ough 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."

So ends this graceful, melodious, tender poem, the position of which
in English literature, and in the estimation of all who love English
literature, has not been disturbed by any fluctuations of literary
fashion. We may give more attention at the moment to the new
experiments of the poetic method; but we return only with renewed
gratitude to the old familiar strain, not the least merit of which is
that it has nothing about it of foreign tricks or graces. In English
literature there is nothing more thoroughly English than these
writings produced by an Irishman. And whether or not it was Paddy
Byrne, and Catherine Geraghty, and the Lissoy ale-house that
Goldsmith had in his mind when he was writing the poem, is not of much
consequence: the manner and language and feeling are all essentially
English; so that we never think of calling Goldsmith anything but an
English poet.

The poem met with great and immediate success. Of course everything
that Dr. Goldsmith now wrote was read by the public; he had not to
wait for the recommendation of the reviews; but, in this case, even
the reviews had scarcely anything but praise in the welcome of his new
book. It was dedicated, in graceful and ingenious terms, to Sir Joshua
Reynolds, who returned the compliment by painting a picture and
placing on the engraving of it this inscription: "This attempt to
express a character in the _Deserted Village_ is dedicated to Dr.
Goldsmith by his sincere friend and admirer, Sir Joshua Reynolds."
What Goldsmith got from Griffin for the poem is not accurately known;
and this is a misfortune, for the knowledge would have enabled us to
judge whether at that time it was possible for a poet to court the
draggle-tail muses without risk of starvation. But if fame were his
chief object in the composition of the poem, he was sufficiently
rewarded; and it is to be surmised that by this time the people in
Ireland--no longer implored to get subscribers--had heard of the proud
position won by the vagrant youth who had "taken the world for his
pillow" some eighteen years before.

That his own thoughts had sometimes wandered back to the scenes and
friends of his youth during this labour of love, we know from his
letters. In January