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He made the acquaintance of men of the highest rank in literary circles, notable among whom were Garrick, Burke, and Johnson. He now earned a fair income by literary work; but he always managed to spend more than he earned.

About the middle of 1761 he found himself considerably in arrears to his widowed landlady, who gave him the choice between three courses: to pay his bill, to go to prison, or to marry her. Goldsmith applied to Dr. Johnson to extricate him from this predicament, and put in his hand a bundle of manuscript. The Doctor took the manuscript, sold it to a bookseller, and handed the money to Goldsmith, thus saving him from going to prison or marrying the widow Fleming. That manuscript, which was not published until six years after, was “The Vicar of Wakefield.” During the last dozen years of his life Goldsmith performed an immense amount of literary labor. Among these works-mainly compilations-are a “History of England,” a “History of Greece,” a “History of Rome,” the “History of Animated Nature,” “Life of Beau Nash,” a “Short English Grammar," and a “Survey of Experimental Philosophy." He also wrote several very clever comedies, among which is “She Stoops to Conquer.” Goldsmith's fame, however, rests chiefly upon “The Vicar of Wakefield,” and the two poems, “ The Traveler" and " The Deserted Village.” These are read wherever the English language is spoken, and will continue the cherished possession of generation after generation.

A

THE TRAVELER.
S SOME lone miser, visiting his store, And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it And estimate the blessings which they share,
o'er,

Though patriots Aatter, still shall wisdom find
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still, As different good, by Art or Nature given
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,

To different nations, makes their blessings even. Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- Nature, a mother kind alike to all, plies;

Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,

With food as well the peasant is supplied To see the sum of human bliss so small;

On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; And oft I wish amidst the scene to find

And though the rocky-crested summits frown, Some spot to real happiness consigned,

Those rocks by custom turn to beds of down. Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, From Art more various are the blessings sent, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

Wealth, Commerce, Honor, Liberty, Content; But where to find that happiest spot below

Yet these each other's power so strong contest, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? That either seems destructive of the rest. The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone

Where Wealth and Freedom reign, Contentment Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,

fails, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,

And Honor sinks where Commerce long preAnd his long nights of revelry and ease.

vails. The naked negro, panting at the Line,

Hence every State, to one loved blessing prorie, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine; Conforms and models life to that alone. Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, Each to the favorite happiness attends, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. And spurns the plan that aims at other ends, Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam; Till, carried to excess, in each domain, His first, best country, ever is at home.

This favorite good begets peculiar pain.

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THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

hill,

WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, plain,

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Where health and plenty cheered the labor- Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, ing swain,

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's And parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed ! hand, Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Far, far away thy children leave the land. Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ! Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where wealth accumulates and men decay; Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, How often have I paused on every charm

A breath can make them as a breath has made; The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

When once destroyed can never be supplied. The decent church that topped the neighboring Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, Here, as I take my solitary rounds For talking age and whispering lovers made ! Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, How often have I blessed the coming day, And, many a year elapsed, return to view When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, And all the village train, from labor free,

Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. While many a pastime circled in the shade,

Sweet was the sound when oft at evening's close The young contending, as the old surveyed, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, There, as I passed, with careless steps and slow, And sleights of art and feats of strength went The mingling notes came softened from below: round;

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, And still as each repeated pleasure tired,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, The playful children just let loose from school, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; | The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,

wind, And desolation saddens all thy green ;

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;One only master grasps the whole domain, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And half a village stints thy smiling plain. And filled each pause the nightingale had made. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But now the sounds of population fail ; But choked with sedges works its weary way; No cheerful murmur fluctuates in the gale; Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; But all the bloomy blush of life is filed.

.

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE."

EAR yonder copse, where once the garden

smiled,
And still where many a garden flower

grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his

place;

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their

pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were

won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to

glow,
And quite forget their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean’d to Virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's

smile ;
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are

spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

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HE clock had just struck two; the expiring | heard but of the chiming clock or the distant

taper rises and sinks in the socket; the watch-dog; all the bustle of human pride is for

watchman forgets the hour in slumber; gotten. An hour like this may well display the the laborious and the happy are at rest ; and emptiness of human vanity. nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and There will come a time when this temporary despair. The drunkard once more fills the de. solitude may be made continual, and the city stroying bowl; the robber walks his midnight itself, like its inhabitants, fade away and leave a round; and the suicide lists his guilty arm against desert in its room. his own sacred person.

What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed Let me no longer waste the night over the page in existence, had their victories as great, joy as of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius, just and as unbounded, and with short-sighted but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever- presumption promised themselves immortality! changing, but a few hours past, walked before me Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some; —where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a the sorrowful traveler wanders over the awful ruins froward child, seems hushed with her own impor- of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom tunities.

and feels the transience of every sublunary possesWhat a gloom hangs all around! The dying sion. lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam ; no sound is

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