Sweet Auburn, loveliest
village of the plain, |
Where health and plenty
cheared the labouring swain, |
Where smiling spring its
earliest visit paid, |
And parting summer’s
lingering blooms delayed, |
Dear lovely bowers of
innocence and ease, |
Seats of my youth, when
every sport could please, |
How often have I loitered
o’er thy green, |
Where humble happiness
endeared each scene; |
How often have I paused on
every charm, |
The sheltered cot, the
cultivated farm, |
The never failing brook,
the busy mill, |
The decent church that topt
the neighbouring hill, |
The hawthorn bush, with
seats beneath the shade, |
For talking age and
whispering lovers made, |
How often have I blest 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 surveyed; |
And many a gambol frolicked
o’er the ground, |
And slights of art and
feats of strength went round. |
And still as each repeated
pleasure tired, |
Succeeding sports the
mirthful band inspired; |
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
tittered round the place, |
The bashful virgin’s
side-long 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 even toil to please; |
These round thy bowers
their chearful 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all thy charms withdrawn; |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 bowers the
tyrant’s hand is seen, |
And desolation saddens all
thy green: |
One only master grasps thy
whole domain, |
And half a tillage stints
thy smiling plain; |
No more thy glassy brook
reflects the day, |
But choaked with sedges,
works its weedy way. |
Along thy glades, a
solitary guest, |
The hollow sounding bittern
guards its nest; |
Amidst thy desert walks the
lapwing flies, |
And tires their ecchoes
with unvaried cries. |
Sunk are thy bowers in
shapeless ruin all, |
And the long grass o’ertops
the mouldering wall, |
And trembling, shrinking
from the spoiler’s hand, |
Far, far away thy children
leave the land. |
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, |
Where wealth accumulates,
and men decay; |
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 destroyed, can
never be supplied. |
A
time there was, ere England’s griefs began. |
When every rood
of ground maintained 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 altered; trade’s unfeeling train |
Usurp the land and
dispossess the swain; |
Along the lawn, where
scattered hamlets rose, |
Unwieldy wealth, and
cumbrous pomp repose; |
And every want to luxury
allied, |
And every pang that folly
pays to pride. |
These gentle hours that
plenty bade to bloom, |
Those calm desires that
asked but little room, |
Those healthful sports that
graced the peaceful scene, |
Lived in each look, and
brightened all the green; |
Theses 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 ruined grounds, |
And, many a year elapsed,
return to view |
Where once the cottage
stood, the hawthorn grew, |
Here, as with doubtful,
pensive steps I range, |
Trace every scene, and
wonder at the change, |
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 share - |
I still had hopes my latest
hours to crown, |
Amidst these humble bowers
to lay me down; |
My anxious day to husband
near the close, |
And keep life’s flame from
wasting by repose. |
I still had hopes, for
pride attends us still, |
Amidst the swains to shew
my book-learned skill, |
Around my fire
an evening groupe to draw, |
And tell of all
I felt, and all I saw; |
And, as an hare whom hounds
and horns pursue, |
Pants to the place from
whence at first she 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 his 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! |
Sweet was the sound when oft at evening’s close, |
Up yonder hill the village
murmur rose; |
There as I past with
careless steps and slow, |
The mingling notes came
softened from below; |
The swain responsive as the
milk-maid sung, |
The sober herd that lowed
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
bayed the whispering wind, |
And the loud laugh that
spoke the vacant mind, |
These all in soft confusion
sought the shade, |
And filled each pause the
nightingale had made. |
But now the sounds of
population fail, |
No cheerful murmurs
fluctuate in the gale, |
No busy steps the
grass-grown foot-way tread, |
But all the bloomy flush of
life is fled. |
All but yon widowed,
solitary thing |
That feebly bends beside
the plashy spring; |
She, wretched matron,
forced, in age, for bread, |
To strip the brook with
mantling cresses spread, |
To pick her wintry faggot
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, |
The village preacher’s
modest mansion rose. |
A man he was, to all the
country dear, |
And passing rich with forty
pounds a year; |
Remote from towns he ran
his godly race, |
Nor ere had changed, nor
wish’d to change his place; |
Unpractised he to fawn, or
seek for power, |
By doctrines fashioned to
the varying hour; |
Far other aims his heart
had learned to prize, |
More bent to raise the
wretched than to rise. |
His house was known to all
the vagrant train, |
He chid their wanderings,
but relieved their pain; |
The long remembered beggar
was his guest, |
Whose beard descending
swept his aged breast; |
The ruined spendthrift, now
no longer proud, |
Claimed kindred there, and
had his claims allowed; |
The broken soldier, kindly
bade to stay, |
Sate by his fire, and
talked the night away; |
Wept o’er his wounds, or
tales of sorrow done, |
Shouldered his crutch, and
shewed how fields were won. |
Pleased with his guests,
