at times as much embarrassed in his circumstances, as when his income was in its lowest and most precarious state. He had been for some years, at different times, affected with a violent strangury, which contributed to embitter the latter part of his life, and which, united with the vexations he suffered upon other occasions, brought on a kind of habitual despondency. In this condition he was attacked by a nervous fever, which, in spite of the most able medical assistance, terminated in his dissolution on the 4th day of April, 1774, in the forty-third year of his age. His remains were deposited in the burial-ground belonging to the Temple, and a monument hath since been erected to his memory, in Westminster-Abbey, at the expense of a literary club to which he belonged. It consists of a large medallion, exhibiting a good likeness of the Doctor, embellished with literary ornaments; underneath which is a tablet of white marble, with the following Latin inscription, written by his friend Dr. Samuel Johnson: OLIVARII GOLDSMITH, Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit; Affectuum potens, at lenis Dominator; Amicorum Fides, Lectorum Veneratio. Natus Hibernia, Forneiæ Lonfordiensis, Nov. xxix. MDCCXXXI. Obiit Londini Apr. iv. MDCCLXXIV. Translation. This Monument is raised To the Memory of OLIVER GOLDSMITH, Poet, Natural Philosopher, and Historian, Who left no species of writing untouched, or Unadorned by his pen, He was a powerful master Over the affections, Though at the same time a gentle tyrant; In expression at once noble, His memory will last As long as Society retains affection, And Reading wants not her admirers. Where Pallas had set her name, He was educated at Dublin, And died in London, 4th April, 1774. We shall conclude this account of the life of Dr. Goldsmith with the two following poems, written on the occasion of his death. ON THE DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. BY W. WOTY. ADIEU, sweet Bard! to each fine feeling true, Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds,...and these None gave more free....for none more deeply felt. A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DR. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. DARK as the night, which now in dunnest robe With solemn step the mansions of the dead: With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb; The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, adieu! No more your airy dreams shall mock my view: Here will I learn ambition to control, And each aspiring passion of the soul: Ev'n now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, When late he meditated flight from care, When as imagination fondly hied To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried; D |