And here my fimile almost tript, 55 Yet grant a word by way of poftfcript. Well! what of that? out with it-stealing; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he : But ev'n this deity's existence, Shall lend my fimile assistance. Our modern bards! why what a pox Are they but fenfelefs ftones and blocks? бо A DESCRIPTION of an AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. W HERE the Red Lion ftaring o'er the way, Where Calvert's butt, and Parfon's black champaign, The rufty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd, Appeared in that Paper, in JUNE, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as news-paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concife as poffible in informing a correfpondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think fo ftill. I faid, I was told by the bookfeller that it was then first published; but in that, it feems, I was mifinformed, and my reading was not extenfive enough to fet me right. Another correfpondent of yours accufes me of having taken a ballad, I publifhed fome time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great refemblance between the two pieces in queftion.If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, fome years ago; and he (as we both confidered these things as trifles at beft) told me, with his * The Friar of Orders Gray,Reliq. of Anc, Poetry, vol. 3. p. 243. ufual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may fo call it, and I highly approved it.— Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the bufy difpofition of fome of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I ain, SIR, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE HER MIT. A BALL A D. "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, "And guide my lonely way, "To where yon taper cheers the vale, "For here forlorn and loft I tread, "Forbear, my fon," the Hermit cries, "Then turn to-night, and freely share "Whate'er my cell beftows; My.rufhy couch and frugal fare, "My bleffing and repose. 5 10 20 "No flocks that range the valley free, "To flaughter I condemn : "Taught by that power that pities me, "I learn to pity them: "But from the mountain's graffy fide "A guiltless feast I bring; "A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd, "And water, from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; "All earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below, "Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obfcure The lonely manfion lay; A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, 25 30 35 No ftores beneath its humble thatch 40 Requir'd a master's care; The wicket op'ning with a latch, And now when bufy crowds retire 45 |