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And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call Life's crew together,

The word to “pipe all hands.'
Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,

In vain Tom's life has doffed ;
For though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

306

SAMUEL JOHNSON

(1709-1784]
ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET
CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline

Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,

See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,

And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,

And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,

No petty gain disdain’d by pride;
The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the eternal Master found

The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ;
His frame was firm-his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain,

No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,

And freed his soul the nearest way.

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LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty,

Ling'ring year, at length is flown;
Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,

Great (Sir John), are now your own.

Loosen'd from the minor's tether,

Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather,

Bid the sons of thrift farewell.

Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies,

All the names that banish care;
Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,

Show the spirits of an heir.

All that prey on vice and folly,

Joy to see their quarry fly;
There the gamester, light and jolly,

There the lender, grave and sly.

Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,

Let it wander as it will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,

Bid them come and take their fill.

When the bonny blade carouses,

Pockets full, and spirits high-
What are acres ? What are houses ?

Only dirt, or wet or dry.

Should the guardian, friend, or mother,

Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother,

You can hang or drown at last!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

[1728-1774)
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS

308

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,–
What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover

And wring his bosom, is—to die.

309

RETALIATION OF old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,

Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains,
Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains,
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper, shall heighten the savour:
Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding substantial and plain:
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb:
That Hickey's a capon, and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks I could not find them out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:
Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,

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While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet !
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine:
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that, vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,

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