Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, 75 Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my folitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew, 80
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs---and God has giv'n my share---
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 85
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wafting by repose:
I ftill had hopes, for pride attends us ftill,
Amidst the swains to fhew my book-learned skill, 90
Around my fire an evening groupe to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I faw;
And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns purfue,
Pants to the place from whence at firft fhe flew,
I ftill had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return---and die at home at laft.
O bleft retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How bleft is he who crowns, in fhades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where ftrong temptations try, And, fince 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No furly porter ftands in guilty ftate,
To fpurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And, all his profpects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the found, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I paft with careless fteps and flow, 115 The mingling notes came foftened from below; The fwain refponfive as the milk-maid fung, The fober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noify geefe that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, 120 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that fpoke the vacant mind,
These all in sweet confufion fought the fhade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail,
No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No bufy fteps the grafs-grown foot-way tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, folitary thing,
That feebly bends befide the plashy spring; 130
She, wretched matron, forced, in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes fpread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To feek her nightly fhed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmlefs train,
The fad historian of the penfive plain.
Near yonder copfe, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe. 140 A man he was to all the country dear,
And paffing 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;
Unpractifed he to fawn, or feek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More fkilled to raise the wretched than to rife.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain,
The long remembered beggar was his gueft,
Whose beard defcending fwept his aged breaft;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and fhewed how fields were
Pleafed with his guests, the good man learned to
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits, or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev❜n his failings leaned to Virtue's fide;
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 cach art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170
Befide the bed where parting life was layed,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmayed,
The reverend champion ftood. At his control,
Defpair and anguish fled the ftruggling foul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faultering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double fway,
And fools, who came to fcoff, remained to pray. 180
The fervice paft, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to fhare the good man's smile,
His ready file a parent's warmth expreft, 185
Their welfare pleafed him, and their cares diftreft;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had reft in heaven.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the form,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal funfhine fettles on its head.
Befide yon ftraggling fence that skirts the way, With bloffomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noify manfion, fkill'd to rule, The village mafter taught his little school; A man fevere he was, and ftern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's difafters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the bufy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the difinal tidings when he frowned: Yet he was kind, or if fevere in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could meafure, terms and tides prefage, And even the ftory ran that he could gauge. 210
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