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OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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To 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 control

Despair 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, Iran; With ready zeal, each honest rustic E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;

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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 boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed 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 village all declared how much he knew;

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

[From The Deserted Village.]

THE HAPPINESS OF PASSING ONE'S AGE IN FAMILIAR PLACES.

IN all my wanderings round this world of care,

In all my griefs- and God has given my share

I still had hopes my latest hours to

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Have led their children through the mirthful maze,

And

the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,

Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore.

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,

Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,

For honor forms the social temper here:

Honor, that praise which real merit gains

Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,

It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:

From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,

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And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.

The

mind still turns where shifting fashion draws

Alike all ages: dames of ancient days

Nor weighs the solid worth of self

applause.

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