ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
, in Retrospection, a Poem (1811) 17-20.
1759: William Shenstone
1766: Rev. Joseph Warton
1768: Frances Burney
1768: William Kenrick
1770: Corbyn Morris
1770 ca.: D. G.
1770: W. Willis
1773: T. S.
1773: Richard Fenton
1773: S. J.
1773: A. B.
1773: P. H. M. D.
1773: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1773: B. G.
1774: Horace Walpole
1774: William Woty
1774: John Tait
1774: Samuel Jackson Pratt
1774: Miss L.
1774: Richard Cumberland
1774: David Garrick
1775: Robert Hill
1775: W. P.
1776 ca.: Joshua Reynolds
1778: M. Macgreggor, Esq.
1780: Thomas Davies
1787: A Clergyman of Ireland
1788: James Beattie
1790: Robert Burns
1791: James Boswell
1795: Dr. Robert Anderson
1796: A Gentleman of Canada
1800: Thomas Dermody
1805: Charles Brockden Brown
1806: Dr. John Aikin
1807: Robert Southey
1807: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1809: Dr. Nathan Drake
1811: Richard Cumberland
1812: William Henry Ireland
1813: Rev. William Cameron
1818: Rev. Francis Hodgson
1820: Lord Byron
1820: Rev. John Graham
1821: Thomas Stott
1822: William Cook
1822: Tobias Oldschool
1824: William Hazlitt
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1825 ca.: Joseph Cradock
1826: Richard Ryan
1827: William Goodhugh
1829: Anna Brownell Jameson
1830 ca.: William Roscoe
1830: Rev. George Barrell Cheever
1831: John Wilson Croker
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1850: Leigh Hunt
1880: Edward Dowden
1882: Epes Sargent
1771 ca.: Thomas Gray
1774: Oliver Goldsmith
1792: Rev. Richard Bentley
1805: Rev. Henry John Todd
1806: Rev. Richard Bentley
1806: Sir James Bland Burges
1806: Edmund Burke
1806: William Gerard Hamilton
1806: Bp. John Hinchliffe
1806: Rev. William Mason
1806: William Smith of Covent Garden
1806: Horace Walpole
1807: Samuel Rogers
1811: Rev. Richard Bentley
1811: Edmund Burke
1811: Oliver Goldsmith
1811: Samuel Johnson
1811: Samuel Rogers
There wants but Goldsmith now to make us full,
And Garrick says he loiters by the way,
Because forsooth some idle knave has said,
That men of fashion should be always late,
And by their want of manners show their taste.
Ah! Oliver, your friend has found you out,
For Johnson with emphatic yes declares,—
"David is right," and that confirms the truth.
But see, at length, th' eccentric being comes—
Seasons and times to Goldsmith are unknown:
What he is not he would be, what he is
He knows not, or forgets. Give him a pen,
And clear as Helicon his period flows;
Let him employ his tongue to speak his thoughts,
It babbles idly, and betrays the trust.
Yet this is he, whose prose I should not fear
To match with Addison's, his verse with Pope's.
"Heav'ns! is this he?" a stranger might exclaim;
But tho' no stranger's eye perchance could trace
The secret mark, with which the Muse had stamp'd
His passport to the Heliconian fount,
Yet Reynolds by that sympathy of soul,
Which Genius shares with Genius, saw the mark,
And made his portrait witness to a mind,
Which in th' original so few descried.
But what avail'd it thee, neglected bard,
How thy verse trickled, or thy period flow'd?
The loathsome vampire poverty thro' life
Insatiate clung to thee, and suck'd thy blood.
To the last drop. By thy sick couch I stood,
And saw death's hand was on thee: shall I say,
That thou wert vain, and carelessly dispers'd
The slender pittance, that thy genius earn'd?
No, 'twere a cruel comment on thy life:
He, who no harvest reaps, can hoard no grain.
Had it not been that Johnson's generous zeal
For a few pounds barter'd thy "Vicar's Tale,"
Penn'd in the veriest anguish of despair,
The pavement, or the step to some proud door
Had been thy stony pillow for the night.
And was there then no patron to be found
But one as bare and needy as thyself?
Ah thou, the Muse of Marmion and the Lake,
Rich as Pactolus' stream, dost thou not blush
To see thine elder, worthier, sister sit
In tatter'd raiment over Goldsmith's grave,
With that sweet "Village poem" in her hand,
Sad emblem of her poor "deserted" bard?
Thou in thy banner'd hail, with kilted knights
And elfin page, array'd in painted vest,
Scrawl'd o'er with magic characters, devis'd
To puzzle and surprise the gaping crowd—
She, with no other canopy but Heav'n,
No trophy but the amaranthine wreath,
That binds her brow, in contemplation rapt,
Waiting the award of ages yet to come.