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I scorn the sneaker like a toad,
Who drives his cart the Dover road,
There, traitor to his country's trade,
Smuggles vile scraps of French brocade :
Hence with all such! for you and I
By English wares will live and die.
Come, draw your chair, and stir the fire:
Here, boy!-a pot of Thrale's entire !

THE HERMIT.

A BALLAD.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1765.

THE

THE FOLLOWING LETTER, ADDRESSED ΤΟ
PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE, AP-
PEARED 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.

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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 that there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, bis 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 humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce 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 friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

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I am,
sir,
yours, &c.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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, inmeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go."

The Friar of Orders Grey. Reliq. of Anc.
Poetry, vol. i. p. 243.

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"To tempt the dang'rous 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 rashy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn:
Taught by that Pow'r that pities me,
I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,
And water from the spring.
"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from Heav'n 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 neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket, op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
To take their ev'ning rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
And gaily prest, and smil'd;

The ling'ring hours beguil'd,
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spy'd,
With answ'ring care opprest:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd,
"The sorrows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;
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 things than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And 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.
"Forshame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd 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 confest
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cry'd ; "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where Heav'n and you reside. "But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

"My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he :

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms

Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who prais'd me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth or pow'r had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
"And when, beside me in the dale,

He carrol'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.
"The blossom op'ning to the day,
The dews of Heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossoms of the tree,'
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his; but, woe to me,
Th' inconstancy was mine!
"For still I try'd each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch'd my heart,
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 dy'd,

"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, Heav'n!" the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide,-
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor❜d to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine?
"No, never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

A TALE.

PUBLISHED IN DR. GOLDSMITH'S VOLUME OF ESSAYS, 1765.

SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five

Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair ?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arriv'd at thirty-six ?
O had the archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop!
O had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.
0! -But let exclamation cease;
Her presence banish'd all his peace;
So with decorum all things carried,
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was--mar-
ried.

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Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night? Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, Or draw the curtains clos'd around? Let it suffice, that each had charms : He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; And, though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

The honey-moou like lightning flew ; The second brought its transports too : A third, a fourth, were not amiss; The fifth was friendship mix d with bliss:

But when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found all the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain'd behind,
That very face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle;

'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace,
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night-caps wrapt her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee :
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations.
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were past between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown :
He fancies ev'ry vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose;
Whenever rage or envy rise,

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phyz:
And though her fops are wond'rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravelled noose,
As each a diff'rent way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promis'd to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r
Withers the beauty's transient flow'r,
Lo! the small-pox, with horrid glare
Levell❜d its terrours at the fair;
And, rifling ev'ry youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes.
In vain she tries her pastes and creains
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens:
The 'squire himself was seen to yield,
And e'en the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old;
With modesty her cheeks are dy'd,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery, is seen
A person ever neatly clean:
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature ev'ry day:

Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual off'ring shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em ;
If gems or gold impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em.
I'll give but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd off'rings but disclose
A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTed.

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione preditum ;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em :
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain ;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature:
That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute;
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-noster-row:

No jugglers, fidlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpocke:s, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupedes;
No single brute his fellow leads;
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care,
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act;
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike for all ape all.

ON A BEAUtiful youtH,

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,

That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-incircled wand;
By classic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses:
To wit-most wond'rously endu'd,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this be drives men's souls to Hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slayer, venom❜d bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf
Instead of others, damus himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

A NEW SIMILE.

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and Nature's spite :
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair;
But let us not proceed so furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air;
And here my simile unites,
For, in a modern poet's flights,

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.

Good people all, of ev'ry sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a goilly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked ev'ry day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighb'ring street s
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

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LINES,

ATTRIBUTED TO

DR. GOLDSMITH,

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF
APRIL 3, 1800.

E'EN have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew,
The budding rose its infant bloom display:
When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, [cheek; I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, Youth's damask glow just. dawning on her Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak.

TO THE EDITORS.

GENTLEMEN,

I SEND you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of She Stoops to Conquer, but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called, The Humours of Balamagairy, to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care. I am, gentlemen,

your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

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