DR. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

BORN, 1728: DIED, 1774.

Principal Works.-Traveller, Hermit, Citizen of the World, Vicar of Wakefield, Histories of England and Rome, Deserted Village, Animated Nature.

THE COUNTRY PASTOR.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
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 chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain:
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd, and felt, for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his controul,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church with meek and unaffected grace,
Ilis looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran:
Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
Ilis ready smile a parent's warmth express'd;
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
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.

Deserted Village.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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TRAVEL.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.

SOCIETY.

CONSIDER for a moment the advantages which arise from living in civilized society.

In our cities now, and even in an ordinary dwellinghouse, a man is surrounded by prodigies of mechanic art; and with his proud reason, is he to use these as careless of how they are produced, as a horse is careless of how the corn falls into his manger?

A general diffusion of knowledge is changing the condition of man, and elevating the human character in all ranks of society. Our remote forefathers were generally divided into small states or societies, having few relations of amity with surrounding tribes, and their thoughts and interests were confined very much within their own little territories and rude habits. In succeeding ages their descendants found themselves belonging to larger communities, but still remote kingdoms and quarters of the world were of no interest to them, and were often totally unknown.

Now, however, every one sees himself a member of one vast civilized society, which covers the face of the carth; and no part of the earth is indifferent to him. In England, a man of small fortune may cast his looks around him, and say with truth and exultation, "I am lodged in a house that affords me conveniences and comforts which even a king could not command some centuries ago. Ships are crossing the seas in every di

SOCIETY.

rection to bring what is useful to nie from all parts the world. In China, men are gathering the tea-leaf fo me-in America, they are planting cotton for me—iz the West India islands, they are preparing my sugar and my coffee-in Italy, they are feeding silk-worms for me in Saxony, they are shearing the sheep to make me clothing-at home, powerful steam-engines are spinning and weaving for me, and making cutlery for me, and pumping the mines that minerals useful to me may be procured. I have post-coaches [now steam-carriages] running day and night on all the roads, to carry my correspondence. I have roads, and canals, and bridges, to bear my coals for my winter fire; nay, I have fleets and armies around my happy country, to secure my enjoyments and repose.

Then I have editors and printers, who daily send me an account of what is going on throughout the world, among all those people who serve me. And in a corner of my house I have Books!—the miracle of all my possessions, more wonderful than the wishing-cap of the Arabian Tales, for they transport me instantly, not only to all places, but to all time. By my books I can conjure up before me, to vivid existence, all the great and good men of antiquity, and for my individual satisfaction I can make them act over again the most renowned of their exploits. The orators declaim for me-the historians recite-the poets sing; and from the equator to the pole, or from the beginning of time until now, by my books, I can be where I please.-Arnott.