Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefin'd. When fainting nature call'd for aid,

And hovering death prepar'd the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.
In misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,

And lonely want relir'd to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay,

No petty gain disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supply'd.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left void;
And sure the Eternal Master found

The single talent well employ'd.
The busy day-the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm-his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery, throbbing pain,

No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,

And forc'd his soul the nearest way.

PROLOGUE. Spoken by Garrick, at the Opening of the Theatre.

Royal, Drury-Lane, 1747. WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes

Firstrear'd the stage,immortalShakespeare rose; Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new:

Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting time toil'd after him in vain.
His powerful strokes presiding truth impress’d,
And unresisted passion storm'd the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule;
His studious patience and laborious art,
By regular approach, essay'd the heart :
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays;
For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame. Themselves they studied; as they felt, they writ : Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. Vice always found a sympathetic friend; They pleas'd their age, and did not aim to mend. Yet bards like these aspir'd to lasting praise, And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days. Their cause was general, their supports were strong; Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long: Till shame regain'd the post that sense betray'd, And virtue call'd oblivion to her aid.

Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin'd, For years the pow's of Tragedy declin'd; From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till declamation roar'd whilst passion slept; Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remaiu'd though Nature fled. But forc'd, at length, her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit; Exulting folly hail'd the joyous day, And pantomime and song confirm'd her sway. .

But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the stage? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet died, On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;

Perhaps (for who can guess the effects of chance?) Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.

Hard is his lot that here by fortune plac'd, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With every meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice; The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please-to live.

Then prompt no more the follies you decry, As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; 'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence of rescued nature, and reviving sense ; To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of show, For useful mirth and salutary woe; Bid scenic virtue form the rising age, And truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE TRAVELLER;

or,

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

RI
EMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,

Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless str ger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend;
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair ;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care: Impelld with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view: That like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own.

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And plac'd on high above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundred realms appear. Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor

crown'd; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale! For me your tributary stores combine: Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. As some lone '

miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasury, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still :
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to man supplies;
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease.