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“Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain.'

These were thy charms, sireet village! sports

like these, With sweet succession, taught e’en toil to

please : These round thy bowers their cheerful influence

shed, These were thy charms—but all these charms

are fled!

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Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,1° 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with

drawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's " hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain,12 And half a tillage 13 stints thy smiling plain ; 40 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges,14 works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern 10 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 mouldering wall, And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's

hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills" a prey, Where wealth accumulates,18 and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has

made :

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But a bold peasantry,' their country's pride, 55 When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

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 ruined grounds. 60 And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, 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 given my shareI still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband 20 out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 70 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned

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 horns pursue, 75 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. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's

close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below;

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The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober 22 herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 85 The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whisper

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ing wind,

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And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant

mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 90 Near yonder copse,24 where once the garden

smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows

wild :
There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis-

close,
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 changed, nor wished to change

his place ;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,

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By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant 24 train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their

pain ;
The long remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

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Claimed kindred there, and had his claims

allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed 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 wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side :
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for

all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment 27 tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured 28 to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed 29 where parting life was laid, 125 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turn dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to

raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 130

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, , His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double

sway,

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