'The felicity and the misery which he has brought close together belong to two different countries and to two different stages in the progress of society.' But there is no poem in the English language more universally popular than the Deserted Village. Its best passages are learned in youth, and never quit the memory. Its delineations of rustic life accord with those ideas of romantic purity, seclusion, and happiness, which the young mind associates with the country and all its charms, before modern manners and oppression had driven them away To pamper luxury, and thin mankind. Political economists may dispute the axiom that luxury is hurtful to nations; but Goldsmith has a surer advocate in the feelings of the heart, which yield a spontaneous assent to the principles he inculcates, when teaching by examples, with all the efficacy of apparent truth, and all the effect of poetical beauty and excellence. Description of Auburn-The Village Preacher, the Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill; Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Remote from towns, he ran his godly race, won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, Beside the bed where parting life was laid, At church, with meek and unaffected grace, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile; Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, €77 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 gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired; Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; Vain transitory splendours! could not all No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Edwin and Angelina. '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, 'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, "Here, to the houseless child of want, My door is open still: And though my portion is but scant, 'Then turn to-night, and freely share 'No flocks that range the valley free, 'But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, Far in a wilderness obscure, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire, And cheered his pensive guest: And spread his vegetable store, And gaily pressed and smiled; Around, in sympathetic mirth, But nothing could a charm impart, His rising cares the hermit spied, * From Young.-'Man wants but little, nor that little long.' Goldsmith, in the original copy, marked the passage as a quotation. 'From better habitations spurned, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturned, 'Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. 'And what is friendship but a name: A charm that lulls to sleep! A shade that follows wealth or fame, 'And love is still an emptier sound, To warm the turtle's nest. 'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, 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 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 nought 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 touched my heart, I triumphed in his pain. 'Till quite dejected with my scorn, 'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 'And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, '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, 'No, never from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.' Extracts from 'Retaliation.' Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined together at the St James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs upon him. His country, dialect, and blunders furnished subjects for witticism. He was called on for retaliation, and, at the next meeting, produced part of this poem (which was left unfinished at his death), in which we find much of the shrewd observation, wit, and liveliness which distinguish the happiest of his prose writings. Here lies our good Edmund,* whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; To persuade Tommy Townsend to lend him a vote; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, An abridgment of all that is pleasant in man; As an actor, confessed 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 beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting: * Burke. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came ; How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Rosciused, and you were be-praised! And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. . . . Here Reynolds is laid; and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind. His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 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 talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. ... BISHOP PERCY. DR THOMAS PERCY (1729-1811), afterwards bishop of Dromore, in 1765 published his Reliques of English Poetry, in which several excellent old songs and ballads were revived, and a selection made of the best lyrical pieces scattered through the works of dramatic and other authors. The learning and ability with which Percy executed his task, and the sterling value of his materials, recommended his volumes to public favour. They found their way into the hands of poets and poetical readers, and awakened a love of nature, simplicity, and true passion, in contradistinction to that coldly correct and sentimental style which pervaded part of our literature. The influence of Percy's collection was general and extensive. It is evident in many contemporary authors. It gave the first impulse to the genius of Sir Walter Scott; and it may be seen in the writings of Coleridge and Wordsworth. A fresh fountain of poetry was opened up-a spring of sweet, tender, and heroic thoughts and imaginations, which could never be again turned back into the artificial channels in which the genius of poesy had been too long and too closely confined. Percy was himself a poet. His ballad, O Nancy, wilt thou go with Me? the Hermit of Warkworth, and other detached pieces, evince both taste and talent. We subjoin a cento, the Friar of Orders Gray, which * Sir Joshua was so deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. Goldsmith was engaged on this portrait when his last illness seized him. Percy says he compiled from fragments of ancient ballads, to which he added supplemental stanzas to connect them together. The greater part, however, is his own, and it must be admitted that he Percy was born at Bridgnorth, Shropshire, son of was too prone to tamper with the old ballads. Dr a grocer, and having taken holy orders, became successively chaplain to the king, dean of Carlisle, and bishop of Dromore: the latter dignity he possessed from 1782 till his death at the advanced age of eighty-two. He enjoyed the friendship of Johnson, Goldsmith, and other distinguished men of his day, and lived long enough to hail the genius of Scott. 6 A complete reprint of Bishop Percy's folio MS. was published in 1868, in three volumes, edited Mr Furnival describes the MS. as 'a scrubby, by John W. Hales, M.A. and F. J. Furnival, M.A. shabby paper book,' which had lost some pages both at the beginning and end. Percy found it lying dirty on the floor under a bureau in the parlour of his friend Humphrey Pitt of Shifnall, Shropshire, being used by the maids to light the fire. The date, as appears from the handwriting, was about 1650. As to the text,' says Mr Furnival, 'he (Percy) looked on it as a young woman from the country with unkempt locks, whom he had to fit for fashionable society. He puffed out the thirty-nine lines of the Child of Elle to two hundred; he pomatumed the Heir of Linne till it shone again; he stuffed bits of wool into Sir Carline and Sir Aldingar; he powdered everything.' The Reliques contained one hundred and seventy-six pieces and of these forty-five were from the folio MS. O Nancy, wilt thou go with Me?* O Nancy, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer dressed in silken sheen, No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy, when thou 'rt far away, Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go? Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? * From Dodsley's Collection of Poems, 1758. In Johnson's Musical Museum it is printed as a Scottish production. 'It is too barefaced,' says Burns, to take Dr Percy's charming song, and, by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song.' 'And will he never come again— Will he ne'er come again? Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave, For ever to remain. 'His cheek was redder than the roseThe comeliest youth was he; But he is dead, and laid in his grave, Alas! and woe is me.' 'Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot on sea, and one on land, To one thing constant never. 'Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy; For young men ever were fickle found, 'Now say not so, thou holy friar, My love he had the truest heart- 'And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth? And didst thou die for me? Then farewell home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. 'But first upon my true-love's grave And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf 'Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while The cold wind through the hawthorn blows, 'O stay me not, thou holy friar, 'Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, For see, beneath this gown of gray, 'Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, And here, amid these lonely walls, |