"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
Are trifling, and decay ;

And those who prize the trifling 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,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

66 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.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Expanding 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 confess'd
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude--
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"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 repose, but finds despair Companion of her way.

My father liv'd beside the Tyne;

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was marked as mineHe had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt or feigned a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talked of love.

"In humble, simplest habits clad,
No wealth nor power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

"And when, beside me in the dale,
He carol'd lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe is me!
Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ;

And while his passion touched my heart, I triumphed in his pain.

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride,

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide— 'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine!

"No, never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."1

This poem is Goldsmith's only attempt in serious ballad-writing, but he used the ballad measure and style with capital effect in two burlesque elegies. One of these is only a playful parody of the well-meant efforts of elegiac poets to eulogize their subjects, and as such it needs no commentary.

AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS MARY BLAIZE

Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,

From those who spoke her praise.

1 The text given above is that of Goldsmith's final revision of the poem. Comparison of this with the original version, as printed by the Countess of Northumberland, illustrates, as Forster says, his "habit of elaboration and pains-taking in the correction of his verse." Apart from many minor changes, four stanzas were entirely rewritten and the two concluding stanzas cmitted altogether. These last, however, though Goldsmith's critical judgment prompted him to reject them as superfluous, are worthy of preservation on their own account.

"Here amidst sylvan bow'rs we'll rove,
From lawn to woodland stray;
Blest as the songsters of the grove,
As innocent as they.

"To all that want, and all that wail,
Our pity shall be given,

And when this life of love shall fail,
We'll love again in heav'n."

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning ;
And never followed wicked ways,—
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew,-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more ;
The king himself has followed her,-
When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead,-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore;

For Kent Street well may say,

That had she lived a twelvemonth more,-
She had not died to-day.

The second of the two poems in question is more important because, while this too is in appearance merely a bit of whimsical fooling, its humour is touched by a serious purpose.