A time there was, ere England's griefs began, Unwieldy wealth, and cumb'rous pomp repofe; And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. Thefe gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green; Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, Swells at my breaft, and turns the paft to pain. 75 80 85 I ftill had hopes, for pride attends us ftill, And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 90 95 ICO 105 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 ftate, To fpurn 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 laft, His Heav'n commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the found, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe; There, as I past with careless steps and flow, The mingling notes came foften'd from below; The fwain refponfive as the milk-maid fung, The fober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noify geefe that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; 110 115 I 20 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whifp'ring wind, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 125 No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grafs-grown foot-way tread, That feebly bends befide the plafhy spring; 130 She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread, To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To feek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 135 The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain. 140 Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild; There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modeft mansion rofe. 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 ere had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his place; By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 145 He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain, 150 The long remember'd beggar was his gueft, Whose beard defcending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 155 Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch and fhew'd how fields were won. Pleas'd with his guefts, the good 'man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their wo; 160 Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide; But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call, 165 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all. 170 Befide the bed where parting life was lay'd, With ready zeal, each honeft ruftic ran ; 180 And pluck'd his gown, to fhare the good man's fimile. His ready fmile a parent's warmth expreft, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorin, Befide yon ftraggling fence that fkirts the way, 185 195 200 205 210 The village all declar'd how much he knew ; And ftill they gaz'd, and fill the worder grew, 215 |