William Cowper.

To raise a man above the brute,And mak him ken himsel,'

is their portion in life; for whom the great epochs and never-to-be-forgotten phases of existence are those which are occasioned by emotions inseparable from the consciousness of existence. For the great majority of his readers, and therefore for the mass of human beings, the sympathy which exists between him and them is sympathy relative to their strongest and deepest feelings, and this is sympathy out of which personal affection naturally springs, and in the strength of which it cannot but grow strong."—John Service.

"Burns was not like Shakespeare in the range of his genius, but there is something of the same magnanimity, directness, and unaffected character about him. With but little of Shakespeare's imagination or inventive power, he had the same life of mind; within the narrow circle of personal feeling or domestic incidents, the pulse of his poetry flows as healthily and vigorously. He had an eye to see, a heart to feel,—no more. His pictures of good fellowship, of social life, of quaint humor, are equal to anything; they come up to nature, and they cannot go beyond it."—Hazlitt.

"His is that language of the heartIn which the answering heart would speak,Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,Or the smile light the cheek."And his that music to whose toneThe common pulse of man keeps time,In cot or castle's mirth or moan,In cold or sunny clime."

"His is that language of the heartIn which the answering heart would speak,Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,Or the smile light the cheek.

"And his that music to whose toneThe common pulse of man keeps time,In cot or castle's mirth or moan,In cold or sunny clime."

—Fitz-Greene Halleck.

Other Poems to be Read:Bannockburn; Auld Lang Syne; Tam O' Shanter; To a Mouse; The Jolly Beggars; Ye Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon; Highland Mary; Address to the Deil; To Mary in Heaven.

References: Carlyle's Essay onRobert Burns;Burns(English Men of Letters), by J. C. Shairp; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets.

When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel from her country's gods,Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief."Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues."Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt."Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—Hark, the Gaul is at her gates!"Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms,1shall win the prize;Harmony the path to fame."Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,2Shall a wider world command."Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flewNone invincible as they."3Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.She, with all the monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow,Rush'd to battle, fought and died;Dying, hurled them4at the foe.Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestowed,Shame and ruin wait for you.5

When the British warrior queen,Bleeding from the Roman rods,Sought, with an indignant mien,Counsel from her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.

"Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish—write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt;Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renown'd,Tramples on a thousand states;Soon her pride shall kiss the ground,—Hark, the Gaul is at her gates!

"Other Romans shall arise,Heedless of a soldier's name;Sounds, not arms,1shall win the prize;Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springsFrom the forests of our land,Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,2Shall a wider world command.

"Regions Cæsar never knewThy posterity shall sway;Where his eagles never flewNone invincible as they."3

Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending as he swept the chordsOf his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all the monarch's pride,Felt them in her bosom glow,Rush'd to battle, fought and died;Dying, hurled them4at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,Heaven awards the vengeance due;Empire is on us bestowed,Shame and ruin wait for you.5

Boadicea was queen of the Iceni, a powerful and warlike tribe of Britons, about the middle of the first century. Upon the death of her husband, Prasutagus, her kingdom was seized by the Romans, and sheherself, for some real or imaginary offence, was publicly scourged. During the absence of the Roman governor from that part of England, Boadicea raised an immense army, burned the city of London, and put 70,000 Romans to the sword. She afterwards, with 230,000 troops, met the Roman army, under Suetonius, in the field, and although the Romans could muster only 10,000 soldiers, the British army was defeated, and the queen, in despair, ended her own life by taking poison.

In this poem, Cowper represents the queen as, soon after her shameful treatment by the Romans, seeking counsel from one of the native priests. The Druid prophesies the destruction of Rome and the future greatness of Britain.

1.Sounds, not arms.Does the poet allude to the cultivation of oratory and poetry among the Romans and the neglect of military affairs?

2.Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings.What do these expressions mean? To what do they refer?

3.Explain the prophecy included in this stanza.

4.hurled them.Hurled what?

