One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;

But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,

Earth

A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth

And Melancholy mark'd him for her

own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sin

cere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774)

The Haunch of Venison

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter

Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter;

it is fried in.

But hold-let me pause-don't I hear

you pronounce

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce?

Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,

By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,

It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.

To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the haunch,

I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch;

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undress'd,

To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best:

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:

But in parting with these I was puzzled again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's Howard, and Coley, and Hogarth, and Hiff,

(A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine),

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;

"For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;

But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors

like you;

The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;

Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to

Panurge."

"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."

"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;

"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.

While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd,

With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her?)

That she came with some terrible news from the baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven

Had shut out the pasty on shutting his

oven.

Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop— And now that I think on't the story may

stop.

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced,

To send such good verses to one of your

taste:

You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning

A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;

At least it's your temper, as very well known,

That you think very slightly of all that's

your own:

So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,

You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

The Deserted Village

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade

For talking age and whispering lovers made!

How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,

While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please:

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:

These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn.

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is

seen,

And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain,

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy

way;

Along the glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow sounding bittern guards its

nest;

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried

cries;

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould

ering wall;

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,

For him light labour 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 unfeel

ing train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets

rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp

repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little

room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all

the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no

more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,

To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose:

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,

Amidst the swains to show my booklearned skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return-and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's de

cline,

Retreats from care, that never must be mine,

How happy he who crowns in shades like these

A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong tempta

tions try,

And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,