A
POETICAL
EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
Oliver Goldsmith
By his falsehoods I was
taught to detest one equally brave and generous. "
But by this time my son was freed from the incumbrances of justice, as
the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr.
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet-de-chambre, had dressed up
his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a
genteel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, handsomely dressed in
his regimentals, and without vanity (for I am above it) he appeared as
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made
Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted
with the change which the eloquence of his mother had wrought in his
favour. But no decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing
mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to
discover the real sensations of her heart, for having forgotten her
former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded by an
impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and could
scarcely believe it real. "Sure, madam," cried he, "this is but
delusion; I can never have merited this! To be blessed thus, is to be
too happy! " "No sir," replied she, "I have been deceived, basely
deceived, else nothing could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You
know my friendship, you have long known it: but forget what I have done;
and, as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have
them repeated; and be assured, that if your Arabella cannot be yours,
she shall never be another's. " "And no other's you shall be," cried Sir
William, "if I have any influence with your father. "
This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the
inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every circumstance
that had happened. But in the meantime the squire, perceiving that he
was on every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left from
flattery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would be to
turn and face his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared
the open, hardy villain. "I find, then," cried he, "that I am to expect
no justice here; but I am resolved it shall be done me. You shall know,
sir," turning to Sir William, "I am no longer a poor dependant upon your
favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me,
which, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles and
a bond for her fortune are signed, and safe in my possession. It was her
fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match; and,
possessed of the one, let who will take the other. "
This was an alarming blow: Sir William was sensible of the justice of
his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the
marriage-articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her
fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, asked if the loss of
fortune could lessen her value to him. "Though fortune," said she, "is
out of my power, at least I have my hand to give. "
"And that, madam," cried her real lover, "was indeed all that you ever
had to give; at least, all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And
I now protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune
this moment increases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet
girl of my sincerity. "
Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the danger
his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of
the match. But finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr.
Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his
disappointment. He now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who
had no fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal, but to want
an equivalent to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sat, therefore,
for some minutes employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir
William attempted to lessen his anxiety. "I must confess, sir," cried
he, "that your present disappointment does not entirely displease me.
Your immoderate passion for wealth is now justly punished. But though
the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a competence sufficient to
give content. Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to
take her without fortune: they have long loved each other, and for the
friendship I bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his
promotion. Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for
once admit that happiness which courts your acceptance. "
"Sir William," replied the old gentleman, "be assured I never yet forced
her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love this
young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is still,
thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it something
more. Only let my old friend here" (meaning me) "give me a promise of
settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should come to his
fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to join them
together. "
As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily
gave a promise of making the settlement he required; which, to one who
had such little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had now,
therefore, the satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other's arms in
a transport. "After all my misfortunes," cried my son George, "to be
thus rewarded! Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to hope
for. To be possessed of all that's good, and after such an interval of
pain! my warmest wishes could never rise so high! " "Yes, my George,"
returned his lovely bride, "now let the wretch take my fortune: since
you are happy without it, so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I made from
the basest of men to the dearest, best! Let him enjoy our fortune; I now
can be happy even in indigence. " "And I promise you," cried the squire,
with a malicious grin, "that I shall be very happy with what you
despise. " "Hold, hold, sir! " cried Jenkinson; "there are two words to
that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a
single stiver of it. Pray, your honour," continued he to Sir William,
"can the squire have this lady's fortune if he be married to another? "
"How can you make such a simple demand? " replied the baronet:
"undoubtedly he cannot. " "I am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson; "for as
this gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have a friendship
for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his contract is
not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married already. " "You lie, like
a rascal! " returned the squire, who seemed roused by this insult; "I
never was legally married to any woman. " "Indeed, begging your honour's
pardon," replied the other, "you were; and I hope you will show a proper
return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a
wife; and if the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they
shall see her. " So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, and left
us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to his design. "Aye,
let him go," cried the squire: "whatever else I may have done, I defy
him there. I am too old now to be frightened with squibs. "
[Illustration:
"_So saying, he put the license into the
baronet's hands, who read it, and found it
perfect in every respect. _"—_p. _ 166.
]
"I am surprised," said the baronet, "what the fellow can intend by this.
