Yes, brother, curse me with that baleful hour,
When first ambition struck at regal power;
And thus, polluting honor in its source,

Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force.
Have we not seen, roun Britain's peopled shore,
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ?
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste?
Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern Depopulation in her train,
And over fiel is, where scattered hamlets rose,
In barren, sol tary pomp repose?
Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call,
The smiling, long-frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed,
The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main,
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound?

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways,
Where beasts with man divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yell arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his wo,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,

Casts a long look where England's glories shine,
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind:
Why have I stayed from pleasure and repose,
To seek a good each government bestows?
In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find:

With secret course which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,
To men remote from power but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.

THE HERMIT.

A BALLAD.

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go."
"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power the pities me, I learn to pity them

"But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego,
All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little lung."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in the wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch,
Required a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gayly pressed and smiled;
And, skilled in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger's wo;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care oppressed: And, "Whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest ;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows huck And spurn the sex," he said;

But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betrayed.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms :

The lovely stranger stands confessed A maid in all her charms.

And, "Ah! forgive a stranger rude

A wretch forlorn," she cried; "Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he:

And all his wealth was marked as mine,

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumbered suiters came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bowed. But never talked of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

"And when beside me in the dale,
He carolled lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.*

"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could naught of purity display
To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine:
Their charms were his, but wo to me,
Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touched my heart, I triumphed in his pain:

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turned to chide'Twas Edwin's self that pressed!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart.

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine.

"No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too.

This stanza was preserved by Richard Archdale. Esq., a member of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Goldsmith, and was first inserted at the author's death.

Yet why complain? What though by bonds confined,
Should bonds repress the vigor of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly,
When vaunting folly lifts her head on high?
No! rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortunes sinks, our spirits soar.

Air.

The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end;
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:

As aromatic plants bestow

No spicy fragrance while they grow; But crushed, or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

FIRST PROPHET.

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near,
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear

* This was first printed from the original, in Doctor Goldsmith' own hand-writing, in the 8vo. edition of his Miscellaneous Works, published in 1820.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.

Cyrus comes, the world redressing, Love and pleasure in his train ; Comes to heighten every blessing, Comes to soften every pain.

SEMI-CHORUS.

Hail to him with mercy reigning,
Skilled in every peaceful art;
Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart.

THE LAST CHORUS.

But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end,
Let us all begin and end in Thee!

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.*

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES

AIR-TRIO.

ARISE, ye sons of earth, arise,

And waken every note of wo!

When truth and virtue reach the skies 'Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &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 joined

An equal dignity of the 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 born,
Request to be forgiven!
Alas! they never had thy hate;

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Ncr wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm the ravished sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;

In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashioned arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
Virtue, on herself relying,

Every passion hushed to rest,

Loses every pain of dying

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers

Some increasing good bestows, And every shock that malice offers, Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate,
Death, with his formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

This poem was prepared in little more than two days, and poken and sung in the great room in Soho square, Thursday, the th of February, 1772

Yet let that wisdom, urged 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 journeyed 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 unmasked, 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 drained 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 claimed, while here, thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!

SONG. BY A WOMAN-AMOROSO.
Lovely, lasting Peace, below,
Comforter of every wo,
Heavenly born, and bred on higl.,
To crown the favorites of the sky!
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
's once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Our vows are heard! Long, long to mertal eyes, Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:

Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest Want and patient Sorrow dwell;
Want passed 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,