Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd 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 'em 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,t 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.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his
throat

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 feeling, 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,

To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
vote:

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;

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,

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.

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,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall
lecture;

Macphersont write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall com-
pile:

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
over,

No countryman living their tricks to discover
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the
dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;

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,

As an actor, confest without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;

That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at old 'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting

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;

* Doctor Bernard.

†The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

+Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

Mr. William Burke.

With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a-day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle
them back.

*The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

+ Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspeare."

I Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind James Macpherson, Esq. who lately, from the mere force of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, | Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and

His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye?
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

He has not left a wiser or better behind;
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
Still born to improve us in every part,

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard
of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,
and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.

Right and wrong shall be jumbled,—much gold and some Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, dross;

Here lies the good dean,* re-united to earth, Who mix'd 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 'em 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,

A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they ar
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 feeling, 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,
a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

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.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his

throat

To persuade Tommy Townshendt to lend him

vote:

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,

And thought of convincing, while they thought of The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;

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,

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.

Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must An abridgment of all that was pleasant in m

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
Nick;

But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

old

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;

• Doctor Bernard.

†The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

Mr. William Burke.

I Mr. Richard Burke; (vide page 161.) This gentleman

As an actor, confest without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellen
The man had his failings, a dupe to his ar
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natu
On the stage he was natural, simple, affe
'Twas only that when he was off, he w
With no reason on earth to go out of!
He turned and he varied full ten times
Though secure of our hearts, yet conf
If they were not his own by finessing
He cast off his friends, as a huntsm
For he knew when he pleased h
them back.

The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at t

having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different the title of "The School of Shakspe

times, the doctor had rallied him on those accidents, as a kind

James Macpher

of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people. of his style, wro

165

creature,

And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He chensh'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper.
Yet one fault he had and that one was a thunger
Perhaps you may ask the man was a miser!
I answer me, mn, for be always was wiser.

*Me Hagh Kely, author of False Delicacy, Word u

Wie Cheming, School for Wire

POSTSCRIPT.

the buggy in Ir. Wander after the finertia efikim di din pen was printed, de pais

from a Íteni of the aze Jresor Gasdemam.

Has Whitefani zerines, and deny it who can,
Though he merly fred, he is now a grate man
Bare anmpound of adásy, fribe, and fun!
the Whose temper was geves men, sincere;
Who melishid a joke, and rejiced in a pan;
A stranger to firstfry, a stranger to fear;
Who sesterd and wit and hussour at will;
Whose daily dama muće half a coluwan might fill:
A Soutchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

Mr. Win Woodall, prister of the Morning Camicie The flowing pens by Mr. Garrick, may in sime messure count for the severity exercised by Dr. Goldsmith

in

JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE.
Ben Hanes, mys Jove, who with necar was mellow,
Go fee some clay--I will make an odd felow!
Rigis and wang stall be jumbled,-mach gud and sune
Without ase be he pleased, without cause be he comes;
I work, to throw in contradictines,

A great love of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions;
Now hit these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
To learning and gaming, religion and raking.
Wide love of a wench let his writings be chaste;

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Who perhaps to the summit of science could su
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Yet ontent "if the table he set in a roar
Whose talents to fill any station ware ft,
Yet happy if Woodfalls confess'd him a wi

Ye newspaper witlings! ye per ambiebling the
Who copied his squibs, and eined his yan

Tree with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; Ye tame imitators, ye serve

The the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,

to the head, and set fire to the tail:

The joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it,
Tamilar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet;
Togh a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
nd nong brother mortals-be Goldsmith his name;
Post on burth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
Herres, shall fetch him-to make us sport here.

ON DE. GOLDSMITIFS CHARACTERISTICAL
COOKERY

Stall follow your master, CA.
And copious Flat
To deck it, bring with

Then strea
Cross-reading

dancing-masters,
etasters,
it quadrupeds,

ellow leads.
bloody fray
throats for pay.

, the ape
auman shape:
each fashion,

ng passion;
nd grimaces,

rpasses.

ringing wait
state;
o inferiors
superiors:
al air,
equal care.
aitators:

acqueys, waiters,
rs still contract,
ad dukes can act.

great and small
pe all.

NZAS

NG OF QUEBEC.

exulting joys,

from the patriot heart, r soul-piercing voice, ures which from pleasure

eaming flood of woe,

think e'en conquest dear; each our breast to glow, extorts the heart-wrung tear. adful vigour fled, with joy-pronouncing eyes: thou conquerest, though dead! mb a thousand heroes rise.

AUTIFUL YOUTH
BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

by Providence design'd,
I pity, than in hate,
ould be, like Cupid, blind,
him from Narcissus' fate.

A SONNET

3, murmuring, complaining,

o every gay delight;

oo sincere for feigning,

s th' approaching bridal night.

hay impair thy bright perfection?
Jim thy beauty with a tear?
Myra follow'd my direction,
e long had wanted cause of fear.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I ad-| There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen

mit

That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said
wit.

'This debt to thy mem'ry I can not refuse,
"Thou best humour'd man with the worst hu-
mour'd Muse."

SONG:

'em

[Pit.

Here trees of stately size--and billing turtles in 'em. [Balconies Here ill-condition'd oranges abound-

[Stage.

And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:

[Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear: I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF O, there the people are best keep my distance:

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.*

Ан 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, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE;
A TRAGEDY:

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. ACTED AT THE
THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, MDCCLXXII.
SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK.

Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;
Our ship's well stored-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.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non

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 he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning 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.

sense:

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald 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 foole 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!

* 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 admi-| No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage: xable comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer," but it was left out, Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns! 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 hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, Sir, your humble servant,
JAMES BOSWELL.

The madd'ning 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.

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreat-
ing,

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,