But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of three Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here: Honour, that praise which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year: The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. And. sedulous to stop the coming tide, roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore: The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, Impels the native to repeated toil, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear, E'en liberty itself is barter'd here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, Heav'ns! how unlike their Belgic sires of Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; How much unlike the sons of Britain now! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspis glide; There all around the gentlest breezes stray, There gentle music melts on every spray; Creation's mildest charms are there combined, Extremes are only in the master's mind; Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too blest indeed were such without alloy; tie; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, unknown; Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, As duty, love, and honour, fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet think not. thus when freedom's illa I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great: Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Thro' tangled forests, and thro' dangerous ways; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. To seek a good each government bestows? cure! Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. Lake's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, To men remote from pow'r but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. Goldsmith.-Born 1728, Died 1774. 919.-THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain, Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made! While many a pastime circled in the shade, And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, reprove: These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, In sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bow'rs 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 bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen, Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 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 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 alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose; And every want to luxury allied, And every 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 graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 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, Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw, 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, O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How blest is 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 't is 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; Sweet was the sound, when oft at evʼning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur 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, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, morn: She only left of all the harmless train, Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, He chid their wand'rings, but relieved 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 claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd 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 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 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 dismay'd, The rev'rend 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 whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 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, His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were giv❜n, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heav'n. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, The day's disasters in his morning face; Lands ho 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 ev'n though vanquish'd he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head should carry all ho 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 inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendours! could not all Thither no more the peasant shall repair 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; |