Some low piece of humour, I suppose. " "Perhaps, sir," replied I, "he may
have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes
this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more
artful than the rest, has been found able to deceive him. When we
consider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with
anguish the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their
families, it would not surprise me if some one of them—Amazement! Do I
see my lost daughter? Do I hold her? It is, it is—my life, my happiness!
I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee, and still thou
shalt live to bless me. " The warmest transports of the fondest lover
were not greater than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and held
my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. "And art
thou returned to me, my darling," cried I, "to be my comfort in age? "
"That she is," cried Jenkinson; "and make much of her, for she is your
own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room,
let the other be who she will. And as for you, squire, as sure as you
stand there, this young lady is your lawful wedded wife: and to convince
you that I speak nothing but the truth, here is the license by which you
were married together. " So saying, he put the license into the baronet's
hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. "And now,
gentlemen," continued he, "I find you are surprised at all this; but a
very few words will explain the difficulty. That there squire of renown,
for whom I have a great friendship (but that's between ourselves) has
often employed me in doing odd little things for him. Among the rest he
commissioned me to procure him a false license, and a false priest, in
order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very much his friend,
what did I do, but went and got a true license and a true priest, and
married them both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll
think it was generosity made me do all this. But no. To my shame I
confess it, my only design was to keep the license, and let the squire
know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so
make him come down whenever I wanted money. " A burst of pleasure now
seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy even reached the
common-room, where the prisoners themselves sympathised,
And shook their chains
In transport and rude harmony.
Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheeks seemed
flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends,
and fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of
decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But, perhaps, among all,
there was not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the
dear-loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were
not delusion. "How could you," cried I, turning to Jenkinson, "how could
you add to my miseries by the story of her death? But it matters not: my
pleasure at finding her again is more than a recompense for the pain. "
"As to your question," replied Jenkinson, "that is easily answered. I
thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by
submitting to the squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other
young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter
was living; there was, therefore, no other method to bring things to
bear, but by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife
to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of
undeceiving you till now. "
In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces that did not
glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken
him; he now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him, and trembled to
take the plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in
a voice of piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to
spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few
moments, "Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried he, "deserve no
tenderness; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken; a bare competence
shall be supplied to support the wants of life, but not its follies.
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a third part of
that fortune which once was thine; and from her tenderness alone thou
art to expect any extraordinary supplies for the future. " He was going
to express his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech; but the
baronet prevented him, by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, which
was already but too apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be
gone, and from all his former domestics to choose one, and such as he
should think proper, which was all that should be granted to attend him.
As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up to his new
niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His example was followed by Miss
Wilmot and her father; my wife too kissed her daughter with much
affection, as, to use her own expression, she was now made an honest
woman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor
Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed
scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was
in doing good, now looked round with a countenance open as the sun, and
saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of my daughter
Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem
perfectly satisfied. "I think now," cried he, with a smile, "that all
the company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. There only remains
an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued he,
turning to me, "of the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson; and it
is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am
sure, make him very happy, and he shall have five hundred pounds as her
fortune; and upon this, I am sure, they can live very comfortably
together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making?
will you have him? " My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's
arms at the hideous proposal. "Have him, sir! " cried she, faintly; "no,
sir, never! " "What! " cried he again, "not Mr. Jenkinson, your
benefactor; a handsome young fellow, with five-hundred pounds and good
expectations? " "I beg, sir," returned she, scarcely able to speak, "that
you'll desist, and not make me so very wretched. " "Was ever such
obstinacy known? " cried he again, "to refuse the man whom the family has
such infinite obligations to—who has preserved your sister, and who has
five hundred pounds? What! not have him! " "No, sir, never," replied she,
angrily; "I'd sooner die first! " "If that be the case, then," cried he,
"if you will not have him—I think I must have you myself. " And so
saying, he caught her to his breast with ardour. "My loveliest, my most
sensible of girls," cried he, "how could you ever think your own
Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thornhill could ever
cease to admire a mistress that loved him for himself alone? I have for
some years sought for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could
think I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even among the
pert and ugly, how great at last must be my rapture, to have made a
conquest over such sense and such heavenly beauty! " Then turning to
Jenkinson, "As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, for she
has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense I can make
is, to give you her fortune, and you may call upon my steward to-morrow
for five hundred pounds. " Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and
Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony that her sister had
done before. In the meantime Sir William's gentleman appeared to tell us
that the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything
was prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left
those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet ordered forty
pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by
his example, gave half that sum. We were received below by the shouts of
the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of my honest
parishioners, who were among the number. They attended us to our inn,
where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions
were distributed in great quantities among the populace.
