Memory

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,

To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:

And he who wants each other blessing

In thee must ever find a foe.

Oliver Goldsmith

The Hermit

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow,

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem length'ning 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 that pities me,

I learn to pity them;

"But from the mountain's grassy side,

A guiltless feast I bring;

A script 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 fall:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in the wilderness obscure,

The lonely mansion lay,

A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required 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 smiled;

And skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries,

The cricket chirrups on the hearth,

The crackling fagot 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.

"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?

"And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said;

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;

Like colors o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confess'd,

A maid in all her charms.

And, "Ah! forgive a stranger rude--

A wretch, forlorn," she cried;

"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where heaven and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray;

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he:

And all his wealth was mark's as mine,

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd, a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"And when, beside me in the dale,

He caroll'd lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but, woe to me

Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain;

"Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay;

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast;

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide--

'Twas Edwin's self that press'd!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life -- my all that's mine.

"No, never from this hour to part

We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's, too."

Oliver Goldsmith

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets

The wond'ring neighbors ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied:

The man recover'd of the bite --

The dog it was that died.

Oliver Goldsmith

When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

  And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

  What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

  To hide her shame from every eye,

To give repentance to her lover,

  And wring his bosom--is to die.

Oliver Goldsmith