The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine!
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that mainly directing his view
To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas[25] retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines--
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines!
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear’d for your safety, I fear’d for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds[26] shall be pious, our Kenricks[27] shall lecture--
Macpherson[28] write bombast, and call it a style--
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick--describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man:
As an actor, confess’d without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings--a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster’d with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
’Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn’d and he varied full ten times a day;
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas’d he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow’d what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till, his relish grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper’d the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind--
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,[29] and Woodfalls[30] so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais’d,
While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-prais’d!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspere receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish’d his friend, and he relish’d a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask, if the man was a miser?
I answer, no, no--for he always was wiser;
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can’t accuse him of that;
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye!
He was--could he help it?--a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid; and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part--
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg’d without skill, he was still hard of hearing;
When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Coreggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,[31] and only took snuff.
[Illustration: POSTSCRIPT]
Here Whitefoord[32] reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv’d, he is now a _grave_ man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun--
Who relish’d a joke, and rejoic’d in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere--
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter’d around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily _bon mots_ half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confin’d;
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content “if the table he set in a roar;”--
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall[33] confess’d him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes:
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it--you can do no less--
_Cross-readings_, _Ship-news_, and _Mistakes of the Press_.[34]
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse--
“Thou best-humour’d man, with the worst-humour’d muse.”
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Paul Scarròn, a popular French writer, who died in 1660.
[13] Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland.
[14] Edmund Burke.
[15] Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway.
[16] Mr. Richard Burke.
[17] Richard Cumberland, author of “The West Indian,” and other
dramatic pieces.
[18] Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and Bishop of Salisbury.
[19] David Garrick, the actor.
[20] An Irish barrister.
[21] Sir Joshua Reynolds.
[22] An eminent attorney.
[23] Thomas Townshend, Member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney.
[24] Richard Burke had broken a leg, about seven years before this poem
was written.
[25] Douglas had vindicated Milton from the insolence of Lauder,
ingeniously refuted the cavils of Hume, and exposed Bower.
[26] The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
[27] Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures, under the title of “The School of
Shakspere.”
[28] James Macpherson, the translator of Ossian.
[29] Hugh Kelly, author of “False Delicacy,” “School for Wives,” &c.
[30] Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the _Morning Chronicle_.
[31] Sir Joshua Reynolds used an ear-trumpet in company.
[32] Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so
fond of punning, that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be in
his company without being infected with the disorder.
[33] Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the _Public Advertiser_.
[34] Mr. Whitefoord contributed papers on these subjects to the _Public
Advertiser_.
[Illustration: THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION
A TALE]
Secluded from domestic strife,
Jack Book-Worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke,
And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arriv’d at thirty-six?
Oh! had the Archer ne’er come down
To ravage in a country town;
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop!
Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.
Oh!--but let exclamation cease;
Her presence banish’d all his peace!
So, with decorum all things carried,
Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was--married.
The honey-moon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports, too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss;
The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:
But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay--
Found half the charms that deck’d her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain’d behind--
That very face had robb’d her mind.
Skill’d in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace--
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain-lectures bring
To decency so fine thing?
In short--by night, ’twas fits or fretting;
By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder’d coxcombs at her levee;
The ’squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations.
Jack suck’d his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass’d between
Insulting repartee or spleen.
[Illustration]
Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown:
He fancies every vice she shows
Or thins her lip, or points her nose;
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz--
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,
As each a different way pursues--
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promis’d to hold them on for life--
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty’s transient flower,
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell’d its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a--perfect fright.
Each former art she vainly tries,
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her pastes and creams,
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams:
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The ’squire himself was seen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn’d to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old.
With modesty her cheeks are dy’d;
Humility displaces pride:
For tawdry finery is seen,
A person ever neatly clean:
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day:
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a--perfect beauty.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE GIFT TO IRIS]
IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make,
Expressive of my duty?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver--
Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give; and let them:
If gems or gold impart a joy,
I’ll give them--when I get them.
I’ll give--but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud, more in fashion--
Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose
A transitory passion--
I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I’ll give thee--ah! too charming maid,
I’ll give thee to the devil!
[Illustration: THE LOGICIANS REFUTED]
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
Logicians have but ill defin’d
As rational, the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man--
But let them prove it, if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,[35]
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
_Homo est ratione præditum_--
But for my soul I cannot credit ’em:
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain,
And that this boasted child of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature--
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason--boasting mortals’ pride,
And that brute beasts are far before ’em:
_Deus est anima brutorum._
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute;
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who’s in or out at court:
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace;
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;[36]
Fraught with invective they ne’er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No jugglers, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others’ throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators:
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters,
Their masters’ manners still contract--
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike--for all ape all.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[35] Smiglecius, a native of Poland, wrote a Treatise on Logic, which
Goldsmith had probably seen at the University.
