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And desolation saddens all thy green.

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest.

Ill fares the land, to hastening 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 peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

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

Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs,—and God has given my share,-
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amid 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, my long vexations past,
Here to return,-and die at home at last.

O blest retirement! friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine.

How blessed is he who crowns, in shades like these,

A youth of labor with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
So on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay;
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.

12

The Village Preacher.

EAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden-flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
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 his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train;

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed.
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by the fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave e'er charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side:
But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And as a bird, each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last, faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

A Lost Day.

OST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price

Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise.

Set round with three times eight

Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,

All changeful as the light.

Lost where the thoughtless throng

In fashion's mazes wind,

Where trilleth folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind;

Yet to my hand 'twas given

A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost! lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain;

That gem of countless cost

Can ne'er be mine again.

I offer no reward,

For till these heart-strings sever, I know that heaven-intrusted gift Is reft away forever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in his hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;
And when of scath and loss

That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

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