Ill fares the land, to hastening 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 Peasantry, 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, Just gave what life required; but gave no more! His best companions, Innocence and Health; And his best riches, Ignorance of Wealth!
But Times are altered. Trade's unfeeling Train Usurp the land, and dispossess the Swain. Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy Wealth and cumbrous Pomp repose, And every want to Opulence allied,
And every pang that Folly pays to Pride.
Those gentle hours that Plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scen Lived in each look, and brightened 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! Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
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 wind,
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,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way!
Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And Sorrow, Guilt, and Pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend Champion stood. At his control,
Despair and Anguish fled the struggling soul!
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise ;
And his last falt'ring accents whispered praise!
At Church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place.
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The Service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed.
To them, his heart, his love, his griefs, were given;
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven:
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head!
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The Village Master taught his little School.
A man severe he was, and stern to view.
I knew him well! and every truant knew!
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