Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv'n, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the Lands ho could measure, terms and tides presage, And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, For ev'n though vanquish'd he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head should carry all ho knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendours! could not all Thither no more the peasant shall repair No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful product still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, land The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms-a garden and a grave! The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies: She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue, fled, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Ah, no. Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the bus'ness of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, Contented toil, and hospitable care, And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Though very poor, may still be very blest; decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. Goldsmith.-Born 1728, Died 1774. 920. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never ranged in a forest, or smoked on 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 To spoil such a delicate picture by eating; To be shown to my friends as a piece of As in some Irish houses, where things are One gammon of bacon hangs up for a 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 This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce; try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. To go on with my tale-as haunch, gazed on the I thought of a friend that was trusty and So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, Of the neck and the breast I had next to dis- Twas a neck and a breast that might rival But in parting with these I was puzzled With the how, and the who, and the where, There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and I think they love venison-I know they love There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let For making a blunder, or picking a bone. It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, "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 dinner! What say you-a pasty, it shall and it must, No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd 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 clogg'd 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-lumber'd 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 The one with his speeches, and t'other with But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the With two full as clever, and ten times as The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, 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'a 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: There's a pasty". Jew; -"A pasty!" repeated the "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 delay'd, With looks that quite petrified enter'd 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 dropAnd 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; Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, Deep in the frozen regions of the north, What time the iron-hearted Gaul, In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow; ANTISTROPHE. The Saxon prince in horror fled, He stopt, he gazed, his bosom glow'd, arms. STROPHE. The curlew scream'd, the tritons blew |