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LETTER

FROM MR. JAMES BOSWELL,

CONTAINING A SONG WRITTEN BY OUR AUTHOR, WHICH HAS NEVER BEFORE BEEN PUBLISHED.

I SEND you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer;" but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulk. ley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called “ The Humours of Balamagairy,” to which he told me he found it very

difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very

happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune,

and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me

them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewel. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.

I am, Sir,

Your humble Servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

TO MR.

SONG,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE

COMEDY OF

«SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”

AH me! when shall I marry

me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.

He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebeck in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead;

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes ise.

EPITAPH

ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.

What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,

That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry way!

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;

And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.

Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

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