תמונות בעמוד
PDF
ePub

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
When time advances, and when lovers fail, [frail,
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, scourg'd 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!

Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd.

If to the city sped-What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way; The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy !
Sure these denote one universal joy! [eyes
Are these thy serious thoughts?-Ah, turn thine
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
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!

[train,

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes beten, 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 terrours of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance
crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around:
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrours of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men more murd'rous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far diff'rent these from ev'ry former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that part-
ing day,

That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past,
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their
last,

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where ev'ry pleasure ruse;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a

tear,

And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O Luxury! thou curs'd by heav'n's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own:
At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldly woe;
Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part un-
sound,

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.
[sail,
Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the
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 plac'd 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 decry'd,
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 try'd,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
On winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid 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.

[blocks in formation]

Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce
help regretting

[blocks in formation]

"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.
To morrow you take a poor dinner with me ;
No words-I insist on't-precisely at three :
We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will
[Clare

be there;

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord
And, now that I think on't, as I am sinner!
We wanted this ven'son to make out a dinner.
What say you-a pasty; it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter-this ven'son with me to Mile-end ;
No stirring, I beg-my dear friend-my dear
friend!"

Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself 2;"

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman

view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû :
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd
in.

But hold let me pause-don't I hear you pro

nounce,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest, in my

turn,

It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn'.
To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best :
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose:
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Mon-
roe's:

the when.

But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and
[H—ff,
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and
I think they love ven'son-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.[alone,
But hang it-to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it may hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a

shirt.

'Lord Clare's nephew.

VOL. XVI.

hasty,

[pasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life,
Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

When come to the place where we all were to
dine,

(A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite
dumb
[come;

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale.
"For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail,
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the
party,

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty;
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, [you;
They're both of them merry, and authors like
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-be owns to Panurge."
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by

name,

They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there were spinnage and pudding
made hot!

In the middle a place where the pasty—was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;

2 See the letters that passed between his royal highness Henry duke of Cumberland, and lady Grosvenor-120, 1760.

Kk

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-'d Scottish rogue, [his brogue: With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and And, "Madam," quoth he, " may this bit be A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ;[my poison, Pray a slice of your liver, tho' 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."
[a trice,
"O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice:
There's a pasty"-" A pasty "" repeated the Jew;
"I dont care if I keep a corner for't too."
"What the de'il mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the
Scot;
[that."
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.
While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out (for who could mistake
her?)
[baker.

That she came with some terrible news from the
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour mis-
plac'd,

To send such good verses to one of your taste. You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning

A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your

own:

So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

RETALIATION.

A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR 1774,

AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-honse.— One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.

Or old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united.

Our dean 3 shall be ven'son, just fresh from the plains; [brains | Our Burke 3 shall be tongue, with the garnish of Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the sa

vour:

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain;

And Douglass 7 is pudding, substantial and plain:
Our Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge is anchovy,and Reynolds 1 is lamb;
That Hickey's la capon; and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm
able,

Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,

Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom
with mirth:

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least in six weeks I could not find them out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be demed
'em,

That sly -boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was

such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind: [his throat Though fraught with all learning, yet straining To persuade Tommy Townshend 1 to lend him a vote; [fining, Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on reAnd thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;

where the doctor, and the friends he has charac terised in this poem, occasionally dined.

* Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry in Ireland. 3 Mr. Edmund Burke.

• Mr. William Burke, late secretary to general Conway, and member for Bedwin.

5 Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. Mr. Richard Cumberland,author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.

Dr. Douglas, the late bishop of Salisbury, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.

8 David Garrick, esq.

• Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belong. [fish,ing to the Irish bar. 10 Sir Joshua Reynolds.

If our landlord' supplies us with beef and with Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:

The master of St. James's coffee-house

"An eminent attorney.

12 Mr.T.Townshend, member for Whitchurch

499,

[over,

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench o a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the

dark.

For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; | Macpherson 16 write bombast, and call it a style; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, [sir, compile; To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that [was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had [none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard 13, whose fate I must
sigh at;

Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet:
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the

ball !

Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old
Nick;

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flatt'ring 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 crow'd
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 vainly 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 retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostures, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking di-
vines,
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 14 shall be pious, our Kenricks' shall
lecture;

[blocks in formation]

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who

can,

An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man:
As an actor, confest without rival to shine,
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line!
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;
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
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 of 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, '7 and Woodfalls' so
grave,
What a commerce was your's, 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
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will:
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!

4

poet of all antiquity.
16 James Macpherson, esq. who lately, from
the mere force of his style, wrote down the first

17 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy,
Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives,
&c. &c.

18 Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

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 civally steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard
of hearing;
[and stuff,
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios,
He shifted his trumpet '9, and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best humour'd man with the worst hus mour'd muse."

To this Postscript the reader may not be displeased to find added the following

POETICAL EPISTLE TO DR. GOLDSMITH, OK, SUPPLEMENT TO HIS RETALIATION.

[FROM THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE FOR AUGUST 1778.]

DOCTOR, according to our wishes,
You've character'd us all in dishes;
Serv'd up a sentimental treat
Of various emblematic meat:
And now it's time, I trust, yon'll think

After the fourth edition of this poem was print-Your company should have some drink:
ed, the publisher received the following epi-
taph on Mr. Whitefoord', from a friend of
the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave

man:

[blocks in formation]

Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd 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 +

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake 1
admit
[wit:

That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said

19 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an eartrumpet in company.

1 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many hu

morous essays.

* Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.

3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

4 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the -town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser,

Else, take my word for it, at least
Your Irish friends won't like your feast.
Ring, then, and see that there is plac'd
To each according to his taste.

To Douglas, fraught with learned stock
of critic lore, give ancient hock;
Let it be genuine, bright, and fine,
Pure unadulterated wine;

For if there's fault in taste, or odour,
He'll search it, as he search'd out Lauder.
To Johnson, philosophic sage,
The moral Mentor of the age,
With melting heart, but look austere,
Religion's friend, with soul sincere,
Give liquor of an honest sort,

And crown his cup with priestly port.

Now fill the glass with gay champagne,
And frisk it in a livelier strain;
Quick, quick, the sparkling nectar quaff,
Drink it, dear Garrick !-drink and laugh!
Pour forth to Reynolds, without stint,
Rich burgundy, of ruby tint;
If e'er his colours chance to fade,

This brilliant hue shall come in aid,
With ruddy light refresh the faces,
And warm the bosoms of the Graces.

To Burke a pure libation bring,
Fresh drawn from clear Castalian spring:
With civic oak the goblet bind,
Fit emblem of his patriot mind;
Let Clio at his table sip,
And Hermes hand it to his lip.

Fill out my friend, the Dean' of Derry,
A bumber of conventual sherry!
Give Ridge, and Hickey, generous souls!"
Of whiskey punch convivial bowls;
But let the kindred Burkes regale
With potent draughts of Wicklow ale!
To C*****k next in order turn ye,
And grace him with the vines of Ferney!

Now, doctor, you're an honest sticker, So take your glass, and chuse your liquor s Wilt have it steep'd in Alpine snows, Or damask'd at Silenus' nose? With Wakefield's vicar sip your tea Or to Thalia drink with me? And, doctor, I would have you know it, An honest, I, though humble poet;

1 Dr. Barnard.

« הקודםהמשך »