lieve what I have written; that I have taken all poffible pains, in my country excurfions for thefe four or five years paft, to be certain of what I allege, and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miferies real, which I here attempt to difplay. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the country be depopulating or not: the difcuffion would take up much room; and I should prove myself, at beft, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.

IN regreting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here alfo I expect the fhout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years paft, it has been the fashion to confider 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 profeffed ancient on that head, and continue to think thofe luxuries prejudicial to ftates, by which fo many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, fo much has been poured out of late on the other fide of the question, that, merely for the fake of novelty and variety, one would fometimes with to be in the right.

1 am, dear S1R,

Your fincere friend, and ardent admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH..

THE

DESERTED VILLAGE.

SWEET AUBURN, lovelieft village of the plain, Where health and plenty chear the labouring fwain,

Where fmiling fpring its earliest visit paid,
And parting fummer's lingering blooms delay'd:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every 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 every charm,
The shelter'd cote, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the bufy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering 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 fpreading tree;:
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as,the old furvey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And flights of art and feats of ftrength went round;

And

And ftill, as each repeated pleafure tir'd,
Succeeding fports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that fimply fought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The fwain miftruftlefs of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bafhful virgin's fide-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would thofe looks re-
prove.

Thefe were thy charms, fweet village; fports likethefe,

With fweet fucceffion, taught even toil to please ;: These round thy bowers their cheerful influence

fled,

These were thy charms--But all these charms are fled.

SWEET fmiling village, lovelieft of the lawn,
Thy fports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn:
Amidft thy bowers the tyrant's hand-is feen,
And defolation faddens all thy green :
One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain :
No more thy glaffy 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 defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries:
Sunk are thy bowers in fhapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall,
And trembling, fhrinking from the fpoiler'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.

14

Princes

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made :
But a bold peafantry, their country's pride,
When once deftroy'd, can never be supply'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 best companions, innocence and health; And his beft riches, ignorance of wealth.

BUT times are alter'd: Trade's unfeeling train
Ufurp the land, and difpoffefs the fwain.
Along the lawn, where fcatter'd hamlets rofe,.
Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp, repofe;
And every want to luxury ally'd,.

And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Thefe gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,:
Thofe calm defires that afk'd but little room,
Thofe healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful
fcene,

Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green ;;
Thefe far departing feek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more..

SWEET AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power, Here as I take my folitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage ftood, and hawthorn grew ;.
Here, as with doubtful, penfive fteps 1 range,
Trace every fcene, and wonder at the change,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain.

IN

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has given my shareItill had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst thefe humble bowers to lay me down; My anxious day to hufband near the close, And keep life's flame from wafting by repose; I ftill had hopes, for pride attends us ftill, Amidst the fwains to fhow my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an ev'ning group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I faw:: And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,. I ftill 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 bleft is he who crowns, in fhades like thefe, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where ftrong temptations try, And fince '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 furly porter ftands in guilty ftate, To fpurn imploring famine from his gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, While refignation gently flopes the way, And all his profpects bright'ning at the laft, His heaven commences ere the world be past!

SWEET was the found, when oft at evening's close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe; There as I pafs'd with careless fteps and flow, The mingling notes came foften'd from below

15

The