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.
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
Forced to submit, with all our pride we own,
Such strength, such harmony excell'd by none,
And thou art rivall'd by thyself alone."]
* [First printed by T. Davies, in " Miscellanies by the Author of the Rambler," and written about the year 1770.]
The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it.
Thus, on the stage, our play-rights still depend,
For epilogues and prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teaz'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
An epilogue, things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.
Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover),
Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try.
What, I dear Sir, the doctor interposes;
What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no, I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go ask your manager-Who, me! Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away;
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
"To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,"
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natur'd Man.
A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ
Spoken by Mr. Quick, in the Character of a Sailor.
In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate, 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.
[Zobeide was first represented at Covent Garden on the 10th of December 171, and was well received. Goldsmith appears to have first met Mr. Craddock at the house of Mr. Yates, the actor. Being applied to for a prologue through the medium of the Yateses, the husband being to speak it (though Quick was afterwards deputed to this duty), and the wife to perform in the play, sent the above to the author, accompanied by the following note: -"Mr. Goldsmith presents his best respects to Mr. Craddock; has sent him the prologue, such as it is. He cannot take time to make it better. He begs he will give Mr. Yates the proper instructions; and so, even so, he commits him to fortune and the public."-See Life, ch. xxi.]
+ [In allusion to Captain Cook's voyage for the purpose of observing the transit of Venus.
[Alluding to Sir Joseph Banks's participation in the same voyage.]
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground. [Tasting them.
The 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-stored;-in yonder creek we've laid her;
His honor 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.
There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things:
* Mr. Craddock had given his right to any profits that might accrue from the representation to Mrs. Yates, who greatly distinguished herself in the part of Zobeide.]
+ [Presented in MS., among other papers, to Dr. Percy, by the Poet; but for what play intended has not been ascertained. It appears, however, by the
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he;-but I affirm, the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses;
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronis, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor'd,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
concluding lines, that it was not a sentimental comedy, but of the school which Goldsmith adopted, and praised by the line
"Still stoop among the low to copy nature."
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