LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 1 
 
 Slielf_.-,£C. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
mm €olhcj^ S>txm. 
 
 m 
 
 Fifty-Five, 
 
 READINGS 
 
 FROM 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 
 
 NEW YORK; 
 PHILLIPS & HUN 
 
 CINCINNATI; 
 WALDEN & STOWE 
 
 1883. 
 
 ea s a oa i SSjS eii jw 
 
-**The " Home Oollegb Series " will contain one hundred abort papers on 
 a wide range of subjects — biographical, historical, scientific, literary, domes- 
 tic, political, and religious. Indeed, the religious tone will characterize all 
 of them. They are written for every body — for all whose leisure is limited, 
 but who desire to use the minutes for the enrichment of life. 
 
 .'.'These papers contain seeds from the best gardens in all the world of 
 human knowledge, and if droppfefi^^sely into good soil, will bring forth 
 harvests of beauty and value. ^^ 
 
 They are for the young — especially for young people (and older people 
 too) who are out of the schools, who are full of "business" and "cares," 
 who are in danger Of readily nothing, or of reading a sensational literature 
 that is worse than nothing. >v 
 
 One of these papem a week read over and over, thought and talked about 
 iat "odd times," will give in one year a vast fund of information, an intel- 
 lectual quickening, worth even more than the mere knowledge acquired, a 
 taste for solid reading, many hours of simple and wholesome pleasure, and 
 ability to talk intelligently and helpfully to one's friends. 
 
 Pastors may organize ♦'Home College " classes, or " Lyceum Reading 
 Unions," or "Chautauqua Literary and Scientific CirdeSj" and help the 
 young people to read and think and talk and live to worthier purpose. 
 
 A young man may have his own little " college " all by himsel<i read this 
 series of tracts one after the other, (there will soon be one hundred of them 
 ready,) examine himself on them by the " Thought-Outline to Help the Mem- 
 ory," and thus gain knowledge, and, what is better, a love of knowledge. 
 
 And what a young man may do in this respect, a young woman, and both 
 old men and old women, may do. 
 
 Niw YosK, «/ixn., 1888. 
 
 J. H. Vincent. 
 
 Copyright, 1883, by Phillips A; Hunt, New York. 
 
i0mje €olhsz $txm. ffximkr Jfiftg-fito. 
 READINGS FROM 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 [This widely known and admired poet was born in the hamlet of Pallace, County of Long- 
 ford, Ireland, -November 10, 1728 ; and died in London, April 4, 1774. He was interred at 
 the burying-ground of the Temple Church. A monument was erected in Westminster 
 Abbey to his memory by the Literary Club of which he had long been a member. 
 
 In the " Deserted Village " are found traces of the poefs remembrances of his childhood 
 home. " Sweet Auburn," situated on the summit of the bill near which stood the " busy 
 mill" and the "little over-topping church," is now marked by only a heap of ruins sur- 
 rounded by cemented stones. This Poem, essentially English in its character, contains no 
 other reference to Irish scenery. It is here given complete, together with a few choice 
 selections from the " Traveler." 
 
 These Poems will be read with delight so long as the Enghsh language shall hve. Their 
 distinguishing attributes are sweetness, simplicity, and harmony ; their sole instrument the 
 tongue of the people ; and with this they never fail to accomplish their purpose.] 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
 
 Where liealth and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed — 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please — • 
 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene; 
 
 How often have I paused on every charm — 
 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
 
 The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made: 
 
 How often have I blessed the coming day, 
 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 
 And all the village train, from labor free, 
 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree 
 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 
 The young contending, as the old surveyed. 
 
