SWEET
AUBURN! Loveliest
village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm,—
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round!
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
by holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms—but all these
charms are fled.
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charms withdrawn;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,
But, chok'd with sedges,
works its
weedy way;
Along thy glades, a
solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding
bittern guards
its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks
the lapwing
flies,
And tires their echoes
with unvaried
cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in
shapeless
ruin all,
And the long grass
o'ertops the
mouldering wall;
And, trembling, shrinking
from the
spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children
leave
the land.
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 destroy'd, can
never be
supplied.
A time there was, ere England's
griefs began,
When every rood of ground
maintain'd
its man;
For him light labor spread
her wholesome
store,
Just gave what life
requir'd, 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
Usurp the land, and
dispossess the
swain:
Along the lawn where
scatter'd hamlets
rose,
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
ask'd but
little room,
Those healthful sports
that grac'd
the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and
brighten'd
all the green[.]
These, far departing, seek
a kinder
shore,
And rural mirth and
manners are
no more.
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 elaps'd,
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,
Amidst 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, for
pride attends
us still,
Amidst the swains to show
my book-learn'd
skill,
Around my fire and evening
group
to draw,
And tell of all I felt,
and all
I saw;
And, as a hare whom hounds
and horns
pursue,
Pants to the place from
whence at
first he flew,
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,
Retreats from care, that
never must
be mine,
How happy 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!
For him no wretches, born
to work
and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt
the dangerous
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;
Bends to the grave with
unperceiv'd
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 past with
careless steps
and slow,
The mingling notes came
soften'd
from below:
The swain responsive as
the milkmaid
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—
These all in sweet
confusion sought
the shade,
And fill'd each pause the
nightingale
had made.
But now the sounds of
population
fail;
No cheerful murmurs
fluctuate in
the gale;
No busy steps the
grass-grown footway
tread,
For all the bloomy flush
of life
is fled—
All but yon widow'd,
solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside
the plashy
spring;
She, wretched
matron—forc'd in age,
for bread,
To strip the brook with
mantling
cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot
from the
thorn,
To seek her nightly shed,
and weep
till morn—
She only left of all the
harmless
train,
The sad historian of the
pensive
plain.
Near yonder copse, where once
the garden smil'd,
And where still 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'd
to change, his place;
Unpractis'd 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 skill'd to raise the
wretched
than to rise.
His house was known to all
the vagrant
train,
He chid their wanderings,
but reliev'd
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,
Claim'd kindred there, and
had his
claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly
bade
to stay,
Sat by his fire, and
talk'd the
night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or
tales of
sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and
show'd
how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests,
the good
man
learn'd to glow,
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 even 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-fledg'd
offspring
to the skies,
He tried each art,
reprov'd each
dull delay,
Allur'd 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,
Despair and anguish fled
the struggling
soul;
Comfort came down the
trembling
wretch to raise,
And his last faltering
accents whisper'd
praise.
At church, with meek and
unaffected
grace,
His looks adorn'd the
venerable
place;
Truth from his lips
prevail'd with
double sway,
And fools who came to
scoff remain'd
to pray.
The service past, around
the pious
man,
With steady zeal, each
honest rustic
ran;
Even children follow'd
with endearing
wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to
share the
good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's
warmth
exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him,
and their
cares distrest;
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.
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,
The love he bore to
learning was
in fault.
The village all declar'd
how much
he knew;
'Twas certain he could
write, and
cipher too;
Lands he could measure,
terms and
tides presage,
And even the story
ran—that he could
guage:
In arguing, too, the
parson own'd
his skill,
For even though
vanquish'd, he could
argue still;
While words of learned
length and
thundering sound
Amaz'd the gazing rustics
rang'd
around;
And still they gaz'd, 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 inspir'd,
Where graybeard mirth and
smiling
toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen
talk'd with
looks profound,
And news much older than
their ale
went round.
Imagination fondly stoops
to trace
The parlor splendors of
that festive
place:
The whitewash'd wall, the
nicely
sanded floor
The varnish'd clock that
click'd
behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a
double debt
to pay—
A bed by night, a chest of
drawers
by day;
The pictures plac'd for
ornament
and use,
The twelve good rules, the
royal
game of goose;
The hearth, except when
winter chill'd
the day,
With aspen boughs, and
flowers,
and fennel gay,
While broken teacups,
wisely kept
for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney,
glistened
in a row.
Vain, transitory splendors!
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 sweeten oblivion of his
daily
care;
No more the farmer's news,
the barber's
tale,
No more the woodman's
ballads shall
prevail;
No more the smith his
dusky brow
shall clear,
Relax his ponderous
strength, and
lean to hear;
The host himself no longer
shall
be found
Careful to see his
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 owns
the first-born
sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er
the vacant
mind,
Unenvied, unmolested,
unconfin'd.
But the long pomp, the
midnight
masquerade,
With all the freaks of
wanton wealth
array'd,
In these, ere triflers
half their
wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure
sickens into
pain:
And, even while fashion's
brightest
arts decoy,
The heart distrusting
asks, if this
be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statemen
who survey
The rich man's joys
increase, the
poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge how
wide the
limits stand
Between a splendid and a
happy land.
