{"1": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3561", "width": "2171", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0001.jp2"}, "2": {"fulltext": "LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.\\n1\\nSlielf_.-,\u00c2\u00a3C.\\nUNITED STATES OF AMERICA.", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0002.jp2"}, "3": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0003.jp2"}, "4": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0004.jp2"}, "5": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0005.jp2"}, "6": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3366", "width": "2160", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0006.jp2"}, "7": {"fulltext": "mm \u00e2\u0082\u00acolhcj^ S txm.\\nm\\nFifty-Five,\\nREADINGS\\nFROM\\nOLIVER GOLDSMITH,\\nNEW YORK;\\nPHILLIPS HUN\\nCINCINNATI;\\nWALDEN STOWE\\n1883.\\nea s a oa i SSjS eii jw", "height": "3399", "width": "2145", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0007.jp2"}, "8": {"fulltext": "-**The Home Oollegb Series will contain one hundred abort papers on\\na wide range of subjects biographical, historical, scientific, literary, domes-\\ntic, political, and religious. Indeed, the religious tone will characterize all\\nof them. They are written for every body for all whose leisure is limited,\\nbut who desire to use the minutes for the enrichment of life.\\nThese papers contain seeds from the best gardens in all the world of\\nhuman knowledge, and if droppfefi^^sely into good soil, will bring forth\\nharvests of beauty and value.\\nThey are for the young especially for young people (and older people\\ntoo) who are out of the schools, who are full of business and cares,\\nwho are in danger Of readily nothing, or of reading a sensational literature\\nthat is worse than nothing. v\\nOne of these papem a week read over and over, thought and talked about\\niat odd times, will give in one year a vast fund of information, an intel-\\nlectual quickening, worth even more than the mere knowledge acquired, a\\ntaste for solid reading, many hours of simple and wholesome pleasure, and\\nability to talk intelligently and helpfully to one s friends.\\nPastors may organize Home College classes, or Lyceum Reading\\nUnions, or Chautauqua Literary and Scientific CirdeSj and help the\\nyoung people to read and think and talk and live to worthier purpose.\\nA young man may have his own little college all by himsel i read this\\nseries of tracts one after the other, (there will soon be one hundred of them\\nready,) examine himself on them by the Thought-Outline to Help the Mem-\\nory, and thus gain knowledge, and, what is better, a love of knowledge.\\nAnd what a young man may do in this respect, a young woman, and both\\nold men and old women, may do.\\nNiw YosK, \u00c2\u00ab/ixn., 1888.\\nJ. H. Vincent.\\nCopyright, 1883, by Phillips A; Hunt, New York.", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0008.jp2"}, "9": {"fulltext": "i0mje \u00e2\u0082\u00acolhsz $txm. ffximkr Jfiftg-fito.\\nREADINGS FROM\\nOLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\n[This widely known and admired poet was born in the hamlet of Pallace, County of Long-\\nford, Ireland, -November 10, 1728 and died in London, April 4, 1774. He was interred at\\nthe burying-ground of the Temple Church. A monument was erected in Westminster\\nAbbey to his memory by the Literary Club of which he had long been a member.\\nIn the Deserted Village are found traces of the poefs remembrances of his childhood\\nhome. Sweet Auburn, situated on the summit of the bill near which stood the busy\\nmill and the little over-topping church, is now marked by only a heap of ruins sur-\\nrounded by cemented stones. This Poem, essentially English in its character, contains no\\nother reference to Irish scenery. It is here given complete, together with a few choice\\nselections from the Traveler.\\nThese Poems will be read with delight so long as the Enghsh language shall hve. Their\\ndistinguishing attributes are sweetness, simplicity, and harmony their sole instrument the\\ntongue of the people and with this they never fail to accomplish their purpose.]\\nTHE DESERTED VILLAGE.\\nSweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,\\nWhere liealth and plenty cheered the laboring swain,\\nWhere smiling spring its earliest visit paid,\\nAnd parting summer s lingering blooms delayed\\nDear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,\\nSeats of my youth, when every sport could please\\nHow often have I loitered o er thy green,\\nWhere humble happiness endeared each scene;\\nHow often have I paused on every charm\\nThe sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,\\nThe never-failing brook, the busy mill.\\nThe decent church that topped the neighboring hill,\\nThe hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,\\nFor talking age and whispering lovers made:\\nHow often have I blessed the coming day,\\nWhen toil remitting lent its turn to play,\\nAnd all the village train, from labor free,\\nLed up their sports beneath the spreading tree\\nWhile many a pastime circled in the shade,\\nThe young contending, as the old surveyed.", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0009.jp2"}, "10": {"fulltext": "BEADING8 FROM OLIVEB GOLDSMITH.