[Illustration:
"_Will you have him? _"—_p. _ 168.
]
After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of
pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked
permission to withdraw; and leaving the company in the midst of their
mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in
gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as sorrow, and then slept
undisturbed till morning.
_CHAPTER XXXII. _
_The conclusion. _
The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest son sitting by
my bedside, who came to increase my joy with another turn of fortune in
my favour. First having released me from the settlement that I had made
the day before in his favour, he let me know that my merchant, who had
failed in town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects
to a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's
generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for good fortune.
But I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his offer.
While I was pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom I
communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already
possessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his
offer without hesitation. His business, however, was to inform me that,
as he had the night before sent for the licenses, and expected them
every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making all
the company happy that morning. A footman entered while we were
speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned; and as I was by
this time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry
as affluence and innocence could make them. However, as they were now
preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased
me. I told them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they
should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies
and a thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they
still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were
going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite
forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. In
church a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This was,
which couple should be married first: my son's bride warmly insisted
that Lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the lead; but this the
other refused with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty of
such rudeness for the world. The argument was supported for some time
between both with equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood all
this time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest,
and shutting it, "I perceive," cried I, "that none of you have a mind to
be married, and I think we had as good go back again; for I suppose
there will be no business done here to-day. " This is once reduced them
to reason. The baronet and his lady were first married, and then my son
and his lovely partner.
I had previously that morning given orders that a coach should be sent
for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his family, by which means, upon
our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss
Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the
eldest, and my son Moses led up the other; and I have since found that
he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he
shall have, whenever he thinks proper to demand them. We were no sooner
returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my
success, came to congratulate me; but among the rest were those who rose
to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told
the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and reproved them
with great severity; but, finding them quite disheartened by his harsh
reproof, he gave them half-a-guinea a-piece to drink his health and
raise their dejected spirits.
Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which
was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it may not be improper to
observe, with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides in quality
of companion at a relation's house, being very well liked, and seldom
sitting at the side-table, except when there is no room at the other,
for they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in
keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in
learning to blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, however, still
remembers him with regret; and she has even told me, though I make a
great secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent.
But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus: when we were to sit
down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question
was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above
the two young brides; but the debate was cut short by my son George, who
proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman
by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, excepting
my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she
expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table,
and carving all the meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding this,
it is impossible to describe our good-humour. I can't say whether we had
more wit among us now than usual, but I am certain we had more laughing,
which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly remember: old
Mr. Wilmot drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son
replied, "Madam, I thank you;" upon which the old gentleman, winking
upon the rest of the company, observed that he was thinking of his
mistress. At which jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have
died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according to my old
custom, I requested that the table might be taken away, to have the
pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a cheerful
fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company
by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish
for—all my cares were over: my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only
remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former
submission in adversity.
THE
POEMS AND PLAYS
OF
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
CONTENTS.
POEMS.
THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THE CAPTIVITY. AN ORATORIO.
RETALIATION. —— POSTSCRIPT.
THE HERMIT. A BALLAD.
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. A TALE.
THE GIFT: TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
A NEW SIMILE, IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.
SONG, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO
CONQUER. "
STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.
AN ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
STANZAS.
SONGS.
A PROLOGUE BY THE POET LABERIUS, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
PROLOGUE TO "ZOBEIDE," A TRAGEDY.
EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS.
EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF "THE SISTERS. "
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE
PRINCESS OF WALES.
EPILOGUE TO THE "GOOD-NATURED MAN. "
EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. "
AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER:" INTENDED TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS.
BULKLEY
AND MISS CATLEY.
PLAYS.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
THE TRAVELLER;
OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
DEDICATION.
TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH
DEAR SIR,
I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force
from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse
thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with
your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from
Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader
understands that it is addressed to a man who, despising fame and
fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of
forty pounds a-year.
I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You
have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the
labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where
the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of
all kinds of ambition—what from the refinement of the times, from
different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party—that
which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.
Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a
country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and music come
in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious
entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at length supplant her:
they engross all that favour once shown to her, and, though but younger
sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright.
Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in
greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it.
What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse and
Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and
happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and
as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for
error is ever talkative.
But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous,—I mean Party.
Party entirely distorts the judgment and destroys the taste. When the
mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in
what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom
desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the
reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever
after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers
generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold
man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the
name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is
said to be force, and his frenzy fire.
What reception a poem may find which has neither abuse, party, nor blank
verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims
are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have endeavoured
to moderate the rage of all. I have attempted to show, that there may be
equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own;
that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this
principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few
can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated
in this poem.
I am, dear Sir,
Your most affectionate brother,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
[Illustration:
"_Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or
by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po. _"—_p. _ 176.
]
THE TRAVELLER;
OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
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 lengthening 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 evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
[Illustration:
"_Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale. _"—_p. _ 177.
]
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 wandering 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.
Even 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 glittering 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 flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine:
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard 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 wandering 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 shuddering 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 gave.
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by art or nature given
To different nations, makes their blessings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call!
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
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 power 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 fav'rite 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 a while, 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 every blast.
Far to the right, where Appenine 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 mouldering 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 different 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 untrue;
And even in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;
At her command the palace learned to rise,
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies;
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm;
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;
While nought remained of all that riches gave,
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-fallen 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 every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,—
The sports of children satisfy the child;
Each nobler aim, repress'd 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 Cæsars once bore sway,
Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed:
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
[Illustration:
"_Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade. _"—_p. _ 180.
]
My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion 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 lingering chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though 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 venturous ploughshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every 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 every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And e'en those ills 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 every 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 powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame;
Their level life is but a smouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire;
Unfit, for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow;
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low:
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way,
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please!
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire;
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mock'd all tune and marr'd the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise:
They please, are pleased; they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise;
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought:
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year:
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies;
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow,
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore,
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,—
A new creation rescued from his reign.
Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts:
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,
Even liberty itself is barter'd here:
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
[Illustration:
"_Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace. _"—_p. _ 184.
]
Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old!
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold;
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;—
How much unlike the sons of Britain now!
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide;
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray;
Creation's mildest charms are there combined,
Extremes are only in the master's mind!
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand,
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control,
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.
Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here,
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy,
But, foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy:
That independence Britons prize too high
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd:
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore,
Till, overwrought, the general system feels
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay,
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown:
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms,
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote far fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.
Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state,
I mean to flatter kings or court the great:
Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire,
Far from my bosom drive the low desire;
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel;
Thou transitory flower, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun,
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure,
I only would repress them to secure:
For just experience tells, in every soil,
That those that think must govern those that toil;
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach,
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,
Its double weight must ruin all below.
Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspires!
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast-approaching danger warms:
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their own;
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom when themselves are free;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;
The wealth of climes where savage nations roam
Pillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home;
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.
Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour,
When first ambition struck at regal power;
And, thus polluting honour in its source,
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore?
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste?
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose,
In barren solitary pomp repose?
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call
The smiling long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,
The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main;
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound?
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests and through dangerous ways;
Where beasts with man divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories shine,
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind:
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,
To seek a good each government bestows?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonising wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
DEDICATION.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
DEAR SIR,
I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to
your reputation or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my
admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel;
and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a
juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to
which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in
following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my
brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since
dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you.
How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical
parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire; but I know you will
object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the
opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and
the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own
imagination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer than that I
sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible
pains in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be
certain of what I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led
me to believe those miseries real which I here attempt to display. But
this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be
depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I
should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the
reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a
long poem.
In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the
increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern
politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the
fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages,
and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous.
Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and
continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many
vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so
much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question,
that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes
wish to be in the right.
I am, dear Sir,
Your sincere friend and ardent admirer,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
[Illustration:
"_The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. _"—_p. _ 191.
]
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,—
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade—
A breath can make them, as a breath has made—
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man:
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain:
Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green,
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and God has given my share—
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes,—for pride attends us still,—
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
[Illustration:
"_The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung.
taught to detest one equally brave and generous. "
But by this time my son was freed from the incumbrances of justice, as
the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr.
