THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE .

TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS . DEAR SIR ,

I CAN have no expectations in an address of this kind , either to add to your reputation , or to establish my own . You can gain nothing from my admiration , as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment , as few have a juster taste in poetry than you . Setting interest therefore aside , to which I never paid much attention , I must be indulged at present in following my affections . The only dedication I ever made was to my brother , because I loved him better than most other men . He is since dead . Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you .

How far you may be pleased with the versication and mere mechanical parts of this attempt , I don't pretend to enquire ; but I know you will object ( and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion ) that the depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen , and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination . To this I can scarce make any other answer than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I have taken all possible pains , in my country excursions , for these four or five years past , to be certain of what I alledge , and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miseries real , which I here attempt to display . But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry whether the country be depopulating or not ; the discussion would take up much room , and I should prove myself , at best , an indifferent politician , to tire the reader with a long preface , when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem .

In regretting the depopulation of the country , I inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me . For twenty or thirty years past , it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular , as erroneous . Still , however , I must remain a professed ancient on that head , and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states , by which so many vices are introduced , and so many kingdoms have been undone . Indeed , so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question , that , merely for the sake of novelty and variety , one would sometimes wish to be in the right .

I AM , DEAR SIR , YOUR SINCERE FRIEND , AND ARDENT ADMIRER , OLIVER GOLDSMITH .

