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,
It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land :
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleased, they give to get
esteem,

Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they

seem.

And. sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow:
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry

roar,

Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore:
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him
smile :

The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,
A new creation rescued from his reign,
Thus, while around the wave-subjected
soil

Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that
springs,

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,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the
storm.

Heav'ns! how unlike their Belgic sires of
old!

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,
I see the lords of human kind pass by;
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's
hand,

Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control;
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to
scan,

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;
But foster'd e'en by freedom, ills annoy;
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social

tie;

The self-dependent lordlings stand alone,
All claims that bind and sweeten life

unknown;

Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd;
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore;
Till over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motions stop, or phrenzy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties
decay,

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 all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories
shine,

And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind.
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and
repose,

To seek a good each government bestows?
In ev'ry government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or

cure!

Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:

With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,

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,
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could
please:

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

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!
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:

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 sleights of art and feats of strength went
round;

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:
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 glance that would those looks

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,
And desolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain :
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weary
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 unvary'd 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 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,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd
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 bow'rs 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 show my book-learn'd
skill,

Around my fire an ev'ning 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 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;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His heav'n commences ere the world be past.

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,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the blooming flush of life is fled :
All but yon widow'd, 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 flow'r 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 wish'd to change
his place;

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
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 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,
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.

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,
With steady 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;

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,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd 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 ;
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 declared how much he knew;
"Twas certain he could write and cypher too;

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,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of

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
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;