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 topp'd the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!

*"Seats of my youth."-This epithet seems most likely to point at Lissoy or Bally. oughter as the region of country designated as Auburn. The general characteristics of the scenery in the place first mentioned are very similar to those portrayed so vividly in the poem, while some contend that the description is as appropriate to the other.

How often have I bless'd the coming day,*
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor 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;

*There is no good reason for the inference some have drawn here, that Goldsmith alluded to saints' days. At the date of this poem, and later, recreations of the kind alluded to were customary in Ireland on Sunday.

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 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Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
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 mould'ring wall,
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hast'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;

This keen reproach seems to refer to General Robert Napier, who purchased a large Irish estate, including Lissoy, in 1730. Desiring to inclose a considerable park, he ejected all the tenants (the Goldsmiths excepted), numbering upward of a hundred persons, many of whom emigrated to America.

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 labor 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;

*From this assertion, and what follows, it is apparent that the principle intended to be illustrated in the poem by a particular place, wherever it may be, is applied to England as well as to Ireland.

And every want to luxury 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,

||These,

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 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 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 a 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 blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,

2*