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Ill fares the land, to haft'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:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store;
Juft
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
Ufurp the land, and difpoffefs the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose;
And ev'ry want to luxury ally'd,

And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm defires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful fports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green;
These, far departing, feek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

SWEET AUBURN! parent of the blisful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r,

Here, as I take my folitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangled walks, and ruin'd grounds,
And many a year elaps'd, return to view,

Where once the cottage ftood, 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 ftill had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bow'rs 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 ftill,
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an ev'ning 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 it flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

O bleft retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How bleft is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where ftrong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

For

For him no wretches, born to work and weep;
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep;
No furly porter ftands 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;
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And, all his profpects bright'ning to the last,
His heav'n commences e'er the world be pass'd!

SWEET was the found, when oft, at ev'ning's clofe;
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I past, with careless steps and flow,
The mingling notes came foften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid fung,
The fober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noify geefe that gabbl'd o'er the pool,

The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in fweet confufion fought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail,

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grafs-grown foot-way tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled.

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'All but yon widow'd, folitary thing,

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes spread,
To pick her wint'ry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,

The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain.

NEAR Yonder copfe where once the garden fmil'd,
And ftill where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place difclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

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 e'er had chang'd or wish'd to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or feek for pow'r,

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain,
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard defcending, fwept his aged breaft;
The ruin'd spendthrift now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there and had his claim allow'd;

The broken foldier kindly bade to stay,
Sat by the fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'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 e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's fide;

But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd, and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He try'd 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 forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmay'd, The rev'rend champion stood. At his controul, Despair and anguish fled the struggling foul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his laft fault'ring accents whisper'd praife.

AT church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double fway,
And fools, who came to fcoff, remain'd to pray.

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