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SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

DEAR SIR,

I CAN have no expectations in an addrefs 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 faid to excel; and I may lofe much by the feverity of your judgment, as few have a juster tafle in Poetry than you. Setting intereft therefore afide, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at prefent 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 fince dead-Permit me to infcribe this Poem to you.

How far you may be pleafed with the verification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to enquire; but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wifest friends concur in the opinion) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be feen, and the diforders 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 fincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all poffible pains, in my country excurfions, for thefe four or five years past, to be certain of what I alledge, and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe thofe miferies 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 difcuffion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at beft, 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 fhout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it

has been the fashion to confider luxury as one of the great 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 thofe luxuries prejudicial to ftates, by which fo many vices are introduced, and fo many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, fo much has been poured out of late on the other fide of the question, that, merely for the fake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right.

I am, dear Sir,

Your fincere friend, and ardent admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE

DESERTED VILLAGE.

[The Author writes this Poem in the character of a native of a country village, to which he gives the name of AUBURN-He proceeds to contraft the innocence and happiness of a simple and natural ftate, with the miferies and vices that have been introduced by polished life-The beautiful description of the Parish Priest, was probably intended for a picture of his brother Henry, to whom he dedicates The TravellerThe reft of the Poem confifts of the character of the Village Schoolmafter; a description of the Village Alehouse; a defcant on the mischiefs of Luxury and Wealth; the variety of Artificial Pleasures; and the miseries of those who, for want of employment at home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad.]

SWEET Auburn, lovelieft village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring fwain;
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting fummer's ling'ring 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-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bufh, with feats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'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 circled in the shade,
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 went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that fimply fought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The fwain miftrustless of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's fide-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove—-
These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,
With sweet fucceffion, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed,
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 withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is feen,
And defolation faddens all thy green;
One only master grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choak'd with fedges, works its weedy way;

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