WEET AUBURN, lovelieft village of the plain,
Where health and plenty chear the labouring swain; Where smiling spring it's earliest visit paid,
And parting fummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The fhelter'd cot, the cultivated farm ;
The never-failing brook, the bufy mill;
The decent church, that topt the neighbouring hill
The hawthorn bufh, with feats beneath the fhade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made:
How often have I bleft the coming day,
When, toil remitting, lent it's turn to play;
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led-up their sports beneath the spreading tree!
While many a pastine circled in the shade,
The young contending, as the old furvey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And flights of art, and feats of ftrength, went round;
And ftill, as each repeated pleafure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band infpir'd:
The dancing pair, that fimply fought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The fwain miftruftlefs of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's fide-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove?
Thefe were thy charms, fweet village! fports like these,
With sweet fucceffion, taught ev'n toil to please:
These, round thy bow'rs, their cheerful influence shed ; Thefe were thy charms-but all these charms are fled!
Sweet, fmiling village, lovliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn!
Amidft thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And defolation faddens all thy green!
One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain.
No more thy glaffy brook reflects the day,
But, choak'd with fedges, works it's weedy way:
Along thy glades, a folitary gueft,
The hollow-founding bittern guards it's neft;
Amidst thy defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapelefs ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall
And trembling, fhrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land!
Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made!
But a bold peafantry, their country's pride,
When once deftroy'd, can never be fupply'd.
A time there was, ere ENGLAND's griefs began
When every rood of ground maintain'd it's man:
For him light Labour spread her wholesome store,
Juft gave what life requir'd, but gave no more!
His beft companions, Innocence and Health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd! Trade's unfeeling train
Ufurp the land, and difpoffefs the swain.
Along the lawn, where fcatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp, repofe;
And every want to luxury ally'd,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Thofe calm defires that ask'd but little room;
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
Thefe, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more!
Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn, confefs the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my folitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds;
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage ftood, and hawthorn grew:
Here, as with doubtful, pensive steps, I range,
Trace every scene, and wonder at the change;
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain. >
In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has giv'n my fhare!
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidft these humble bowers to lay me down;
My anxious day to husband near the close,
And keep life's flame from wasting by repose;
I still had hopes-for pride attends us still—
Amidst the swains to fhew my book-learn'd skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I faw:
And as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew;
I ftill had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last!
O bleft retirement! friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care that never must be mine;
How bleft is he who crowns, in fhades like thefe,
A youth of labour, with an age of ease!
Who quits a world, where ferong temptations try,
And, fince 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deeps
No furly porter ftands, in guilty ftate,
To fpurn imploring famine from his gate :
But on he moves, to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave, with unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And all his profpects bright'ning at the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the found, when oft, at ev'ning's clofe,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose !
There, as I pafs'd, with careless steps and flow,
The mingling notes came foften'd from below:
The fwain responsive, as the milk-maid fung;
The fober herd, that low'd to meet their young;
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