Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts, The full design, complete in all its parts, Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells the soul-- When swell'd too much the judgment to control-- The happy ear that feels the flowing force Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course; Give me, oh give, if not in vain the prayer, That sacred wealth, poetic worth, to share-- Be it my boast to please and to improve, To warm the soul to virtue and to love; 10 To paint the passions, and to teach mankind Our greatest pleasures are the most refined; The cheerful tale with fancy to rehearse, And gild the moral with the charm of verse. THE COMPARISON. Parham, 1778. Friendship is like the gold refined, And all may weigh its worth; Love like the ore, brought undesign'd In virgin beauty forth. Friendship may pass from age to age, And yet remain the same; Love must in many a toil engage, And melt in lambent flame. GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR. Aldborough, 1778. _Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum._ You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true, When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you? _Read_ first--if my lectures your fancy delight-- Your taste is diseased, can your cure be to _write_? You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage The attention of wits and the smiles of the age: Would the wits of the age their opinion make known, Why--every man thinks just the same of his own. You imagine that Pope--but yourself you beguile-- Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style. 10 Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope-- Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope. You think of _my_ muse with a friendly regard, And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward: But let not his glory your spirits elate, When pleased with his honours, remember his fate. FRAGMENT. Aldborough, 1778. _Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?_ Proud, little Man, opinion's slave. Error's fond child, too duteous to be free, Say, from the cradle to the grave, Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee? This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel; Her day and night, her centre and her sun, Untraced by thee, their annual courses run. A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine, And flattering fancy calls the motion thine; 10 Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst, And join thy flimsy substance to the dust. THE RESURRECTION. Aldborough, 1778. The wintry winds have ceased to blow, And trembling leaves appear; And fairest flowers succeed the snow, And hail the infant year. So, when the world and all its woes Are vanish'd far away, Fair scenes and wonderful repose Shall bless the new-born day--