POETICAL TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. GOLDSMITH, BY CONTEMPORARY WRITERS. TEARS OF THE MUSES. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. "Around his tomb let Worth, let Genius weep, WHEN vulgar spirits of the rich and great But when each worth that animates our frame, When these, expiring, leave the body's clay, Where now, bless'd bard, shall worth like thine Where now the breast where virtues so abound? To catch the spirit that infus'd thy mind? Ye puny bards, who sicken at the ray Ye bardlings, who contrive, with wond'rous pains, Unlash'd, your malice now may spend its rage,.: Nor dread the critic's nor the poet's page. But whither shall the Virtues now retreat? Will they on earth again resume their seat? Thou melting fair, whose kindly-list'ning ear (And eye for ever moisten'd with a tear) Does to Grief's voice attend in piteous mood, And "feel the luxury of doing good," To what protecting bosom wilt thou fly, First-born of Jove, and best-lov'd Charity? And thou, Simplicity, untutor'd maid, In modest garb of purest white array'd, Who know'st not artifice, or mean disguise, The ray of truth emaning from thine eyes; Forlorn, lost maid! ah! well with drooping head, With tear unceasing, may'st thou mourn the dead! Thy fav'rite gone, no shelt'ring breast remains To stay thy flight, detain thee on our plains. Vain now thy charms, untaught and unadorn'd, For tawdry art succeeds, whilst thou art scorn'd. Unhappy Britain! thou too art undone, Thou weep'st the death of thy last virtuous son. Who now shall rouze thy senatorial band, When desolation spreads around the land ? When her deserting, faithless children fly To climes remote, beneath the western sky; E'en now they plough their sad, long wat'ry way, And leave her realm to slav'ry and decay. Ill-fated wretches, who forsake a home, Where peace and plenty crown your hours, to roam Where wintry blasts scowl dreadful o'er the plain, Where swarthy Indians take their treach'rous stands, Their bows and painted arrows in their hands; From them no warning prompts to shun the wound, But unseen death for ever hovers round. Ah, wretches! often shall ye wish to gain Those careless hours ye've lost, but wish in vain; That oaten pipe we well may break in twain, If, happy bard! a muse so mean as mine |