THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. And his last faltering accents whispered praise. In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the And news much older than their ale went

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlor splendors of that festive place: The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the The varnished clock that clicked behind the

The hearth, except when winter chilled the | Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound,
day,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a

gay;

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

Vain, transitory splendor! 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,

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 supplied-
Space for his lake, his park's extended
bounds-

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robbed the neighboring 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,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to For all the luxuries the world supplies;

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, unconfined;
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar-
rayed--

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy.

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who sur

vey

The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay!

While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all,
In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,

Slights every borrowed 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 betrayed,
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed;
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged 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,

'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand | To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? Between a splendid and a happy land. If, to some common's fenceless limits strayed, Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, ore, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di vide,

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;

And even the bare-worn common is denied.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

If to the city sped, what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
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,

605

Far different there, from all that charmed be-
fore,

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 pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance crowned,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;

way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight Where at each step the stranger fears to wake reign, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous Where crouching tigers wait their hapless train; prey, Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing And savage men more murderous still than

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.

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 Far different these from every former scene-
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,

thine eyes

Where the poor, houseless, shivering female The breezy covert of the warbling grove,

Do thine, sweet Auburn-thine the love- To new-found worlds, and wept for others'

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, a tear, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow— And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged 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 vigor not their own.

At every draught more large and large they
grow,

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

Till sapped 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 placed 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-
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
tried,

On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side

Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime;

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 de-
cay,

As ocean sweeps the labored mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

Sabbata pango;
Funera plango;

Solemnia clango.

INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD BELL

WITH deep affection
And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee-
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in
Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music

Spoke naught like thine