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II.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE 9).

FIRST PRINTED IN 1769.

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS 1).

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring fwain;

Where smiling fpring its earliest visit paid,
And parting fummer's lingring blooms delay'd.
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
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,
The never-failng brook, the busy mill,

q) Man vergleiche das, was in der Biographie Goldsmith's über diefes Gedicht gefagt worden ist.

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r) Sir Jofua Reynolds, geftorben im Jahre 1792, Präfident der unter der Regierung des jetzigen Königs von England errichteten Akademie der Malerei, Bildhauer und Baukunft. Er gehort zu den vorzüglichfren Englifchen Malern, Der jetzige Präfident diefer Akademie heifst Weft.

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The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bufh, with feats beneath the fhade,
For talking age and whifp'ring lovers made!
How often have I bleft 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 circle in the fhade,
The young contending as the old furvey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And fleights of art and feats of strength wer

round

And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding fports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that fimply fought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The fwain mistrustless of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bafhful virgin s fide-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would thofe looks

reprove.

These were thy charms, fweet village! Sports like these,

With fweet fucceffion, taught ev'n toil to please; They round thy bowers their cheerful influence fhed',

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These were thy charms but all these charms are fled.

Sweet fmiling village, lovelieft of the lawn, Thy Sports are fled, and all thy charms with drawn ;

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is feen,
And defolation faddens all thy green:
One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glaffy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with fedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a folitary guest,

The hollow founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in fhapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould ring wall;
And, trembling, fhrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.

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 peafantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be fupply'd.

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, Luft gave what life requir'd, but gave no more: His beft companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd: trade's unfeeling train Ufurp the land, and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where fcatter'd hamlets rofe, Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repofe; And every want to luxury ally'd

And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Thofe calm defires that afk'd but little room,
Those healthful fports that grac'd the peaceful
fcene,

Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
Thefe, far departing, feek a kinder fhore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my folitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds,

And, many a year elaps'd, return to view Where once the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew;

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breaft, 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 fhareI still had hopes, my lateft hours to crown, 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 ftill, Amidft the fwains to thew my book - learn'd

skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And teli of all I felt, and all I faw;

And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I ftill had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return and die at home at last.

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O bleft retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreat 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 eafe;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And fince 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep;
No furly porter ftands in guilty state,

To fpurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!

Sweet was the found, when oft, at ev'ning's
clofe,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe;
There, as I past with carelefs fteps and flow,
The mingling notes came foften'd from below;
The fwain refponfive as the milk- maid fung,
The fober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children juft let loofe from fchool,
The watch dog's voice that bay'd the whifp'ring
wind,

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And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
Thefe all in fweet confufion fought the fhade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail,

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grafs grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flufh of life is fled:
All but yon widow'd, folitary thing,

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That feebly bends befide the plashy fpring;
She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes fpread,
To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn,
To feek her nightly fhed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,

The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain.

Near yonder copfe, where once the garden
fmil'd,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn fhrubs the place difclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion 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 e'er had chang'd, nor wifhd to change,
his place;
Unfkilful he to fawn, or feek for power,

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