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prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend, and ardent admirer,
SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy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;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
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 ; When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain❜d its man ; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd 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,
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursua
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly? For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep; Nor surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate: But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks o 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.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung; The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool; The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
Near yonder copse, where once the arden smil'd, 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 chang'd, nor wish'dt change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His nouse was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 'The long remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd' 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 dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school: A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,— And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past 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 sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired,
Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall 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 shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art: Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and own their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis Between a splendid and a happy land. yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from her shore; Hoards e'en beyond the miser'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 products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns 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 splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares 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 shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd; In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine from the smiling laad, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save,' The country blooms-a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped-What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade⚫
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Are these thy serious thoughts?-Ah, turn thine And left a lover's for her father's arms.
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
How do thy potions with insidious joy,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
Good Heaven! what sorrows omed that part-
That call'd them from their native walks away;
At every draught more large and large they grow,
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
E'en now the devastation is begun,
winter wraps the polar world in snow,
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
A bill, a jewel, watch or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em ; If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.
I'll give-but not the full-blown rose,
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle PARNELL's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame, What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry
Celestial thenes confess'd his tuneful aid;
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain o thinking:
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade?—I will. But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've go my cue; The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, ́ you, you.
TO THE AMEDY OF THE SISTERS.
WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser?
[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside 'em,
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid? [Mimicking.
Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
He bows, turns round, and whip-the mau in
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.
Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who courtesies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to the Audience.
Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your busi ness here?