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet-de-chambre, had dressed up
his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a
genteel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, handsomely dressed in
his regimentals, and without vanity (for I am above it) he appeared as
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made
Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted
with the change which the eloquence of his mother had wrought in his
favour. But no decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing
mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to
discover the real sensations of her heart, for having forgotten her
former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded by an
impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and could
scarcely believe it real. "Sure, madam," cried he, "this is but
delusion; I can never have merited this! To be blessed thus, is to be
too happy! " "No sir," replied she, "I have been deceived, basely
deceived, else nothing could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You
know my friendship, you have long known it: but forget what I have done;
and, as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have
them repeated; and be assured, that if your Arabella cannot be yours,
she shall never be another's. " "And no other's you shall be," cried Sir
William, "if I have any influence with your father. "
This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the
inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every circumstance
that had happened. But in the meantime the squire, perceiving that he
was on every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left from
flattery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would be to
turn and face his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared
the open, hardy villain. "I find, then," cried he, "that I am to expect
no justice here; but I am resolved it shall be done me. You shall know,
sir," turning to Sir William, "I am no longer a poor dependant upon your
favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me,
which, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles and
a bond for her fortune are signed, and safe in my possession. It was her
fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match; and,
possessed of the one, let who will take the other. "
This was an alarming blow: Sir William was sensible of the justice of
his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the
marriage-articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her
fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, asked if the loss of
fortune could lessen her value to him. "Though fortune," said she, "is
out of my power, at least I have my hand to give. "
"And that, madam," cried her real lover, "was indeed all that you ever
had to give; at least, all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And
I now protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune
this moment increases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet
girl of my sincerity. "
Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the danger
his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of
the match. But finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr.
Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his
disappointment. He now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who
had no fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal, but to want
an equivalent to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sat, therefore,
for some minutes employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir
William attempted to lessen his anxiety. "I must confess, sir," cried
he, "that your present disappointment does not entirely displease me.
Your immoderate passion for wealth is now justly punished. But though
the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a competence sufficient to
give content. Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to
take her without fortune: they have long loved each other, and for the
friendship I bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his
promotion. Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for
once admit that happiness which courts your acceptance. "
"Sir William," replied the old gentleman, "be assured I never yet forced
her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love this
young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is still,
thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it something
more. Only let my old friend here" (meaning me) "give me a promise of
settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should come to his
fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to join them
together. "
As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily
gave a promise of making the settlement he required; which, to one who
had such little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had now,
therefore, the satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other's arms in
a transport. "After all my misfortunes," cried my son George, "to be
thus rewarded! Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to hope
for. To be possessed of all that's good, and after such an interval of
pain! my warmest wishes could never rise so high! " "Yes, my George,"
returned his lovely bride, "now let the wretch take my fortune: since
you are happy without it, so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I made from
the basest of men to the dearest, best! Let him enjoy our fortune; I now
can be happy even in indigence. " "And I promise you," cried the squire,
with a malicious grin, "that I shall be very happy with what you
despise. " "Hold, hold, sir! " cried Jenkinson; "there are two words to
that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a
single stiver of it. Pray, your honour," continued he to Sir William,
"can the squire have this lady's fortune if he be married to another? "
"How can you make such a simple demand? " replied the baronet:
"undoubtedly he cannot. " "I am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson; "for as
this gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have a friendship
for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his contract is
not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married already. " "You lie, like
a rascal! " returned the squire, who seemed roused by this insult; "I
never was legally married to any woman. " "Indeed, begging your honour's
pardon," replied the other, "you were; and I hope you will show a proper
return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a
wife; and if the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they
shall see her. " So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, and left
us all unable to form any probable conjecture as to his design. "Aye,
let him go," cried the squire: "whatever else I may have done, I defy
him there. I am too old now to be frightened with squibs. "
[Illustration:
"_So saying, he put the license into the
baronet's hands, who read it, and found it
perfect in every respect. _"—_p. _ 166.
]
"I am surprised," said the baronet, "what the fellow can intend by this.
Some low piece of humour, I suppose. " "Perhaps, sir," replied I, "he may
have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes
this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more
artful than the rest, has been found able to deceive him. When we
consider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with
anguish the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their
families, it would not surprise me if some one of them—Amazement! Do I
see my lost daughter? Do I hold her? It is, it is—my life, my happiness!