the good man learned to glow, |
And quite forgot their
vices in their woe; |
Careless their merits, or
their faults to scan, |
His pity gave ere charity
began. |
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, |
And even his failings
leaned to Virtue’s side; |
But in his duty prompt at
every call, |
He watched and wept, he
prayed and felt, for all. |
And, as a bird each fond
endearment tries, |
To tempt its new fledged
offspring to the skies; |
He tried each art, reproved
each dull delay, |
Allured to brighter worlds,
and led the way. |
Beside the bed where parting life was layed, |
And sorrow, guilt, and
pain, by turns dismayed, |
The reverend champion
stood. At his control, |
Despair and anguish fled
the struggling soul; |
Comfort came down the
trembling wretch to raise, |
And his last faultering
accents whispered praise. |
At
church, with meek and unaffected grace, |
His looks adorned the
venerable place; |
Truth from his lips
prevailed with double sway, |
And fools, who came to
scoff, remained to pray. |
The service past, around
the pious man, |
With ready zeal each honest
rustic ran; |
Even children followed with
endearing wile, |
And plucked his gown, to
share the good man’s smile. |
His ready smile a parent’s
warmth exprest, |
Their welfare pleased him,
and their cares distrest; |
To them his heart, his
love, his griefs were given, |
But all his serious thought
had rest in Heaven. |
As some tall cliff that
lifts its awful form |
Swells from the vale, and
midway leaves the storm, |
Tho’ round its
brease the rolling clouds are spread, |
Eternal
sunshine settles on its head. |
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, |
With blossomed 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 learned to trace |
The day’s disasters 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 busy whisper
circling round, |
Conveyed 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 declared
how much he knew; |
’Twas certain he could
write, and cipher too; |
Lands he could measure,
terms and tides presage, |
And even the story ran that
he could gauge. |
In arguing too, the parson
owned his skill, |
For e’en tho’ vanquished,
he could argue still; |
While words of learned
length, and thundering sound, |
Amazed the gazing rustics
ranged around, |
And still they gazed, and
still the wonder grew, |
That one small head could
carry all he knew. |
But past is all his fame. The very spot |
Where many a time he
triumphed, is forgot. |
Near yonder thorn, that
lifts its head on high, |
Where once the sign-post
caught the passing eye, |
Low lies that house where
nut-brown draughts inspired, |
Where grey-beard mirth and
smiling toil retired, |
Where village statesmen
talked with looks profound, |
And news much older than
their ale went round. |
Imagination fondly stoops
to trace |
The parlour splendours of
that festive place; |
The white-washed wall, the
nicely sanded floor, |
The varnished clock that
clicked behind the door, |
The chest contrived a
double debt to pay, |
A bed by night, a chest of
drawers by day; |
The pictures placed for
ornament and use, |
The twelve good rules, the
royal game of goose; |
The hearth, except when
winter chill’d the day. |
With aspen boughs, and
flowers, and fennel gay, |
While broken tea-cups,
wisely kept for shew, |
Ranged o’er the chimney,
glistened in a row. |
Vain transitory splendours! Could not all |
Reprieve the tottering
mansion from its fall! |
Obscure it sinks, nor shall
it more impart |
An hour’s
importance to the poor man’s heart; |
Thither no more the peasant
shall repair |
To sweet oblivion of his
daily care; |
No more the farmer’s news,
the barber’s tale, |
No more the wood-man’s
ballad shall prevail; |
No more the smith his dusky
brow shall clear, |
Relax his ponderous
strength, and lean to hear; |
The host himself no longer
shall be found |
Careful to see the mantling
bliss go round; |
Nor the coy maid, half
willing to be prest, |
Shall kiss the cup to pass
it to the rest. |
Yes! Let the rich deride, the proud disdain, |
These simple blessings of
the lowly train, |
To me more dear, congenial
to my heart, |
One native charm, than all
the gloss of art; |
Spontaneous joys, where
Nature has its play, |
The soul adopts, and owns
their first born sway, |
Lightly they frolic o’er
the vacant mind, |
Unenvied, unmolested,
unconfined. |
But the long pomp, the
midnight masquerade, |
With all the freaks of
wanton wealth arrayed, |
In these, ere trifflers
half their wish obtain, |
The toiling pleasure
sickens into pain; |
And, even while fashion’s
brightest arts decoy, |
The heart distrusting asks,
if this be joy. |
Ye
friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey |
The rich man’s joys
encrease, the poor’s decay, |
’Tis yours to judge, how
wide the limits stand |
Between a splendid and an
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 sloth, |
Has robbed 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 adorned
for pleasure all |
In barren splendour feebly
waits the fall. |
As
some fair female unadorned and plain, |
Secure to please while
youth confirms her reign, |
Slights every borrowed
charm that dress supplies, |
Nor shares with art the
triumph of her eyes. |
But when those charms are
past, for charms are frail, |
When time advances, and
when lovers fail, |
She then shines forth
sollicitous to bless, |
In all the
glaring impotence of dress. |
Thus fares the land, by
luxury betrayed, |
In nature’s simplest charms
at first arrayed, |
