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FROM MR. JAMES BOSWELL,
CONTAINING A SONG WRITTEN BY OUR AUTHOR, WHICH HAS NEVER BEFORE BEEN PUBLISHED.
I SEND you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer;" but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulk. ley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called “ The Humours of Balamagairy,” to which he told me he found it very
difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very
happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune,
and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me
them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewel. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.
I am, Sir,
Your humble Servant,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE
«SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”
AH me! when shall I marry
Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.
O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebeck in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead;
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes ise.
ON DR. PARNELL.
THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,