\\nAnd many a gambol frolicked o er the ground,\\nAnd sleights of art and feats of strength went round:\\nAnd still, as each repeated pleasure tired,\\nSucceeding sports the mirthful band inspired\\nThe dancing pair that simply sought renown\\nBy holding out to tire each other down,\\nThe swain mistrustless of his smutted face\\nWhile secret laughter tittered round the place,\\nThe bashful virgin s side-long looks of love,\\nThe matron s glance that would those looks reprove\\nThese were thy charms, sweet village 1 sports like these,\\nWith sweet succession, taught e en toil to please\\nThese round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed\\nThese were thy charms but all these charms are fled.\\nSweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,\\nThy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;\\nAmid thy bowers the tyrant s hand is seen,\\nAnd desolation saddens all thy green\\nOne only master grasps the whole domain,\\nAnd half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.\\nNo more thy glassy brook reflects the day.\\nBut choked with sedges works its weedy way\\nAlong thy glades, a solitary guest,\\nThe hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest\\nAmid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies.\\nAnd tires their echoes with unvaried cries\\nSunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,\\nAnd the long grass o ertops the moldering wall\\nAnd, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler s hand,\\nFar, far away thy children leave the land.\\nIll fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,\\nWhere wealth accumulates, and men decay\\nPrinces and lords may flourish, or may fade\\nA breath can make them, as a breath has made\\nBut a bold peasantry, their country s pride.\\nWhen once destroyed, can never be supplied.\\nA time there was, ere England s griefs began,\\nWhen every rood of ground maintained its man;\\nFor him light labor spread her wholesome store.\\nJust gave what life required, but gave no more\\nHis best companions, innocence and health,\\nAnd his best riches, ignorance of wealth.", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0010.jp2"}, "11": {"fulltext": "READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nBut times are altered trade s unfeeling train\\nUsurp the land, and dispossess the swain\\nAlong the lawn where scattered hamlets rose,\\nUnwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose\\nAnd every want to luxury allied\\nAnd every pang that folly pays to pride.\\nThose gentler hours that plenty bade to bloom,\\nThose calm desires that asked but little room.\\nThose healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,\\nLived in each look, and brightened all the green,\\nThese, far departing, seek a kinder shore.\\nAnd rural mirth and manners are no more.\\nSweet Auburn parent of the blissful hour.\\nThy glades forlorn confess the tyrant s power.\\nHere, as I take my solitary rounds.\\nAmid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds.\\nAnd, many a year elapsed, return to view\\nWhere once the cottage stood, the hawtliorn grew\\nEemembrance wakes, with all her busy train,\\nSwells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.\\nIn all my wanderings round this world of care,\\nIn all my griefs and God has given my share\\nI still had hopes my latest hours to crown.\\nAmid these humble bowers to lay me down\\nTo husband out hfe s taper at the close,\\nAnd keep the flame from wasting, by repose.\\nI still had hopes, for pride attends us still,\\nAmid the swains to show my book-learned skill\\nAround my fire an evening group to draw.\\nAnd tell of all I felt, and all I saw\\nAnd, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,\\nPants to the place from whence at first she flew,\\nI still had hopes, my long vexations passed,\\nHere to return, and die at home at last.\\nblessed retirement, friend to life s dechne.\\nRetreats from care that never must be mine\\nHow happy he who crowns, in shades like these,\\nA youth of labor with an age of ease;\\nWho quits a world where stron.; temptations try\\nAnd, since tis hard to combat, learns to fly.\\nFor him no wretches, born to work and weep.\\nExplore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0011.jp2"}, "12": {"fulltext": "READINGS FBOM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nNo surly porter stands, in guilt j state,\\nTo spurn imploring famine from the gate\\nBut on he moves, to meet his latter end,\\nAngels around befriending virtue s friend\\nBends to the grave with unperceived decay,\\nWhile resignation gently slopes tiie way\\nAnd, all his prospects brightening to the last,\\nHis heaven commences ere the world be passed.\\nSweet was the sound, when oft at evening s close\\nUp yonder hill the village murmur rose.\\nThere, as I passed with careless steps and slow.\\nThe mingling notes came softened from below\\nThe swain responsive as the milk-maid sung.\\nThe sober herd that lowed to meet their young,\\nThe noisy geese that gabbled o er the pool.\\nThe playful children just let loose from school.\\nThe watch-dog s voice that bayed the whispering wind,\\nAnd the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind\\nThese all in sweet confusion sought the shade,\\nAnd filled each pause the nightingale had made.\\nBut now the sounds of population fail,\\nNo cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,\\nNo busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,\\nFor all the blooming flush of life is fled\\nAll but yon widowed, solitary thing.\\nThat feebly bends beside the plashy spring;\\nShe, wretched matron forced in age, for bread.\\nTo strip the brook with mantling cresses spread.\\nTo pick her wintry fagot from tlie thorn.