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The hawthorn bush, with seats beneaththeshade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play;
And all the village train from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd :
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleits of art and feats of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd
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 titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,
The matron's glauce that would those looks re-
prove-
[these,
These were thy charmis, sweet village! sports like
With sweet succession taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence
shed,
[are fled.
These were thy charmis-but all these charms
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and allthy charms withdrawn,
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green :/
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage tints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd 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 bow'rs 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.

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning 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 destroy'd, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labor 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 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, were scatter'd hamlets rose, Unweildy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose; And ev'ry want to luxury allied,

And ev'ry 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

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Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess'd the tyrant's pow'r. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds; And, many a year elaps'd, return to view [grew; Where once the cottage stood, the hawthoru 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 grief, and God has given my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame froin wasting my repose: I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'dskill, Around my fire, an evening group to draw, And tell if all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he 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, Retreat from care, that never must be mine! How blest.is he, who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor 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 dang'rous 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 ; · Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd 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 murmer rose ;
There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd 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 bay'd the whisp'ring
wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmers fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled":
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bend beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron! fore'd in age for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses
spread,

To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left, of all the harmless tráin,
The sad historian of the pensive plain,

Near

Near yonder copse, where once the garden sinil'd,
And still where many a garden flow rgrows 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
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, [place;
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain.
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his clans allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were

won.

Pleas'd with his guests the good man learn'd to
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; [glow,
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies:
He tried each art, reprov'd cach dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,

A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face:
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.
Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declar'd how much he knew ;
"Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing too the parson own'd his skill,
For, even though vanquish'd, he could argue
still;

While words of learned length, and thund'ring
sound,

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame, the very spot,
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot.

Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts
inspir'd,

Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro-
found,

And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendors of that festive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
Thevarnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,

The rev'rend champion stood: At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch toraise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.

A bed by night, a chest of draw'rs by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose";
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,

While broken, tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,With aspen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay. His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With ready zeal each honest rustic ran; Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile.

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Vain transitory splendor! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found,
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train:
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art:
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
04
Lightly

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd:
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain:
And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey,
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
"Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards, ev'n beyond the miser's wish, abound;
And rich men flock from all the world around;
Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful product still the same.
Not so the loss: the man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth,
Has robb'd the neighb`ring fields of half their
growth;

His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies:
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes:
But when thosecharmsare past (for charmsare frail)
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd;
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise,
While, scourg'd by famine from the smilingland,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms a garden and a grave!
Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside,.
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied.

If to the city sped what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp
display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight
reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train";
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy! Leyes
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine
Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She, once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,-
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head;
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the

show'r,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? [train,
Ev'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!

Ah, no! to distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far diff'rent there from all that charms before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling:
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance
crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far diff'rent these from ev'ry former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that
parting day,

That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, [last,
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go.
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woc;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his hapless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with manya tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O, luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their own.

At ev'ry draught more large and large they row,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Tillsapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,

And half the bus'ness of destruction done;
Ev'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down whereyon anch'ring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degen rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride!
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou source of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell! and, oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states, of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away;
While self dependent pow'r can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

§3. Edwin and Angelina. A Ballad. Goldsmith.

TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale

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With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;

'Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
'Seem length'ning as I go.'

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I give it with good-will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

No flocks that range the valley free

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To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :

But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied,
• And water from the spring.
Then pilgrim, turn, the cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stoves beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket, op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their ev'ning rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;,
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd and smil'd
And skill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answ'ring care oppress'd:

And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,
The sorrows of thy breast?

From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

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Or unregarded love?

Alas!

Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things
• More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep:
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?
And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair-one's just;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

For shame! fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

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And spurn the sex!' he said:

But, while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view,
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,' she cried,
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside!
But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.

My father liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only nie.

To win me from his tender arms

Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;

Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

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But never talk'd of love.

In humble, simplest habit clad,

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No wealth or power had he;

• Wisdom and worth were all he had,

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But these were all to me.

The blossom op'ning to the day,

The dews of heaven refin'd,'

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;

• Their charins were his, but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain :

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And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumpli'd in his pain:

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§ 4. A Pastoral. In Four Parts. To Sir William Trumbul. PASTORAL I.

Pope

SPRING. FIRST in these fields I try the sylvan strains, Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains. Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring, While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing; Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play, And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.

You that, too wise for pride, too good for pow'r, Enjoy the glory to be great no more, And, carrying with you all the world can boast, To all the world illustriously are lost! O let my Muse her slender reed inspire, Till in your native shades you tune the lyre So when the nightingale to rest removes, The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves; But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings, And all th' aërial audience clap their wings.

Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews, Two Swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the Muse,

Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care, Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair: The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side, Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephon thus replied:

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