She strove the neighborhood to please, With manner wondrous winning; She never followed wicked ways— Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silk and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew— But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux, or more; The king himself has followed her— When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all, Her doctors found, when she was dead— Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore; For Kent Street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more— She had not died to-day.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE GRAVE-YARD. FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS."
Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains, And note what an average grave-yard contains; There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, Horizontally there lie upright politicians, Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground, There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, There card-players wait till the last trump be played, There all the choice spirits get finally laid, There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth, There men without legs get their six feet of earth, There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, There seekers of office are sure of a place, There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, There brokers at length become silent as stocks, There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue; (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive).
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD.