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have thought it poffible that the Parodist should have adhered fo circumftantially to his original, as he appears to have done, not only in the following ftanzas, but through the whole perform

ance :

Now ftrike the glimmering lamps upon the fight,
And all the house a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the Seaman from the Gallery's height,
For Roaft-beef bawling, the cu'd Fiddler fcolds.
Save that, in yonder velvet-mantled box,

A moping Countess to her Grace complains,
Of macaws, monkeys, perroquets, and fhocks,
And loffes vaift, and vaiftly paltry gains.
Behind thofe rugged fpikes, that bag-wigs fhade,
Where tuneful Folios lie in many a heap;
Each in his narrow line for ever laid,

The embrio crotchets of the Guardian fleep.
The long, long trill of quaver-torturing Brent,
Mifs Hallam twittering from her tender throat,
Thy clarion, Beard, that Echo's ear has rent,
No more fhall rouze each lowly-flumbering note.
The pomp of Tragedy, Expreffion's power,

And all that Garrick, all that Quin e'er gave,
Have found alike th' inevitable hour,

And the fifth act still led them to the grave.

The Reader may be pleased with the following defcription of a blind Fiddler in the country, without enquiring into Meier's Merry Philofophert for the cause of his pleasure.

Some village. . . . . . . who a wife's fell frown,
A vixen wife with mufic has withstood,

Some blind Corelli oft may scrape unknown,
Some Arne, not guilty of an Opera's blood.

Far from the merry wake, and ruftic ball,
No vain purfuits, their fober wishes led:
Along the streets, and round his worship's hall,
They fcrap'd the noisy tenor for their bread:

Yet fill the blind from infult to protect,

Some faithful confort ever wandering nigh,
With vary'd garb, and uncouth'd pinner deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute with a figh.

Her ditties oft, tho' an unletter'd Mufe,

The place of air and fonnet would fupply;
And fongs of grace at Christmas would the chufe,
Repaid with luncheons from the grey goose pye.
For who, fo much to gloominess a prey,
Whofe fpirits mufic knows not to advance ?
Or who could listen to her roundelay,
Nor lift one longing, lingering leg to dance?
t Vid. laft Month's Review.

On

On fome fmart air the active heel relies,
Some fprightly jig the springing foot requires ;
E'en to a march the moving fpirits rife,

E'en in a minuet wake our youthful fires.

It has been faid, that this Elegy is the production of a celebrated Lady; but however that may be, the Author affumes the character of a Curate; and after an humourous description of his condition, in imitation of the original, concludes with his Epitaph:

Here refts his head upon the lap of earth,

A Curate poor, to ftalls and tythes unknown,
No Bishop fmil'd upon his humble birth,

No Minister e'er mark'd him for his own.

Bread was his only food, his drink the brook,
So fmall a falary did his Rector fend,

He left his Laundress all he had—a book:

He found in death, 'twas all he wifh'd-a friend.

No longer feek his wardrobe to disclose,

Nor draw his breeches from their darkfome cell,
There, like their Maßler, let them find repofe,

Nor dread the horrours of a Taylor's hell.

The Elegy in the Church-yard is conveniently printed along with the Parody, fo that the Reader may, at one view, entertain himself by the comparison.

The Traveller; or a Profpect of Society, a Poem: Infcribed to the Rev. Mr. Henry Goldsmith. By Oliver Goldsmith, M. B. 4to. 1 s. 6d. Newbery.

A

Lmost every species of affectation has its origin in vanity, and that with which Authors are fo juftly chargeable, when they pretend to be unconcerned about the fuccefs of their works, is derived from no other fource. While they bear before them a negligence of praise, their whole aim is to perfuade us, that they should be equally careless of cenfure; and thus, by a kind of prepofterous oppofition to attacks which they have not felt, their faftidious indifference exposes them the more. It is in vain that the Author of this poem tells us, he is not much folicitousto know what reception it may find.'-No Writer was ever yet indifferent to the reputation of his works; and if Mr. Goldfmith finds himself unconcerned for the fuccefs of the poem before us, we fhould think him, at best, an unnatural parent, to be negligent of the interefts of fo beautiful an offspring :-for the Traveller is one of thofe delightful poems that allure by the

beauty

beauty of their scenery, a refined elegance of fentiment, and a. correfpondent happiness of expreffion. Thus the Author addreffes his brother, to whom the poem is infcribed:

Where'er I roam, whatever realms I fee,

My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove, a lengthening chain.

It is impoffible not to be pleased with the untravell❜d heart,' and the happy image of the lengthening chain;' nevertheless, it may be somewhat difficult to conceive how a heart untravell'd, can, at the fame time, make farther removes.

The following fimile is equally just and magnificent; and is one of those real beauties in imagery, which have the power of pleafing univerfally, by being at once obvious to the mind, and, at the fame time, poffeffing native dignity enough, to fecure them from that indifference with which things frequently contemplated are beheld.

