undone. Indeed fo much has been poured out of late on the other fide of the queftion, that, merely for the fake of novelty and variety, one would fometimes wish to be in the right. I am,
SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where fmiling fpring its earliest visit paid,
And parting fummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd.
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every fport 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 bufy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bufh, with feats beneath the fhade,
For talking age and whifp'ring lovers made!
How often have I bleft 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 fpreading tree,
While many a paftime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old furvey'd;
And flights of art and feats of ftrength went round.
And ftill as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band infpir'd;
The dancing pair that fimply fought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The fwain miftruftlefs of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's fide long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
Thefe were thy charms, fweet village! sports like thefe,
'With sweet fucceffion, taught ev'n toil to please;
These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed,
Thefe were thy charms-But all these charms are fled.
Sweet fmiling village, lovelieft of the lawn,
Thy fports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is feen,
And defolation faddens all thy green:
One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glaffy brook reflects the day,
But, choak'd with fedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a folitary guest,
The hollow founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy defert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in fhapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall,
And, trembling, fhrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to haft'ning 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 peafantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd.
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 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
Ufurp the land and difpoffefs the swain;
Along the lawn, where fcatter'd hamlets rofe,
Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp repofe;
And every want to luxury ally'd,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Thofe calm defires that afk'd but little room,
Thofe healthful fports that grac'd the peaceful fcene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
Thefe, far departing, feek a kinder fhore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
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