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WHICH the disturbed situation of the country

prevented their enjoying.

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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 ling’ring blooms delay’d.
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry 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 ev'ry charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church, that top't the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp’ring lovers made !
How often have I bleft 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 circle'd in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolicd o'er the ground,
And Neights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd',
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir’d,


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The dancing pair that simply fought 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 side-long 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 bow'rs 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Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;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 bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And defolation saddens all thy green:
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy glasly brook reflects the day,
But choak’d with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-founding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desart walks the lapwing flies,
And tires thy echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless rụin 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,

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