BEADING8 FROM OLIVEB GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round: 
 
 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
 
 By holding out to tire each other down, 
 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face 
 
 While secret laughter tittered round the place, 
 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
 
 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 
 
 These were thy charms, sweet village 1 sports like these, 
 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 
 
 These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; 
 Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
 But choked with sedges works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies. 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintained its man; 
 For him light labor spread her wholesome store. 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
 His best companions, innocence and health, 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
 Along the lawn where scattered hamlets rose, 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
 And every want to luxury allied : 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentler hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that asked but little room. 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
 Lived in each look, and brightened all the green, 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
 Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawtliorn grew — 
 Eemembrance wakes, with all her busy train, 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
 Amid these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out hfe's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting, by repose. 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
 Amid the swains to show my book-learned skill — 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations passed, 
 Here to return, and die at home at last. 
 
 blessed retirement, friend to life's dechne. 
 Retreats from care that never must be mine ! 
 How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease; 
 Who quits a world where stron.; temptations try — 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
 
READINGS FBOM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 No surly porter stands, in guilt j state, 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on he moves, to meet his latter end, 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend — 
 Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes tiie way — 
 . And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be passed. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
 The mingling notes came softened from below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
 The playful children just let loose from school. 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 
 For all the blooming flush of life is fled — 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
 She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread. 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
 To pick her wintry fagot from tlie thorn. 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — 
 She only left of all the harmless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild. 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; 
 Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power, 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour, 
 
HEADINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
 More skilled to raise the wretched, than to rise. 
 His house v/as known to all the vagrant train ; 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain-, 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed ; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away — 
 "Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side — 
 But in his duty prompt, at every call. 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledged oflspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, « 
 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 
 Beside the bed, where parting life was laid, 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
 The reverend champion stood: at his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unafiected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 
 The service passed, around the pious man. 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children followed, with endearing wile, 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile; 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed. 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed. 
 To them his heart, his love, liis griefs were given. 
 But all his serious thouerhts had rest in heaven: 
 
BEADING8 FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably gay — 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew: 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well tliey laughed with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned — 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher, too, 
 Lands he could measure, terras and tides presage 
 And e'en the story ran that he coidd gauge. 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
 For e'en though vanquished he could argue still; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 But passed is all his fame : the very spot, 
 Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 
 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
 Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
 Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlor splendors of that festive place ; 
 The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 
BEADING 8 FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except when whiter chilled the day, 
 With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ; 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 
 
 Yain transitory splendors ! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
 Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart: 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found, 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be pressed, 
 Shall kiss the cup, to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes 1 let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train — 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
 Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway — 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfiued, 
 But the long pomp, the midniglit masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain — 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
 The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
 The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decaj'- — 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 Between a splendid and a happy land. 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
 And shoutiag folly hails them from her shore; 
 Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound. 
 And rich men Hock from all the world around ; 
 
BEADING8 FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 
 Takes up a space tliat many poor suppHed — 
 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 
 Space for his horse, his equipage, and hounds; 
 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 
 Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
 
 While thus the land, adorned for pleasure — all 
 
 In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female, unadorned and plain, 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
 Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes — 
 But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail. 
 "When time advances, and when lovers fail — 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed : 
 In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed — 
 But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While scourged by famine, from the smiling land 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band — 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
 The country blooms — a garden, and a grave. 
 
 Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless hmits strayed 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
 Those fenceless fields the sous of wealth divide, 
 And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped — what waits him there? 
 To see profusion that he must not share ; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know» 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe : 
 
READINGS FROM OLIVER O0LD8MITH. 
 
