BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
SWEET AUBURN, lovelieft village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheared the labouring fwain,
Where fmiling spring its earliest vifit paid,
And parting fummer's lingering blooms delayed.
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The fheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I bleft the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a paftime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old furveyed; 20
*Born 1729; dyed 1774.
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And flights of art and feats of strength went round;
And ftill as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band infpired;
The dancing pair that fimply fought renown 25
By holding out to tire each other down;
The fwain miftrustless of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's fide-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would thofe looks
reprove!
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These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like thefe,
With fweet fucceffion, taught even toil to please ; Thefe round thy bowers their chearful influence shed, These were thy charms---But all these charms are fled.
Sweet fmiling village, lovelieft of the lawn, 35
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidft thy bowers the tyrant's hand is feen,
And defolation faddens all thy green:
One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage flints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glaffy brook reflects the day,
But, choaked with fedges, works its weedy way.
Along thy glades, a folitary guest,
The hollow founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their ecchoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in fhapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mouldering wall;
And trembling, fhrinking from the fpoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to haftening 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 destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man ; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Juft gave what life required, but gave no more: 50 His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train Ufurp the land and difpoffefs the fwain; Along the lawn, where fcattered hamlets rofe, 65 Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Thofe gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm defires that afked but little room, 70
Those healthful fports that graced the peaceful fcene,
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green
These far departing feek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, 75 Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my folitary rounds,
Amidft thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapfed, return to view
Where once the cottage flood, the hawthorn grew, 80
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs---and God has giv'n my share---
I ftill had hopes my latest hours to crown,
85
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To hufband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wafting by repose:
I fill had hopes, for pride attends us flill,
Amidst the swains to fhew my book-learned fkill, 90
Around my fire an evening groupe to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I faw;
And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns purfue,
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, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How bleft is he who crowns, in fhades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where ftrong 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 dangerous deep;
No furly porter ftands in guilty ftate,
To fpurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the found, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I past with careless steps and flow, 115 The mingling notes came foftened from below; The fwain refponfive as the milk-maid fung, The fober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noify geefe that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loofe from school, 120 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,
Thefe all in fweet confufion fought the fhade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail,
No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
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