The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith

✓ THE HERMIT.

TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go. "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest.
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed, and smiled ;
And skilled in legendary lore

The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
'And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
The sorrows of thy breast?

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"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, | "The blossom opening to the day,

And spurn the sex," he said:
But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betrayed.
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 confest
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"Whose feet unhallowed 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 marked as mine,He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms

Unnumbered suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt or feigned a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;

Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love.

“In humble, simplest habits clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

"And when beside me in the dale

He carolled lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

The dews of heaven refined, Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on 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 touched my heart,
I triumphed 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 clasped her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turned to chide,'Twas Edwin's self that pressed.

"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."

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn
It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.
To go on with my tale: as gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:

But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's Howard, and Coley, and H-rth, and Hiff,

I think they love venison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-oh! let him alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.

But hang it !-to poets who seldom can eat
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;

Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me.
"What have we got here?--Why this is good eating!

Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting?"

Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce;

"I get these things often"-but that was a bounce:
Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation."
"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay,
"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.

To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;

No words-I insist on't-precisely at three;

We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.

And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you-a pasty? It shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter! this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come: "For I knew it," he cried: "both eternally fail; The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale. But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew; They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.' While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, They entered, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen; At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most was that d- -d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue, And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,

But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.'

The tripe!" quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek;

I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:

I like these here dinners so pretty and small;

But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

"O! ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice; He's keeping a corner for something that's nice:

"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot;
Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."
"We'll all keep a corner, the lady cried out;

"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed,
With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid:
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,

Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out--for who could mistake her?—
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning,
A relish, a taste-sickened over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

✓ RETALIATION: A POEM.

(1774.)

OF old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord1 supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean2 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 sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain;

(1) The master of the St. James's coffee-house, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterised in his poem, occasionally dined.

(2) Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry and afterwards Bishop of Limerick.

(3) The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

(4) Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for Bedwin, and a relative of Edmund Burke.

(5) Mr. Richard Burke, a barrister, and younger brother of the great statesman.

(6) Mr. Richard Cumberland, the dramatist.

(7) Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who was made Bishop of Carlisle, and afterwards Bishop of Salisbury.

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