Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasped them close-in sorrow doubly dears
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own;
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo;
Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done: E’en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand : Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety, with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade!

Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame:
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue-fare thee well!
Farewell! and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side;
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependant power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky,

THE

HERMIT.

A Ballað.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 1765.

The following Letter, addressed to the Printer of the St. James' Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767.

SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from onel by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual

1 "The Friar of Orders Gray.” Reliques of Ancient Poetry.

2 Late Bishop of Dromore.

good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a bal. lad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I am,

Sir,

Yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE

HERMIT.

* Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray:

6. For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening 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 rusty couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.