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Even now, methinks, as pondering here I ffand,
I fee the rural virtues leave the land:

Down where yon anchoring veffel spreads the fail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pafs from the fhore, and darken all the ftrand.
Contented Toil, and hofpitable Care,
And kind Connubial Tenderness are there;'
And Piety with wishes plac'd above,
And fteady Loyalty and faithful Love.

And thou, fweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still firft to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in thefe degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or ftrike for honeft fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried;
My fhame in crowds, my folitary pride;
Thou fource of all my blifs and all my woe,
That found me poor at first, and kept me fo;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

DR. GOLDSMITH

SECT.

LXVI.

A NEW SIMILE.

I.

I

LONG had rack'd

my

brains to find

A likenefs for the fcribbling kind,
The modern fcribbling kind, who write
In wit, and fenfe, and nature's spite:
Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,

I think

I think I met with fomething there,
To fuit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to God Mercurius ;
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The ftrefs of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our fimile.

II.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat;
Wings upon either fide-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather-very right;
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A juft comparison-Proceed.

III.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his fhoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship thro' the air :
And here my fimile unites;
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm fure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

a;

IV.
Laftly, vouchfafe t' obferve his hand,
Fill'd with a fnake-encircled wand
By claffick authors term'd caducis,
And highly fam'd for several ufes.

То

To wit-moft wondrously endued,

No poppy-water half fo good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its foporific virtue's fuch,

Though ne'er fo much awake before,
That quickly they begin to fnore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's fouls to hell.

V.

Now to apply, begin we then:

His wand's a modern author's pen;
The ferpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy flaver, venom❜d bites;
An equal femblance still to keep,
Alike they both conduce to fleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove fouls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goofe quill the fcribbling elf,
Inftead of others, damns himself.

VI.

And here my fimile almost tript;

Yet grant a word by way of poftfcript;.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which our fcribbling bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he;

But even his deity's existence

Shall lend my fimile affiftance.

Our modern bards! why, what a pox,
Are they but fenfeless stones and blocks?

DR. GOLDSMITH.

[blocks in formation]

THE radiant ruler of the year

At length his wintry goal attains,
Soon to reverse the long career,
And northward bend his golden reins.
Prone on Potofi's haughty brow
His fiery ftreams inceffant flow,
Ripening the filver's ductile ftores;
While in the cavern's horrid fhade
The panting Indian hides his head,
And oft th' approach of eve explores.

But lo, on this deferted coaft

How faint the light! how thick the air!
Lo, arm'd with whirlwind, hail and froft,
Fierce winter defolates the year.

The fields refign their cheerful bloom;
No more the breezes waft perfume,
No more the warbling waters roll:
Deserts of snow fatigue the eye,
Black ftorms involve the louring fky,
And gloomy damps opprefs the foul.

Now thro' the town promifcuous throngs
Urge the warm bowl and ruddy fire;
Harmonious dances, feftive fongs,
To charm the midnight hours confpire.
While mute, and shrinking with her fears,
Each blaft the cottage matron hears

As

As o'er the hearth fhe fits alone :
At morn her bridegroom went abroad,
The night is dark, and deep the road
She fighs, and wishes him at home.

;

But thou, my lyre, awake, arife,
And hail the fun's remoteft ray:
Now, now he climbs the northern skies,
To-morrow, nearer than to day.
Then louder howl the ftormy waste,
Be land and ocean worse defac'd,
Yet brighter hours are on the wing;
And fancy thro' the wintry glooms,
All fresh with dews and opening blooms,
Already hails th' emerging fpring.

O fountain of the golden day!
Could mortal vows but urge thy speed,
How foon before thy vernal ray
Should each unkindly damp recede!
How foon each hov'ring tempeft fly,
That now fermenting loads the sky,
Prompt on our heads to burst amain,
To rend the foreft from the steep,
Or thund'ring o'er the Baltic deep,
To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!

But let not man's unequal views
Presume on nature and her laws;
'Tis his with grateful joy to use
Th' indulgence of the fov'reign cause;
Secure that health and beauty fprings
Thro' this majestic frame of things

Beyond

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