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The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whifp'ring lovers made!
How often have I blefs'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 fpreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
young contending as the old furvey`d;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And fleits of art and feats of ftrength went round.
And ftill, as each repeated pleafuse tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd ;
The dancing pair that fimply fought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The fwain, miftruftlefs of his finutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's fide-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks re-

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's pow'r.
Here, as I take my folitary rounds,
Amidft thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds;
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew;
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the paft to pain.

In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my fhare-
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst thefe humble bow'rs to lay me down;
To hufband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wafting by repose:
I ftill had hopes, for pride attends us ftill,
Amidst the fiains to fhew my book-learn'd 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 firft he flew,
still had hopes, my long vexations paft,
Here to return and die at home at laft.


O bleft retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never inuft be mine!
How bleft is he, who crowns, in fhades like thefe,
A youth of labour with an age of eafe ;
Who quits a world where strong 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 dang'rous deep;
No furly porter ftands in guilty state,
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 unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And, all his profpects bright'ning to the laft,
His heaven commences ere the world be paft!
Sweet was the found, when oft, at evening's


Thefe were thy charms, sweet village! fports like
With fweet fucceffion, taught e'en toil to pleafe;
Thefe round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence
[are fled.
These were thy charms, but all thefe charms
Sweet fmiling village, lovelieft of the lawn,
Thy fports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And defolation faddens all thy green:
One only after grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain;
No more t hy glaffy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with fedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy giades, a folitary gueft,
The hollow-founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall;
And trem bling, fhrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to haft'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 peafantry, their country's pride,
When once deftroy'd, can never be fupplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began.
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;
For him light labour fpread her wholesome store;
Juft gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His beft companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd trade's unfeeling train
Ufurp the land, and difpoffefs the fwain;
Along the lawn, where fcatter'd hamlets rofe,
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose;
And ev'ry want to luxury allied,
And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride.
Thofe gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Thofe calm defires that afk'd but little room,
Thofe healthfulfports that grac'dthe peacefuifcene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green-To feek her nightly fhed, and weep till morn;
Thefe, far departing, feek a kinder fhore, She only left, of all the harmless train,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain.
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And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind;
Thefe all in tweet confufion fought the shade,
And ill'd each paule the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail,
No cheerfui murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No bufy fteps the grafs-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled:
All but yon widow'd, folitary thing,
That feebly bends befide the plathy fpring;
She, wretched matron! forc'd in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes fpread,
To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe;
There as I pafs'd, with care!efs steps and flow,
The mingling notes came foften'd from below;
The fwain, refponfive as the milk-maid fung,
The fober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noify geefe that gabbied o'er the pool,
The playful children juft let loofe from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bay`d the whisp'ring


Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild, There, where a few torn fhrubs the place difclofe, The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe. A man he was to all the country dear, And paffing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change, his Unskilful he to fawn, or feek 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 raife the wretched than to rife. His houfe was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain. The long-remember'd beggar was his gueft, Whole beard defcending fwept his aged breaft; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd, The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of forrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were [glow, Pleas'd with his guefts, the good man learn'd to And quite forget their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to fcan, His pity gave ere charity began.


Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide; 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 fkies; He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Befide the bed, where parting life was laid, And forrow, guilt, and pain by turns difmay'd, The rev'rend champion ftood. At his controul 'Despair and anguish fled the struggling foul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raife, And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praife.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double fway; And fools, who came to fcoff, remain'd to pray. The fervice paft, 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


His ready fmile a parent's warmth exprefs'd, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares diftrefs'd;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had reft in heaven.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the
Tho'round its breast the rolling clouds are fpread,
Eternal funfhine fettles on its head.


Befide yon ftraggling fence that fkirts the way, With bloffom furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noify mantion skill'd to rule, The village mafter taught his little school;


A man fevere he was, and ftern to view;
knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's difafters 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 bufy whifper circling round
Convey'd the dimal tidings when he frown'd
Yet he was kind; or, if fevere in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village ali declar'd how much he know;
'Twas certain he could write and cypher too;
Lands he could meature, terms and tides prefage,
And ev'n the ftory ran that he could gauge;
In arguing too the parfon own'd his fkill,
For, ev 'n though vanquifh'd, he could argue ftill;
While words of learned length, and thund'ring

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And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly ftoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that feftive place;
The white-wafh'd wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the

The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a cheft of draw'rs by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and ule,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With afpen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay
While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for fhow,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, gliften'd in a row.

Vain tranfitory fplendour! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring manfion from its fall?
Obfcure it finks, nor thall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To fweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's notvs, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad fhall prevail;
No more the faith his dufky brow fhall clear,
Relax his pond'rous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The hoft himself no longer fhall be found
Careful to fee the mantling blifs go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preft,
Shall kits the cup to pafs it to the reft.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, Thefe fimple bleffings of the lowly train: To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the glofs of art: Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The foul adopts, and owns their first-born fway;


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 thefe, ere triflers half their with obtain,
The toiling pleafure fickens into pain;
And, ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart diftrufting afks, if this be joy?

