"Intently to have learn'd each lib'ral art,
Refines the morals, and reforms the heart."*
But liberal arts in vain to those are taught
Who turn their very learning to a fault.
Not the pert fop who, in a fairy trance,
Will before breakfast drivel a romance;
Nay, if you kindly grant him twice that time,
Will metamorphose his romance to rhyme;
No: (though ordain'd in that huge house to sit,
Renown'd for policy, if not for wit;
Where flies the quick reply, the smart remark,
Should whig meet whig, and jostle in the dark ;)
Not ev'n thyself, O Lewis! do I prize
When, vainly learn'd, unprofitably wise,
In futile schemes thy brighter parts are lost,
And the state's welfare by a goblin crost.
Hence ye light tribe who weave the gaudy clue
Which puzzled reason seldom can pierce through!
Ye silky sonneteering fribbles, hence;
Disown'd by poesy, disdain'd by sense!
Close to sage Bedlam fix your lineal throne,
And 'mid craz'd brethren make Moorfields your own.
Hear thou the voice of taste, of judgment hear!
Let their fair forms in wonted light appear;
Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes,
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.
Let Nature's self, consummate linguist, plead ;
Be chaste propriety from phrenzy freed;
Thy ill example instantly remove,
Divorc'd from follies far beneath thy love.
When thou hast sprinkled holy water down,
And wasted pailfulls on this precious town;
When thou hast exercis'd each hare-brain'd rogue,
Proclaiming nonsense is no more the vogue;
Each boarding-school of beastly novels clear'd,
Clean of pollution as a bridegroom's beard;
But chiefly go'st thyself at night to bed
Compos'd, without one spectre in thy head;
And I no more am stunn'd, in list'ning lanes,
With river-queens, mad Molls, and crazy Janes ;
Then will I change my tune to notes of praise,
Nor blend the bitter ivy with the bays.
WHILE o'er thy urn the pitying Virtues weep,
And lull thy tuneful soul to endless sleep,
Ah! spare one moment from the baleful tomb,
And burst from black oblivion's envious gloom;
To future ages, Goldsmith, shine confest,
And seize the hallow'd temple of my breast:
In warblings wild attune the trembling chord,
And soothe the melting mind at every word:
For thou alone such pity couldst impart,
And touch the master movements of the heart;
With beauty's languor tinge the lovely cheek,
And raise such thoughts as words but faintly speak.
* In a sort of dedication of this little poem to Lord Forbes, Dermody rests his claim to a humble imitation of Goldsmith, on the circumstance of "being born very near the place which that poet so elegantly describes." He says also that "it was written in the space of three hours, in a very wet evening, when his ideas were somewhat cramped and vapid, from the impression of the dull air, or from dulness itself."
What artless innocence adorns each line,
What glowing tints the precious draught refine, When to the heart thy thrilling numbers cling, And rapture floats along the golden string! Caught by the sound, my eyes unbounded roll Along the page, and tell my frenzied soul, While rising passions paint my varying face, And Nature gleams in each attractive trace.
E'en now, while o'er the devious path I stray,
And smiling auburn stops my museful way,
Fresh transports swell the torrent of delight,
And all thy simple neatness charms my sight.
The new-built village rears its humble head,
And desolation's murky crew are fled;
Plenty adorns again each rural street,
And friendship walks with every sweet I meet.
The sounds of joy accost my wish'd return,
And not one native wretch is left to mourn.
The palsied dame that from yon stagnant flood,
Dipp'd the sour bev'rage for her ev'ning food,
Now sees again her humble cot secure,
And thousand welcomes greet her at the door.
And though no husband meets her hast'ning pace,
No sportive children bless her smiling face,
Yet rose-lip'd peace her couch of straw attends,
And all the grateful neighbours are her friends.
From the chill storm that rends the tow'ring dome,
Yon thickset hedges save her little home;
And when the thoughts of former times arise,
With pious hand she wipes her streaming eyes;
Resign'd and calm she hopes to be forgiv❜n,
And kneels compliant to the will of Heav'n.
Yet though the widow's tears may sometime flow,
And tell the tender luxury of woe;
Though all her sufferings past sad thoughts inspire,
And swell her annals by the ev'ning fire;
Full many a wretch, by loss of fortune curst,
Though rear'd in plenty, by indulgence curs'd,
Has quaffed the cup of grief, unmix'd with joy,
And heaved for ages the eternal sigh.
Yon elm that, swelling on the ample sight,
Copes with the hill behind in equal height,
Has seen full many a shepherd tress around,
And fresh delighted with the bagpipe's sound.
High on a tree with mossy verdure green,
The rural minstrel oft, with cheerful mien,
Harmonic instrument of song inspires,
And feeds the latent spark of am'rous fires.
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