And as they view

The towers of Kew,1

Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

CHORUS AFFETTUOSO, LARGO

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,

That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

MAN SPEAKER

First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear, and many a sigh between,
"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread,
Or how shall age support its feeble fire?

No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require :

Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care:

My noble mistress thought not so!

Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, used to flow,

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

WOMAN SPEAKER

In decent dress, and coarsely clean,

The pious matron next was seen,

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
"And ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,
"What now remains for me?

Oh! where shall weeping want repair,

To ask for charity?

"The embellishment of Kew Palace and garden, under the direction of [Sir William] Chambers and others, was the favourite object of her [Royal Highness's] widowhood." (Bolton Corney.)]

Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;

She still reliev'd, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,
My morning prayer, my evening song,
I'll praise her while my life shall last
A life that cannot last me long."

SONG. BY A WOMAN

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN SPEAKER

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart:
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast.
"Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain,

And wild the tempest howling
Along the billowed main :1

But every danger felt before,

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,

Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;' I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,

And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

Cf. The Captivity, p. 98.]
Cf. The Traveller, p. 16.]

SONG. BY A MAN-BASSO, SPIRITOSO
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right:

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.1

WOMAN SPEAKER

In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid,
Affliction o'er each feature reigning
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charm'd the senses,
While pity harmoniz'd the whole.

"The garland of beauty" ('tis thus she would say,)
"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
I'll not wear a garland, Augusta's away,

I'll not wear a garland until she return:

But alas! that return I never shall see :

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,
There promis'd a lover to come, but, Oh me!

'Twas death,—'twas the death of my mistress that came But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;

On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

SONG. BY A WOMAN-PASTORALE

With garlands of beauty the queen of the May, No more will her crook or her temples adorn : For who'd wear a garland when she is away, When she is remov'd, and shall never return.

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,2

Varied from Collins's Ode on the Death of Colonel Charles Ros at Fontenoy.]

Cf. Collins's Dirge in Cymbeline.]

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

CHORUS-ALTRO MODO

On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.

SONG

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN SHE STOOPS TO

"1

CONQUER

Ан, me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me:

He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover: She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, loses a lover.

TRANSLATION 2

Addison, in some beautiful Latin lines inserted in the Spectator, is entirely of opinion that birds observe a strict chastity of manners, and never admit the caresses of a different tribe.-(v. Spectator, No. 412.)

CHASTE are their instincts, faithful is their fire,

No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;

The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,
The simple plumage, or the glossy down

[1 This was first printed by Boswell in the London Magazine for June, 1774. It had been intended for the part of “Miss Hardcastle, but Mrs. Bulkley, who played that part, was no vocalist. Goldsmith himself sang it very agreeably to an Irish air, The Humours of Balamagairy. (See Birkbeck Hill's Boswell, 1887, ii. 219.)]

[From Goldsmith's History of the Earth and Animated Nature, 1774, v. 312.]

Prompt not their love:-the patriot bird pursues
His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues.
Hence through their tribes no mix'd polluted flame,
No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame ;
But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true,
Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue.
The nightingale, with mutual passion blest,
Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest:
While the dark owl to court its partner flies,
And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes.

EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL 1
THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow-
The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

4444

THE CLOWN'S REPLY*

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears.
"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.

This epitaph was first printed with The Haunch of Venison, 1776. Parnell died in 1718. In 1770 Goldsmith wrote his life.] [First printed at p. 79 of Poems and Plays. By Oliver Goldsmith, M.B. Dublin, 1777. It is there dated " Edinburgh, 753."]