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an improvident liberality, which prevented his distinguishing properly the objects of his generosity; and an unliappy attachment to gaming, with the arts of which he was very little acquainted. He therefore remained at times as much embarrassed in his circumstances as when his income was in its lowest and most precarious state.

He had been for some years, at different times, affected with a violent stranguary, which contributed to imbitter the latter part of his life, and which, united with the vexations he suffered upon other occasions, brought on a kind of habitual despondency. In this condition he was attacked by a nervous fever, which, in spite of the most able medical assistance, terminated in his dissolution on the 4th day of April, 1774, in the forty-fifth year of his age.

His remains were deposited in the burial-ground belonging to the Temple, and a monument hath since been erected to his memory, in Westminster Abbey, at the expense of a literary club to which he belonged. It consists of a large medallion, exhibiting a good likeness of the Doctor, embellished with literary ornaments; underneath which is a tablet of white marble with the following inscrip. tion, written by his friend, Dr. Samuel Johnson.

This Monnment is raised

To the Memory of

Poet, Natural Philosopher and Historian;
Who left no species of writing untouched;

Unadorned by His Pen,
Whether to move laughter,

Or draw tears;
He was a powerful master

Over the affections,
Though at the same time a gentle tyrant;
of a genius at once sublime, lively, and,

Equal to every subject:
In expression at once noble,

Pure and delicate,

His Memory will last
As long as Society retains affection,

Friendsbip is not void of honour,
And Reading wants not her admirers.
He was born in the kingdom of Ireland,
At Fernes, in the province

Of Leinster,
Where Pallas had set her name,

29th Nov. 1731.
He was educated at Dublin,
And died in London,

4th April, 1774.

We shall conclude this account of the life of Dr. Goldsmith with the following poem, written on the death of our poet.






ADIEU, sweet bard! to each fine feeling true,
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few;
Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and these
With harmless mirth the social soul to please.
Another's woe thy heart could always melt; }
None gave more free,-for none more deeply felt.
Sweet bard, adieu! thy own harmonious lays
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise;
Yes, these survive to Time's remotest day;
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay,
Reader, if number'd in the Muses' train,
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain;
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan,
Depart in peace, and imitate the man.

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