\\nTo seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn\\nShe only left of all the harmless train,\\nThe sad historian of the pensive plain\\nNear yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,\\nAnd still where many a garden flower grows wild.\\nThere, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,\\nThe village preacher s modest mansion rose.\\nA man he was to all the country dear,\\nAnd passing rich with forty pounds a year.\\nRemote from towns he ran his godly race.\\nNor e er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;\\nUnpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power,\\nBy doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0012.jp2"}, "13": {"fulltext": "HEADINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nFar other aims his heart had learned to prize\\nMore skilled to raise the wretched, than to rise.\\nHis house v/as known to all the vagrant train\\nHe chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain-,\\nThe long-remembered beggar was his guest.\\nWhose beard descending swept his aged breast;\\nThe ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud.\\nClaimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed\\nThe broken soldier, kindly bade to stay.\\nSat by his fire, and talked the night away\\nWept o er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done.\\nShouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.\\nPleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,\\nAnd quite forgot their vices in their woe;\\nCareless their merits or their faults to scan,\\nHis pity gave ere charity began.\\nThus to relieve the wretched was his pride,\\nAnd e en his failings leaned to virtue s side\\nBut in his duty prompt, at every call.\\nHe watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all\\nAnd, as a bird each fond endearment tries\\nTo tempt its new-fledged oflspring to the skies,\\nHe tried each art, reproved each dull delay,\\nAllured to brighter worlds, and led the way.\\nBeside the bed, where parting life was laid,\\nAnd sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,\\nThe reverend champion stood: at his control\\nDespair and anguish fled the struggling soul\\nComfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,\\nAnd his last faltering accents whispered praise.\\nAt church, with meek and unafiected grace,\\nHis looks adorned the venerable place\\nTruth from his lips prevailed with double sway,\\nAnd fools who came to scoff remained to pray.\\nThe service passed, around the pious man.\\nWith ready zeal, each honest rustic ran\\nEven children followed, with endearing wile,\\nAnd plucked his gown, to share the good man s smile;\\nHis ready smile a parent s warmth expressed.\\nTheir welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed.\\nTo them his heart, his love, liis griefs were given.\\nBut all his serious thouerhts had rest in heaven:", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0013.jp2"}, "14": {"fulltext": "BEADING8 FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nAs some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,\\nSwells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,\\nThough round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,\\nEternal sunshine settles on its head.\\nBeside yon straggling fence that skirts the way.\\nWith blossomed furze unprofitably gay\\nThere, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,\\nThe village master taught his little school.\\nA man severe he was, and stern to view;\\nI knew him well, and every truant knew:\\nWell had the boding tremblers learned to trace\\nThe day s disasters in his morning face\\nFull well tliey laughed with counterfeited glee\\nAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he\\nFull well the busy whisper, circling round.\\nConveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned\\nYet he was kind, or if severe in aught.\\nThe love he bore to learning was in fault.\\nThe village all declared how much he knew\\nTwas certain he could write, and cipher, too,\\nLands he could measure, terras and tides presage\\nAnd e en the story ran that he coidd gauge.\\nIn arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,\\nFor e en though vanquished he could argue still;\\nWhile words of learned length and thundering sound\\nAmazed the gazing rustics ranged around\\nAnd still they gazed, and still the wonder grew\\nThat one small head could carry all he knew.\\nBut passed is all his fame the very spot,\\nWhere many a time he triumphed, is forgot.\\nNear yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high.\\nWhere once the sign-post caught the passing eye,\\nLow lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,\\nWhere gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired.\\nWhere village statesmen talked with looks profound,\\nAnd news much older than their ale went round.\\nImagination fondly stoops to trace\\nThe parlor splendors of that festive place\\nThe whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,\\nThe varnished clock that clicked behind the door;\\nThe chest contrived a double debt to pay\\nA bed by night, a chest of drawers by day", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0014.jp2"}, "15": {"fulltext": "BEADING 8 FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nThe pictures placed for ornament and use,\\nThe twelve good rules, the royal game of goose\\nThe hearth, except when whiter chilled the day,\\nWith aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay\\nWhile broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show.\\nRanged o er the chimney, glistened in a row.\\nYain transitory splendors could not all\\nReprieve the tottering mansion from its fall\\nObscure it sinks nor shall it more impart\\nAn hour s importance to the poor man s heart:\\nThither no more the peasant shall repair\\nTo sweet oblivion of his daily care\\nNo more the farmer s news, the barber s tale,\\nNo more the woodman s ballad shall prevail\\nNo more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,\\nRelax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear\\nThe host himself no longer shall be found,\\nCareful to see the mantling bliss go round\\nNor the coy maid, half-willing to be pressed,\\nShall kiss the cup, to pass it to the rest.\\nYes 1 let the rich deride, the proud disdain,\\nThese simple blessings of the lowly train\\nTo me more dear, congenial to my heart,\\nOne native charm, than all the gloss of art.\\nSpontaneous joys, where nature has its play.\\nThe soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway\\nLightly they frolic o er the vacant mind,\\nUnenvied, unmolested, unconfiued,\\nBut the long pomp, the midniglit masquerade,\\nWith all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,\\nIn these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,\\nThe toiling pleasure sickens into pain\\nAnd, e en while fashion s brightest arts decoy,\\nThe heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.\\nYe friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey\\nThe rich man s joys increase, the poor s decaj\\nTis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand\\nBetween a splendid and a happy land.\\nProud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore.\\nAnd shoutiag folly hails them from her shore;\\nHoards even beyond the miser s wish abound.\\nAnd rich men Hock from all the world around", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0015.jp2"}, "16": {"fulltext": "BEADING8 FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nYet count our gains this wealth is but a name\\nThat leaves our useful products still the same.\\nNot so the loss. The man of wealth and pride\\nTakes up a space tliat many poor suppHed\\nSpace for his lake, his park s extended bounds,\\nSpace for his horse, his equipage, and hounds;\\nThe robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth\\nHas robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth\\nHis seat, where solitary sports are seen,\\nIndignant spurns the cottage from the green\\nAround the world each needful product flies,\\nFor all the luxuries the world supplies\\nWhile thus the land, adorned for pleasure all\\nIn barren splendor feebly waits the fall.\\nAs some fair female, unadorned and plain,\\nSecure to please while youth confirms her reign,\\nSlights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,\\nNor shares with art the triumph of her eyes\\nBut when those charms are passed, for charms are frail.\\nWhen time advances, and when lovers fail\\nShe then shines forth, solicitous to bless.\\nIn all the glaring impotence of dress.\\nThus fares the land, by luxury betrayed\\nIn nature s simplest charms at first arrayed\\nBut verging to decline, its splendors rise,\\nIts vistas strike, its palaces surprise\\nWhile scourged by famine, from the smiling land\\nThe mournful peasant leads his humble band\\nAnd while he sinks, without one arm to save,\\nThe country blooms a garden, and a grave.\\nWhere then, ah where, shall poverty reside,\\nTo scape the pressure of contiguous pride\\nIf to some common s fenceless hmits strayed\\nHe drives his flock to pick the scanty blade.\\nThose fenceless fields the sous of wealth divide,\\nAnd even the bare-worn common is denied.\\nIf to the city sped what waits him there?\\nTo see profusion that he must not share\\nTo see ten thousand baneful arts combined\\nTo pamper luxury, and thin mankind;\\nTo see each joy the sons of pleasure know\u00c2\u00bb\\nExtorted from his fellow-creature s woe", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0016.jp2"}, "17": {"fulltext": "READINGS FROM OLIVER O0LD8MITH.\\nHere, while the courtier glitters iu brocade,\\nThere the pale artist plies the sickly trade;\\nHere, while the proud their loug-drawu pomps display.\\nThere the black gibbet glooms beside the way.\\nThe dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,\\nHere, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train\\nTumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,\\nThe rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.\\nSure scenes like these no troubles e er annoy\\nSure these denote one universal joy\\nAre these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine eyes\\nWhere the poor houseless shivering female lies.\\nShe once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed.\\nHas wept at tales of innocence distressed\\nHer modest looks the cottage might adorn.\\nSweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn\\nNow lost to all her friends, her virtue fled.\\nNear her betrayer s door she lays her head\\nAnd, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower.\\nWith heavy heart deplores that luckless hour\\nWhen idly first, ambitious of the town,\\nShe left her wheel, and robes of country brown.\\nDo thine, sweet Auburn thine, the loveliest train,\\nDo thy fair tribes participate her pain?\\nE en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,\\nAt proud men s doors they ask a liitle bread.