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noble address to the genius of poetry, in which is compressed the moral of the whole, gives a dignified finishing to the work.

If we compare these two principal poems of GOLDSMITH, we may say, that the Traveller is formed upon a more regular plan, has a higher purpose in view, more abounds in thought, and in the expression of moral and philosophical ideas; the Deserted Village has more imagery, more variety, more pathos, more of the peculiar character of poetry. In the first, the moral and natural descriptions are more general and elevated; in the second, they are more particular and interesting. Both are truly original productions ; but the Deserted Village has less peculiarity, and indeed has given rise to imitations which may stand in some parallel with it; while the Traveller remains an unique.

With regard to GOLDSMITH's other poems, a few remarks will suffice. The Hermit, printed in the same year with the Traveller, has been a very popular piece, as might be expected of a tender tale prettily told. It is called a Ballad, but I think with no correct application of that term, which properly means a story related in language either naturally or affectedly rude and

simple. It has been a sort of fashion to admire these productions; yet in the really ancient ballads, for one stroke of beauty, there are pages of insipidity and vulgarity; and the imitations have been pleasing in proportion as they approached more finished compositions. In Goldsmith’s Hermit, the language is always polished, and often ornamented. The best things in it are some neat turns of moral and pathetic sentiment, given with a simple conciseness that fits them for being retained in the memory. As to the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to recommend it.

We have already seen that GOLDSMITH possessed humour; and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces professedly humorous form a part of his poetical remains. His imitations of Swift are happy, but they are imitations. His tale of the Double Transformation may vie with those of Prior. His own natural vein of easy humour flows freely in his Haunch of Venison and Retaliation; the first, an admirable specimen of a very ludicrous story made out of a common incident by the help of conversation and character; the other, an original thought, in which his talent at drawing portraits, with a mixture of the serious and the comic, is most happily displayed.

TRIBUTARY VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF

DR. GOLDSMITH,

BY CONTEMPORARY WRITERS.

THE TEARS OF GENIUS.

BY MR. PRATT,

The village bell tolls out the tone of death,
And thro' the echoing air, the length'ning sound,
With dreadful pause, reverberating deep,
Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale.
There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had prais’d
In all the sweet simplicity of song,
Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat,
And herded jocund with the harmless swains ;
But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell,
With startled step, precipitate and swift,
And look pathetic, full of dire presage,
Thechurch-way walk, beside the neighb'ring green,
Sorrowing she sought; and there, in black array,

Borne on the shoulders of the swains he lov'd,
She saw the boast of Auburn mov'd along.
Touch'd at the view, her 'pensive breast she struck,
And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs
With leaning slope, and branch irregular,
O’er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane,
The briar-bound graves shad’wing with fun’ral

gloom, Forlorn she hied; and there the crowding woe (Swelld by the parent) press’d on bleeding thought, Big ran the drops from her maternal eye, Fast broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart, And pale distress sat sickly on her cheek, As thus her plaintive elegy began :

And must my children all expire?
Shall none be left to strike the lyre ?
Courts death alone a learned prize?
Fall his shafts only on the wise?
Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From useless thousands swarming round?
What crowding cyphers cram the land !
What hosts of victims, at command !
Yet shall th’ingenious drop alone?
Shall science grace the tyrant's throne ?
Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train !
I charge thee with my children slain!

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Scarce has the sun thrice urg'd his annual tour,
Since half my race have felt thy barb'rous pow'r;

Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art,

And struck a muse with ev'ry dart:
Bard after bard obey'd thy slaught'ring call,
Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall.

Then let a widow'd mother pay

The tribute of a parting lay;
Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain,
And speak aloud her feelings and her pain!
And first, farewell to thee, my son, she cry'd,
Thou pride of Auburn's dale, sweet bard, farewell!

Long, for thy sake, the peasant's tear shall flow,
And many a virgin bosom heave with woe;
For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene,
And ev'ry pastime perish on the green :
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale,
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale,
No more shall mirth each rustic sport inspire,
But ev'ry frolic, ev'ry feat shall tire:
No more the ev’ning gambol shall delight,
Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night,
But groups of villagers (each joy forgot)
Shall form a sad assembly round the cot.
Sweet bard, farewell—and farewell Auburn's bliss,
The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss;

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