5.This stanza, evidently a part of the imprecation which Boadicea "hurled" at her enemies, ought to be enclosed with quotation marks, but in most versions of the poem it appears without them.

Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blessed be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here!Who bidst me honor with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long,I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own:And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep1me in Elysian reverie,2A momentary dream that thou art she.My mother! when I learnt3that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.Ah! that maternal smile! It answers—Yes.I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no more!The maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,4Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived.By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learned at last submission to my lot;But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fairThat memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.5Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit, or confectionary plum;6The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakesThat humor interposed too often makes;7All this still legible in memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honors to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, and jessamine,I pricked them into paper with a pin(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—But no—what here we call our life is suchSo little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark8from Albion's coast(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay;So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar."9And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchored by thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distressed—Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost,Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting force,Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not, that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents passed into the skies!And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wished is done.By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine:And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,10Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

This, one of the most exquisite poems in the language, was written by Cowper in "the last glimmering of the evening light," before his mind was wholly overwhelmed by the final attack of insanity. "Every line is instinct with a profound and chastened feeling, to which it would be difficult to find a parallel. There is not a phrase, not a word, which jars upon the most susceptible ear, not a tinge of exaggeration, not a touch that is excessive. The fact that he who gave forth these supreme utterances of filial love was old himself when he did it, brings into the relationship a strange, tender equality which is marvellously touching."

1.steep.Imbue. From Ger.stippen. From the same root asdip, with the lettersprefixed.

2.Elysian reverie.Heavenly meditation. See note on Elysium, page79.

3.when I learnt.Cowper was only six years old when his mother died.

4.concern.Distress, anxiety.

5.Nearly fifty years after his mother's death, Cowper wrote: "I can truly say that not a week passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think of her; such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for showing it was so short."

6.plum.Perhaps the gravest fault in this poem is the frequent intermixture, as in these two lines, of trivial thoughts and circumstances with those of a more noble character.

7.Explain the metaphor which the poet attempts to carry through these three lines.Brakes=breaks, interruptions. What is the meaning ofhumor?

8.as a gallant bark.Observe the beauty of the simile in these twelve lines, also of the simile which follows.

9.Probably misquoted from "The Dispensary," by Samuel Garth (1670-1719):

"To die is landing on some silent shore,Where billows never break nor tempests roar."

10.this mimic show.Explain the meaning of this expression.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack hare.Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.His diet was of wheaten bread,And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins' russet peel,And, when his juicy salads failed,Sliced carrot pleased him well.A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear,But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.Eight years and five round-rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.I kept him for his humor's sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.But now beneath this walnut shadeHe finds his long last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.He, still more agèd, feels the shocksFrom which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney's box,Must soon partake his grave.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins' russet peel,And, when his juicy salads failed,Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear,But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor's sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.

But now beneath this walnut shadeHe finds his long last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocksFrom which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney's box,Must soon partake his grave.

William Cowperwas born at Great Berkhamstead, November 26, 1731. His father was the rector of the parish, and his mother was Ann Donne of the family of the famous John Donne. Cowper was educated at a private school and afterwards at Westminster. It was intended that he should follow the profession of law, and, after the completion of his studies at Westminster, he entered the Middle Temple and was articled to a solicitor. At the age of twenty-two, through the influence of his uncle, Major Cowper, he was appointed to two clerkships in the House of Lords. The excitement brought on by this occurrence, together with an unhappy love affair, induced an attack of insanity, from which he suffered for more than a year. In 1773 he suffered from a second attack of insanity, which continued for sixteen months. It was not until 1780, when in his fiftieth year, that he began really to write poetry. His first volume was published in 1782, and comprised, besides several shorter pieces, the three poems, "Conversation," "Retirement," and "Table Talk." His second volume appeared in 1785, and contained "The Task," "Tirocinium," and the ballad of "John Gilpin," which had already become famous through the recitations of one Henderson, an actor. Cowper's translation of Homer was completed and published in 1791. From that time until his death in 1800 he suffered from hopeless dejection, regarding himself as an object of divine wrath, a condemned and forsaken outcast.

