Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my folitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
Where once the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breaft, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has giv'n my share-
I ftill had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst thefe humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wafting by repose:
I ftill had hopes, for pride attends us ftill,
Amidst the swains to fhew my book-learn'd skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I faw;
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns 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 laft.
O bleft retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How bleft 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, fince '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 furly porter ftands in guilty ftate,
To fpurn 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 unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way;
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last,
His Heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the found, when oft at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and flow, The mingling notes came foften'd from below; The swain refponfive as the milk-maid fung, The fober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geefe 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 fweet confufion fought the fhade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the founds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No bufy steps the grafs-grown foot-way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow'd, folitary thing,
That feebly bends befide the plashy fpring;
She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To feek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain.
Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn fhrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modeft manfion rofe. A man he was, to all the country dear, And paffing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place; Unfkillful he to fawn, or feek 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 rife. His houfe was known 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 defcending fwept his aged breaft; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken foldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and fhew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd 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 even his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide;
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, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Befide the bed where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmay'd,
The rev'rend champion ftood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the ftruggling foul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his laft 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 fcoff, remain'd to pray.
The fervice paft, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honeft rustic ran ;
Even children follow'd with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to fhare the good man's fmile.
His ready fmile a parent's warmth expreft,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares diftreft;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his ferious thoughts had reft in heaven.
As fome tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the ftorm,
Though round its breaft the rolling clouds are fpread, Eternal funshine fettles on its head.
Befide yon ftraggling fence that skirts the way,
With bloffom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noify manfion, skill'd to rule,
The village mafter taught his little school;
A man fevere he was, and ftern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd 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 difmal tidings when he frown'd;
Yet he was kind, or if fevere 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 prefage,
And even the story ran that he could guage:
In arguing too, the parfon own'd his fkill,
For even though vanquish'd, he could argue ftill;
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