Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; One only master grasps the whole domain, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ;3 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, A time there was, ere England's griefs began, But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elaps'd, 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 wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has given my shareI still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers 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 evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, O bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine! How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; |