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HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Tho' he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave Rare compound of oddity, frolic and fun! Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear; Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will; Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill! A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind Should so long be to news-paper essays confin'd! Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, Yet content" if the table he set in a roar;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit, Yet happy if Woodfallt confess'd him a wit.

Ye news-paper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it, (you can do no less) Cross-readings,ship-news,and mistakes of the press.

Merry Whitefoord farewel! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit: This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best-humor'd man, with the worst-humor'd

muse."

Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say, it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning.

+ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles, in the Public Advertiser.

LETTER,

addressed

To the Printer of the St. James's Chronicle,
Appeared in that Paper, in June, 1767.

Sir,

As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper

controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one: and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humor, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for com munications of a much more important nature.

I am, Sir,

Yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

The Fryar of Orders Gray, "Reliq. of Anc, Poetry," Vol. I. p. 243.

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
"And guide my lonely way,
"To where yon taper cheers the vale
"With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
"With fainting steps and slow;
"Where wilds, immeasurable spread,
"Seem length'ning as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; "For yonder faithless phantom flies

"To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here, to the houseless child of want, "My door is open still;

"And tho' my portion is but scant, "I give it with good will.

“Then turn to-night, and freely share "Whate'er my cell bestows;

"My rushy couch and frugal fare, "My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free, "To slaughter I condemn:

"Taught by that Power that pities me, "I learn to pity them.

"But from the mountain's grassy side, "A guiltless feast I bring; "A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, "And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; "All earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below, "Nor wants that little long."

с

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell;

The modest stranger lowly bends
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray!

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe a stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,
"Reluctant dost thou rove:
"Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
"Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

"Are trifling and decay; "And those who prize the paltry things, "More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
"A charm that lulls to sleep;
"A shade that follows wealth or fame,
"And leaves the wretch to weep!

"And love is still an emptier sound,
"The modern fair-one's jest:
"On earth unseen, or only found
"To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, "And spurn the sex," he said:

But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :

The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah, forgive a stranger rude,
"A wretch, forlorn," she cry'd;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
"Where heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,
"Whom love has taught to stray:
"Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
"Companion of her way.

"My father liv'd beside the Tyne, "A wealthy lord was he;

"And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, "He had but only me.

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