Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power. Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, In all my wand'rings round this world of care, And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, O bleft 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 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, To fpurn imploring famine from the gate; Sweet was the found, when oft at ev'ning's clofe, Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe; There, as I paft with careless steps and flow, The mingling notes came foften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid fung, The fober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noify geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children juft let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confufion fought the fhade, And fill'd each paufe the nightingale had made. But now the founds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,' No bufy steps the grafs-grown foot-way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow'd, folitary thing, That feebly bends befide the plafby fpring; She 64 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread, The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain. Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd, And fill where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe." A man he was, to all the country dear, And paffing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or feek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rife. His houfe was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain, The long remember'd beggar was his gueft, Whose beard defcending fwept his aged breaft; The ruin'd fpendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; The broken foldier, kindly bade to ftay, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds or tales of forrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 65 Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. Befide the bed where parting life was laid, And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmay'd; The rev'rend champion ftood. At his controul, Despair and anguish fled the ftruggling foul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his laft fault'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, And pluck'd his gown, to fhare the good man's fmile. VOL. I. F His To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm, Befide yon ftraggling fence that skirts the way, With bloffom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noify manfion, fkill'd to rule, The village mafter taught his little school; A man severe he was, and ftern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's difafters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the bufy whisper circling round, Convey'd the difmal tidings when he frown'd; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declar'd how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides prefage, And even the story ran that he could guage: In arguing too, the parfon own'd his skill, For even though vanquish'd, he could argue ftill; |