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,
"But hear his death, ye dunces, hear, and sleep!"

WHEN vulgar spirits of the rich and great
Submit unwilling to the stroke of fate,
No bosoms vibrate with the falling blow,
No virtues weep the friend of man laid low;
Ere the clos'd grave concludes the solemn scene,
Past is their fame, as tho' they ne'er had been.

But when each worth that animates our frame,
When genius, warm'd with ev'ry social aim,
The glowing heart, and the dilated mind,
"Exulting in the good of all mankind;"

When these, expiring, leave the body's clay,
To moulder in its kindred dust away,
The pious tears from ev'ry eye that flow,
The gen'ral grief, proclaim the gen'ral woe.

Where now, bless'd bard, shall worth like thine
be found?

Where now the breast where virtues so abound?
Of Pæan's sons, doth one possess thy fire?
Doth love of truth one bosom yet inspire?
Say, now thy soul has gain'd its native heav'n,
To whom is thy inspiring mantle given?
Or is no fellow-prophet left behind,

To catch the spirit that infus'd thy mind?
Shall Dulness raise once more her hated head,
And while Cimmerian glooms around her spread,
Exulting see, restor'd, her reign of lead?

Ye puny bards, who sicken at the ray
That genius sheds in its meridian day;

Ye bardlings, who contrive, with wond'rous pains,
To scribble still, without the gift of brains!
Ye sons of earth, who loathe, with ranc'rous hate,
The godlike worth you cannot imitate,
With Io Pæans rend the vaulted skies,
For hated Genius, hated Virtue dies.
Unaw'd, ye now may dare th' exploring light,
Nor seek the deep recesses of the night;

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
In deadly swamps and forests that display
An endless tract, impervious to the day;

Where wintry blasts scowl dreadful o'er the plain,
And summer scorches with a fiery reign;

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;
In beechen shades, on margins green to play
No more, but heartless toil through the long day.
Those harmless sports which ye have left behind,
Those hearty joys that speak the vacant mind,
Those simple scenes in which your hours were spent,
Your awkward jests, and bursts of merriment ;
Your college fires, oft when "the sun was set,"
With eager glee, the village circle met,
Where, at the woodman's song, or barber's tale,
Full many a laugh went round, and much brown ale;
How well he sung, whose oaten pipe no more
Shall warble music to our list'ning shore:

That oaten pipe we well may break in twain,
For none will tune so well its notes again.

If, happy bard! a muse so mean as mine
May form one wreath to decorate thy shrine,
Accept the humble tribute that she pays,
If not in tuneful, yet in honest lays :
Bless'd task, when, sporting with the muse's lyre,
We sing what Truth and Gratitude inspire!