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Good beaven ! 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 the 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 hapless 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 bless’d the cot where every pleasure rose ; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief.

O Luxury! Thou curst by heav'n'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.

Ev'n now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done ;
Ev’n now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land :

120

GOLDSMITH'S DESERTED VILLAGE.

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 loveliest 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,
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keepost me so ;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou source of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well :
Farewell ; and oh ! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torrio'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 th' inclement clime ; Aid 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.

FINIS.

PRINTED BY H. MOZLEY,

GAINSBOROUGH.

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