Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Goldsmith by Goldsmith Oliver
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page
Ebook has 98 lines and 88928 words, and 2 pages
'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, 5 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; 10 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, 15 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. 20
'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 25 A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo; All earth-born cares are wrong: 30 Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.'
Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, 35 And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor And strangers led astray. 40
No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire 45 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 smil'd; 50 And, skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth; 55 The crackling faggot 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. 60
His rising cares the hermit spied, With answ'ring care oppress'd; 'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 'The sorrows of thy breast?
'From better habitations spurn'd, 65 Reluctant dost thou rove; Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love?
'Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay; 70 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, 75 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. 80 '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.
Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise, 85 Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: 90 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 95 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. 100
'My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me.
'To win me from his tender arms 105 Unnumber'd suitors came; Who prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame. Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove: 110 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, 115 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. 120
'The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind.
'The dew, the blossom on the tree, 125 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: 130 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, 135 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. 140
'Forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried, 145 And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see 150 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee.
'Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign; And shall we never, never part, 155 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.' 160
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man, 5 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; 10 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, 15 And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the man. 20
Around from all the neighbouring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 25 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: 30 The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died.
SONG FROM 'THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD'
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, 5 To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is--to die.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page