But paft 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 fign-poft caught the paffing eye, 220
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts infpir'd,
Where grey-beard mirth and fmiling toil retir'd,
Where village ftatefmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly ftoops to trace
The parlour fplendors of that feftive place;
The white-wafh'd wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The cheft contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of draw'rs by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With afpen boughs, and flow'rs and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for fhew,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain tranfitory fplendor! cou'd not all
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall!
Obfcure it finks, not fhall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peafant fhall repair,
To fweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the fmith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear
The hoft himself no longer shall be found
Careful to fee the mantling blifs go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preft,
Shall kifs the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride the proud difdain,
Thefe fimple bleffings of the lowly train,
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the glofs of art;
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The foul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvy'd, unmolefted, unconfin'd.
But the long pomp, the midnight mafquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In thefe, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure fickens into pain;
And, ev'n while fashion's brighteft arts decoy,
The heart diftrufting afks, if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye ftatefinen who furvey
The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits ftand
Between a fplendid and a happy land.
Proud fwells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And thouting Folly hails them from her fhore;
Hoards, ev'n beyond the mifer'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 product ftill the fame.
Not fo the lofs. The man of wealth and pride,
Takes up a space that many poor supply'd;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horfes, equipage and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken floth,
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth,
His feat, where folitary fports are seen,
Indignant fpurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world fupplies.
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all
In barren fplendor feebly waits the fall.
As fome fair female unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign.
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress fupplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes:
But when thofe charms are paft, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then fhines forth folicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of drefs.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,
In nature's fimpleft charms at firft array'd,
But verging to decline, its fplendors rife,
Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprife;
While, fcourg'd by famine from the finiling land,
The mournful peafant leads his humble band;
And while he finks, without one arm to fave,
The country blooms-a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah, where fhall poverty refide,
To 'fcape the preffure of contiguous pride?
If to fome common's fencele fs limits stray'd
He drives his flock to pick the fcanty blade,
Thofe fencelefs fields the fons of wealth divide,
And ev'n the bare-worn common is deny'd.
If to the city fped-What waits him there?
To fee profufion that he muft not fhare;
To fee ten thoufand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To fee each joy the fons of pleafure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's wo,
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the fickly 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 deckt, admits the gorgeous train;
Tumultuous grandeur crouds the blazing fquare,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure fcenes like these no troubles ere annoy!
Sure these denote one univerfal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts-Ah, turn thine eyes
Where the poor houfelefs fhiv'ring female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty bleft,
Has wept at tales of innocence diftreft;
Her modeft looks, the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now loft to all; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door fhe lays her head,
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly firft, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, fweet AUBURN, thine, the lovelieft train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Ev'n now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud mens 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 fteps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their wo
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid fhore;
Those blazing funs that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Thofe matted woods where birds forget to fing,
But filent bats in drowfy clusters cling;
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each ftep the ftranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful fnake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And favage men more murd'rous ftill than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.
Far different thefe from ev'ry former fcene,
The cooling brook, the graffy vefted green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only fhelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heav'n! what forrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past,
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewel, and wifh'd in vain
For feats like thefe beyond the western main ;
And fhudd'ring ftill to face the diftant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old fire, the firft prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others wo;
But for himself, in confcious virtue brave,
He only wifh'd for worlds beyond the grave;
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
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