Sweet Auburn is no more.

That hope is idle for him. But though he finds the scene deserted, for us he re-peoples it anew, builds up again its ruined haunts, and revives its pure enjoyments; from the glare of crowded cities, their exciting struggles and palling pleasures, carries us back to the season of natural pastimes and unsophisticate desires; adjures us all to remember, in our several smaller worlds, the vast world of humanity that breathes beyond; shews us that there is nothing too humble for the loftiest and most affecting associations; and that where human joys and interests have been, their memory is sacred for ever!

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the signpost caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round,

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door.

Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

.. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train ;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

With darker shadows from the terrible and stony truths that are written in the streets of cities, the picture is afterwards completed; and here, too, the poet painted from his heart. His own experience, the suffering for which his heart had always bled, the misery his scanty purse was always ready to relieve, are in his contrast of the pleasures of the great, with innocence and health too often murdered to obtain them. Some of his distinguished friends' objected to these views, but he let them stand. They would have 'objected' to what was not uncommon with himself, abandoning his rest at night to give relief to the destitute. They would have thought the parish should have done what a yet more distinguished friend, Samuel Johnson, once did, and which will probably be remembered when all he wrote or said shall have passed away : his picking up a wretched ruined girl, who lay exhausted on the pavement; taking her upon his back, carrying her to his house, and placing her in his bed; not harshly upbraiding her; taking care of her, with all tenderness, for a long time; and endeavouring on her restoration to health to put her in a virtuous way of living.

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train :
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy !
Sure these denote one universal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
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.

Beautifully is it said by Mr. Campbell, that 'fiction in

It

poetry is not the reverse of truth, but her soft and en'chanted resemblance; and this ideal beauty of nature 'has seldom been united with so much sober fidelity, as in the groups and scenery of the Deserted Village.' is to be added that everything in it is English, the feeling, incidents, descriptions, and allusions; and that this consideration may save us needless trouble in seeking to identify sweet Auburn with Lissoy. Scenes of the poet's youth had doubtless risen in his memory as he wrote, mingling with, and taking altered hue from, later experiences it is even possible he may have taken the first hint of his design from a local Westmeath poet and schoolmaster, who, in his youth, had given rhymed utterance to the old tenant grievances of the Irish rural population ;

nor could complaints that were also loudest in those boyish days at Lissoy, of certain reckless and unsparing evictions by which one General Naper had persisted in improving his estate, have passed altogether from Goldsmith's memory. But there was nothing local in his present aim; or if there was, it was the rustic life and rural scenery of England. It is quite natural that Irish enthusiasts should have found out the fence, the furze, the thorn, the decent church, the never-failing brook, the busy mill; it was to be expected that pilgrims should have borne away every vestige of the first hawthorn they could lay their hands on; it was perfectly reasonable, and in the way of business, to rebuild the village inn as Mr. Hogan did, and fix broken tea cups in the wall that pilgrims might not carry them away, and to christen his speculation by the name of Auburn. All this, as Walter Scott has said, 'is a pleasing tribute to the poet in the land of his fathers;' but it certainly is no more.

Such tribute as the poem itself was, its author offered to Sir Joshua Reynolds, dedicating it to him. 'Setting 'interest aside,' he wrote, 'to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my 'affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my 'brother, because I loved him better than most other men. 'He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to 'you.' How gratefully this was received, and how strongly it cemented an already fast friendship, needs not be said. The great painter could not rest till he had made public acknowledgment and return. He painted his picture of

Resignation, had it engraved by Thomas Watson, and inscribed upon it these words: This attempt to express a 'character in the Deserted Village is dedicated to Doctor Goldsmith, by his sincere friend and admirer, Joshua 'Reynolds.'

What Griffin paid for the poem is very doubtful. Cooke tells the story which Walter Scott believed and repeated, that he had stipulated for a hundred pounds, and returned part of it on some one telling him that five shillings a couplet was more than any poetry ever written was worth, and could only ruin the poor bookseller who gave it; but this is not very credible, though Bishop Percy tells us it would have been 'quite in character.' It is presumable, however, that the sum was small; and that it was not without reason he told Lord Lisburn, on receiving complimentary inquiries after a new poem at the Academy dinner, 'I cannot 'afford to court the draggle-tail muses, my Lord; they will 'let me starve: but by plain prose I can make shift to eat, 'and drink, and wear good clothes.' Something to the same effect, indeed, in the poem itself, had mightily stirred the comment and curiosity of the critics. They called them excellent but alarming lines.'

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;