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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 ;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and O! 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 the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain :
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE HERMIT: A BALLAD.

(1766.)

The following letter, addressed to the printer of the “St. James's Chronicle," appeared 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.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago from oned by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his 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.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

(1) "The Friar of Orders Gray."-Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i. p. 243.

THE HERMIT.

“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, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go. “Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,

“To tempt the dangerous 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 rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.
“No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power 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 supplied,

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 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 neighbouring 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 trimmed his little fire,

And cheered his pensive guest.
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed, and smiled ; And skilled in legendary lore

The lingering hours beguiled.
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 spied,

With answering care opprest:
And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried,

The sorrows of thy breast ?
“From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,

Or unregarded love?
Alas! the joys that Fortune brings

Are trilling, and decay ;
And those who prize the trifling 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, “The blossom opening to the day, And spurn the sex,” he said :

The dews of heaven refined,
But, while he spoke, a rising blush Could nought of purity display,
His love-lorn guest betrayed.

To emulate his mind.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise, “The dew, the blossom on the tree,
Swift mantling to the view ;

With charms inconstant shine;
Like colours o'er the morning skies, Their charms were his, but, woe to me!
As bright, as transient too.

Their constancy was mine. The bashful look, the rising breast, “For still I tried each fickle art, Alternate spread alarms:

Importunate and vain ; The lovely stranger stands confest And while his passion touched my heart, A maid in all her charms.

I triumphed in his pain. “And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, “Till quite dejected with my scorn A wretch forlorn,” she cried ;

He left me to my pride,
“ Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude And sought a solitude forlorn,
Where heaven and

you
reside.

In secret, where he died. “But let a maid thy pity share,

“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, Whom love has taught to stray ;

And well my life shall pay; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair I'll seek the solitude he sought, Companion of her way.

And stretch me where he lay. My father lived beside the Tyne; “And there forlorn, despairing, hid, A wealthy lord was he;

I'll lay me down and die ; And all his wealth was marked as mine,- | 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, He had but only me.

And so for him will I." “ To win me from his tender arms “Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried, Unnumbered suitors came,

And clasped her to his breast : Who praised me for imputed charms, The wondering fair one turned to chide, And felt or feigned a flame.

'Twas Edwin's self that pressed. “Each hour a mercenary crowd

“Turn, Angelina, ever dear; With richest proffers strove ;

My charmer, turn to see Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed, Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, But never talked of love.

Restored to love and thee. “In humble, simplest habits clad, Thus let me hold thee to my heart, No wealth nor power had he ;

And every care resign : Wisdom and worth were all he had, And shall we never, never part, But these were all to me.

My life—my all that's mine? And when beside me in the dale “No, never from this hour to part, He carolled lays of love,

We'll live and love so true, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, The sigh that rends thy constant heart And music to the grove.

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

À POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never 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 chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
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 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. Byrne.
To go on with my tale: as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
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 Howard, and Coley, and H-rth, and Hiff,
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;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me.
What have we got here?--Why this is good eating!
Your own I suppose-

-or is it in waiting ?” Why, whose should it be?” cried I with a flounce; I get these things often”—but that was a bounce :

Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind - but I hate ostentation."

“ If that be the case then,” cried he, very gay, I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.

To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words—Í insist on't-precisely at three;
We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you—a pasty? It shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter ! this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring-I beg-my dear friend--my dear friend !"
Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And “nobody with me at sea but myself;"
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine
(A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine),
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come:
“ For I knew it,” he cried : “both eternally fail;
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale.
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew;
They're both of them merry, and authors like you ;
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna—he owns to Panurge.
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name,
They entered, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen ;
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty--was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ;
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vex'd me most was that dm-d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,
And, “Madam," quoth he,“ may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.

The tripe ! ” quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek ; “ I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.” “O! ho!" quoth my friend,“ he'll come on in a trice ; He's keeping a corner for something that's nice :

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