SONG. BY A MAN- BASSO SPIRITUOSO.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right:

For thine and Britain'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, oh me!
'Twas death, 'twas the death of my mistress, that

came.

But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

8 These lines altered from Collins's Ode on the Death of Col. Ross.

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 remov'd, and shall never return?

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd,
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.

*On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd, We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom, And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.

4 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.'

Collins's Dirge in Cymbeline.

LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH,

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE

OF APRIL 3, 1800.

E'EN have you seen, bath'd in the morning dew, The budding rose its infant bloom display: When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek;

I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak.

POEMS

WHICH HAVE NEVER BEEN INCORPORATED WITH THE PRECEDING ONES OF GOLDSMITH.

(See Citizen of the World, ii. 87.) It is the business of the stage-poet to watch the appearance of every new player at his own house, and so come out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper verses. In these, nature and the actor may be set to run races, the player always coming off victorious; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old Shakespeare may put on his winding-sheet, and pay him a visit; or the tuneful Nine may strike up their harps in his praise; or, should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the beauteous Queen of Love, and the naked Graces, are ever in waiting. The lady must be herself a goddess bred and born; she must- but you shall have a specimen of one of these poems, which may convey a more precise idea:

ON SEEING MRS.

PERFORM IN THE

CHARACTER OF

For you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining
face.

She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compar'd to this!
As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love
With fond complaint address'd the listening Jove;
"Twas joy and endless blisses all around,

And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.

(V. Citizen of the World, ii. p. 164.) I am amazed that none have yet found out the secret of flattering the worthless, and yet of preserving a safe conscience. I have often wished for some method by which a man might do himself and his deceased patron justice, without being under the hateful reproach of self-conviction. After long lucubration, I have hit upon such an expedient, and send you the specimen of a poem upon the decease of a great man, in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly innocent.

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON.

YE Muses, pour the pitying tear

For Pollio snatch'd away;

Oh! had he liv'd another year,

He had not died to-day.

Oh! were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore,

Heroes themselves had fallen behind

Whene'er he went before.