Слике страница

“ Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow'd main ;
But every danger fell before
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave!
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less in hospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.”

Song.By a Man.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laureli'd field,
To do thy memory right;
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel
And wish the avenging fight.'

Woman Speaker.
In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid,
Affliction o’er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charm’d the

senses, While pity harmoniz'd the whole. “The garland of beauty” ('tis this she would say),

* From Collins's “Ode to a Lady, on the Death of Colonel Ross :"

“ Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laureli'd fieid,

And gaze with fix'd delight;
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish th' avenging fight.”

“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return;
But, alas! that return I never shall see.
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim:
There promis'd a lover to come, but, О me!
'Twas death—'twas the death of my mistress that came.
But ever, forever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

Song.By a Woman.Pastorale.
With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May,
No more will her crook or hier temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov’d and shall never return.

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom ;
And there shall the cowslip and prin rose be cast,
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.




Air—The Humors of Ballamogairy.
Au me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look nor a smile shall iny passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her

Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.'

1 “ To the Editor of the London Magazine.

“Sir, -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 sang it himself in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air called 'The Humors of Ballamagairy,' to which, be 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 handwriting, with an affectionate care.

I am, sir, your humble servant, JAMES BOSWELL." This air was, long after, more appropria ely employed by Colman for Looney Mactoulter in his farce of “The Wags of Windsor.” Mr. Moore has since tried to bring it into good company in the ninth number of his “ Irish Melodies.”—CROKER (Boswell by Croker, p. 251).

3 “We (13th April, 1773) drank tea with the ladies [after a dinner at General Oglethorpe's], and Goldsmith sang Tony Lumpkin's song in his comedy She Stoops to Conquer,' and a very pretty one to an Irish tune, which he had designed for Miss Hardcastle; but as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, could not sing, it wos left out. He afterwards wrote it down for me, by which means it has been preserved, and now appears among his poems.”—Boswell by Croker, p. 251.



IN PROSE AND VERSE, TO MRS. BUNBURY.' MADAM,- I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candor could require, but, after all, find so much to object to, and so much to raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer. I am not so ignorant, madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms contained in it, and solecisms also (solecism is a word that comes from the town of Soleis in Attica among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use the word Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of that name; but this is learning you have no tas for). I say, madam, there are sarcasms in it and solecisms also. But, not to seem an ill-natured critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, and give you my remarks upon them as they occur. You begin as follows:

"I hope, my good Doctor, you soon will be here,
And your spring velvet coat very smart will appear,

To open our ball the first day in the year." Pray, madam, where did you ever find the epithet “good” applied to the title of Doctor? Had you called me learned Doctor, or grave Doctor, or noble Doctor, it might be allowable, because they belong to the profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you talk of my spring velvet coat, and advise me to wear it the first day in the year—that is, in the middle of winter. A spring velvet in the middle of winter!!! That would be a solecism indeed; and yet, to increase the inconsistence, in another part of your letter you call me a beau. Now, on one side or other, you must be wrong. If I am a beau, I can never think of wearing a spring velvet in winter; and if I am not a beau—why, then, that explains itself. But let me go on to your two next strange lines:

“And bring with you a wig that is modish and gay,
To dance with the girls that are making of hay.”

See note 2, p. 123. An invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Bunbury, in a rhyming and jocular strain, to spend some time with them at their seat at Barton, in Suffolk, brought from the poet the above reply, printed for the first time in 1837 by Messrs. Prior and Wright, though written in 1772.

The absurdity of making hay at Christmas you yourself seem sensible of; you say your sister will laugh, and so, indeed, she well may. The Latins have an expression for a contemptuous sort of laughter, Naso contemnere ad unco; that is, to laugh with a crooked nose: she may laugh at you in the manner of the ancients if she thinks fit. But now I am come to the most extraordinary of all extraordinary propositions, which is, to take your and your sister's advice in playing at loo. The presumption of the offer raises my indignation beyond the bounds of prose; it inspires me at once withi verse and resentment. I take advice!

I take advice! And from whom? You shall hear.

First let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be-loo;
All smirking and pleasant and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fix'd in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly dainn
At never once finding a visit from pam;
I lay down my stake apparently cool,
While the harpies about me all pocket the pool;
I fret in my gizzard, get cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I;
Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim,
By losing their money, to venture at fame.
'Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold;
'Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold ;
All play their own way, and they think me an ass.
What does Mrs. Bunbury? I, sir? I pass.
Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do!
Who, I? Let me see, sir; why I must pass too.
Mrs. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the devil
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil;
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion,
I venture at all; while my avarice regards
The whole pool as my own. Come, give me five cards.
Well done! cry the ladies. Ah! Doctor, that's good,
The pool's very rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo'd.

« ПретходнаНастави »