I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee, and still thou
shalt live to bless me. " The warmest transports of the fondest lover
were not greater than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and held
my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. "And art
thou returned to me, my darling," cried I, "to be my comfort in age? "
"That she is," cried Jenkinson; "and make much of her, for she is your
own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room,
let the other be who she will. And as for you, squire, as sure as you
stand there, this young lady is your lawful wedded wife: and to convince
you that I speak nothing but the truth, here is the license by which you
were married together. " So saying, he put the license into the baronet's
hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. "And now,
gentlemen," continued he, "I find you are surprised at all this; but a
very few words will explain the difficulty. That there squire of renown,
for whom I have a great friendship (but that's between ourselves) has
often employed me in doing odd little things for him. Among the rest he
commissioned me to procure him a false license, and a false priest, in
order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very much his friend,
what did I do, but went and got a true license and a true priest, and
married them both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll
think it was generosity made me do all this. But no. To my shame I
confess it, my only design was to keep the license, and let the squire
know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so
make him come down whenever I wanted money. " A burst of pleasure now
seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy even reached the
common-room, where the prisoners themselves sympathised,
And shook their chains
In transport and rude harmony.
Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheeks seemed
flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends,
and fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of
decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But, perhaps, among all,
there was not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the
dear-loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were
not delusion. "How could you," cried I, turning to Jenkinson, "how could
you add to my miseries by the story of her death? But it matters not: my
pleasure at finding her again is more than a recompense for the pain. "
"As to your question," replied Jenkinson, "that is easily answered. I
thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by
submitting to the squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other
young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter
was living; there was, therefore, no other method to bring things to
bear, but by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife
to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of
undeceiving you till now. "
In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces that did not
glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken
him; he now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him, and trembled to
take the plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in
a voice of piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to
spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few
moments, "Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried he, "deserve no
tenderness; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken; a bare competence
shall be supplied to support the wants of life, but not its follies.
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a third part of
that fortune which once was thine; and from her tenderness alone thou
art to expect any extraordinary supplies for the future. " He was going
to express his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech; but the
baronet prevented him, by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, which
was already but too apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be
gone, and from all his former domestics to choose one, and such as he
should think proper, which was all that should be granted to attend him.
As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up to his new
niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His example was followed by Miss
Wilmot and her father; my wife too kissed her daughter with much
affection, as, to use her own expression, she was now made an honest
woman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor
Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed
scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was
in doing good, now looked round with a countenance open as the sun, and
saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of my daughter
Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem
perfectly satisfied. "I think now," cried he, with a smile, "that all
the company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. There only remains
an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued he,
turning to me, "of the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson; and it
is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am
sure, make him very happy, and he shall have five hundred pounds as her
fortune; and upon this, I am sure, they can live very comfortably
together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making?
will you have him? " My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's
arms at the hideous proposal. "Have him, sir! " cried she, faintly; "no,
sir, never! " "What! " cried he again, "not Mr. Jenkinson, your
benefactor; a handsome young fellow, with five-hundred pounds and good
expectations? " "I beg, sir," returned she, scarcely able to speak, "that
you'll desist, and not make me so very wretched. " "Was ever such
obstinacy known? " cried he again, "to refuse the man whom the family has
such infinite obligations to—who has preserved your sister, and who has
five hundred pounds? What! not have him! " "No, sir, never," replied she,
angrily; "I'd sooner die first! " "If that be the case, then," cried he,
"if you will not have him—I think I must have you myself. " And so
saying, he caught her to his breast with ardour. "My loveliest, my most
sensible of girls," cried he, "how could you ever think your own
Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thornhill could ever
cease to admire a mistress that loved him for himself alone? I have for
some years sought for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could
think I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even among the
pert and ugly, how great at last must be my rapture, to have made a
conquest over such sense and such heavenly beauty! " Then turning to
Jenkinson, "As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, for she
has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense I can make
is, to give you her fortune, and you may call upon my steward to-morrow
for five hundred pounds. " Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and
Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony that her sister had
done before. In the meantime Sir William's gentleman appeared to tell us
that the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything
was prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left
those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet ordered forty
pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by
his example, gave half that sum. We were received below by the shouts of
the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of my honest
parishioners, who were among the number. They attended us to our inn,
where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions
were distributed in great quantities among the populace.
