THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



His best companions, innocence and health ; 

 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 



But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 

 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 

 Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 

 Unwieldy wealth, and cumberous 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 asked but little room ; 

 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 

 Lived in each look, and brightened 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 power. 

 Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 

 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 

 And, many a year elapsed, returned 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 through 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 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-learned 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 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, 

 Retreat from cares, 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 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 

 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 

 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep.; 

 No surly porter stands in guilty state, 

 To spurn imploring famine from the gate; 



wo. 71 & 72. 



But on he moves to mnet 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 brightening to the last, 



His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 



Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 



Up yonder hill die village murmur rose; 



There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 



The mingling notes came softened from below; 



The swain responsive, as the milk-maid sung ; 



The sober herd, that lowed 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 bayed the whispering wind ; 



And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind ; 



These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 



And filled 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 foot-way tread, 



But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 



All but yon widowed 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 flower 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 wished to change his place ; 

 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 

 By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 

 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 

 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 

 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 

 The long remembered beggar was his guest, 

 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast j 

 CB 



