friends concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I alledge, and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry whether the country be depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of

antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right.

I am, dear Sir,

Your sincere friend,

and ardent admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

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 paus'd on ev'ry 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 tir'd,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
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 sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With 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: