I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, And, as a hare when hounds and horns pursue, O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Sweet was the sound, when oft, at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingled notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spake the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sound of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tiead, But all the blooming flush of life is fled: All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild · There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school? A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfieted glee At all his jokes, for many a yoke had he: Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frowned: 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 cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presago, And even the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing too the parson owned his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, The parlour-splendours of that festive place; Vain transitory splendours! could not all Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, "Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards, even beyond the miser's wish, abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken cloth, Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies; While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasures all, In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, If to the city sped, what waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind : To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe; Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way: The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deek'd, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Such scenes like these no trouble e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy!Are these thy serious thoughts? ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fied, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? |