But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd: Trade's unfeeling train Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires 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; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Swells at my breast, 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 share.... I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes....for pride attends us still.... Amidst the swains to show my book-learn❜d skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, Who quits a world where strong temptations try, For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang’rous deep; To spurn imploring famine from the gate; Sweet was the sound, when oft at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The playful children just let loose from school; And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled:.... That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; |