How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire; but I know you will object-and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the country be depopulating, or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states, by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, DEAR SIR, Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 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 shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade For talking age and whispering lovers made; How often have I bless'd 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— The young contending as the old survey'd, And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd- By holding out to tire each other down, The swain mistrustless of his smutted face 10 20 |