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While words of learned length, and thund'ring found,
Amaz'd the gazing ruftics rang'd around,

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one fmall head could carry all he knew.

But paft 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,
Where once the fign-poft caught the paffing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts infpir'd,
Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd,
Where village ftatesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour fplendors of that feftive place;
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a cheft of drawers by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With afpen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for shew,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, gliften'd in a row.

Vain tranfitory fplendor! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring manfion from it's fall!
Obfcure it finks, nor fhall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;

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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 fhall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to fee the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preft,
Shall kifs the cup to pass it to the rest.

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
These fimple bleffings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the glofs of art;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The foul adopts, and owns their first-born sway:
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvy'd, unmolefted, unconfin'd.

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In thefe, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure fickens into pain;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

Ye friends to truth, ye ftatesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a fplendid and an happy land.

Proud

Proud fwells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And fhouting Folly hails them from her fhore;
Hoards, even beyond the mifer's wifh abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful product ftill the same.
Not fo the lofs. The man of wealth and pride,
Takes up a space that many poor supply'd;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horfes, equipage and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken floth,
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth,
His feat, where folitary sports are seen,

Indignant fpurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world fupplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all
In barren fplendor feebly waits the fall.

As fome 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:
But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,

She then shines forth, folicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of drefs.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's fimpleft charms at firft array'd,

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But verging to decline, its fplendors rife,
Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprise ;
While, fcourg'd by famine from the fmiling land,
The mournful peafant leads his humble band;
And while he finks, without one arm to fave,
The country blooms-a garden, and a grave.

Where then, ah! where shall poverty refide,
To 'fcape the preffure of contiguous pride?
If to fome common's fencelefs limits ftray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the fcanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the fons of wealth divide,
And even the bare-worn common is deny'd.

If to the city fped-What waits him there? To fee profufion that he muft not fhare; To fee ten thoufand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To fee each joy the fons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artift plies the fickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps difplay, There the black gibber glooms befide the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crouds 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

Are these thy ferious thoughts-Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty bleft,
Has wept at tales of innocence diftreft ;
Her modeft looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now loft to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door fhe 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, fweet AUBURN, thine, the lovelieft train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ?

Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud mens doors they ask a little bread!

Ah, no. To diftant 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,
The various terrors of that horrid fhore;
Those blazing funs that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely fhed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to fing,
But filent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death round;

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