Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove;

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

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"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH

1728-1774

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, the son of a clergyman, was born in a small town in Ireland and was educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He was a desultory student both at school and at college. He frittered away his time at Dublin, and while a student of medicine at Edinburgh and Leyden he squandered recklessly all the money which his family and friends could scrape together. It is told of him that he wandered over many parts of Europe on foot, earning his daily bread, in part at least, by playing his flute from door to door. Whether this story is true or not, it is in entire keeping with his attitude towards life. He was, all his days, a sort of literary vagabond, one day writing furiously and the next spending his earnings with reckless hand.

Goldsmith found his vocation when he came to London and gave himself up to literature. He had failed as an usher in a school, as a clerk in a drug store, and as a doctor of medicine. But when he began to write, his ease and grace of expression, his wide human sympathy, and his delicious humor charmed all classes of readers. His two best known poems are The Traveller and The Deserted Village. His novel, The Vicar of Wakefield, would alone be sufficient to preserve his fame, while his charming rollicking comedy, She Stoops to Conquer, is still played to delighted audiences.

His success as an author introduced him into a literary coterie in London, of which Dr. Samuel Johnson was the chief. Here he made friends of Edmund Burke, David Garrick the actor, and Sir Joshua Reynolds the painter. These friends encouraged him in his literary work, loved him for his warm heart, helped him as best they could in his numerous financial difficulties, and lamented his untimely death.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring 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 topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,

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The young contending as the old surveyed;

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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

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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.

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These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught even 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 ;
Amidst 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;
Amidst 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 mouldering 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 labour 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.

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But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,

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