Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove, with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione preditum;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em:
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature:
That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;

And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbour prosecute;
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd;
No politics disturb their mind:

They eat their meals, and take their sport;
Nor know who's in or out at court:

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend a foe:
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:*
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster-row:
No jugglers, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds:
No single brute his fellow leads:
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly, cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon after to inferiors,
Aping the conduct of superiors:

He promises with equal air,

And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators:

At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act;
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike-for all ape all.

SONG

Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer."

АH 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.

*Sir Robert Walpole.

A NEW SIMILE,

In the Manner of Swift.

"

LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite;
Till reading (I forget what day on)
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious;
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis: pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air:
And here my simile unites,
For, in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-incircled wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses :
To wit-most wondrously endu❜d,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore:
Add too, what certain writers tell,

With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply begin we then:

His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom❜d bites:
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he:
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks

AN ELEGY

On the Death of a Mad Dog.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Isling-town there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran-

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To ev'ry Christian eye,

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew'd the rogues they ly'd:
The man recover'd of the bite;
The dog it was that died.

A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the Royal Martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William shew'd his lamp-black

face:

The morn was cold; he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

ON A BEAUATIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

Imitated from the Spanish.

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 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 pleasure start.

Oh, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts 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, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle 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 flowery 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.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDÓN.* 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.

*This person 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. Goldsmith's epitaph is nearly a translation from alittle piece of De Cailly's, called La Mort du Sire Estienne.

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

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.

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 hot died to-day.

SONG.

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear.

SONG.

FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still, on hope relies;

And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way,

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,

To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

A PROLOGUE,

Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom Cæsar forced upon the Stage.

Preserved by Macrobius.

WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by power, and unappal'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven himself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin❜d to please.
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame:
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,
A Tragedy.

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;

Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,

He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading—
Yet, ere he lands, has order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reck'ning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord! what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:
[Upper Gallery.

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen
'em-
[Pit.
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em-

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:

[Balconies. [Stage.

[Tasting them.

Th' inhabitants are cannibals, I fear :

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

O, there the people are-best keep my distance;

Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance;

Our ship's well stor❜d-in yonder creek we've laid her,

His honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What no reply to promises so ample?

-I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

*This translation was first printed in one of Goldsmith's earliest works, "The present State of Learning in Europe," 12mo. 1759.

C

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES,

In the Character of Harlequin, at his Benefit.

HOLD! prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense; I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience.

My pride forbids it ever should be said,

My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyeball vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.
Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses ;
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do!
No-I will act-141 vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! Off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The maddening monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !—soft-
'twas but a dream.

Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there'sno retreating; If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood:

"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick

shanks,

They neither have my gratitude nor thanks:
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
While thus he spoke, astonish'd! to his view
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew.
Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his long limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage-door.

EPILOGUE

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

WHAT! five long acts-and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of
thinking.

Well, since she thus has shewn her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? aye, there's the rub! [pausing]-I've got

my cue:

you.

The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close behind 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.

There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round pa-
rade,

Looking, as who should say, Damme! who's afraid? [Mimicking.

Strip but his vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to every gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in
black!

Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you,

JAMES THOMSON, the son of a minister well esteemed for his piety and diligence, was born September 7th, 1700, at Ednam, in the shire of Roxburgh, of which his father was pastor. His mother, whose name was Hume, inherited as co-heiress a portion of a small estate. The revenue of a parish in Scotland is seldom large; and it was probably in commiseration of the difficulty with which Mr. Thomson supported his family, having nine children, that Mr. Riccarton, a neighbouring minister, discovering in James uncommon promises of future excellence, undertook to superintend his education, and provide him

books.

He was taught the common rudiments of learning at the school of Jedburg, a place which he delights to recollect in his poem of "Autumn;" but was not considered by his master as superior to common boys, though in those early days he amused his patron and his friends with poetical compositions ; with which, however, he so little pleased himself, that on every new-year's day he threw into the fire all the productions of the foregoing year.

From the school he was removed to Edinburgh, where he had not resided two years when his father died, and left all his children to the care of their mother, who raised upon her little estate what money a mortgage could afford, and, removing with her family to Edinburgh, lived to see her son rising into eminence.

The design of Thomson's friends was to breed him a minister. He lived at Edinburgh, as at school, without distinction or expectation, till, at the usual time, he performed a probationary exercise by explaining a psalm. His diction was so poetically splendid, that Mr. Hamilton, the professor of Divinity, reproved him for speaking language unintelligible to a popular audience; and he censured one of his expressions as indecent, if not profane.

This rebuke is reported to have repressed his thoughts of an ecclesiastical character, and he probably cultivated with new diligence his blossoms of poetry, which, however, were in some danger of a blast; for, submitting his productions to some who thought themselves qualified to criticise, he heard of nothing but faults; but, finding other judges more favourable, he did not suffer himself to sink into despondence.

He easily discovered that the only stage on which a poet could appear, with any hope of advantage, was London; a place too wide for the operation of

petty competition and private malignity, where merit might soon become conspicuous, and would find friends as soon as it became reputable to befriend it. A lady who was acquainted with his mother, advised him to the journey, and promised some countenance or assistance, which at last he never received; however, he justified his adventure by her encouragement, and came to seek in London patronage and fame.

At his arrival he found his way to Mr. Mallet, then tutor to the sons of the Duke of Montrose. He had recommendations to several persons of consequence, which he had tied up carefully in his handkerchief; but as he passed along the street, with the gaping curiosity of a new-comer, his attention was upon every thing rather than his pocket, and his magazine of credentials was stolen from him.

His first want was a pair of shoes. For the supply of all his necessities, his whole fund was his Winter, which for a time could find no purchaser; till, at last, Mr, Millan was persuaded to buy it at a low price; and this low price he had for some time reason to regret; but, by accident, Mr. Whatley, a man not wholly unknown among authors, 'happening to turn his eye upon it, was so delighted that he ran from place to place celebrating its excellence. Thomson obtained likewise the notice of Aaron Hill, whom, being friendless and indigent, and glad of kindness, he courted with every expression of servile adulation.

Winter was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton, but attracted no regard from him to the author; till Aaron Hill awakened his attention by some verses addressed to Thomson, and published in one of the newspapers, which censured the great for their neglect of ingenious men. Thomson then received a present of twenty guineas, of which he gives this account to Mr. Hill:

"I hinted to you in my last, that on Saturday "morning I was with Sir Spencer Compton. A "certain gentleman, without my desire, spoke to "him concerning me; his answer was, that I had "never come near him. Then the gentleman put "the question, If he desired that I should wait on "him? He returned, he did. On this, the gentleman gave me an introductory Letter to him. He "received me in what they commonly call a civil manner; asked me some common-place questions; "and made me a present of twenty guineas. I am very ready to own that the present was larger than my performance deserved; and shall ascribe it to

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