Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.

"And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cried, "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside.

But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray: Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine;
He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came ;

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd, a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he:
Wisdom and worth were all he had;
But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could naught of purity display,
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his; but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.

Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died!

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay :
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die:
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide : 'Twas Edwin's self that prest! "Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign;
And shall we never, never part,
My life-my all that's mine ?

No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

Goldsmith.-Born 1728, Died 1774.

917.-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 ven'son, 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 sweet-bread 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, re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his

parts,

The Terence of England, the mender of hearts:

A flatt'ring painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they

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.

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; 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 Kenricks shall lecture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,

No countryman living their tricks to dis

cover;

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,

An abridgement of all that was pleasant in

man:

As an actor, confess'd 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; "T was only that when he was off he was

acting.

With no reason on earth to go out of his way,

He turn'd 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..

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what

came,

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 Woodfalls so grave,

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his
skill

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will: Old Shakspere receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,

And slander itself must allow him goodnature:

He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper :

Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.

Perhaps you may ask if the man wa miser?

I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
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

918.-THE TRAVELLER.

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po!
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the
door;

Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless
pain,

And drags at each remove a length'ning chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;

Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire

To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire;

Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty

crown'd,

Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never

fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destined such delights to share,

My prime of life in wand'ring spent and

care;

Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue 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;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.

Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And placed on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where a hundred realms

appear;

Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus creation's charms around combine,

Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine?

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom
vain?

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd,

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round,

Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale, Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry vale,

For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is

mine.

still;

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleased with each good that Heav'n to man supplies;

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the board of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at
rest,

May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.
But where to find that happiest spot
below,

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his

own;

Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked Negro, panting at the Line,
Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy
wine,

Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they

And though the rocky-crested summits frown,

These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.

From art more various are the blessings sent;

Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content: Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest,

That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails;

And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.

Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone,

Conforms and models life to that alone :
Each to the favourite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,

And trace them through the prospect as it

lies :

Here for awhile, my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry
blast.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends:
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's
side,

Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between

With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found, That proudly rise or humbly court the ground;

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year;

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,

And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles
here.

Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;

Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;

Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet un

true;

And ev'n in penance planning sins anew.

But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave:

And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,

Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied

By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;

From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind

An easy compensation seem to find.

Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade :
Processions form'd for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove.

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,

The sports of children satisfy the child: Each nobler aim, represt by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind:

As in those domes, where Cesars once bore sway,

Defaced by time, and tott'ring in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wond'ring man could want the larger

pile,

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey

Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,

And force a churlish soil for scanty bread:
No product here the barren hills afford
But man and steel, the soldier and his
sword:

No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May:
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms
invest.

Yet still, e'en here content can spread a charm,

Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.

Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho'

small,

He sees his little lot the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet

deal,

To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short
repose,

Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes;

With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep;

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,

And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round
surveys

His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;

While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,

Displays her cleanly platter on the board:
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rise,

Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;

And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's

roar,

But bind him to his native mountains more.

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd:

Their wants but few, their wishes all confined: Yet let them only share the praises due,

If few their wants, their pleasures are but

few;

For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,

That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures

cloy,

To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to

flame,

Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame.

Their level life is but a mould'ring fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire;