Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell :
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,*
A refuge to the neighb❜ring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch, †
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest, ‡
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And gayly press'd, and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's wo;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care oppress'd:
And" Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
• Var. - Far shelter'd in a glade obscure
The modest mansion lay.
The door just opening, &c. Vur. To revel or to rest.
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame.
But leaves the wretch to weep?
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush.
And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.*
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.†
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.
And, “Ah! forgive a stranger rude—–
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
The bashful guest betray'd.
He sees unnumber'd beauties rise,
Expanding to the view;
Like clouds that deck the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too..
Her looks, her lips, her panting breast,
Alternate, &c.
The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine:
Their charms were his, but, wo to me,
Their constancy was mine.
* Var.- Each morn the gay fantastic crowd,
+ This stanza was preserved by Richard Archdale, Esq. a member of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Goldsmith, and was first inserted after the author's death.-B.
Var. Th' inconstancy was mine, &c.
"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd
I triumph'd in his pain :
Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
"Forbid it Heaven!" the Hermit cried,*
And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide-
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd!
* Var.-Thou shalt not thus, the Hermit cried, &c Var. O thou- my all, &c.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
[First published in 1774, after the author's death.]
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtû;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest, in my turn,
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr Burn. †
To go ca with my tale: as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch,
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast. I had next to dispose—
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H— ff,
I think they love venison- I know they love beef;
There's my countryman, Higgins-oh, let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone:
But, hang it! to poets who seldom can eat
Your very good mutton 's a very good treat;
The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from Horace, Lib. ii. Sat. 8. which has also been imitated by Regnier. Sat. 10.— - B. + Lord Clare's nephew
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