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Full well the bufy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
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 prefage,
And even the story ran that he could guage;
In arguing too, the parfon own'd his skill,
For even tho' vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thund'ring found,
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around,

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small 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 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

The parlour fplendors of that festive 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 aspin boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay,

While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain tranfitory splendors! could not all
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall!
Obfcure it finks, nor fhall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart:
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 woodman's ballad fhall prevail;
No more the fmith his dusky brow fhall clear,
Relax his pond'rous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The hoft himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see 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
Thefe 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, unmolested, 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, diftrusting, asks if this be joy.

Ye friends to truth-ye ftatefinen who furvey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay

'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and an happy land.

Proud fwells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And fhouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards, even beyond the mifer'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 product still the fame:
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 neighb'ring fields of half their growth;
His feat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant fpurns 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,
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 fhares 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 fhines forth, folicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's fimpleft charms at first array'd;
But verging to decline, its fplendors rise,
Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprife;

While, fcourg'd by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant 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 reside,
To 'scape the preffure of contiguous pride?
If to fome common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty 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 must not share; To fee ten thousand baneful arts combin'd To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To fee each joy the fons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe; Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the fickly 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 deckt, admits the gorgeous train; 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 univerfal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless fhiv'ring female lies!

She once, perhaps, in village plenty bleft,

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
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 show'r,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly firft, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, fweet Auburn-thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?

Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread !
Ah! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between-
Thro' 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 shore;
Those blazing funs that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely fhed intolerable day;

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

Thofe pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where, at each step, the ftranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake!
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And favage 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 thefe from every former scene-
The cooling brook, the graffy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only fhelter'd thefts of harmless love.

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