But verging to decline, its
splendours rise, |
Its vistas strike, its
palaces surprize; |
While scourged
by famine from the smiling land, |
The mournful peasant leads
his humble band; |
And while he sinks without
one arm to save, |
The country blooms
- a garden, and a grave. |
Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside, |
To scape the pressure of
contiguous pride; |
If to some common’s
fenceless limits strayed, |
He drives his flock to pick
the scanty blade, |
Those fenceless fields the
sons of wealth divide, |
And even the bare-worn
common is denied. |
If
to the city sped - What
waits him there? |
To see profusion that he
must not share; |
To see ten thousand baneful
arts combined |
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 deckt admits
the gorgeous train, |
Tumultuous grandeur crowds
the blazing square, |
The rattling chariots
clash, the torches glare; |
Sure scenes like these no
troubles ere annoy! |
Sure these denote one
universal joy! |
Are these thy serious
thoughts - Ah, turn thine
eyes |
Where the poor houseless
shivering 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 fled, |
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? |
Even now, perhaps, by cold
and hunger led, |
At proud men’s doors they
ask a little bread! |
Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, |
Where half the convex world
intrudes between, |
Through torrid tracts with
fainting steps they go, |
Where wild Altama murmers
to their woe. |
Far different there from
all that charm’d before, |
The various terrors of that
horrid shore. |
Those blazing suns that
dart a downward ray, |
And fiercely shed
intolerable day; |
Those matted woods where
birds forget to sing, |
But silent bats in drowsy
clusters cling, |
Those poisonous fields with
rank luxuriance crowned |
Where the dark scorpion
gathers death around; |
Where at each step the
stranger fears to wake |
The rattling terrors of the
vengeful snake; |
Where crouching tigers wait
their hapless prey, |
And savage men more
murderous still than they; |
While oft in whirls the mad
tornado flies, |
Mingling the
ravaged landscape with the skies. |
Far different these from
every former scene, |
The cooling brook, the
grassy vested green, |
The breezy covert of the
warbling grove, |
That only sheltered thefts
of harmless love. |
Good Heaven! What sorrows gloom’d that parting day, |
That called them from their
native walks away; |
When the poor exiles, every
pleasure past, |
Hung round their bowers,
and fondly looked their last, |
And took a long farewell,
and wished in vain |
For seats like these beyond
the western main; |
And shuddering still to
face the distant deep, |
Returned and wept, and
still returned to weep. |
The good old sire, the
first prepared to go |
To new found worlds, and
wept for others woe. |
But for himself, in
conscious virtue brave, |
He only wished for worlds
beyond the grave. |
His lovely daughter,
lovelier in her tears, |
The fond companion of his
helpless years, |
Silent went next,
neglectful of her charms, |
And left a lover’s for her
father’s arms. |
With louder plaints the
mother spoke her woes, |
And blest the cot where
every pleasure rose; |
And kist her thoughtless
babes with many a tear, |
And claspt them close in
sorrow doubly dear; |
While her fond husband
strove to lend relief |
In all the decent manliness
of grief. |
O
luxury! Thou curst by heaven’s decree, |
How ill exchanged are
things like these for thee! |
How do thy potions with
insidious joy, |
Diffuse their pleasures
only to destroy! |
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly
greatness grown, |
Boast of a florid vigour
not their own. |
At every draught more large
and large they grow, |
A bloated mass of rank
unwieldy woe; |
Till sapped their strength,
and every part unsound, |
Down, down they sink, and
spread a ruin round. |
Even now the devastation is begun, |
And half the business of
destruction done; |
Even now, methinks, as
pondering here I stand, |
I see the rural virtues
leave the land. |
Down where yon anchoring
vessel spreads the sail |
That idly waiting flaps
with every gale, |
Downward they move a
melancholy band, |
Pass from the shore, and
darken all the strand. |
Contended toil, and
hospitable care, |
And kind connubial
tenderness, are there; |
And piety with wishes
placed above, |
And steady loyalty, and
faithful love. |
And thou, sweet Poetry,
thou loveliest maid, |
Still first to fly where
sensual joys invade; |
Unfit in these degenerate
times of shame, |
To catch the heart, or
strike for honest fame; |
Dear charming nymph,
neglected and decried, |
My shame in crowds my
solitary pride. |
Thou source of all my
bliss, and all my woe, |
That found’st me poor at
first, and keep’st me so; |
Thou guide by which the
nobler arts excell, |
Thou nurse of every virtue,
fare thee well. |
Farewell, and O where’er
thy voice be tried, |
On Torno’s cliffs, or
Pambamarca’s side, |
Whether where equinoctial
fervours glow, |
Or winter wraps the polar
world in snow, |
Still let thy voice
prevailing over time, |
Redress the rigours of the
inclement clime; |
Aid slighted truth, with
thy persuasive strain |
Teach erring man to spurn
the rage of gain; |
Teach him that states of
native strength possest, |
Tho’ very poor, may still
be very blest; |
That trade’s proud empire
hastes to swift decay. |
As ocean sweeps the
labour’d mole away; |
While self dependent power
can time defy, |
As rocks resist the billows
and the sky.
|
Oliver Goldsmith |
Classic Poems |