DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER. WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way, pagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; The morn was cold, he views with keen desire With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimneyboard; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, THE HERMIT. A BALLAD. The following letter, addressed to the Printer of he 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 one 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 *The Friar of Orders Gray. "Reliq. of Anc. Poetry," vol. I book 2. No. 18. |things as trifles at best) told me with his usual goodhumour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approv ed it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely 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, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Note.-On the subject of the preceding letter, the reader is desired to consult "The Life of Dr. Goldsmith," ," under the year 1765. THE HERMIT; A BALLAD "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale "For here forlorn and lost I tread, '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, "Then turn to-night, and freely share 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, Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch And gaily press'd, and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest; "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, "And what is friendship but a name, "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, Surprised he sees new beauties rise, The lovely stranger stands confest "And ah! forgive a stranger rude, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. "My father lived 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 praised me for imparted charms, And felt, or feign'd a flame. "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. "In humble, simplest habit clad, "And when, beside me in the dale, "The blossom opening to the day, To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine. "For still I tried 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, And sought a solitude forlorn, "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, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, "No, never from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart, The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. That show'd the rogues they lied: STANZAS ON WOMAN. And finds too late that men betray, To hide her shame from every eye, THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.' GOOD people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song, In Islington there was a man, Whene'er he went to pray. Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, This dog and man at first were friends; Around from all the neighb'ring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a-year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and music come This, and the following poem, appeared in "The Vicar of in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a Wakefield," which was published in the year 1765. less laborious entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, that favour once shown to her, and though but My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee; younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth-right. Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, Yet, however this art may be neglected by the And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. powerful, it is still in great danger from the misEternal blessings crown my earliest friend, taken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; blank verse, and Pindaric odes, chorusses, anapests To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; And every stranger finds a ready chair; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. Where all the ruddy family around But there is an enemy to this art still more danLaugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; And learn the luxury of doing good. Or press the bashful stranger to his food, gerous,-I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man, after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force, and his phrensy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I can not tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY." REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, • In this poem, as it passed through different editions, several alterations were made, and some additional verses introduced. We have followed the ninth edition, which was the last that appeared in the lifetime of the author. But me, not destined such delights to share, E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; As some lone miser, visiting his store, plies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, Whatever sweets salute the northern sky But where to find that happiest spot below, Nature, a mother kind alike to all, But let us try these truths with closer eyes, Far to the right where Appenine ascends, Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey |