New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,

And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark
Here lies David Garrick-describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings-a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day.
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please,
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakspere receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?

I answer, no, no-for he always was wiser;

1 Hugh Kelly, author of "False Delicacy," "School for Wives," &c. Mr. W. Woodfall, editor and printer of the "Morning Chronicle."

Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foes can't accuse him of that;
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no!

Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye— He was, could he help it ? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind:

His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part-

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,

When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,' and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun-
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere-
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free,
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd;
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar"-
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall" confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes:

1 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

He was

2 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. so notorious a punster, that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning. 3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the "Public Advertiser."

Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it-you can do no less-
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.1
Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour-I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse-

"Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd muse."

THE HERMIT.

THE author was by an anonymous correspondent in the St. James's Chronicle charged with being an inferior copyist of Percy; to this he thus replied:

SIR,

A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from the Friar of Orders Gray, 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 both 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 Shakspeare 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 disposition 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.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

1 Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the "Public Advertiser."

2 Percy, in a future edition of his "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry," said, "It is but justice to Goldsmith's memory to declare that his poem was written first, and that, if there is any imitation in the case, they will be found both to be indebted to the beautiful old ballad, "Gentle Herdsman."

"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vaie
With hospitable ray;

"For here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps and slow-
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;

And, though my portion is but scant,
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.

"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn-

Taught by that power who pities me, I learn to pity them;

But, from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
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 heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell;

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far, in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries-
The cricket chirrups in the hearth
The crackling faggot flies;

But, nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe-
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied-
With answering care oppress'd;
And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?

“From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay-

And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they;