THE DESERTED VILLAGE . SWEET AUBURN , lov'liest village of the plain , Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain , Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid , And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease , Seats of my youth when every sport could please , How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green , Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ; How often have I paus'd on every charm , The shelter'd cot , the cultivated farm , The never-failing brook , the busy mill , The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill , The hawthorn bush , with seats beneath the shade , For talking age and whispering 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 sports beneath the spreading tree ; While many a pastime circled in the shade , The young contending as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground , And slights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd , Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face , While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love , The matron's glance that would those looks reprove . These were thy charms , sweet village ; sports like these , With sweet succession taught even toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed , These were thy charms — But all these charms are fled . Sweet smiling village , lov'liest of the lawn , Thy sports are fled , and all thy charms withdrawn : Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen , And desolation saddens all thy green ; One only master grasps the whole domain , And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : No more thy glassy brook reflects the day , But , choak'd with sedges , works its weedy way ; Along thy 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 thy 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 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 , 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 Usurp the land , and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn , where scatter'd hamlets rose , Unwieldy wealth , and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury ally'd , And every pang that folly pays to pride . These 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 pow'r . 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 hawthorn grew , Here , as with doubtful , pensive steps I range , Trace every scene , and wonder at the change , 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 given my share — I still had hopes , my latest hours to crown , Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; My anxious day to husband near the close , And keep life's flame from wasting by repose ; I still had hopes , for pride attends us still , 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 an hare whom hounds and horns pursue , Pants to the place from whence at first she 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 labour 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 ; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from his 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 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 past with careless steps and slow , The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; The swain responsive as the milkmaid 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 all in soft 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 foot-way tread , But all the bloomy flush of life is fled ; All but yon widow'd , solitary thing , That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She , wretched matron , forc'd , in age , for bread , To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread , To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn , To seek 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 e'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 learn'd to prize , More bent to raise the wretched than to rise . His house was known to all the vagrant train , He child 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 claims allow'd ; The broken soldier kindly bade to stay , Sat by his fire , and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds , or tales of sorrow done , Shoulder'd his crutch , and shew'd how fields were won . Pleas'd with his guests , the good man learnt 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 ev'n his failings 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 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 sorrow , guilt , and pain , by turns dismay'd , The reverend champion stood . At his controul , Despair and anguish sled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise , And his last fault'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 . The service past , around the pious man , With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; Even children follow'd with endearing wile , And pluck'd his gown , to share the good man's smile ; His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest , Their welfare pleas'd him , and their cares distrest ; To them his heart , his love , his griefs were given , But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form , Swells from the vale , and midway leaves the storm , Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread , Eternal sunshine settles on its head . Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way , With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay , There , in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule , The village master taught his little school : A man severe he was , and stern to view , I knew him well , and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh'd , with counterfeited glee , At all his jokes , for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling round , Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : Yet he was kind , or if severe in aught , The love he bore to learning was in fault . The village all declar'd how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write , and cypher too : Lands he could measure , terms and tides presage , And even the story ran that he could gauge ; In arguing too , the parson own'd his skill , For ev'n though vanquish'd , he could argue still ; While words of learned length , and thund'ring sound , Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around ; And still they gaz'd , and still the wonder grew , That one small head could carry all he knew . But past 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 sign-post caught the passing eye , Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd , Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd , Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound , And news much older than their ale went round . Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place : The white-wash'd wall , the nicely sanded floor , The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay , A bed by night , a chest of drawers by day ; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use , The twelve good rules , the royal game of goose ; The hearth , except when winter chill'd the day , With aspen boughs , and flowers , and fennel gay ; While broken tea-cups , wisely kept for shew , Rang'd o'er the chimney , glisten'd in a row . Vain transitory splendours ! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! Obscure it sinks , nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet 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 smith his dusky brow shall clear , Relax his ponderous strength , and lean to hear ; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid , half willing to be prest , Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest . Yes ! let the rich deride , the proud disdain , These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear , congenial to my heart , One native charm , than all the gloss of art . Spontaneous joys , where nature has its play , The soul adopts , and owns their first-born sway ; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind , Unenvied , unmolested , unconfin'd : But the long pomp , the midnight masquerade , With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd , In these , ere triflers half their wish obtain , The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And , ev'n while fashion's brightest arts decoy , The heart , distrusting , asks if this be joy . Ye friends to truth , ye statesmen , who survey The rich man's joys encrease , the poor's decay , 'Tis yours to judge , how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land . Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore , And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards , ev'n beyond the miser'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 products still the same . Not so the loss . The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supply'd : Space for his lake , his parks extended bounds , Space for his horses , equipage , and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth , Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; His seat , where solitary sports are seen , Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies , For all the luxuries the world supplies . While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all , In barren splendour feebly waits the fall . As some fair female unadorn'd and plain , Secure to please while youth confirms her reign , Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies , Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes : But when those charms are past , for charms are frail , When time advances , and when lovers fail , She then shines forth , solicitous to bless , In all the glaring impotence of dress ; Thus fares the land , by luxury betray'd , In nature's simplest charms at first array'd ; But , verging to decline , its splendours rise , It vistas strike , its palaces surprize ; While , scourg'd by famine from the smiling land , The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And , while he sinks without one arm to save , The country blooms — a garden , and a grave . Where then , ah , where shall poverty reside , To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd , He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade , Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide , And even the bare-worn common is deny'd . If to the city sped — what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd , To pamper luxury , and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know , Extorted from his fellow-creatures woe . Here , while the courtier glitters in brocade , There the pale artist plies the sickly 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 crowds the blazing square , The rattling chariots clash , the torches glare ; Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah , turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies ; She once , perhaps , in village plenty blest , Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn , Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all , her friends , her virtue fled , Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; And pinch'd with cold , and shrinking from the show'r , With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour , When idly first , ambitious of the town , She left her wheel and robes of country brown . Do thine , sweet AUBURN , thine , the lov'liest train , Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? Even 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 , To torrid tracts with fainting steps they go , Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe . Far different there from all that charm'd before , The various terrors of that horrid shore : Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray , And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing , But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd , Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where , at each step , the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tygers wait their hapless prey , And savage men , more murd'rous still than they ; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies , Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies . Far different these from every former scene , The cooling brook , the grassy vested green , The breezy covert of the warbling grove , That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love . Good heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day , That call'd them from their native walks away ; When the poor exiles , every pleasure past , Hung round their bowers , and fondly look'd their last , And took a long farewell , and wish'd , in vain , For seats like these beyond the western main ; And , shudd'ring still to face the distant deep , Return'd and wept , and still return'd to weep . The good old sire , the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds , and wept for others woe ; But for himself , in conscious virtue brave , He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave . His lovely daughter , lovelier in her tears , The fond companion of his helpless years , Silent went next , neglectful of her charms , And left a lover's for her father's arms . With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes , And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear , And claspt them close , in sorrow doubly dear ; While her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the decent manliness of grief . O luxury ! Thou curst by heaven's decree , How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions with insidious joy , Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee , to sickly greatness grown , Boast of a florid vigour not their own . At every draught more large and large they grow , A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till sapp'd their strength , and every part unsound , Down , down they sink , and spread a ruin round . Even now the devastation is begun , And half the business of destruction done ; Even now , methinks , as pondering here I stand , I see the rural virtues leave the land : Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale , Downward they move , a melancholy band , Pass from the shore , and darken all the strand . Contented Toil , and hospitable Care , And kind connubial Tenderness , are there ; And Piety with wishes plac'd above , And steady Loyalty , and faithful Love . And thou , sweet Poetry , thou lov'liest maid , Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame , To catch the heart , or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph , neglected and decried , My shame in crowds , my solitary pride ; Thou source of all my bliss , and all my woe , That found'st me poor at first , and keep'st me so ; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel , Thou nurse of every virtue , fare thee well : Farewell , and O ! where'er thy voice be try'd , On Torno's cliffs , or Pambamarca's side , Whether where equinoctial fervours glow , Or winter wraps the polar world in snow ; Still let thy voice , prevailing over time , Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; And slighted truth with thy persuasive strain , Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him that states of native strength possest , Though very poor , may still be very blest ; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay , As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy , As rocks resist the billows and the sky .