Thy martial glory, crowned with praise, Still shone with undiminished blaze? The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: And naught be heard but sounds of woe, Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn, The pious mother, doomed to death, While the warm blood bedews my veins, No torrents stain thy limpid source; A charming maze thy waters make, John Home. Home (1722-1808), author of "Douglas," was a native of Leith, Scotland, where his father was town-clerk. He entered the Church, and succeeded Blair, author of "The Grave," as minister of Athelstaneford. Previous to this he had had some military experience, and taken up arms as a volunteer against the Chevalier. After the defeat at Falkirk, he was imprisoned, but effected his escape by cutting his blanket into shreds, and letting himself down on the ground. Great indignation was raised against him by the Scotch Presbyterians because of his writing a play, and he was obliged to resign his living. Lord Bute rewarded him with a sinecure office in 1760, and he received a pension of £300 per annum. He wrote other tragedies, which soon passed into oblivion; but with an income of about £600 per annum, and with an easy, cheerful disposition, and distinguished friendships, he lived happily to the age of eighty-six. ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. On Leven's banks, while free to rove, Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; THE SOLDIER-HERMIT. FROM "DOUGLAS," A TRAGEDY. Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. I went to see him, and my heart was touched His speech struck from me, the old man would shake And happy, in my mind, was he that died; In the wild desert, on a rock, he sits, Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, sumed superiority of manner" which Aikin refers to as characteristic of Mason's external demeanor, but which seems to have influenced his interior nature so far as to have deadened all spontaneousness in his poetical utterances. It should be remarked that the last four lines of the "Epitaph on Mrs. Mason" were supplied by Gray. EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, IN THE CATHE- Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear; Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free, As firm in friendship, and as fond in love,Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die ('Twas even to thee), yet, the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, And bids the pure in heart behold their God. Miss Jane Elliot. Two Scottish national ballads, bearing the name of "The Flowers of the Forest," both the composition of ladies, are among the curiosities of literature. The first of the two versions, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot (1727-1805), daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot, of Minto. The second song, which appears to be on the same subject, but was in reality suggested (according to Chambers) by the bankruptcy of certain gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford, of Fairnalie, who was afterward married to Mr. Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794. She foresaw and proclaimed the promise of Walter Scott. William Mason. Mason, a native of Yorkshire (1725-1797), was the friend and literary executor of Gray, whose acquaintance he made at Cambridge. He became chaplain to the king, and wrote plays and odes after Greek models; but they lack vitality. In 1781 he published a didactic poem, "The English Garden," in blank verse, a stiff and much padded production. In one genuine little poem, an epitaph on his wife, he seems to be betrayed into true feeling, and to escape from that "stateliness and as With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay; But now they are withered and weeded away. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. O fickle Fortune! Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Oliver Goldsmith. The son of a humble Irish curate, Goldsmith (17281774) was born in Longford County, Ireland. He received his education at the universities of Dublin and Edinburgh, and passed a winter at Leyden, where he lived chiefly by teaching English. After spending nearly all the money he had just borrowed from a friend in buying a parcel of rare tulip-roots for his uncle Contarine, who had befriended him, he left Leyden, "with a guinea in his pocket, but one shirt to his back, and a flute in his hand," to make the grand tour of Europe, and seek for his medical degree. He travelled through Flanders, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy-often trudging all day on foot, and at night playing merry tunes on his flute before a peasant's cottage, in the hope of a supper and a bed; for a time acting as companion to the rich young nephew of a pawnbroker; and in Italy winning a shelter, a little money, and a plate of macaroni by disputing in the universities. In 1756 he arrived poor in London, and made a desperate attempt to gain a footing in the medical profession. After working for awhile with mortar and pestle as an apothecary's drudge, he commenced practice among the poor of Southwark. Here we catch two glimpses of his little figure-once, in faded green and gold, talking to an old school-fellow in the street; and again, in rusty black velvet, with second-hand cane and wig, trying to conceal a great patch in his coat by pressing his old hat fashionably against his side. In 1759 he published his "Present State of Literature in Europe:" he also began a series of light essays, entitled "The Bee;" but the "Bee" did not make honey for him; it expired in eight weeks. At Newberry's bookstore he became acquainted with Bishop Percy, who introduced him to Dr. Johnson, May 31st, 1761. About that time Goldsmith lodged with a Mrs. Fleming. It was in her lodgings that, being pressed either to pay his bill or to marry his landlady, he applied for help to Dr. Johnson. On that occasion the MS. of "The Vicar of Wakefield" was produced. Johnson was so much struck with it that he negotiated its sale, and obtained 200 for the work, whereby Goldsmith was extricated from his difficulties, and from Mrs. Fleming. In 1765 The Traveller" was published. Its success was immediate, and its author was at once recognized as a man of mark in all literary circles. The following year "The Vicar of Wakefield," which Newberry had not yet ventured to publish, appeared, and was welcomed as the most delightful of domestic novels. "The Good-natured Man," a comedy, was brought out at Covent Garden in 1768; and in 1773 Goldsmith's great dramatic success was made in the production of "She Stoops to Conquer," an admirable and well-constructed play, which still keeps possession of the stage. The year 1770 saw the publication of the most famous poem from his pen, "The Deserted Village." In maturer age, as in youth, Goldsmith was careless, improvident, and unable to keep the money he earned. He hung loosely on society, without wife or domestic tie. He received £850 for "The History of Animated Nature," largely a translation from Buffon. But debt had him in its talons. Still he would give away to any needy person the last penny he had in his own pocket. His chambers were the resort of a congregation of poor people whom he habitually relieved. At last Goldsmith grew to be abrupt, odd, and abstracted. The alarm of his friends was excited. At that date a literary association used to meet at St. James's Coffee-house. Garrick, Burke, Cumberland, Reynolds, and others were regular attendants. A night of meeting having arrived, and Goldsmith being late, as usual, the members amused themselves by writing epitaphs on him as "the late Dr. Goldsmith." When he came, these effusions were read to him. On returning home, he commenced his poem entitled "Retaliation." It was never completed, for fever seized him at his work. A doctor being called in, asked, "Is your mind at ease ?" "No, it is not," were the last words Goldsmith uttered. He was seized with convulsions on the morning of April 4th, 1774, and died, at the age of forty-six. He was £2000 in debt. "Was ever poet so trusted before!" exclaimed Johnson. Goldsmith is described by a lady who knew him-the daughter of his friend, Lord Clare-as one "who was a trong republican in principle, and who would have been a very dangerous writer if he had lived to the times of the French Revolution." His "Deserted Village" shows his profound sensibilities in behalf of the poor and unfriended. The verse of this exquisite poem is the conventionally stiff heroic couplet, but it assumes an ease and grace in Goldsmith's hands which relieves it of all artificial monotony. The monument to Goldsmith in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey, bears an inscription in Latin from the pen of Dr. Johnson, which says: "He left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn; of all the passions (whether smiles were to be moved or tears) a powerful yet gentle master; in genius sublime, vivid, versatile; in style elevated, clear, elegant. The love of companions, the fidelity of friends, and the veneration of readers, have by this monument honored his memory." THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; shed, These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled. Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn! The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, e'er England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more; His best companions innocence and health, And his best riches ignorance of wealth. But times are altered: trade's unfeeling train And every pang that folly pays to pride. Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour! And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue O blest retirement! friend to life's decline! How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, Who quits a world where strong temptations try, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power |