Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

125 No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

(1-28) What imagery is familiar by comparison to "Il Penseroso "? What "L'Allegro" nature pictures can no more be appreciated by the dead villagers? (21-24) Note the "true pathos and sublime of human life," which is as old as when Ulysses sought Penelope. (29-52) Under what circumstances did General Wolfe quote lines from this elegy; and how did these lines illustrate dramatic fore-shadowing? What "Il Penseroso" phrase explains "storied urn"? (53-56) In what previously read poem has this thought been analysed? Cf. Pope's "Rape of the Lock," Canto IV. 154-158, and Emerson's "Rhodora." If Dr. Samuel Johnson had written the first draft of (57–60), would he, like Gray, have changed Cato to Hampden, Tully to Milton, and Cæsar to Cromwell? Did Gray make this change in his proper nouns because of romanticism? Comment on non-classicism elsewhere noticeable in the elegy. (93-128) Observe Gray's custom at Stoke-Pogis. What quatrain contains strong reminiscences of "Il Penseroso"? That Gray should have rejected after (116) as parenthetical the stanza,

"There scattered oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found;
The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground,"

shows what characteristic trait of his genius? Dr. Samuel Johnson claimed the "Elegy " to be full of platitudes on life and death. State your opinion. What are the finest felicitous phrases ?

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

1728-1774

Nullum ferè scribendi genus non tetigit; nullum quod tetigit non ornavit.— Samuel Johnson.

Kindness and gentleness are never out of fashion; it is these in Goldsmith which make him our contemporary.— W. D. Howells.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:

5 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm,

10 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!

15 How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
20 The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
25 The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,

30 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please:
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:
These were thy charms, but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green:

35

One only master grasps the whole domain,
40 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;

45 Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 50 Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
55 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
60 Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain;
65 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,
And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 70 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;

75

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
Änd rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,

And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 80 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs - and God has given my share 85 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 90 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;

And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 95 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return - and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine! How happy he who crowns in shades like these 100 A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 105 No surly porter stands in guilty state,

To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
110 While resignation gently slopes the way;

And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!