Along thy glades, a folitary guest,

The hollow-founding bittern guards its neft;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;
Sunk are thy bowers in fhapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall;
And, trembling, fhrinking from the fpoiler'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 deftroy'd, can never be fupply'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 beft 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 scatter'd hamlets rofe, Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp reposeAnd every want to luxury ally'd,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm defires that ask'd but little room,
Thofe healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green-
Thefe, far departing, feek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more!

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's pow'r: Here, as I take my folitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds;
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage ftood, 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 giv'n 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 ftill had hopes-for pride attends us still-
Amidst the swains to fhew my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I faw;

And, as an 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 bleft retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How bleft is he who crowns, in fhades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where ftrong temptations try,
And, fince '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 furly porter ftands 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 refignation gently flopes the way;
And all his profpects bright'ning to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!

Sweet was the found, when oft at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe;

There, as I pass'd with careless steps and flow,
The mingling notes came foften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid fung,
The fober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geefe 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 fweet confufion fought the fhade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail-
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale-
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled;
All but yon widow'd, folitary thing,
That feebly bends befide the plafshy spring;
She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling creffes spread,
To pick, her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To feek her nightly fhed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain.

Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild

There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose;
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And paffing rich with forty pounds a-year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor ne'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place:
Unskilful he to fawn, or feek for power,

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 fpendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away—
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learnt to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all-
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Befide the bed where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The rev'rend champion ftood: At his controul,
Defpair and anguish fled the struggling foul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last fault'ring accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray:
The service paft, around the pious man,

With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's fmile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had rest in heaven-
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal funfhine fettles on its head.

Befide yon ftraggling fence that skirts the way,
With bloffom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noify mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village mafter taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and ftern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's difafters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes--for many a joke had he;