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And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
like these, With sweet succession, taught ev'ı toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influ
ence shed, These were thy charms but all these charms
The hollow-sounding bittero guards its Dest;
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hast’niog ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and med 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 grouod maintaiu'd its man ; For bim light Labor spread her wholsome store, Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health; And bis best riches, igoorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd; trade's upfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where sca'ter'd hamlets rose, Uowieldy wealth and cumb’rous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury 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, s'hose healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful
scene, Lir'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, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow Here, as I take my solitary rouods, 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 traio,
His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at ev’aing's
close, Up youder bill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 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 voisy 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
till moro ; She only left of all the harmless traio, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden
smild, Add still where many a garden flower grow?
There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis
close, 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 bis godly race, Nor ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his
place; Upskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctripes fashion's to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learu'd io prize, More beot to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was koown to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rines, but reliev'd their pain: The long remember'd beggar was his guiest, Whose beard descending swept bis aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had bis claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'il the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields
Pleas'd with bis guests, the good man learn'd to
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,