\\nAh, no 1 To distant climes, a dreary scene,\\nWhere half the convex world intrudes between,\\nThrough torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,\\nWhere wild Altama murmurs to their woe.\\nFar different there from all that charmed before.\\nThe various terrors of that horrid shore\\nThose blazing suns that dart a downward ray,\\nAnd fiercely shed intolerable day\\nThose matted woods where birds forget to sing.\\nBut silent bats in drowsy clusters cling\\nThose poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,\\nWhere the dark scorpion gathers death around\\nWhere at each step the stranger fears to wake\\nThe rattling terrors of the vengeful snake\\nWhere crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,\\nAnd savage men more murderous still than they", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0017.jp2"}, "18": {"fulltext": "10 BEADmOS FROM OLIVER OOLDSMITH.\\nWhile oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,\\nMingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.\\nFar different these from every former scene\\nThe cooling brook, the grassy- vested green,\\nThe Vjreez}^ covert of the warbling grove.\\nThat only sheltered thefts of harmless love.\\nGood Heaven what sorrows gloomed that parting day,\\nThat called them from their native walks away;\\nWhen the poor exiles, every pleasure passed.\\nHung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last\\nAnd took a long farewell, and wished in vain\\nFor seats like these beyond the western main\\nAnd shuddering still to face the distant deep,\\nReturned and wept, and still returned to weep.\\nThe good old sire, the first, prepared to go\\nTo new-found worlds, and wept for others woe\\nBut for himself, in conscious virtue brave.\\nHe only wished for worlds beyond the grave\\nHis lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears.\\nThe fond companion of his helpless years.\\nSilent went next, neglectful of her charms.\\nAnd left a lover s for a father s arms\\nWith louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,\\nAnd blessed the cot where every pleasure rose.\\nAnd kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,\\nAnd clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear\\nWhile her fond husband strove to lend relief\\nIn all the silent manliness of grief.\\nluxury 1 thou cursed by Heaven s decree.\\nHow ill exchanged are things like these for thee;\\nHow do thy potions, with insidious joy,\\nDiffuse their pleasures only to destroy I\\nKingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown.\\nBoast of a florid vigor not their own\\nAt every draught more large and large they grow,\\nA bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe\\nTill sapped their strength, and every part unsound,\\nDown, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.\\nEven now the devastation is begun,\\nAnd half the business of destruction done\\nEven now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,\\nI see the rural virtues leave the land", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0018.jp2"}, "19": {"fulltext": "BEADING 8 FBOM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 11\\nDown where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,\\nThat idly waiting flaps with every gale,\\nDownward they move a melancholy band\\nPass from the shore, and darken all the strand\\nContented toil, and hospitable care.\\nAnd kind connubial tenderness are there\\nAnd piety with wishes placed above,\\nAnd steady loyalty, and faithful love.\\nAnd thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid,\\nStill first to fly where sensual joys invade,\\nUnfit in these degenerate times of shame\\nTo catch the heart, or strike for honest fame\\nDear, charming nymph, neglected and decried.\\nMy shame in crowds, my soHtary pride\\nThou source of all my bliss, and all my woe.\\nThat found st me poor at first, and keep st me so\\nThou guide by which the nobler arts excel.\\nThou nurse of every virtue fare thee well.\\nTarewell and where er thy voice be tried,\\nOn Toruea s cliffs, or Pambamarca s side.\\nWhether where equinoctial fervors glow,\\nOr winter wraps the polar world in snow,\\nStill let thy*voice, prevaihng over time,\\nRedress the rigors of the inclement clime.\\nAid slighted truth: with thy persuasive strain\\nTeach erring man to spurn the rage of gain\\nTeach him, that states of native strength possessed\\nThough very poor, may still be very blessed\\nThat trade s proud empire hastes to swift decay,\\nAs ocean sweeps the labored mole away\\nWhile self-dependent power can time defy,\\nAs rocks resist the billows and the sky.\\nHOME.\\nFROM the traveler.\\nBut where to find that happiest spot below,\\nWho can direct, when all pretend to know?\\nThe shuddering tenant of the frigid zone\\nEoldly proclaims that happiest spot his own", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0019.jp2"}, "20": {"fulltext": "12 READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nExtols the treasures of his stormy seas,\\nAnd his long nights of revelry and ease\\nThe naked negro, panting at the line,\\nBoasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,\\nBasks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave.\\nAnd thanks his gods for all the good they gave.\\nSuch is the patriot s boast, where er we roam,\\nHis first, best country ever is at home\\nAnd yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,\\nAnd estimate the blessings which they share.