Excerpt from The Deserted Village, And, the Traveller: And Other Poems
There were two sets of people who looked upon Oliver Goldsmith the poet, and each saw correctly enough what each was capable of seeing. One saw in him a shiftless, vain, awkward, homely fellow, thrust ing himself into good company, blundering, blurting out nonsense or malapropos sayings, a gooseberry fool. The other, containing men of genius, laughed at poor Goldy, but never failed to seek his com pany and to receive him as’ their equal. When Burke was told of his death, he burst into tears. Reynolds was painting When the news was brought to him; he laid his pencil aside and would not go back that day to his studio, a sign of grief never shown in times of deep family distress. Johnson never ceased to mourn him, and cast his profoundest conviction of the poet’s genius into the monumental lines which form one of the noblest of elegies.
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