Our ship's well-stor❜d ;—in yonder creek we've laid her;

His honour is no mercenary trader.(1)

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR

MRS. BULKLEY.(2)

There is a place, so Ariosto sings,

A treasury for lost and missing things:

Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he ;-but I affirm, the Stage:

At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.

(1) [Mr. Craddock had given his right to any profits that might accrue from the representation to Mrs. Yates, who greatly distinguished herself in the part of Zobeide.]

(2) [Presented in MS., among other papers, to Dr. Percy, by the Poet; but for what play intended has not been ascertained. It appears, however, by the concluding lines, that it was not a sentimental comedy, but of the school which Goldsmith adopted, and praised by the line

"Still stoops among the low to copy nature."]

MISCELLANIES.

But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses;
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor'd,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and " Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place,
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment :-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix,

The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS; (1)

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

(2)

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.

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, &c.

MAN Speaker.

The praise attending pomp and

The incense given to Kings,

power,

Are but the trappings of an hour—

Mere transitory things:

(1) [Printed from the copy belonging to Mr. Isaac Reed, who has written on the title-page : "This poem was written, or, as he says, compiled by Dr. Oliver Goldsmith. It is very scarce, and ought to be in his works." It was performed in the Great Room, Soho Square, the 20th February 1772. The composer was Signor Vento; the speakers Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellemy; and the singers Mr. Champness, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson.-See Life, ch. xxi.]

(2) [Daughter of Frederick II., Duke of Saxe Gotha, and mother of King George III.]

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!

E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
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 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!

SONG.-By a MAN.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Ev'ry passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,
In the hopes of being blest.
Ev'ry added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,

And ev'ry 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 defaced 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!