Imágenes de página



"she stoOPS TO CONQUER.'1

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, not a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

I 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 sung it himself, in private companies very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called · The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he 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.


Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart; Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures


O Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead !

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.


This tomb inscrib'd to gentlei 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 Aowery 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.


Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

1. With softest inanners, gentlest arts adorn’d.'

Pope on Parnell. ? This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier : growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE.



Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word—

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind ;
She freely lent to all the poor-

Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.

" See The Bee, p. 128.

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead-

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more-

She had not died to-day.2

? This poem is an imitation of the chanson, called “Le fameux la Galisse, homme imaginaire,' in fifty stanzas, printed in the Menagiana, iv. 191.

• Messieurs, vous plait-il d'ouir

L'air du fameux la Galisse,
Il pourra vous réjouir,

Pourvú qu'il vous divertisse.

• Bien instruit dès le berceau

Jamais, tant il fut honnête,
Il se mettoit son chapeau

Qu'il ne se couvrit la tête.

On dit que dans ses amours

Il fut caressé des belles,
Qui le suivirent toujours,

Tant qu'il marche devant elles.

• Il fut par un triste sort,

Blessé d'une main cruelle ;
On croit, puisqu'il est mort,

Que la plaie était mortelle.
• Regretté de ses soldats,

Il mourut digne d'envie,
Et le jour de son trépas

Fut le dernier de sa vie.'

« AnteriorContinuar »