Impell'd with steps unceafing to purfue

Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view,
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies.

The Traveller fits him down (as he fometimes inelegantly expreffes it) on an eminence of the Alps, and from thence takes a view of the several kingdoms that lie around him; not with the contracted eye of a Monaftic, but with the liberal fpirit of a man, who rightly confiders, and embraces, the general bleffings of Providence:

When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store, 'twere thanklefs to repine..
"Twere affectation all, and school-taught pride,
To fpurn the fplendid things by Heaven fupply'd.
Let fchool-taught pride diffemble all it can,
Thefe little things are great to little man ;
And wifer he, whofe fympathetic mind

Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd,

Ye fields, where fummer fpreads profufion round,

Ye lakes, whofe veffels catch the busy gale,

Ye bending fwains, that drefs the flow'ry vale,
For me your tributary ftores combine;

Creation's Heir, the world, the world is mine.

He then enquires whether fuperior happiness be the lot of any particular country; but concludes that, though every man thinks moft favourably of his own, Nature has, in general, obferved an equality in the diftribution of her bounties:

Yet,

Yet, where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The fhudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone,
Boldly afferts that country for his own,
Extols the treasures of his ftormy feas,
And livelong nights of revelry and eafe;
The naked Negroe, panting at the Line,
Boats of his golden fands, and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or ftems the tepid wave,
And thanks his Gods for all the good they gave.
Nor lefs the Patriot's boaft, where'er we roam,
His first beft country ever is at home.

And yet, perhaps, if ftates with ftates we fcan,
Or estimate their bliss on Reason's plan,

Though Patriots flatter, and though Fools contend,
We ftill fhall find uncertainty fufpend;

Find that each good, by Art or Nature given,
'To these, or those, but makes the balance even:
Find that the blifs of all is much the fame,

And patriotic boafting Reafon's fhame.

Yet though this patriotic Boafting may not have its foundation in truth, it is amongst thofe pleafing errors that contribute to our happiness; and he who fhould labour to undeceive us in this inftance, would be employed in the trifte Miniflerium of making us miferable. We ought, indeed, never fo far to cherish an attachment to our native country, as to fhut out the inhabitants of different nations from our benevolence or good opinion, but while our innocent enthusiasm only indulges a preference of funs and foils, it will always be our prudence to retain it.

Nature, a mother kind alike to all,

Still grants her blifs at Labour's earnest call;

And though rough rocks, or gloomy fummits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.

Nothing is more true; but is not the Author's propofition controvertible, in which he maintains, that there is in every state a peculiar principle of happiness ?

Hence every ftate to one lov'd bleffing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.

Each to the favourite happinefs attends,
And fpurns the plan that aims at other ends;
'Till, carried to excefs in each domain,
This favourite good begets peculiar pain.

It is certain that every individual has a peculiar principle of happinefs; but does it therefore follow, that a ftate compofed of thofe individuals fhould have the fame? rather the contrary, where there must neceffarily be fo many different opinions concerning the very existence of happiness. It is, in truth, with Rev. Jan. 1765.

E

ftates

ftates as with private men; they appear to be actuated rather by cafual circumstances, than to purfue the general good upon any established principle. We find that what is the object of public attention in one reign, is totally changed in another; and that as intereft, power, and caprice prevail, political fagacity is for ever varying its principles and practice. The character of a people is not always the fame: as they vary, their ideas of happinefs are varied too, and that in fo great a degree, that they ean fcarcely be faid to have any fixed or determined principle. But though our Author makes no great figure in political Philofophy, he does not fail to entertain us with his poetical defcriptions:

Far to the right, where Appennine afcends,
Bright as the fummer, Italy extends;
Her uplands floping deck the mountain's fide,
Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride;
While oft fome temple's mould'ring top between,
With venerable grandeur marks the scene.

Could Nature's bounty fatisfy the breaft,
The fons of Italy were furely bleft.

Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
That proudly rife, or humbly court the ground,
Whatever blooms in torrid tracks appear,
Whofe bright fucceffion decks the varied year;
Whatever fweets falute the northern sky,
With vernal lives that bloffom but to die;
These here difporting, own the kindred foil,
Nor afk luxuriance from the Planter's toil;
While fea-born gales their gelid wings expand,
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But fmall the blifs that fenfe alone beltows,
And fenfual blifs is all this nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields
appear,
Men feem the only growth that dwindles here,
Contrafted faults through all their manners reign..
Though poor, luxurious, though fubmiflive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling, zealous, yet untrue,
And even in penance planning fins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,

That opulence departed, leaves behind;

For wealth was theirs, nor far remov'd the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the flate:
At her command the palace learnt to rile,
Again the long-fall'n column fought the skies;
The canvass glow'd beyond even Nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.
But, more unfteady than the fouthern gale,
Soon Commerce turn'd on other fhores her fail;
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,
Their former ftrength was now plethoric ill.

Yet,

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