\\nThough patriots flatter, siill shall wisdom find\\nAn equal portion dealt to all mankind\\nAs difierent good, by art or nature given\\nTo dLBferent nations, makes their blessings even.\\nGREAT BRITAIN.\\nFROM the traveler.\\nMy genius spreads her wing\\nAnd flies where Britain courts the western spring;\\nWhere lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride.\\nAnd brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide.\\nThere, all around the gentlest breezes stray\\nThere, gentle music melts on every spray;\\nCreation s mildest charms are there combined\\nExtremes are only in the master s mind.\\nStern o er each bosom reason holds her state,\\nWith daring aims irregularly great.\\nPride in their port, defiance in their eye,\\nI see the lords of human kind pass by.\\nIntent on high designs a thoughtful band.\\nBy forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature s hand,\\nFierce in their native hardiness of soul.\\nTrue to imagined right, above control;\\nWhile even the peasant boasts these right to scan,\\nAnd learns to venerate himself a man.\\nThine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured herej\\nThine are those charms that dazzle and endear;\\nToo blessed, indeed, were such without alloy,\\nBut fostered even by freedom, ills annoy.", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0020.jp2"}, "21": {"fulltext": "HEADINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13\\nThat independence Britons prize too high,\\nKeeps man from man, and breaks tlie social tie\\nThe self-dependent lordlings stand alone\\nAll claims that bind and sweeten life unknown.\\nHere, by the bonds of nature feebly held,\\nMinds combat minds, repelling and repelled;\\nFerments arise, imprisoned factions roar,\\nRepressed ambition struggles round her shore;\\nTill, overwrought, the general system feels\\nIts motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels.\\nNor this the worst. As nature s ties decay,\\nAs duty, love, and honor fail to sway,\\nFictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law.\\nStill gather strength, and force unwilUng awe.\\nHence all obedience bows to these alone.\\nAnd talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;\\nTill time may come when, stripped of all her charms,\\nThe land of scholars, and the nurse of arms\\nWiiere noble stems transmit the patriot flame,\\nWhere kings have toiled, and poets wrote for fame\\nOne sink of level avarice shall lie,\\nAnd scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die.\\nYet think not, thus when freedom s ills I state,\\nI mean to flatter kings, or court the great.\\nYe powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,\\nFar from ray bosom drive the low desire!\\nAnd thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel\\nThe rabble s rage, and tyrant s angry steel\\nThou transitory flower, alike undone\\nEy proud contempt or favor s fostering sun\\nStill may thy blooms the changeful chme endure\\nI only would repress them to secure\\nFor just experience tells, in every soil,\\nThat those who think must govern those that toil\\nAnd all that freedom s highest aims can reach\\nIs but to lay proportioned loads on each.\\nHence, should one order disproportioned grow,\\nIts doubled weight must ruin all below.\\n0, then, how blind to all that truth requires,\\nWho think it freedom when a part aspires\\nCalm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,\\nExcept when fast-approaching danger warms", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0021.jp2"}, "22": {"fulltext": "14 READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nBut when contending chiefs blockade the throne,\\nContracting regal power to stretch their own\\nWhen I behold a factious band agree\\nTo call it freedom when themselves are free\\nEach wanton judge new penal statutes draw,\\nLaws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law\\nThe wealth of climes, where savage nations roam,\\nPillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home\\nFear, pity, justice, indignation start.\\nTear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart;\\nTill half a patriot, half a coward grown,\\nI fly from petty tyrants to the throne.\\nYes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour\\nWhen first ambition struck at regal power\\nAnd thus, polluting honor in its source.\\nGave wealth to sway the mind with double force.\\nHave we not seen, round Britain s peopled shore.\\nHer useful sons exchanged for useless ore\\nSeen all her triumphs but destruction haste.\\nLike flaring tapers brightening as they waste\\nSeen opulence, her graudeur to maintain.\\nLead stern depopulation in her train\\nAnd over fields where scattered hamlets rose,\\nIn barren solitary pomp repose?\\nHave we not seen, at pleasure s lordly call.\\nThe smiling long- frequented village fall?\\nBeheld the duteous son, the sire decayed,\\nThe modest matron, and the blushing maid,\\nForced from their homes, a melancholy train,\\nTo traverse climes beyond the western main\\nWhere wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,\\nAnd Niagara stuns with thundering sound 1\\nEven now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays\\nThrough taugled forests, and through dangerous ways,\\nWhere beasts with man divided empire claim,\\nAnd the brown Indian marks with murderous aim\\nThere, while above the giddy tempest flies,\\nAnd all around distressful yells arise\\nThe pensive exile, bending with his woe,\\nTo stop too fearful, and too faint to go.