For sending so late
To one of my state.
But 'tis Reynolds's way
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica's whim

To be frolic like him.

1

But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser, When both have been spoil'd in to-day's Advertiser ? 1 OLIVER GOLDSMITII.

EPITAPH

ON THOMAS PARNELL.2

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

The following is the compliment alluded to:

"While fair Angelica, with matchless grace,

Paints Conway's lovely form and Stanhope's face,
Our hearts to beauty willing homage pay-
We praise, admire, and gaze our souls away.
But when the likeness she hath done for thee,

O Reynolds! with astonishment we see,
Forc'd to submit, with all our pride we own
Such strength, such harmony, excell'd by none,
And thou art rivall'd by thyself alone."

From "The Haunch of Venison," etc., 1776. Written about the year 1770, but never inscribed on any stone or brass over Parnell's grave. Parnell died in 1718, and was buried in Trinity Church, Chester. Goldsmith wrote his Life. See Vol. IV.

3

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
When every bosom swells with wondrous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens,
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet ere he lands he 'as order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:

[Upper Gallery.

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em;

Here trees of stately size-and turtles in 'em;

[Pit. [Balconies.

1 "Zobeide," a tragedy, by Joseph Cradock, Esq., was first represented at Covent Garden on the 10th of December, 1771, and was well received (see p. 101). The text here given is that of the third edition of "Zobeide," 1772, 8vo.

"Mr. Goldsmith presents his best respects to Mr. Cradock; has sent him the • prologue, such as it is. He cannot take time to make it better. He begs he will give Mr. Yates the proper instructions; and so, even so, he commits him to fortune and the public." Mr. Yates was to have spoken the prologue.

John Quick, the original Tony Lumpkin in Goldsmith's comedy, and the favorite actor of George III. Died April 4, 1831, aged eighty-three.

3 Cook and Green.

4 Banks and Solander.

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound;

[Stage.

And apples [Takes up one and tastes it]-bitter apples-strew

the ground.

The place is uninhabited, I fear:

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

Oh, there the natives are a dreadful race;

The men have tails, the women paint the face.

No doubt they're all barbarians. Yes, 'tis so;

I'll try to make palaver with them, though; [Making signs. 'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.

Good savages, our Captain craves assistance.

Our ship's well stor'd; in yonder creek we've laid her;

His honor is no mercenary trader.'

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

1 Any profits that might accrue from the representation of his tragedy Cradock had given to Mrs. Yates, who greatly distinguished herself in the part of Zobeide.

THIRENODIA AUGUSTALIS;'

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS-DOWAGER OF WALES, 2 1772.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days, and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.

OVERTURE.-A Solemn Dirge.
Air-Trio.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe! When truth and virtue reach the skies, 'Tis ours to weep the want below.

Chorus.

When truth and virtue, etc.

MAN Speaker.

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour—

Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them, but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery;
But when to pomp and power are join'd,
An equal dignity of mind;

1 This hurried and unworthy offspring of the muse of Goldsmith was performed in Mrs. Cornley's Great Room, in Soho Square, 20th February, 1772, and first printed by W. Woodfall in 1772, small 4to. The composer was Signor Vento; the speakers, Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy; and the singers, Mr. Champness, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson.

Widow of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and mother of King George III. Died

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth and rank and noble blood

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchas'd strength from its increasing load:
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

SONG. By a MAN.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses ev'ry pain of dying,
In the hopes of being blest.

Ev'ry added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,

And ev'ry shock that malice offers
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN Speaker.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate!

Death with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determin'd took their stand.