RETALIATION.

Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united:
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself—and he brings the best dish:
Our Dean* shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild fowl of excellent flavour,
And Dicks with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas¶ is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's a salad-for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge** is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey'stt a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine; let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt-
At least, in six weeks, I could not find them out;

* Barnard, Dean of Derry.

+ Edmund Burke.

William Burke.

§ Richard Burke, youngest brother of Edmund.

The dramatist.

Canon of Windsor, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury.
†† A lawyer.

** A barrister.

Yet some have declared, and it cant be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining. Though equal to all things, for all things unfit: Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient; And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. In short, 't was his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't: The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam

The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home: Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Now breaking a jest-and now breaking a limb! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball; Now teasing and vexing—yet laughing at all!

* Afterwards Lord Sydney.

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,

That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,

As often we wished to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care

To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine!

Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out,
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
'And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines.
When satire and censure encircled his throne,

I feared for your safety, I feared for my own;

But now he is gone, and we want a detecter,

Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall lecture

Dr. Dodd, hung for forgery.

Dr. Kenrick, who lectured on" The School of Shakespeare," with whom Goldsmith was on bad terms.

Macpherson* write bombast, and call it a style,

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile:
New Lauderst and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor confessed without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings-a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a-day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, ye Woodfalls § so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave
* Author of Ossian.

A Scotch schoolmaster and Scotch Jesuit, whose literar frauds had been detected and exposed by Dr. Douglas. Hugh Kelly, author of "Memory."

§ Woodfall, of the Morning Chronicle,

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will,

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature. And Slander itself must allow him good-nature; He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper, Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? I answer, No, no-for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe cant accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest? ah, no!

Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye,
He was-could he help it?—a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland:
Still born to improve us in every part-

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart;

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,

When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing;

When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :