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How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire: but I know you will object (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of wbat I allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, whether the country be depopulating or not; the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem.

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity, in that particular, as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed so much bas 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,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

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SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring 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 bave I paused on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The pever failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I bless'd 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 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 slights of art and feasts of strength went round.
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
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 titterd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would these looks reprove:
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like

these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en 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:

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