[Illustration:
"_Will you have him? _"—_p. _ 168.
]
After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of
pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked
permission to withdraw; and leaving the company in the midst of their
mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in
gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as sorrow, and then slept
undisturbed till morning.
_CHAPTER XXXII. _
_The conclusion. _
The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest son sitting by
my bedside, who came to increase my joy with another turn of fortune in
my favour. First having released me from the settlement that I had made
the day before in his favour, he let me know that my merchant, who had
failed in town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects
to a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's
generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for good fortune.
But I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his offer.
While I was pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom I
communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already
possessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his
offer without hesitation. His business, however, was to inform me that,
as he had the night before sent for the licenses, and expected them
every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making all
the company happy that morning. A footman entered while we were
speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned; and as I was by
this time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry
as affluence and innocence could make them. However, as they were now
preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased
me. I told them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they
should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies
and a thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they
still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were
going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite
forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. In
church a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This was,
which couple should be married first: my son's bride warmly insisted
that Lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the lead; but this the
other refused with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty of
such rudeness for the world. The argument was supported for some time
between both with equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood all
this time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest,
and shutting it, "I perceive," cried I, "that none of you have a mind to
be married, and I think we had as good go back again; for I suppose
there will be no business done here to-day. " This is once reduced them
to reason. The baronet and his lady were first married, and then my son
and his lovely partner.
I had previously that morning given orders that a coach should be sent
for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his family, by which means, upon
our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss
Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the
eldest, and my son Moses led up the other; and I have since found that
he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he
shall have, whenever he thinks proper to demand them. We were no sooner
returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my
success, came to congratulate me; but among the rest were those who rose
to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told
the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and reproved them
with great severity; but, finding them quite disheartened by his harsh
reproof, he gave them half-a-guinea a-piece to drink his health and
raise their dejected spirits.
Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which
was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it may not be improper to
observe, with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides in quality
of companion at a relation's house, being very well liked, and seldom
sitting at the side-table, except when there is no room at the other,
for they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in
keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in
learning to blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, however, still
remembers him with regret; and she has even told me, though I make a
great secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent.
But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus: when we were to sit
down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question
was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above
the two young brides; but the debate was cut short by my son George, who
proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman
by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, excepting
my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she
expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table,
and carving all the meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding this,
it is impossible to describe our good-humour. I can't say whether we had
more wit among us now than usual, but I am certain we had more laughing,
which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly remember: old
Mr. Wilmot drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son
replied, "Madam, I thank you;" upon which the old gentleman, winking
upon the rest of the company, observed that he was thinking of his
mistress. At which jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have
died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according to my old
custom, I requested that the table might be taken away, to have the
pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a cheerful
fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company
by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish
for—all my cares were over: my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only
remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former
submission in adversity.
THE
POEMS AND PLAYS
OF
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
CONTENTS.
POEMS.
THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THE CAPTIVITY. AN ORATORIO.
RETALIATION. —— POSTSCRIPT.
THE HERMIT. A BALLAD.
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. A TALE.
THE GIFT: TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
A NEW SIMILE, IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.
SONG, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO
CONQUER. "
STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.
AN ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
STANZAS.
SONGS.
A PROLOGUE BY THE POET LABERIUS, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
PROLOGUE TO "ZOBEIDE," A TRAGEDY.
EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS.
EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF "THE SISTERS. "
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE
PRINCESS OF WALES.
EPILOGUE TO THE "GOOD-NATURED MAN. "
EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. "
AN EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER:" INTENDED TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS.
BULKLEY
AND MISS CATLEY.
PLAYS.
THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
THE TRAVELLER;
OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
DEDICATION.
TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH
DEAR SIR,
I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force
from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse
thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with
your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from
Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader
understands that it is addressed to a man who, despising fame and
fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of
forty pounds a-year.
I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You
have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the
labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where
the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of
all kinds of ambition—what from the refinement of the times, from
different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party—that
which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.
Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a
country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and music come
in for a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less laborious
entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at length supplant her:
they engross all that favour once shown to her, and, though but younger
sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright.
Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in
greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it.
What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse and
Pindaric odes, choruses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and
happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and
as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for
error is ever talkative.
But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous,—I mean Party.
Party entirely distorts the judgment and destroys the taste. When the
mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in
what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom
desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the
reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever
after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers
generally admire some half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold
man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the
name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires; his turbulence is
said to be force, and his frenzy fire.
What reception a poem may find which has neither abuse, party, nor blank
verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims
are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have endeavoured
to moderate the rage of all. I have attempted to show, that there may be
equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own;
that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this
principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few
can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated
in this poem.
I am, dear Sir,
Your most affectionate brother,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
[Illustration:
"_Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or
by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po. _"—_p. _ 176.
]
THE TRAVELLER;
OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
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 lengthening 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 evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
[Illustration:
"_Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale. _"—_p. _ 177.
]
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 wandering 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.
Even 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 glittering 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 flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine:
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard 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 wandering 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 shuddering 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 gave.
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by art or nature given
To different nations, makes their blessings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call!
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
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 power 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 fav'rite 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 a while, 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 every blast.
Far to the right, where Appenine 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 mouldering 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 different 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 untrue;
And even in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;
At her command the palace learned to rise,
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies;
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm;
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;
While nought remained of all that riches gave,
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-fallen 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 every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,—
The sports of children satisfy the child;
Each nobler aim, repress'd 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 Cæsars once bore sway,
Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed:
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
[Illustration:
"_Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade. _"—_p. _ 180.
]
My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion 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 lingering chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though 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 venturous ploughshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every 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 every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And e'en those ills 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 every 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 powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame;
Their level life is but a smouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire;
Unfit, for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow;
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low:
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way,
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please!
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire;
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,
But mock'd all tune and marr'd the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise:
They please, are pleased; they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise;
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought:
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year:
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies;
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm-connected bulwark seems to grow,
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore,
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,—
A new creation rescued from his reign.
Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts:
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,
Even liberty itself is barter'd here:
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
[Illustration:
"_Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace. _"—_p. _ 184.
]
Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old!
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold;
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;—
How much unlike the sons of Britain now!
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide;
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray;
Creation's mildest charms are there combined,
Extremes are only in the master's mind!
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand,
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control,
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.
Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here,
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear;
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy,
But, foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy:
That independence Britons prize too high
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown;
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd:
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore,
Till, overwrought, the general system feels
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay,
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown:
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms,
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote far fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.
Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state,
I mean to flatter kings or court the great:
Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire,
Far from my bosom drive the low desire;
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel;
Thou transitory flower, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun,
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure,
I only would repress them to secure:
For just experience tells, in every soil,
That those that think must govern those that toil;
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach,
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,
Its double weight must ruin all below.
Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspires!
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast-approaching danger warms:
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their own;
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom when themselves are free;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law;
The wealth of climes where savage nations roam
Pillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home;
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.
Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour,
When first ambition struck at regal power;
And, thus polluting honour in its source,
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore?
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste?
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose,
In barren solitary pomp repose?
Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call
The smiling long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,
The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main;
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound?
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests and through dangerous ways;
Where beasts with man divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories shine,
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind:
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose,
To seek a good each government bestows?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonising wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
DEDICATION.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
DEAR SIR,
I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to
your reputation or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my
admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel;
and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a
juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to
which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in
following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my
brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since
dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you.
How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical
parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire; but I know you will
object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the
opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and
the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own
imagination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer than that I
sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible
pains in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be
certain of what I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led
me to believe those miseries real which I here attempt to display. But
this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be
depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I
should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the
reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a
long poem.
In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the
increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern
politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the
fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages,
and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous.
Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and
continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many
vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so
much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question,
that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes
wish to be in the right.
I am, dear Sir,
Your sincere friend and ardent admirer,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
[Illustration:
"_The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. _"—_p. _ 191.
]
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,—
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade—
A breath can make them, as a breath has made—
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man:
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain:
Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green,
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs—and God has given my share—
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes,—for pride attends us still,—
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
[Illustration:
"_The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung.
