Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt, at ev'ry call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,

The rev'rend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd

praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double

sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran:
Ev'n children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's
smile;

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest:

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv'n,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the

Lands ho could measure, terms and tides

presage,

And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, For ev'n though vanquish'd he could argue still;

While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound,

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew

That one small head should carry all ho knew.

But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the

door ;

The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of

goose;

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,

With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel,

gay;

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

Vain transitory splendours! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall!
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's
heart;

Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,

No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;

The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart One native charm, than all the gloss of art;

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born

sway;

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who
survey

The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,

'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand

Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted

ore,

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ;

Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,

And rich men flock from all the world around.

Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a

name

That leaves our useful product still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride

Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their
growth;

His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies :
For all the luxuries the world supplies:
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,

Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;

But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,

When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress:
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd;
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine, from the smiling

land

The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to

save,

The country blooms-a garden and a grave!

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn
thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies:

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the
thorn;

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue, fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from
the show'r,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,

When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little
bread!

Ah, no.
To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes
between,

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before,

The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward

ray,

And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound,

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the bus'ness of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,

I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the
strand.

Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade !
Unfit, in these degen'rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest
fame,

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st

me so;

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well;
Farewell! and O! where'er thy voice be
tried,

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
And slighted truth with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states, of native strength
possest,

Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift

decay,

As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Goldsmith.-Born 1728, Died 1774.

920. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Never ranged in a forest, or smoked on a platter;

The haunch was a picture for painters to study,

The fat was so white, and the lean was so

ruddy:

So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round:

But what vex'd me most, was that d'a Scottish rogue,

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue:

And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,

A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; . Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,

But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst."

"The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,

"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:

I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

"O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty".

Jew;

-"A pasty!" repeated the

"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."

"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner,' was echoed about, While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd,

With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid:

A visage so sad and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her ?

That she came with some terrible news from the baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus-but let similes dropAnd now that I think on't, the story may stop.

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,

To send such good verses to one of your

taste;

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share,
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye;
Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the
sky.

Deep in the frozen regions of the north,
A goddess violated brought thee forth,
Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime
Hath bleach'd the tyrant's cheek in every
varying clime,

What time the iron-hearted Gaul,
With frantic superstition for his guide,
Arm'd with the dagger and the pall,
The sons of Woden to the field defied :
The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood,

In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow;
And red the stream began to flow:
The vanquish'd were baptized with blood!

ANTISTROPHE.

The Saxon prince in horror fled,
From altars stain'd with human gore,
And Liberty his routed legions led
In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore.
There in a cave asleep she lay,
Lull'd by the hoarse-resounding main,
When a bold savage pass'd that way,
Impell'd by destiny, his name Disdain.
Of ample front the portly chief appear'd:
The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest;
The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard,
And his broad shoulders braved the furious
blast.

He stopt, he gazed, his bosom glow'd,
And deeply felt the impression of her charms:
He seized the advantage Fate allow'd,
And straight compress'd her in his vigorous

arms.

STROPHE.

The curlew scream'd, the tritons blew
Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew :
And Independence saw the light.