\\nCasts a long look where England s glories shine,\\nAnd bids his bosom sympathize with mine.", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0022.jp2"}, "23": {"fulltext": "READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 15\\nITALY AND SW^ITZERLAND.\\nFROM THE TRAVELER.\\nFar to the right, where Apennine ascends,\\nBright as the summer, Italy extends:\\nIts uplands sloping deck the moantam s side,\\nWoods over woods in gay theatric pride,\\nWhile oft some temple s moldering tops between\\nWith memorable grandeur mark the scene.\\nCould Nature s bounty satisfy the breast.\\nThe sons of Italy were surely blessed.\\nWhatever fruits in different climes are found,\\nThat proudly rise, or humbly court the ground-\\nWhatever blooms in torrid tracts appear.\\nWhose bright succession decks the varied year\\nWhatever sweets salute the northern sky\\nWith vernal lives, that blossom but to die\\nThese, here disporting, own the kindred soil,\\nNor ask luxuriance from the planter s toil\\nWhile sea-born gales their gelid wings expand\\nTo winnow fragrance round the smiling land.\\nBut small the bliss that sense alone bestows,\\nAnd sensual bliss is all the nation knows\\nIn florid beauty groves and fields appear,\\nMan seems the only growth that dwindles here.\\nContrasted faults through all his manners reign\\nThough poor, luxurious though submissive, vain\\nThough grave, yet trifling zealous, yet untrue\u00e2\u0080\u0094\\nAnd even in penance planning sins anew.\\nAll evils here contaminate the mind.\\nThat opulence departed leaves behind\\nFor wealth was theirs\u00e2\u0080\u0094 not far removed the date,\\nWhen commerce proudly flourished through the state.\\nAt her command the palace learned to rise\\nAgain the long-fallen column sought the skies,\\nThe canvas glowed, beyond e en nature warm,\\nThe pregnant quarry teemed with human form\\nTill, more unsteady than the southern gale,^\\nCommerce on other shores displayed her sail;\\nWhile naught remained of all that riches gave,\\nBut towns unmanned, and lords without a slave\u00e2\u0080\u0094", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0023.jp2"}, "24": {"fulltext": "16 READINGS FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH.\\nAnd late the nation found, with fruitless skill,\\nIts former strength was but plethoric ill.\\nYet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied\\nBy arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride:\\nFrom these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind\\nAn easy compensation seem to find.\\nHere may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed,\\nThe pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade\\nProcessions formed for piety and love\\nA mistress or a saint in every grove\\nBy sports like these are all their cares beguiled-\\nThe sports of children satisfy the child.\\nEach nobler aim, repressed by long control,\\nNow sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul\\nWhile low delights, succeeding fast behind,\\nIn happier meanness occupy the mind.\\nAs in those domes, where Csesars once bore sway.\\nDefaced by time and tottering in decay,\\nThere in the ruin, heedless of tlie dead,\\nThe shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;\\nAnd, wondering man could want the larger pile,\\nExults, and owns his cottage with a smile.\\nMy soul, turn from them, turn we to survey\\nWhere rougher climes a nobler race display\\nWhere the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,\\nAnd force a churlish soil for scanty bread.\\nNo product here the barren hills afford,\\nBut man and steel, the soldier and his sword\\nNo vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,\\nBut winter lingering chills the lap of May;\\nNo zephyr fondly sues the mountain s breast.\\nBut meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.\\nYet still, e en here, content can spread a charm.\\nRedress the clime, and all its rage disarm.\\nThough poor the peasant s hut, his feasts though small,\\nHe sees his little lot the lot of all;\\nSees no contiguous palace rear its head,\\nTo shame the meanness of his humble shed\\nNo costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal.\\nTo make him loathe his vegetable meal\\nBut calm, and bred in ignorance and toil.\\nEach wish contracting, fits him to the soil.", "height": "3289", "width": "2116", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0024.jp2"}, "25": {"fulltext": "^miiP v i -vv v. v-a,^i^\\nNOTES.\\nIn May, 1770, appeared Goldsnjith s finest poem, The Deserted Vil-\\nlage. Before August closed a fiftji edition was nearly exhausted. The\\nvillage, sweet Auburn, whose present desolation strikes the heart moro\\npainfully from the lovely pictures of vanished joy the poet sets before us,\\nwas that haralet of Lissoy where Jxis boyhood had been spent. The soft\\nfeatures of the landscape, the evening sports of the village train, the vari-\\nous noises of life rising from the cottage homes, the meek and earnest\\ncouutry preacher, the buzzing school, the wliitewashed ale-house, attract\\nby turns our admiration $s we read this exquisite poem.\\nThe emphatic words of poor, dying Gray, who heard The Deserted\\nVillage read at Malvern, where he spent his last summer in a vain search\\nfor health, must be echoed by every feeling heart That man is a poet.