10 To traverse climes beyond the western main; Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, 115 Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 420 To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find Our own felicity we make or find: With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. DEDICATION. 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 versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to inquire; 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 nowhere 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 allege; and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, 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, Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, 10 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; 30 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: 35 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn! One only master grasps the whole domain, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 45 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 50 Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade: A time there was, ere England's griefs began, But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 70 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. 75 Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, |