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55

And here my fimile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing :
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 senseless stones and blocks?

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A DESCRIPTION of an Author's Bed CH AMBER.
W

HERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay. ;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane ;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs fnug;
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread :
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram'd with lifting, found a place,
And brave prince William shew'd his lamp-black face ;
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The ruity grate unconscious of a fire :
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea cups drets'd the chimney board ;
A night cap deck'd his brows instead of bay ;
A cap by night a stocking all the day!

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As there is nothing I dilike so much as news-paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I reconimended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one ; and I think so ftill. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one * by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, some years ago; and he (as we boih considered these things as trifles at best) told me, with his usual 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 so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the busy difpofition of some 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.

* The

riar of Orders Gray.--Relig. of Anc, Postry, vol.

1. p. 243.

I am, Sir,

Yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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5

Turn

URN, gentle Hermit of the dale, “ And guide my lonely way, “To where yon taper cheers the vale,

“ With hospitable ray. «: For here forlorn and loft I tread,

“With fainting steps and Now; " Where wilds immeasurably spread,

“ Seem length’ning as I go." Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,

“ To tempt the dang’rous gloom ; “For yonder faithless phantom flies

“. To lure thee to thy doom. “ Here to the houseless child of want,

“My door is open ftill ; " And tho' my portion is but fcant,

“I give it with good will, " Then turn to-night, and freely share

“Whate'er my cell bestows; “My.rushy couch and frugal fare,

“My blessing and repose.

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“ No flocks that range the valley free,

To Naughter I condemn : “ Taught by that power that pities me,

“ I learn to pity them :

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« But from the mountain's graffy side

“A guiltless feast I bring; “ A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,

“ And water, from the spring.

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« 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 descends,

His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

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Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay ;
A refuge to the neighb'ting poor,

And strangers led aftray.

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No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care ;
The wicket op’ning with a latch,

Receivd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire

To take their evening relt,
The Hermit trimm'ä his little fire,

And cheer'd his penfive guest :

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