(The web is wove.

The work is done.)

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail!"

III. 2.

“Girt with many a Baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a Form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play.

Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings."

III. 3.

"The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and Pleasing Pain,

With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: With joy I see

The different doom our Fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and sceptr❜d Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

Oliver Goldsmith

1728-1774

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

(1770)

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 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 neighbouring 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 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 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 with

drawn;

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 fs.de-
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 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
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 an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;

And as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue
Pants to the place from whence at first she 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 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 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,