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 cumbrous 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 power. 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 wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has given my shareTo husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose:

I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
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 a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,

Pants to the place from whence at first he 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 '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;
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 brightening to the last,

His heaven commences ere the world be past.