ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Cerynx, "Tears of the Muses. An Elegy, on the Death of Dr. Goldsmith" Sentimental Magazine 2 (April 1774) 174-75.
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
1774: Oliver Goldsmith
When vulgar spirits of the rich and great
Submit unwilling to the stroke of Fate,
No bosoms vibrate with the falling blow,
No virtues weep the friend of man laid low;
Ere the clos'd grave concludes the solemn scene,
Past is their fame, as tho' they ne'er had been.
But when each worth that animates our frame,
When genius, warm'd with ev'ry social aim,
The glowing heart, and the dilated mind,
"Exulting in the good of all mankind;"
When these, expiring, leave the body's clay,
To moulder in its kindred dust away,
The pious tears from every eye that flow,
The general grief, proclaim the general woe.
Where now, blest bard, shall worth like thine be found!
Where now, the breast where virtues so abound!
Of Paean's sons, doth one possess thy fire?
Doth love of truth one bosom yet inspire?
Say, now thy soul has gain'd its native heav'n,
To whom is thy inspiring mantle given?
Or is now fellow-prophet left behind,
To catch the spirit that infus'd thy mind?
Shall dulness raise once more her hated head,
And while Cimmerian glooms around her spread,
Exulting, see restor'd her reign of lead?
Ye puny bards, who sicken at the ray
That genius sheds in its meridian day:
Ye bardlings, who contrive with wond'rous pains,
To scribble still, without the gift of brains.
Ye sons of earth, who loath with ranc'rous hate
The godlike worth you cannot imitate,
With Io Paeans rend the vaulted skies,
For hated genius, hated virtue dies;
Unaw'd, ye now may dare th' exploring light,
Nor seek the deep recesses of the night:
Unlash'd, your malice now may spend its rage,
Nor dread damnation from the poet's page.
But where, ye virtues, will ye now retreat!
Where will ye fix on earth once more your seat?
Thou melting fair, whose kindly list'ning ear,
(And eye for ever moisten'd with a tear)
To griefs sad voice attend in piteous mood,
And "learn the luxury of doing good."
To what protecting bosom wilt thou fly,
First born of Jove, and best lov'd, Charity?
And thou, Simplicity, untutor'd maid,
In modest garb of purest white array'd,
Who know'st no artifice,or mean disguise,
The ray of truth emaning from thine eyes;
Forlorn, lost maid! ah, well with drooping head,
And tear unceasing, may'st thou mourn the dead;
Thy fav'rite gone, no shelt'ring breast remains
To stay thy flight, and keep you on our plains;
Vain now thy charms untaught, and unadorn'd,
For tawdry art succeeds while you are scorn'd.
Unhappy Britain! thou too are undone,
Thou weep'st the loss of her last virtuous son;
Who now will rouze her senatorial band,
When desolation spreads around the land;
When her deserting faithless children fly
To climes remote beneath the western sky?
E'en now they plough their sad, long watry way,
And leave her realm to slav'ry and decay.
Ill-fated wretches! who forsake a home,
Where peace and plenty crown your hours, to roam
In deadly swamps, and forests that display
An endless tract, impervious to the day;
Where wintry blasts scowl dreadful o'er the plain,
And summer scourges with a fiery reign;
Where the brown Indian takes his treach'rous stand,
His bow and painted arrows in his hand;
From him no warning prompt to shun the wound,
But unseen death for ever hovers round.
Ah, wretches! often shall ye wish to gain
Those careless hours you've lost, but wish in vain;
In beachen shades, on margin green to play
No more, but heartless toil thro' the long day.
Those harmless sports that ye have left behind,
Those hearty joys that speak the vacant mind,
Those simple scenes in which your hours were spent,
Your aukward jests, and bursts of merriment,
Your cottage fires, oft when "the sun was set,"
With eager glee the village circle met;
Where, at the woodman's song, or barber's tale,
Full many a laugh went round, and much brown ale;
How well he sung, whose oaten pipe no more
Shall warble music to our list'ning shore,
That oaten pipe we well may break in twain,
For sure no lip will tune so well again.
If, happy bard, a muse so mean as mine
May form a wreath to decorate thy shrine;
Accept the humble tribute that she pays,
If not in tuneful, yet in honest lays:
Blest task! when sporting with the muse's lyre,
We sing what truth and gratitude inspire.