 Here, while the courtier glitters iu brocade, 
 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; 
 
 Here, while the proud their loug-drawu pomps display. 
 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 
 The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
 
 Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train — 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ; 
 
 Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 
 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed. 
 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distressed — 
 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 
 
 Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled. 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head — 
 
 And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
 
 She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburn ! thine, the loveliest train, 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a liitle bread. 
 Ah, no 1 To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
 Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
 Far different there from all that charmed before. 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day — 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling — 
 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around — 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake — 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men more murderous still than they — 
 
10 BEADmOS FROM OLIVER OOLDSMITH. 
 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
 Far different these from every former scene ; 
 The cooling brook, the grassy- vested green, 
 The Vjreez}^ covert of the warbling grove. 
 That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, 
 That called them from their native walks away; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed. 
 Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last : 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main — 
 And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
 Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 
 The good old sire, the first, prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe — 
 But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
 He only wished for worlds beyond the grave ; 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
 The fond companion of his helpless years. 
 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 blessed the cot where every pleasure rose. 
 And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear — 
 While her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 luxury 1 thou cursed 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 I 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
 Boast of a florid vigor not their own ; 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe — 
 Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 Even now the devastation is begun, 
 And half the business of destruction done ; 
 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land : 
 
BEADING 8 FBOM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 11 
 
 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 soHtary pride — 
 Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
 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. 
 Tarewell ! and ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
 On Toruea's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. 
 Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
 Still let thy*voice, prevaihng over time, 
 Redress the rigors 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 possessed 
 Though very poor, may still be very blessed ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
 As ocean sweeps the labored mole away — 
 "While self-dependent power can time defy, 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 FROM "the traveler." 
 
 But where to find that happiest spot below, 
 Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 
 The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
 Eoldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
 
12 READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
 
 And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
 
 The naked negro, panting at the line, 
 
 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 
 
 Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
 
 And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
 
 Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, 
 
 His first, best country ever is at home ; 
 
 And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
 
 And estimate the blessings which they share. 
 
 Though patriots flatter, siill shall wisdom find 
 
 An equal portion dealt to all mankind — 
 
 As difierent good, by art or nature given 
 
 To dLBferent nations, makes their blessings even. 
 
 GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 FROM "the traveler." 
 
 . . . My genius spreads her wing 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring; 
 Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
 And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
 There, all around the gentlest breezes stray ; 
 There, gentle music melts on every spray; 
 Creation's mildest charms are there combined — 
 Extremes are only in the master's mind. 
 Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 
 "With daring aims irregularly great. 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by. 
 Intent on high designs — a thoughtful band. 
 By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand, 
 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
 True to imagined right, above control; 
 While even the peasant boasts these right to scan, 
 And learns to venerate himself a man. 
 
 Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured herej 
 Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; 
 Too blessed, indeed, were such without alloy, 
 But fostered even by freedom, ills annoy. 
 
HEADINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13 
 
 That independence Britons prize too high, 
 Keeps man from man, and breaks tlie social tie : 
 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone — 
 All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 
 Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
 Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled; 
 Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, 
 Repressed ambition struggles round her shore; 
 Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
 Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
 
 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
 As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, 
 Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
 Still gather strength, and force unwilUng awe. 
 Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
 And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; 
 Till time may come when, stripped of all her charms, 
 The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms — 
 "Wiiere noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
 Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for fame — 
 One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
 And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die. 
 
 Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, 
 I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. 
 Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 
 Far from ray bosom drive the low desire! 
 And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel 
 The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel — 
 Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
 Ey proud contempt or favor's fostering sun — 
 Still may thy blooms the changeful chme endure ! 
 I only would repress them to secure ; 
 For just experience tells, in every soil, 
 That those who think must govern those that toil — 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
 Is but to lay proportioned loads on each. 
 Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, 
 Its doubled weight must ruin all below. 
 
 0, then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
 "Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
 Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
 Except when fast-approaching danger warms ; 
 
14 READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
 Contracting regal power to stretch their own — 
 When I behold a factious band agree 
 To call it freedom when themselves are free — 
 Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
 Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law — 
 The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
 Pillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home — 
 Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. 
 Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; 
 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
 I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 
 
 Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 
 When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
 And thus, polluting honor in its source. 
 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
 Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
 Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
 Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. 
 Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 
 Seen opulence, her graudeur to maintain. 
 Lead stern depopulation in her train — 
 And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, 
 In barren solitary pomp repose? 
 Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call. 
 The smiling long- frequented village fall? 
 Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, 
 The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 
 Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
 To traverse climes beyond the western main — 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
 And Niagara stuns with thundering sound 1 
 
 Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
 Through taugled forests, and through dangerous ways, 
 Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
 And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim — 
 There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
 And all around distressful yells arise — 
 The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
 Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
 And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
 
READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 15 
 
 ITALY AND SW^ITZERLAND. 
 
