] Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. If our landlord' supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
1 The master of St. James's Coffee-house, where the doc
Our dean' shall be venison, just fresh from the plains, Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains,
Our Will3 shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour.
Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall ob-
tain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain :
Our Garrick's' a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds9 is lamb;
That Hickey's1o a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table.
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with
mirth;
If he had any faults he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks, I could not find them out; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. tor, and the friends he has characterized in his poem, occasionally dined. 1 Dr. Bernard, dean of Derry, in Ireland. 2 Edmund Burke, Esq. 3 Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway. 4 Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. 5 Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the "West Indian," "Fashionable Lover," ," "The Brothers," and other dramatic pieces. 6 Dr. Douglass, canon of Windsor and bishop of Salisbury, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world than a sound critic in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes. 7 David Garrick, Esq. 8 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. 9 Sir Joshua Reynolds. 10 An eminent attorney.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his
throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend' to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient:
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William,2 whose heart was a
mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, [in't;
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were
his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! [at;
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
1 Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitechurch. 2 Vide page 212. 3 Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 212.
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