Cowper was not a great poet; but he was the first to abandon the mechanical versification and conventional phrases of the artificial poets, to find inspiration and guidance in nature. It may be said that he lacked creative power; but he possessed a quickness of thought, a depth of feeling, and a certain manliness and sincerity, which lifted him above the level of the ordinary versifiers of his time.

Other Poems to be Read:The Castaway; John Gilpin; The Task; The Loss of the Royal George.

References:Southey'sLife of William Cowper;Cowper(English Men of Letters), by Goldwin Smith; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets; Macaulay's Essay onMoore's Life of Byron;Life of Cowper, in the "Globe Edition" of his works.

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's closeUp yonder hill the village murmur rose.There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow,The mingling notes came soften'd from below:The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,The playful children just let loose from school,The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind—These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.But now the sounds of population fail,No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,For all the bloomy flush of life is fled—All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;She, wretched matron—forc'd in age, for bread,To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn—She only left of all the harmless train,The sad historian of the pensive plain!Near 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's1modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing2rich with forty pounds3a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,More skilled 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-remembered beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;The broken soldier,4kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot 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 leaned to virtue's side;But in his duty prompt at every call,He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;And, as a bird each fond endearment triesTo 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 dismayed,The reverend champion stood. At his controlDespair and anguish fled the struggling soul;Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,And his last faltering accents whispered praise.At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorned the venerable place:Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.The service past, around the pious man,With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;Even children followed with endearing wile,And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;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.5Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,There in his noisy mansion,6skilled to rule,The village master taught his little school.A man severe he was, and stern to view;I knew him well, and every truant knew;Well had the boding7tremblers learned to traceThe day's disasters in his morning face;Full well they laughed with counterfeited gleeAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he;Full well the busy whisper circling roundConveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault;The village8all declared how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;Lands he could measure, terms and tides9presage,And e'en the story ran that he could gauge:10In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill;For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;While words of learned length and thundering soundAmazed the gazing rustics ranged around;And still they gazed, and still the wonder grewThat one small head could carry all he knew.But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumphed is forgot.

Near 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's1modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing2rich with forty pounds3a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,More skilled 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-remembered beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;The broken soldier,4kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot 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 leaned to virtue's side;But in his duty prompt at every call,He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;And, as a bird each fond endearment triesTo 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 dismayed,The reverend champion stood. At his controlDespair and anguish fled the struggling soul;Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,And his last faltering accents whispered praise.At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorned the venerable place:Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.The service past, around the pious man,With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;Even children followed with endearing wile,And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;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.5

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,There in his noisy mansion,6skilled to rule,The village master taught his little school.A man severe he was, and stern to view;I knew him well, and every truant knew;Well had the boding7tremblers learned to traceThe day's disasters in his morning face;Full well they laughed with counterfeited gleeAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he;Full well the busy whisper circling roundConveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault;The village8all declared how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;Lands he could measure, terms and tides9presage,And e'en the story ran that he could gauge:10In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill;For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;While words of learned length and thundering soundAmazed the gazing rustics ranged around;And still they gazed, and still the wonder grewThat one small head could carry all he knew.But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumphed is forgot.

1.The village preacher.—"This picture of the village pastor," says Irving, "which was taken in part from the character of his father, embodied likewise the recollections of his brother Henry; for the natures of the father and son seem to have been identical. . . . To us the whole character seems traced as it were in an expiatory spirit; as if, conscious of his own wandering restlessness, he sought to humble himself at the shrine of excellence which he had not been able to practise."

2.passing rich.Exceedingly rich. The word is a common one among the poets. "Is she not passing fair?" (Shakespeare, "Two Gentlemen of Verona," Act iv, sc. 4); "How passing sweet is solitude" (Cowper, "Retirement").

