his own and ours. He is as
English as Wordsworth. This makes the comparison with Pope and Dryden
now most imperfect. Admitting so much, it almost follows of necessity
that Goldsmith was the first poet of the rich and enriching school
that still sways the common heart, that gave us Tennyson, Keats,
Shelley, and an unrivalled host in the history of poetic inspiration
and expression. It must, of course, be recognised that Goldsmith was
not the first to herald the purely homely and an entirely indigenous
note, since Gray was with him, and far earlier, Philip Sydney had
poured forth his fair and felicitous melodies. Beyond, above, and
greater far than these, Milton, attuning his hallowed and harmonious
strains, through the classic chords of Rome, had so faithfully
fulfilled their inspiration with moving majesty, that rising and
transcendently surpassing all his models, he was, and is, in very deed
unique, original, unsupported, and supreme. _The Deserted Village_ was
given to the world, but one cannot say how long it lay hidden in the
yearning heart of that genius who gave it light and life. It
substantiated the fame of Goldsmith for ever and unalterably. In the
last year of his life, Gray welcomed the piece, and was most moved and
grateful as he greeted it. It is as much a part of our life as his own
"Elegy," and though each poem is distinct and could only have been
bestowed by the one heart of the poet, who blessed himself and blessed
the lives of men in writing it, still there is a sweet similitude.

[Illustration:
_Rischgitz Collection._]
GOLDSMITH.
(From an engraving of the statue at Trinity College, Dublin.)]

The highest praise that one could give Gray and Goldsmith is to hold
their genius and their influence kindred. There is, however, a
glistening and Chaucerian brightness and vitality in Goldsmith not
discernible in Gray. Their kindredness is thus that of the vernal unto
the autumnal light. In _The Deserted Village_, from its whole
reflective vein, at a glance we must perceive that long these loved
and loving thoughts had lingered in the mind and the heart of the
poet. Sparks from Heaven fell upon the tinder of the yearnings of the
lowly heart. At last the glow was seen, and grew a light distinct.
There is a moulding, moving music of the mind. Swiftly, in time, line
after line found its place within the common heart and life. Again, as
in earlier days, we see the spiritual spell, and with the for