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    The Deserted Village

    by Oliver Goldsmith
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    I can have no expectations in an address of this kind, either to add to
    your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my
    admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel;
    and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a
    juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest therefore aside, to
    which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in
    following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my
    brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since
    dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you.

    How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical
    parts of this attempt, I don't pretend to enquire; but I know you will
    object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the
    opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and
    the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own
    imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I
    sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible
    pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to
    be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and enquiries have
    led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display.
    But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry, whether the country
    be depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I
    should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the
    reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a
    long poem.

    In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the
    increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern
    politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the
    fashion to consider 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 professed ancient on that head, and continue to
    think those luxuries prejudicial to states, by which so many vices are
    introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much has
    been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely
    for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in
    the right.

    I am, Dear Sir,
    Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer,


    SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain,
    Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
    Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
    And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:
    Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5
    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 cot, the cultivated farm, 10
    The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
    The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
    The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
    For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made;
    How often have I bless'd the coming day, 15
    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 survey'd; 20
    And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
    And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
    And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
    Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
    The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 25
    By holding out to tire each other down;
    The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
    While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
    The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 29
    The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:
    These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
    With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
    These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
    These were thy charms--But all these charms are fled.

    Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35
    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 the whole domain,
    And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain: 40
    No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
    But chok'd 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, 45
    And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
    Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
    And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall;
    And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
    Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 50

    Ill fares the land, to hast'ning 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 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 requir'd, but gave no more: 60
    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, 65
    Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose;
    And every want to opulence 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, 70
    Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
    Liv'd 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, 75
    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 elaps'd, return to view
    Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
    Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 81
    Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

    In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
    In all my griefs--and GOD has given my share--
    I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 85
    Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
    To husband out life's taper at the close,
    And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
    I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
    Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, 90
    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 she flew,
    I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, 95
    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 happy he who crowns in shades like these,
    A youth of labour with an age of ease; 100
    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 105
    To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
    But on he moves to meet his latter end,
    Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;
    Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
    While Resignation gently slopes the way; 110
    And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
    His Heaven commences ere the world be pass'd!

    Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
    Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
    There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 115
    The mingling 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; 120
    The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind,
    And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
    These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
    And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
    But now the sounds of population fail, 125
    No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
    No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
    For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
    All but yon widow'd, solitary thing
    That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 130
    She, wretched matron, forc'd 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, 135
    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. 140
    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 e'er had chang'd, nor wished to change his place;
    Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power, 145
    By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
    Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
    More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
    His house was known to all the vagrant train,
    He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain;
    The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 151
    Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
    The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
    Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
    The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155
    Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
    Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
    Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
    Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
    And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 160
    Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
    His pity gave ere charity began.

    Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
    And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side;
    But in his duty prompt at every call, 165
    He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all.
    And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
    To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
    He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
    Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170

    Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
    And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
    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 falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. 176

    At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
    His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
    Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
    And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 180
    The service pass'd, around the pious man,
    With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
    Even children follow'd with endearing wile,
    And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
    His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 185
    Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd;
    To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
    But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.
    As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 189
    Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
    Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
    Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

    Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
    With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
    There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 195
    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; 200
    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,
    Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;
    Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught, 205
    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 presage,
    And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 210
    In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,
    For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
    While words of learned length and thund'ring sound
    Amazed the gazing rustics rang'd around,
    And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 215
    That one small head could 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, 219
    Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
    Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,
    Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,
    Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
    And news much older than their ale went round.
    Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225
    The parlour splendours of that festive place;
    The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
    The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
    The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,
    A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 230
    The pictures plac'd 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 show, 135
    Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd 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; 240
    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 brown shall clear, 245
    Relax his pond'rous 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 press'd,
    Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250

    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, 255
    The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
    Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
    Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd:
    But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
    With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, 260
    In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
    The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
    And, e'en 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 increase, the poor's decay, 266
    '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; 270
    Hoards, e'en 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.
    Nor so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 275
    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 robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth,
    His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 281
    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 pleasure, all 285
    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,
    Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes: 290
    But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail,
    When time advances, and when lovers fail,
    She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
    In all the glaring impotence of dress.
    Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 295
    In nature's simplest charms at first array'd;
    But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
    Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
    While scourg'd by famine from the smiling land,
    The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 300
    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 continuous pride?
    If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 305
    He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
    Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
    And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.

    If to the city sped--What waits him there?
    To see profusion that he must not share/ 310
    To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
    To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
    To see those joys the sons of pleasure know
    Extorted from his fellow creature's woe.
    Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315
    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 deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; 320
    Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
    The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
    Sure scenes like these no troubles 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. 326
    She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,
    Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd;
    Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
    Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; 330
    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, 335
    She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

    Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train,
    Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
    E'en now, perhaps by cold and hunger led,
    At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! 340

    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 murmurs to their woe.
    Far different there from all that charm'd before, 345
    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; 350
    Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
    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, 355
    And savage men more murd'rous still than they;
    While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
    Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
    Far different these from every former scene,
    The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360
    The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
    That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

    Good heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
    That call'd them from their native walks away;
    When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, 365
    Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
    And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
    For seats like these beyond the western main;
    And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
    Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 370
    The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go
    To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
    But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
    He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
    His lovely daughter, lovlier in her tears, 375
    The fond companion of his helpless years,
    Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
    And left a lover's for a father's arms.
    With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
    And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose 380
    And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
    And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
    Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
    In all the silent manliness of grief.

    O Luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree, 385
    How ill exchang'd 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; 390
    At every draught more large and large they grow,
    A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
    Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
    Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

    E'en now the devastation is begun, 395
    And half the business of destruction done;
    E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
    I see the rural virtues leave the land:
    Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
    That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 500
    Downward they move, a melancholy band,
    Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
    Contented toil, and hospitable care,
    And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
    And piety, with wishes plac'd above, 405
    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; 410
    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 excel, 415
    Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
    Farewell, and Oh! 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, 420
    Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
    Redress the rigours of th' 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 possess'd,
    Though very poor, may still be very bless'd; 426
    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. 430
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