Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing?

burn ye :

Come, tell it, and

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 talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet', and only took snuff.

1 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

POSTSCRIPT.

After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord 1 from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun,
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind

Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar :"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall3 confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ;

1 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 2 Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning.

3 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the
press1.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:

This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse,

"Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd muse."

1 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

THE

HERMI T.

"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray:

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;

And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn :

Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;