3.forty pounds.In his dedication of "The Traveller," Goldsmith refers to his brother Henry as "a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a year."

4.broken soldier.See "The Soldier's Dream," Campbell.

"And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay!"

5.The simile included in these four lines, says Lord Lytton, is translated almost literally from a poem by the Abbé de Chaulieu, who died in 1720. "Every one must own," adds he, "that, in copying, Goldsmith wonderfully improved the original."

6.The village master.—The portrait here drawn of the village schoolmaster is from Goldsmith's own teacher, Thomas Byrne, with whom he was placed when six years old. "Byrne had been educated for a pedagogue," says Irving, "but had enlisted in the army, served abroad during the wars of Queen Anne's time, and risen to the rank of quartermaster of a regiment in Spain. At the return of peace, having no longer exercise for the sword, he resumed the ferule, and drilled the urchin populace of Lissoy.

"There are certain whimsical traits in the character of Byrne, not given in the foregoing sketch. He was fond of talking of his vagabond wanderings in foreign lands, and had brought with him from the wars a world of campaigning stories of which he was generally the hero, and which he would deal forth to his wondering scholars when he ought to have been teaching them their lessons. These travellers' tales had a powerful effect upon the vivid imagination of Goldsmith, and awakened an unconquerable passion for wandering and seeking adventure.

"Byrne was, moreover, of a romantic vein, and exceedingly superstitious. He was deeply versed in the fairy superstitions which abound in Ireland, all which he professed implicitly to believe. Under his tuition Goldsmith soon became almost as great a proficient in fairy lore."

noisy mansion.The old-time school-room was a noisy place, the pupils studying their lessons aloud, and but little care being taken to secure quietness at any time.

7.boding.Foreboding; seeing that which is about to happen. From A.-S.bodian, to announce, to foretell.

8.village.Villagers.

9.terms and tides.Times and seasons.presage.Foreknow. From Lat.pre, before, andsagio, to perceive.

10.gauge.Measure liquids. The humor in this and in some other expressions in these verses is too apparent to require comment.

Oliver Goldsmithwas born at Pallas, county of Longford, Ireland, on the 10th of November, 1728. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and afterwards studied medicine at Edinburgh and at Leyden. After travelling on foot through portions of Western Europe, he made his way to London, where he was in turn assistant to a chemist, usher in a school at Peckham, and literary hack for one of the leading monthly publications. He afterwards contributed many articles, both in prose and poetry, to the leading periodicals of the time. He wrote "The Traveller" in 1764, and "The Deserted Village" andThe Vicar of Wakefieldin 1770. He died in his chambers in Brick Court, London, April 4, 1774. For a full account of his life, read Macaulay's Essay on Oliver Goldsmith.

"The naturalness and ease of Goldsmith's poetry," says Edward Dowden, "are those of an accomplished craftsman. His verse, which flows towards the close of the period with such a gentle yet steady advance, is not less elaborated than that of Pope; and Goldsmith conceived his verse more in paragraphs than in couplets. His artless words were, each one, delicately chosen; his simple constructions were studiously sought." And Sir Walter Scott said of him: "It would be difficult to point out one among the English poets less likely to be excelled in his own style. Possessing much of Pope's versification without the monotonous structure of his lines; rising sometimes to the swell and fulness of Dryden, without his inflections; delicate and masterly in his descriptions; graceful in one of the greatest graces of poetry, its transitions; alike successful in his sportive or grave, his playful or melancholy mood; he may long bid defiance to the numerous competitors whom the friendship or flattery of the present age is so hastily arraying against him."

Other Poems to be Read:The Traveller; the rest of The Deserted Village; Retaliation.

References:Irving'sLife of Goldsmith; Forster'sLife and Times of Oliver Goldsmith; Macaulay's Essay onGoldsmith; Thackeray'sEnglish Humorists of the Eighteenth Century; De Quincey'sEighteenth Century; Hazlitt'sEnglish Poets;Goldsmith(English Men of Letters), by William Black.

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