\\nGoldsmith was one of the first Englishmen of this age who had taste\\nand feeling enough to rely for efifect upon simple and unornamented descrip^\\ntions of natural ordinary objects and persons. He threw aside all that false\\nand vulgar aflfectation which thought it necessary to clothe such objects in a\\nparade of declamatory language and his poem is exquisitely pathetic. He\\ndid nothing else but restore the manner of our greater and more ancient\\nwriters, who find, in the commonest and most famihar images, an inex-\\nhaustible source of the most powerful emotions the tenderest beauty and\\nthe sublimest terror.\\nThe Travaler, a meditative and descriptive work, embodying the im-\\npressions of human life and society which he had felt in his travels and in\\nhis early struggles. Neither the ideas nor the images are very new or\\nstriking, but it is exquisitely versified, and its ease, elegance, and tenderness\\nhave made many passages pass into the language and memory of society.", "height": "3267", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0025.jp2"}, "26": {"fulltext": "TR A CTS.\\nJrl^oxne Oollog o Sorlos\\nPrice, each, 5 cents. Per 100, for caih, $3 50.\\nThe Home College Series will contain short papers on a wide rar\\nbiographical, historical, scientific, literary, domestic, political, and rrV\\nreligious tone will chaiacterize all of ihem. Thejr are written for\\nwhose leisure is limited, but who desire to i.^e the minutes for the ei\\nN O ^A^ R E A D Y.\\nThomas Carlyle. Bv Daniel Wise,\\nD.D,\\nWilliam Wordsworth, By Daniel\\nWise, D.D.\\nEgypt. By J. I. Boswell.\\nHenry Wordsworth Longfellow.\\nBy Danie? Wise, D.D.\\nRome. By I. Boswell\\nI\\n6. England. By J. I. Boswell.\\n7. The Sun. By C. M. Westlake, M.S\\nNo,\\n39-\\n40.\\n41-\\n42.\\n43-\\n44.\\n45-\\n46.\\n47-\\ni3-\\n14-\\n16.\\n17-\\nWashington Irving. By Daniel Wise,\\nD.D. i48.\\nPolitical Economy. By G. M. Steele,\\nD.D. 49-\\nArt in Egypt. By Edward A, Rand.\\nGreece. By J. I. Boswell. 50.\\nChrist as a Teacher. By Bishop\\nThomson. 51.\\nGeorge Herbert. By Daniel Wise, 52.\\nD.D. 53-\\nDaniel the Uncompromising Young 54.\\nMan. By C. H. Payne, D.D. 55.\\nThe Moon. By C. M. Westlake, M.S. 56.\\nThe Rain. By Miss Carrie E. Den- 57.\\nnen. 58.\\nJoseph Addison. By Daniel Wise, 59.\\nD.D. 1 60.\\nEdmund Spenser. By Daniel Wise, 1 61.\\nD.D. 62.\\nChina and Japan. By J. I. Boswell. I63.\\nBy C. M, Westlake, 1 64,\\nPrescott.\\nThe Planets.\\nM.S.\\nWilliam Hickling\\nDaniel Wise, D.D.\\nWise Sayings of\\nFolk.\\nWilliam Shakespeare\\nWise, D.D.\\n24. Geometry.\\n25. The Stars. By C. M. Westlake, M.S.\\n26. John Milton. By Daniel Wise, D.D.\\n27. Penmanship.\\n28. Housekeeper s Guide.\\nThemistocles and Pericles.\\nPlutarch.)\\nAlexander. (From Plutarch.)\\nCoriolanus and Maximus.\\nPlutarch.)\\nDemosthenes and Alcibiades\\nPlutarch.)\\nThe Gracchi. (From Plutarch.)\\nCaesar and Cicero. (From Plutarch.)\\nPalestine. By J. I. Boswell.\\nReadings from William Words-\\nworth.\\nThi Watch and the Clock. By Al-\\nilaylor.\\nA b^-. of Tools. By Alfred Taylor.\\nBy 65.\\n66.\\n23\\n37\\n38\\nthe Common\\nBy Daniel j\\n(From\\n70.\\n71-\\n72.\\n73-\\n(From\\n74\\n(From; 75.\\ni 76.\\n77-\\n78.\\n79-\\n80.\\n81.\\n82.\\n83.\\nDiamonds and other Prr\\nStones. By-Alfred Taylor\\nMemory Practice.\\nGold and Silver. By\\nMeteors. By C. M.\\nAerolites. By C. M,\\nFrance. By J. I, Bosw\\nEuphrates Valley. By J. i\\nUnited States, By J, I. Iv\\nThe Ocean, By Miss Came k\\nnen.\\nTwo Weeks in the Yosemite\\nVicinity, By J, M. Buckley,\\nKeep Good Company. By S\\nSmiles.\\nTen Days in Switzerland.\\nRidgaway, D.D.\\nArt in the Far East. By I\\nReadings from Cowper.\\nPlant Life. By Mrs. V. C. 1\\nWords. By Mrs. V. C. Pho\\nReadings from Oliver Goldbiiuiii.\\nArt in Greece. Part I.\\nArt in Italy. Part 1.\\nArt in Germany.\\nArt in France.\\nArt in England.\\nArt in America.\\nReadings from Tennyson,\\nReadings from Milton. Part I.\\nThomas Chalmers. By Daniel Wise,\\nD.D.\\nRufus Choate.\\nThe Temperance Movement vermtg\\nThe Liquor System,\\nGermany. By J. I. Boswell.\\nReadings from Milton. Part 11\\nReading and Readers. By li\\nFarrar, A.B.\\nThe Cary Sisters, By Miss Jennie M.\\nBingham.\\nA Few Facts about Chemistry,\\nMrs. V. C. Phoebus.\\nA Few Facts about Geology. By\\nMrs. V. C. Phoeb.is.\\nA Few Facts about Zoology. By\\nMrs. V. C Phoebus.\\nCircle (The) of Sciences.\\nDaniel Webster. By Dr. C. A(\\nThe World of Science.\\nComets. By C. M. Westlake. M[\\nArt in Greece. Part II.\\nArt in Italy. Part II.\\nArt in Land of Saracens.\\nArt in Northern Europe. Part i.\\nArt in Northern Europe. Part II.\\nArt in Western Asia. By C.\\nRand.\\nPublished hj Phillips Hunt, New York Walden Stowe, Cincinnati, Ohio.", "height": "3353", "width": "2127", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0026.jp2"}, "27": {"fulltext": "f\\nh", "height": "3310", "width": "2046", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0027.jp2"}, "28": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3363", "width": "2084", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0028.jp2"}, "29": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3337", "width": "2025", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0029.jp2"}, "30": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3363", "width": "2084", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0030.jp2"}, "31": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3337", "width": "2025", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0031.jp2"}, "32": {"fulltext": "", "height": "3531", "width": "2307", "jp2-path": "readingsfromoliv00gold_0032.jp2"}}