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The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is-to die,

LINES,

ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH;

And inserted in the Morning Chronicle of April 3, 1800,

E'en as you've seen, bathed 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 gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame,

Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak.

SONG,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

Ag me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,

Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

SONG.

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,

Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere fer feigning,

Fears the approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection?

Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra followed my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear.

FROM THE

ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

SONG.

The wretch condemned with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

1 Closely copied from a madrigal by St. Pavier. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way,
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.

Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretches wo!
And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe,

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start,

Oh, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of wo

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead,

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

Tuis tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies,

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

1 This gentleman was educated at Trinity-college, Duba lin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade. Goldsmith's epitaph is nearly a translation from a little piece of De Cailly's, called La mort du Sire Estienne.

72

WRITTTEN AND SPOKEN

BY THE POET LABERIUS,

A Roman Knight,

WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE

(Preserved by Macrobius. )

What! no way left to shun the inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppressed with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by pow'r, and unappalled by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
Tor, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here, then, at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

1 This translation was first printed in one of Goldsmith's earliest works, “The present state of Learning in Europe,” 12mo. 1759.

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