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, unconsious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in homespun gray,
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.

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, used 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,

Clasped 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 relieved, nor sought my 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 distress'd,

At last the impetuous sorrow fired 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 Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right;

For thine and Briton'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 charms the senses,

While pity harmonized 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 promised a lover to come-but, ah me!

"Twas Death-'twas the death of my mistress that came. ever, for ever, her image shall last,

But

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.

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;

For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is removed, and shall never return

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

Chorus,

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,

We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
The tears of her country shall water her tomb.

RETALIATION.

A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV., AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.

(Dr Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St James's coffee-house. 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.)

OF old, when Scarron his companions invited,

Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord* supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Wills shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour
Our Cumberland's|| sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick'stt a salad; 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§§ is lamb;
That Hickey's¶¶ a 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?

The master of the St James's coffee-house.

+ Dr Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland.

The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.

§ Mr William Burke, late secretary to General Conway.

I Mr Richard Burke, collector of Granada.

Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the West-Indian, &c.

**Dr Douglas, canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury).

David Garrick, Esq.

§§ Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Counsellor John Ridge of the Irish bar.
II An eminent attorney.

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, reunited 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 'em out;

Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,

That Sly-boots was

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.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And 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;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient,
And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
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 forced 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, 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!t
Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!

In short, so provoking was Dick,

That we wish'd him full ten times a day
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,

* Mr Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch.

+ Mr Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.