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The wealth of climes, where

savage

nations roam, Pillaged from slaves, to purchase slaves at home; Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne.

Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power; And thus, polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction hasle, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste; Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling long frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay’d, The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main ;

Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound?

E’en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways,
Where beasts, with man, divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ;
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories shine,
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centers in the mind : Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government, though terrors reign, Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part, which laws or kings can cause or cure. Still, to ourselves, in every place consign’d, Our own felicity we make, or find : With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestick joy.

The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,
To men remote from power, but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.

[graphic]

THE

DESERTED VILLAGE.

BY

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

PRINTED IN

1769.

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