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Who made this amusement a substitute

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 fwain;

Where fmiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting fummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd.

Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and eafe,

Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could pleafe,

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endear'd each fcene!

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 feats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whifp'ring lovers made!

How often have I blest the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their fports beneath the spreading tree,

While many a pastime circle'd in the shade,

The young contending as the old furvey'd;

And many a gambol frolicd o'er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.

And still as each repeated pleafure tir'd',

Succeeding sports the mirthful band infpir'd,

A The dancing pair that fimply fought renown,

By holding out to tire each other down;

The fwain mistrustlefs of his fmutted face,

While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;

The bashful virgin's fide-long looks of love,

The matron's glance that would thofe looks reprove,

Thefe were thy charms, fweet village! sports like thefe,

With fweet fuccession, taught e'en toil to pleafe;

Thefe round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed,

These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled.

Sweet fmiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy fports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And defolation faddens all thy green:
One only master grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choak'd with fedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a folitary guest,
The hollow-founding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy defart walks the lapwing flies,
And tires thy echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapelefs ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall,
And trembling, shrinking from the fpoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.

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