Proud swells the tide with
loads
of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails
them from
her shore;
Hoards even 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 neighboring
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 splendor 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 spendors
rise,
Its vistas strike, it
palaces surprise;
While, scourg'd by famine
from the
smiling land,
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 even 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
combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin
mankind;
To see those joys the sons
of pleasure
know,
Extorted from his
fellow-creatures'
woe.
Here, while the courtier
glitters
in brocade,
There the pale artist
plies the
sickly trade;
Here, while the proud
their long-drawn
pomps display,
There, the black gibbet
glooms beside
the way.
The dome where Pleasure
holds her
midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd,
admits the
gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds
the blazing
square,
The rattling chariots
clash, the
torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no
troubles
e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one
universal
joy!
Are these thy serious
thoughts?
Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless
shivering
female lies.
She once, perhaps, in
village plenty
blest,
Has wept at tales of
innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the
cottage might
adorn,
Sweet as the primrose
peeps beneath
the thorn;
Now lost to all, her
friends, her
virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door
she lays
her head,
And, pinch'd with cold,
and shrinking
from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores
that luckless
hour
When idly first, ambitious
of the
town,
She left her wheel and
robes of
country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine,
the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes
participate her
pain?
Even now, perhaps, by cold
and hunger
led,
At proud men's doors they
ask a
little bread!
Ah, no. To distant climes,
a dreary scene,
Where half the convex
world intrudes
between,
Through torrid tracts with
fainting
steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs
to their
woe.
Far different there from
all that
charm'd before,
The various terrors of
that horrid
shore;
Those blazing suns that
dart a downward
ray,
And fiercely shed
intolerable day;
Those matted woods where
birds forget
to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy
clusters
cling;
Those poisonous fields
with rank
luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion
gathers
death around;
Where at each step the
stranger
fears to wake
The rattling terrors of
the vengeful
snake;
Where crouching tigers
wait their
hapless prey,
And savage men more
murderous still
than they;
While oft in whirls the
mad tornado
flies,
Mingling the ravag'd
lanscape with
the skies.
Far different these from
every former
scene,
The cooling brook, the
grassy-vested
green,
The breezy covert of the
warbling
grove,
That only sheltered thefts
of harmless
love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows
gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from
their native
walks away;
When the poor exiles,
every pleasure
past,
Hung round the bowers, and
fondly
look'd their last,
And took a long farewell,
and wish'd
in vain
For seats like these
beyond the
Western main;
And, shuddering still to
face the
distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and
still return'd
to weep!
The good old sire, the
first prepar'd
to go
To new-found worlds, and
wept for
others' woe;
But for himself, in
conscious virtue
brave,
He only wish'd for worlds
beyond
the grave.
His lovely daughter,
lovelier in
her tears,
The fond companion of his
helpless
years,
Silent went next,
neglectful of
her charms,
And left a lover's for her
father's
arms.
With louder plaints the
mother spoke
her woes,
And blest the cot where
every pleasure
rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless
babes
with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in
sorrow
doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband
strove to
lend relief
In all the silent
manliness of grief.
O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's
decree,
How ill exchang'd are
things like
these for thee!
How do thy potions, with
insidious
joy,
Diffuse their pleasures
only to
destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to
sickly greatness
grown,
Boast of a florid vigor
not their
own:
At every draught more
large and
large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank
unwieldy
woe;
Till, sapp'd their
strength, and
every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and
spread
a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is
begun,
And half the business of
destruction
done;
Even now, methinks, as
pondering
here I stand,
I see the rural Virtues
leave the
land.
Down where yon anchoring
vessel
spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps
with every
gale,
Downward they move, a
melancholy
band,
Pass from the shore, and
darken
all the strand.
Contented toil, and
hospitable care,
And kind connubial
tenderness, are
there;
And pity with wishes
plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and
faithful
love.
And thou, sweet Poetry,
thou loveliest
maid,
Still first to fly where
sensual
joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate
times
of shame,
To catch the heart, or
strike for
honest fame;
Dear charming nymph,
neglected and
decried,
My shame in crowds, my
solitary
pride;
Thou source of all my
bliss and
all my woe,
Thou found'st me poor at
first,
and keep'st me so;
Thou guide by which the
nobler arts
excel,
Thou nurse of every
virtue, fare
thee well!
Farewell, and oh, where'er
thy voice
be tried,
On Torno's cliffs or
Pambamarca's
side,
Whether where equinoctial
fervors
glow,
Or winter wraps the polar
world
in snow,
Still let thy voice,
prevailing
over time,
Redress the rigors of the
inclement
clime;
Aid slighted truth with
thy persuasive
strain;
Teach erring man to spurn
the rage
of gain;
Teach him that states of
native
strength possest,
Though very poor, may
still be very
blest;
That trade's proud empire
hastes
to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the
labor'd mole
away;
While self-dependent power
can time
defy,
As rocks resist the
billows and
the sky.
![[RenascenceEditions]](ren.gif)
