sions. The characteristics of the different nations are strongly marked, and the predilection of each inha bitant in favour of his own ingeniously described.

"The Deserted Village" is generally admired; the characters are drawn from the life. The descriptions are lively and picturesque; and the whole appears so easy and natural, as to bear the semblance of historical truth more than poetical fiction. The description of the parish priest (probably intended for a character of his brother Henry) would have done honour to any poet of any age. In this description, the simile of the bird teaching her young to fly, and of the mountain that rises above the storm, are not easily to be paralleled. The rest of the poem consists of the character of the village schoolmaster, and a description of the village alehouse; both drawn with admirable propriety and force; a descant on the mischiefs of luxury and wealth; the variety of artificial pleasures; the miseries of those who, for want of employment at home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad; and concludes with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry.

"The Hermit" holds equal estimation with the rest of his poetical productions.

His last poem, of " Retaliation," is replete with humour, free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the prominent features of the several characters to which it alludes. Dr. Johnson sums up his literary character in the following concise manner : "Take him [Goldsmith] as a poet, his Traveller' is a very fine performance; and so is his Deserted Village,' were it not sometimes too much the echo of his Traveller.' Whether we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an historian, he stands in the first class."

We have before observed, that his poem of RETALIATION' was provoked by several jocular epitaphs written upon him by the different members of a dinner club to which he belonged. Of these we subjoin a part of that which was produced by Garrick :

Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, Go, fetch me some clay-I will make an odd fellow.

Right and wrong shall be jumbled; much gold, and some

dross;

Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross:
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions;

A great lover of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions.
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking,
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking;
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste,
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine

taste;

That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,

Set fire to his head, and set fire to his tail;

For the joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet.
Though a mixture so odd, he shail merit great fame,
And among brother mortals be Goldsmith his name.
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him, to make us sport bere.'

To these we shall add another sketch of our author (by way of Epitaph), written by a friend as soon as he heard of his death :

'Here rests from the cares of the world and his pen, A poet whose like we shall scarce meet again;

Who, though form'd in an age when corruptions ran high,
And folly alone seem'd with folly to vie;

When Genius, with traffic too commonly train'd,
Recounted her merits by what she had gain'd,
Yet spurn'd at those walks of debasement and pelf,
And in poverty's spite dared to think for himself.
Thus freed from those fetters the muses oft bind,
He wrote from the heart to the hearts of mankind;
And such was the prevalent force of his song,
Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng.

The lovers-'twas theirs to esteem and commend,
For his Hermit had proved him their tutor and friend.
The statesman, his politic passions on fire,
Acknowledged repose from the charms of his lyre.
The moralist too had a feel for his rhymes,

For his Essays were curbs on the rage of the times.
Nay, the critic, all school'd in grammatical sense,
Who look'd in the glow of description for tense,
Reform'd as he read, fell à dupe to his art,
And confess'd by his eyes what he felt at his heart.

Yet, bless'd with original powers like these, His principal forte was on paper to please; Like a fleet-footed hunter, though first in the chase, On the road of plain sense he oft slacken'd his pace; Whilst Dulness and Cunning, by whipping and goring, Their hard-footed hackneys paraded before him. Compounded likewise of such primitive parts,

That his manners alone would have gain'd him our hearts.
So simple in truth, so ingenuously kind,

So ready to feel for the wants of mankind;
Yet praise but an author of popular quill,
This lux of philanthropy quickly stood still;

Transform'd from himself, he grew meanly severe,

And rail'd at those talents he ought not to fear.

'Such then were his foibles; but though they were such

As shadow'd the picture a little too much,

The style was all graceful, expressive, and grand,
And the whole the result of a masterly hand.

Then hear me, blest spirit! now seated above,

Where all is beatitude, concord, and love,

If e'er thy regards were bestow'd on mankind,
THY MUSE AS A LEGACY LEAVE US BEHIND.

I ask it by proxy for letters and fame,

As the pride of our heart and the old English name.

I demand it as such for virtue and truth,

As the solace of age, and the guide of our youth.
Consider what poets surround us-how dull!
From Minstrelsy Be to Rosamond H-11!
Consider what K-ys enervate the stage;
Consider what K-cks may poison the age;
O! protect us from such, nor let it be said,

That in Goldsmith the last British poet lies dead l

ON THE

POETRY OF DR. GOLDSMITH:

BY DR. AIKIN.

AMONG those false opinions which, having once obtained currency, have been adopted without examination, may be reckoned the prevalent notion, that, notwithstanding the improvement of this country in many species of literary composition, its poetical character has been on the decline ever since the supposed Augustan age of the beginning of this [the 18th] century. No one poet, it is true, has fully succeeded to the laurel of Dryden or Pope; but if without prejudice we compare the minor poets of the present age (minor, I mean, with respect to the quantity, not the quality, of their productions), with those of any former period, we shall, I am convinced, find them greatly superior not only in taste and correctness, but in every other point of poetical excellence. The works of many late and present writers might be confidently appealed to in proof of this assertion; but it will suffice to instance the author who is the subject of the present Essay; and I cannot for a moment hesitate to place the name of GOLDSMITH, as a poet, above that of Addison, Parnell, Tickell, Congreve, Lansdown, or any of those who fill the greater part of the voluminous collection of the English Poets. Of these, the main body has obtained a prescriptive right to the honour of classical writers; while their works, ranged on the shelves as necessary appendages to a modern library, are rarely taken down, and contribute very

little to the stock of literary amusement. Whereas the pieces of GOLDSMITH are our familiar companions; and supply passages for recollection, when our minds are either composed to moral reflection, or warmed by strong emotions and elevated conceptions. There is, I acknowledge, much of habit and accident in the attachments we form to particular writers; yet I have little doubt, that if the lovers of English poetry were confined to a small selection of authors, GOLDSMITH would find a place in the favourite list of a great majority. And it is, I think, with much justice that a great modern critic has ever regarded this concurrence of public favour, as one of the least equivocal tests of uncommon merit. Some kinds of excellence, it is true, will more readily be recognized than others; and this will not always be in proportion to the degree of mental power employed in the respective produc tions: but he who obtains general and lasting applause in any work of art, must have happily executed a design judiciously formed. This remark is of fundamental consequence in estimating the poetry of GOLDSMITH; because it will enable us to hold the balance steady, when it might be disposed to incline to the superior claims of a style of loftier pretension, and more brilliant reputation.

Compared with many poets of deserved eminence, GOLDSMITH will appear characterized by his simp icity. In his language will be found few of those figures which are supposed of themselves to constitute poetry; -no violent transpositions; no uncommon meanings and constructions; no epithets drawn from abstract and remote ideas; no coinage of new words by the ready mode of turning nouns into verbs; no bold prosopopoeia, or audacious metaphor:-it scarcely contains an expression which might not be used in eloquent and descriptive prose: It is replete with imagery; but that imagery is drawn from obvious sources, and rather enforces the simple idea, than dazzles by new and unexpected ones. It rejects not