And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew;
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy Train,
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 given 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 shew my book-learned skill'
Around my fire, an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw!
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew ;
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return;—and die at home at last!
O, blest Retirement! friend to Life's decline! Retreats from care, that never must be mine!
How happy he, who crowns in shades like these A Youth of labour with an Age of ease! Who quits a World, where strong temptations try; And, since '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 surly Porter stands in guilty State, To spurn imploring famine from the gate! But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending Virtue's friend!
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While Resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His Heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the Village murmur rose;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below.
The Swain responsive, as the Milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from School,
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whisp'ring wir
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But, now, the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled!
All but yon widowed, solitary, thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched Matron, forced, in age, for bread,
To strip the brook, with mantling cresses spread ;
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn;
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 smiled
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 changed, nor wished to change, his place!
Unpractised he, to fawn; or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour!
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize;
More skilled to raise the wretched, than to rise!
His house was known to all the vagrant Train.
He chid their wanderings; but relieved their pain!
The long-remembered Beggar was his guest;
Whose beard descending swept his agèd breast.
The ruined Spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there; and had his claims allowed.
The broken Soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how Fields were
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow; And quite forgot their vices in their woe:
Careless their merits, or their faults, to scan
His pity gave ere charity began!
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride;
And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side.
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all!
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
SWEET Auburn! loveliest Village of the plain! Where health and plenty cheered the labouring Swai Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer's ling'ring 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 sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy Mill,
The decent Church that topped the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking Age and whisp'ring Lovers made.
How often have I blessed 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 pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending, as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The Swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful Virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The Matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet Village! Sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please!
These, round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;
These were thy charms :-but all these charms are fled!
Sweet smiling Village! loveliest of the lawn!
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn !
Amidst thy bowers, the tyrant's hand is seen;
And desolation saddens all thy Green!
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day;
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way.
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern, guards its nest:
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all!
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall.
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land!
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