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From his languid flocks, the swain,
By the funbeams fore oppreit, Planging on the wae'ry plain,
Plows it with his glewing breaft.
Where the mantling willows nod,
From the green bank's flopy fide, Patient, with his well-thrown rod,
Many an angler breaks the tide!
On the islea, with osiers drest,
Many a fair-plum'd halcion breeds! Many a wild bird hides her nett,
Cover'd in yon crackling reeds.
XVII. Fork-tail'd pratlers as they pass
To their neftlings in the rock, Darting on the liquid glass,
Seem to kiss the mimick'd flock.
Where the stone Cross lifts its head,
Many a faint and pilgrim hoar, Lp the hill was wont to tread,
Barefoot, in the days of yore.
Guardian of a sacred well,
Arch'd beneath yon reverend Ahades, Whilome, in that shatter'd cell,
Many an hermit told his beads.
XX Sultry mists surround the heath
Where the gothic dome appears, O'er the trembling groves beneath,
Tott'ring with a load of years.
Turn to the contrasted scene,
Where, beyond these hoary piles, Gay, upon the rising green,
Many an attic building smiles !
Painted gardens-grots--and groves,
Intermingling shade and light ! Lengthen’d vistas, green alcoves,
Join to give the eye delight.
XXII. Hamlets-villages, and spires,
Scatter'd on the landscape lie, 'Till the diftant view retires,
Closing in an azure ky.
WEET AUBURN, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheared the labouring
swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I bleft the coming day, 15 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 surveyed;
* Born 1729; dyed 1774. Vol. It.
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
30 These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like
these, With sweet fuccellion, taught even toil to please ; These round thy bowers their chearful influence thed, These were thy charms---But all these charms are
fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 40 No more thy glasly brook reflects the day, But, choaked with fedges, works its weedy way. Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow founding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 And tires their ecchoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man i For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just
gave what life required, but gave no more: 50 His best companions, innocence and health ; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65 Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green 3 These far departing seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more.