 FROM THE "TRAVELER." 
 
 Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends: 
 Its uplands sloping deck the moantam's side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, 
 While oft some temple's moldering tops between 
 With memorable grandeur mark the scene. 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
 The sons of Italy were surely blessed. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
 That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground- 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year — 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die — 
 These, here disporting, own the kindred soil, 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 
 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows ; 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue— 
 And even in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind. 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 For wealth was theirs— not far removed the date, 
 When commerce proudly flourished through the state. 
 At her command the palace learned to rise ; ^ / 
 Again the long-fallen column sought the skies, 
 The canvas glowed, beyond e'en nature warm, 
 The pregnant quarry teemed with human form ; 
 * Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,^ 
 Commerce on other shores displayed her sail; 
 While naught remained of all that riches gave, 
 But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave— 
 
16 READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 
 Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride: 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
 Processions formed for piety and love — 
 A mistress or a saint in every grove : 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguiled- — 
 The sports of children satisfy the child. 
 Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
 As in those domes, where Csesars once bore sway. 
 Defaced by time and tottering in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of tlie dead, 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 
 Where rougher climes a nobler race display — 
 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, 
 And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. 
 No product here the barren hills afford, 
 But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
 But winter lingering chills the lap of May; 
 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
 But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
 
 Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm. 
 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
 Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, 
 He sees his little lot the lot of all; 
 Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
 To shame the meanness of his humble shed — 
 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal. 
 To make him loathe his vegetable meal — 
 But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
 Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
 
^miiP"':''^- ■ -; v>i -vv v. •■-;-■-.•.:: .^;:^^^.: v-a,^i^ • ; 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 •'In May, 1770, appeared Goldsnjith's finest poem, 'The Deserted Vil- 
 lage.' Before August closed a fiftji edition was nearly exhausted. The 
 village, ' sweet Auburn,' whose present desolation strikes the heart moro 
 painfully from the lovely pictures of vanished joy the poet sets before us, 
 was that haralet of Lissoy where Jxis boyhood had been spent. The soft 
 features of the landscape, the evening sports of the village train, the vari- 
 ous noises of life rising from the cottage homes, the meek and earnest 
 couutry preacher, the buzzing school, the wliitewashed ale-house, attract 
 by turns our admiration $s we read this exquisite poem." 
 
 '-'• The emphatic words of poor, dying Gray, who heard ' The Deserted 
 Village ' read at Malvern, where he spent his last summer in a vain search 
 for health, must be echoed by every feeling heart — ' That man is a poet.' " 
 
 " Goldsmith was one of the first Englishmen of this age who had taste 
 and feeling enough to rely for efifect upon simple and unornamented descrip^ 
 tions of natural ordinary objects and persons. He threw aside all that false 
 and vulgar aflfectation which thought it necessary to clothe such objects in a 
 parade of declamatory language ; and his poem is exquisitely pathetic. He 
 did nothing else but restore the manner of our greater and more ancient 
 writers, who find, in the commonest and most famihar images, an inex- 
 haustible source of the most powerful emotions — the tenderest beauty and 
 the sublimest terror." 
 
 "The Travaler," a meditative and descriptive work, embodying the im- 
 pressions of human life and society which he had felt in his travels and in 
 his early struggles. Neither the ideas nor the images are very new or 
 striking, but it is exquisitely versified, and its ease, elegance, and tenderness 
 have made many passages pass into the language and memory of society. 
 
TR A CTS. 
 
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 Thomas Carlyle. Bv Daniel Wise, 
 
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