Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round.

Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done;

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,

I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the

strand.

Contented Toil, and hospitable Care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest
maid,

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,

That found'st me poor at first, and

keep'st me so;

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,

Or winter wraps the polar world in

snow,

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive. strain;

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;

Teach him, that states of native strength possest,

Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; While self-dependent power can time

defy,

As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Retaliation

Garrick wrote the following account of the origin of this poem. "At a meeting of a company of gentlemen who were well known to each other, and diverting themselves among other things with the peculiar oddities of Dr. Goldsmith, who nevei would allow a superior in any art, from writing poetry down to dancing a hornpipe, the Doctor with great eagerness insisted upon trying his epigrammatic powers with Mr. Garrick, and each of them was to write the other's epitaph. Mr. Garrick immediately said that his epitaph was finished, and spoke the following distich extempore:

Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness call'd Noll,

Who wrote like an angel, but talk'd like poor Poll!

...

Goldsmith, upon the company's laughing very heartily, grew very thoughtful and either would not or could not write anything at that time: however, he set to work, and some weeks after produced the poem called 'Retaliation,' which has been much admired and gone through several editions. The public in general have been mistaken in imagining that this poem was written in anger by the Doctor; it was just the contrary; the whole on all sides was done with the greatest good humour"...

Other accounts have it that several members of the company, dining at the St. James's coffee-house, wrote epitaphs on Goldsmith, ridiculing his Irish accent, his person, and his unreadiness in speech. Garrick's was spoken at once; the others were read to Goldsmith when he next appeared at the St. James's coffee-house.

The complete poem was not produced at once certainly not "at the next meeting." It was unfinished when Goldsmith died.

The persons mentioned as of the company were all good friends of the Doctor's.

"Our Burke" was Edmund Burke; "Garrick," David Garrick; “Reynolds," Sir Joshua Reynolds; and "Tommy Townshend," Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. In the course of the poem, Goldsmith refers to the Rev. Dr. Dodd, hanged for forgery; Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakespeare"; James Macpherson, who had lately published a translation of Homer; Hugh Kelly, a popular dramatist; and W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

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 Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains,

Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,

And Dick with his pepper, shall heighten

the savour:

Our Cumberland's sweetbread 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's 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, reunited to

earth,

Who mix'd 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;

Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them,

That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide them.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose

genius was such,

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;

Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:

Tho' 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, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, 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!

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,

That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,

As often we wish'd 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 dizen'd 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;

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 fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my

own;

But now he is gone, and we want a de

tector,

Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;

Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,

No countryman living their tricks to dis

cover;

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,

And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man:

As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;

Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,

This man had his failings-a dupe to his art.

Like an ill judging beauty, his colours

he spread,

And be-plaster'd 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 turn'd 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 swallow'd what came,

And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;

Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,

Who pepper'd 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, and Woodfalls

so grave,

What a commerce was yours while you

got and you gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised!

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 cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;

Yet one fault he had, and that 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 can't 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 talk'd of their Raphaels,
Correggios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

By flattery unspoiled. . . .