344
AN GAODHAL.
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy grassy book reflects the day,
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along the 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 mould'ring wall,
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand,
Far, far away, the children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hast'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 supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began.
When every rood of ground maintained 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
Usurps the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose,
nd every want to luxury 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 haethorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wandering round this world of care,
In all my griefs — and God has giv'n 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,
Amist the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw;
And as a hare whom hounds and horse 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 blest is 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 dang'rous 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 ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived dacay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last;
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Sweet was the sound when oft, at ev'ning's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid 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 whisp'ring
wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind —
These 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.
But all the flushy bloom of life is fled —
All but on widow'd, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the splashy spring.
She, wretch'd matron, forc'd in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To see 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 still where 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 ne'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place
Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was kown 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 descending swept his aged breast.
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bad to stay,
Sate by his fire and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wound, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were
won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned 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 wtetched was his pride;
And e'en his failing 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, reproved each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Besde the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turn dismay'd
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul,
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring 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.
