The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, these With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When ev'ry 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; But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, And, as a 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 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 't is 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'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling 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. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r 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; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, 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 [glow, won. Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all: Beside the bed where parting life was laid, At church, with meek and unaffected grace, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest: |