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WHICH the disturbed fituation of the country.
prevented their enjoying.

AT STRASBURG,

IN THE MONTH OF

FEBRUARY

1792.

BRITISH

MUSE

1

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

GOLDSMITH.

SWEET AUBURN! lovelieft village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain; Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting fummer'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 paus'd on ev'ry charm,

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church, that top't the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!

How often have I bleft 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 circle'd in the shade,
The young contending as the old furvey'd;
And many a gambol frolic'd o'er the ground,
And fleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band infpir'd,

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The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The fwain miftrustless of his fmutted 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 reprove,
These were thy charms, fweet village! sports like these,
With fweet fucceffion, 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Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;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 defolation faddens all thy green:

One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
'And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choak'd with fedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a folitary guest,

The hollow-founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy defart walks the lapwing flies,
And tires thy echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs 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 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 peasantry, their country's pride,
When once deftroy'd, can never be fupply'd.

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 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 dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repofe;
And ev'ry want to luxury ally'd,

And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Thofe calm defires that ask'd but little room
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd 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 blisful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's pow'r,

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