Ye friends to truth, ye ftatelimen who furvey
The rich man's joys increafe, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand
Between a fplendid and a happy land.
Proud fwells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And fhouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards, ev'n beyond the mifer'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 ufeful product still the fame.
Not fo the lofs: 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 horfes, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken floth
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their

His feat, where folitary fports are feen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world cach needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world fupplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren fplendour feebly waits the fall.

As fome fair female, unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dre's fupplies:
Nor fhares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when thofe charms are paft (for charms are frail),
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then fhines forth, folicitous to blefs,
In all the glaring impotence of drefs.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's fimpleft charms at first array'd;
But, verging to decline, its fplendours rife,
Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprife.
While, fcourg'd by famine from the fmiling land,
The mournful peafant leads his humble band;
And while he finks, without one arm to fave,
The country blooms-a garden and a grave!

Where then, ah where, fhall poverty refide,
To 'fcape the preffure of contiguous pride?
If, to fome common's fencelefs limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the fcanty blade,
Thofe fenceless fields the fons of wealth divide,
And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied.

If to the city fped-what waits him there?
To fee profufion that he must not share;
To fee ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To fee cach joy the fons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artift plies the fickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps
There the black gibbet glooms befide the way,

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight.

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing fquare,
The rattling chariots clafh, the torches glare.
Sure fcenes like thefe no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure thefe denote one univerfal joy! [eyes
Are thefe thy ferious thoughts? Ah, turn thine
Where the poor houfelefs thiv'ring female lies.
She, once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence diftreft;
Her modeft looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrofe peeps beneath the thorn:
Now loft to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door the lays her head;
And pinch'd with cold, and fhrinking from the

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly firft, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.

Dothine, fweet Auburn,thine, the lovelieft train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Ev'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they afk 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 charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid fhore;
1 hofe blazing funs that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely thed intolerable day;
Thofe matted woods where birds forget to fing,
But filent bats in drowsy clusters cling:
Thofe pois nous fields with rank luxuriance

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at cach step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful fnake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey;
And favage men, more murd'rous ftill than they
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far diff'rent thefe from ev'ry former scene,
The cooling brook, the graffy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling glove,
That only fhelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what forrows gloom'd that part-
ing day,

That called them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleafure paft, [laft,
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their
And took a long farewel, and wish'd in vain
For feats like thefe beyond the western main;
And fhudd'ring ftill to face the diftant deep,
Return'd and wept, and ftill return'd to weep!
The good old fire the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in confcious virtue brave,
He only with'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. .



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With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, ' Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries,
And blefs'd the cot where every pleasure rofe;
And kifs'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clafp'd them clofe, in forrow doubly dear;
Whilft her fond husband strove to lend relicf
In all the filent manliness of grief.

To tempt the dang'rous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

O, luxury thou curft by Heaven's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with infidious joy, Diffufe their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms, by thee to fickly greatness grown, Boat of a florid vigour not their own. At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mals of rank unwieldy woe; Till fapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unfound, Down, down they fink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devaftation is begun, And half the bus'nefs of deftruction done; Ev'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I fee the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the fail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a nelancholy band, Pafs from the thore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hofpitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with withes plac'd above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, fweet poetry, thou lovelieft maid, Still first to fly where fenfual joys invade; Unfit in thefe degen'rate times of fhame To catch the heart, or strike for honeft fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My fhame in crowds, my folitary pride! Thou fource of all my blifs and all my woe, That found'ft me poor at firft, and keep'ft me fo; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou fource of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well! Farewel and, oh! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's fide, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in fnow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; Aid flighted truth with thy perfuafive strain, Teach erring man to fpurn the rage of gain; Teach him that states, of native ftrength poffeft, Though very poor, may ftill be very bleft; That trade's proud empire haftes to swift decay, As ocean fweeps the labour'd mole away; While felf-dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks refift the billows and the sky.

3. Edwin and Angelina. A Ballaa, GOLDSMITH.

TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way


To where yon taper cheers the vale • With hospitable ray :

For here forlorn and loft I tread, With fainting steps and flow; Where wilds, immeafurably spread, Seen length'ning as I go.'

Here to the houfelefs child of want
'My door is open still;
And, tho' my portion is but fcant,
I give it with good-will.

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And now, when bufy crowds retire
To take their ev'ning reft,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his penfive guest;
And fpread his vegetable flore,

And gaily prefs'd and fiil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguil'd. Around in fympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To footh the ftranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow, His rifing cares the Hermit fpied, With anfw'ring care oppreft: And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, The forrows of thy breaft?

From better habitations fpurn'd,

Reluctant doft thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,....

• Or unregarded love?

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