[36] Sir Robert Walpole.
[Illustration: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.[37]]
Good people of all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there lived a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found:
As many dogs there be--
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
[Illustration]
This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran;
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem’d both sore and sad
To every christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show’d the rogues they lied--
The man recover’d of the bite;
The dog it was that died.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] “‘My brother Dick,’ cried Bill, my youngest, ‘is just gone out
with sister Livy; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I’ll
sing them for you, Papa. Which song do you choose, the Dying Swan, or
the Elegy on the Mad Dog?’ ‘The Elegy, child, by all means,’ said I: ‘I
never heard that yet.’”--VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, Chap. XVII.
[Illustration: THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS]
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS,
THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.[38]
PART I.
_Overture._--_A solemn dirge._
_Air._--_Trio._
Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
’Tis ours to weep the want below!
_Chorus._
When truth and virtue reach the skies, &c.
MAN _Speaker_.
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour--
Mere transitory things!
The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But, when to pomp and power are join’d
An equal dignity of mind--
When titles are the smallest claim--
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good--
Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was borne,
Request to be forgiven.
Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmov’d, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:
Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,
And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free
Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity!
_Song.--By a_ MAN.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush’d to rest,
Loses every pain in dying,
In the hope of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows;
Every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
WOMAN _Speaker_.
Yet, ah! what terrors frown’d upon her fate--
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever and pain and pale consumptive care,
Determin’d took their stand:
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb’d the relic and defac’d the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death’s growing power,
And trembled as he frown’d.
As helpless friends, who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross--
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant! at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance, and provoke thy rage.
_Song._--_By a_ MAN.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things;
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings;
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
MAN _Speaker_.
Yet let that wisdom, urg’d by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature--
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey’d through a world of cares,
May put off life, and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask’d, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To death’s great court, the prospect seems more fair:
’Tis Nature’s kind retreat, that’s always open
To take us in, when we have drain’d the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where, wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar’s pouch and prince’s purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe’er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest;
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest:
May peace, that claim’d while here thy warmest love--
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!
_Song.--By a_ WOMAN.
Lovely, lasting peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky--
Lovely, lasting peace appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
WOMAN _Speaker_.
Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell;
Want pass’d for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied;
Her constant pity fed the poor--
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,[39]
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues, while they think of thee.
_Air.--Chorus.--Pomposo._
Let us, let all the world agree
To profit by resembling thee.
PART II.
_Overture._--_Pastorale._
MAN _Speaker_.
Fast by that shore where Thames’ translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet’s dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest--
Where sculptur’d elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place,
While sweetly blending still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green--
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene--
There, sorrowing by the river’s glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural band complain’d,
All whom Augusta’s bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain’d;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey,
The military boy, the orphan’d maid,
The shatter’d veteran, now first dismay’d:
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep;
And, as they view
The towers of Kew,
Call on their Mistress--now no more--and weep.
[Illustration]
_Chorus._
Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes--
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form’d your beauties is no more!
MAN _Speaker._
First of the train, the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear and many a sigh between;
“And where,” he cried, “shall now my babes have bread,
Or how shall age support its feeble fire?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare--
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble Mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, us’d to flow;
And as my strength decay’d, her bounty grew.”
WOMAN _Speaker_.
In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen--
Clasp’d in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta’s care had well supplied.
“And, ah!” she cries, all woe-begone,
“What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair,
To ask for charity?
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed;
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;
She still reliev’d, nor sought for praise,
Contented with her own.
But every day her name I’ll bless--
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I’ll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long.”
_Song.--By a_ WOMAN.
Each day, each hour, her name I’ll bless,
My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
MAN _Speaker._
The hardy veteran, after struck the sight,
Scarr’d, mangled, maim’d in every part;
Lopp’d of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire--except his heart;
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir’d his breast:
“Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O’er Afric’s sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow’d main;
But every danger felt before--
The raging deep, the whirlwind’s roar--
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh! let me fly a land that spurns the brave--
Oswego’s dreary shores shall be my grave;
I’ll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.”
_Song.--By a_ MAN.
Old Edward’s sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Crécy’s laurell’d field,
To do thy memory right;
For thine and Britain’s wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.
WOMAN _Speaker_.
In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear’d a lovely maid--
Affliction o’er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty’s aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charm’d the senses,
While pity harmoniz’d the whole.
“The garland of beauty”--’tis thus she would say--
“No more shall my crook or my temples adorn;
I’ll not wear a garland--Augusta’s away,
I’ll not wear a garland until she return.
“But, alas! that return I never shall see,
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim;
There promis’d a lover to come--but, O me!
’Twas death--’twas the death of my Mistress that came.
“But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I’ll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.”
_Song._--_By a_ WOMAN.--_Pastorale._