SWEET AUBURN! Loveliest
village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring 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 neighboring 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 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;
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charms withdrawn;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
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 fade—
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 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:
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 and 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,
How happy he who crowns, in shades
like these,
A youth of labor 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;
And, all his prospects brightening
to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world
be past.
Sweet was the sound when oft, at
evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur
rose;
There, as I past with careless steps
and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd
from below:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid
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 whispering 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;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway
tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life
is fled—
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy
spring;
She, wretched matron—forc'd in age,
for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling
cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the
thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep
till morn—
She only left of all the harmless
train,
The sad historian of the pensive
plain.
Near yonder copse, where once
the garden smil'd,
And where still many a garden flower
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;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek
for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying
hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd
to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched
than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant
train,
He chid their wanderings, 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 won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good
man
learn'd 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 tried each art, reprov'd each
dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and
led the way.
Beside the bed where parting
life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns
dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At
his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling
soul;
Comfort came down the trembling
wretch to raise,
And his last faltering 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 past, around the pious
man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic
ran;
Even children follow'd with endearing
wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the
good man's smile.
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 serious thoughts had
rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its
awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway
leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling
clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its
head.
Beside yon straggling fence
that skirts the way,
With blossom'd furze unprofitably
gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd
to rule,
The village master taught his little
school.
A man severe he was, and stern to
view;
I knew him well, and every truant
knew:
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd
to trace
The day's disasters in his morning
face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited
glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke
had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling
round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when
he frown'd.
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in
aught,
The love he bore to learning was
in fault.
The village all declar'd how much
he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and
cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and
tides presage,
And even the story ran—that he could
guage:
In arguing, too, the parson own'd
his skill,
For even though vanquish'd, he could
argue still;
While words of learned length and
thundering sound
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd
around;
And still they gaz'd, and still
the wonder grew
That one small head could carry
all he knew.
But past is all his fame.
The very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd is
forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its
head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught
the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown
draughts inspir'd,
Where graybeard mirth and smiling
toil retir'd,
Where village statesmen talk'd with
looks profound,
And news much older than their ale
went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendors of that festive
place:
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely
sanded floor
The varnish'd clock that click'd
behind the door;
The chest contriv'd a double debt
to pay—
A bed by night, a chest of drawers
by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament
and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal
game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd
the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers,
and fennel gay,
While broken teacups, wisely kept
for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened
in a row.
Vain, transitory splendors!
could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from
its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more
impart
An hour's importance to the poor
man's heart.
Thither no more the peasant shall
repair
To sweeten oblivion of his daily
care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's
tale,
No more the woodman's ballads shall
prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow
shall clear,
Relax his ponderous strength, and
lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall
be found
Careful to see his mantling bliss
go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to
be prest,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to
the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride,
the proud disdain,
These simple blessings of the lowly
train;
To me more dear, congenial to my
heart,
One native charm than all the gloss
of art:
Spontaneous joys, where nature has
its play,
The soul adopts, and owns the first-born
sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant
mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd.
But the long pomp, the midnight
masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth
array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their
wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into
pain:
And, even while fashion's brightest
arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this
be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statemen
who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the
poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge how wide the
limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads
of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from
her shore;
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish
abound,
And rich men flock from all the
world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth
is but a name,
That leaves our useful products
still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth
and pride
Takes up a space that many poor
supplied—
Space for his lake, his park's extended
bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage and
hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in
silken sloth,
Has robb'd the neighboring fields
of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports
are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from
the green;
Around the world each needful product
flies
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for
pleasure all,
In barren splendor feebly waits
the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn'd
and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms
her reign,
Slights every borrow'd charm that
dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph
of her eyes;
But when those charms are past,
for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers
fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous
to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of
dress:
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd;
In nature's simplest charms at first
array'd,
But verging to decline, its spendors
rise,
Its vistas strike, it palaces surprise;
While, scourg'd by famine from the
smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble
band;
And while he sinks, without one
arm to save,
The country blooms—a garden, and
a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall
poverty reside,
To scape the pressure of contiguous
pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits
stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the
scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons
of wealth divide,
And even the bare-worn common is
denied.
If to the city sped—what waits
him there?
To see profusion that he must not
share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts
combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see those joys the sons of pleasure
know,
Extorted from his fellow-creatures'
woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters
in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the
sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn
pomps display,
There, the black gibbet glooms beside
the way.
The dome where Pleasure holds her
midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the
gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing
square,
The rattling chariots clash, the
torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles
e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal
joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts?
Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering
female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty
blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might
adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath
the thorn;
Now lost to all, her friends, her
virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays
her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking
from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless
hour
When idly first, ambitious of the
town,
She left her wheel and robes of
country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine,
the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her
pain?
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger
led,
At proud men's doors they ask a
little bread!
Ah, no. To distant climes,
a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes
between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting
steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their
woe.
Far different there from all that
charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid
shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward
ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget
to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters
cling;
Those poisonous fields with rank
luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers
death around;
Where at each step the stranger
fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful
snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their
hapless prey,
And savage men more murderous still
than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado
flies,
Mingling the ravag'd lanscape with
the skies.
Far different these from every former
scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested
green,
The breezy covert of the warbling
grove,
That only sheltered thefts of harmless
love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows
gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native
walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure
past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly
look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd
in vain
For seats like these beyond the
Western main;
And, shuddering still to face the
distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd
to weep!
The good old sire, the first prepar'd
to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for
others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue
brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond
the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in
her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless
years,
Silent went next, neglectful of
her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's
arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke
her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure
rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes
with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow
doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to
lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's
decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like
these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious
joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to
destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness
grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their
own:
At every draught more large and
large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy
woe;
Till, sapp'd their strength, and
every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread
a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is
begun,
And half the business of destruction
done;
Even now, methinks, as pondering
here I stand,
I see the rural Virtues leave the
land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel
spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every
gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy
band,
Pass from the shore, and darken
all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are
there;
And pity with wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful
love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest
maid,
Still first to fly where sensual
joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times
of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for
honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and
decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary
pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and
all my woe,
Thou found'st me poor at first,
and keep'st me so;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts
excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare
thee well!
Farewell, and oh, where'er thy voice
be tried,
On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's
side,
Whether where equinoctial fervors
glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world
in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing
over time,
Redress the rigors of the inclement
clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive
strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage
of gain;
Teach him that states of native
strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very
blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes
to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole
away;
While self-dependent power can time
defy,
As rocks resist the billows and
the sky.
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