Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage
Than all which charms this laggard age;
Even all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh! bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.-BORN 1728; DIED 1774.
EXTRACTS FROM THE DESERTED
VILLAGE.
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the lab'ring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delayed.
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could
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 neighb'ring hill.
How often have I blest the coming day,
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 ȧ 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.
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 wand'rings 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 those humble bow'rs 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 an 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 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;
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate;
Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage
Than all which charms this laggard age;
Even all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh! bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.-BORN 1728; DIED 1774.
EXTRACTS FROM THE DESERTED
VILLAGE.
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the lab'ring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delayed.
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could
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 neighb'ring hill.
How often have I blest the coming day,
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 ȧ 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.
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 wand'rings 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 those humble bow'rs 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 an 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 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;
No 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 to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way,
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His heav'n commences ere the world be past
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at ev'nings close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I past with careless steps and slow,
The mingled 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 whisp'ring
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.
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;
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