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While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,'
And desolation saddens all thy green :

One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;

The "tyrant" said to be intended in this and other passages, was Lieutenant-General Robert Napier (or Naper, as his name was more frequently written), an English gentleman, who, on his return from Spain, purchased an estate near Ballymahon, and ejected many of his tenants for non-payment of their rents.

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2 "Those who have walked in an evening by the sedgy sides of unfrequented rivers, must remember a variety of notes from different water-fowl the loud scream of the wild-goose, the croaking of the mallard, the whining of the lapwing, and the tremulous neighing of the jacksnipe but of all these sounds, there is none so dismally hollow as the booming of the bittern. It is impossible for words to give those who have not heard this evening call an adequate idea of its solemnity. It is like an interrupted bellowing of a bull, but hollower and louder, and is heard at a mile's distance, as if issuing from some formidable being that resided at the bottom of the waters. I remember in the place where I was a boy

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, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain❜d its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain :
Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to opulence allied,'
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
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.

with what terror this bird's note affected the whole village: they considered

it as a presage of some sad event, and generally found or made one to succeed it."-History of Animated Nature, vol. vi. p. 24.

1

"And every want to luxury allied."

First edition, altered in third.

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 ruin'd grounds,
And, many a year elaps'd, 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 wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:"
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn❜d 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,
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.'

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How happy he who crowns, in shades like these,*
A youth of labour with an age of ease;

Here followed, in the first, second, and third editions:

"Here, as with doubtful, pensive steps I range,

Trace every scene, and wonder at the change,
Remembrance," &c.

"My anxious day to husband near the close,

And keep life's flame from wasting by repose."

First, second, and third editions.

3 "Towards the decline of his life he [Waller] bought a small house with a little land at Coleshill, and said-'he should be glad to die like the stag where he was roused.' This however did not happen."-JOHNSON, Life of Waller. "How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these."

4

First edition, altered in third.

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While Resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His Heaven commences ere the world be past."

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I past with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled :
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

"Sinks to the grave, with unperceiv'd decay."

First edition, altered in third.

* Watson's large engraving (1772), after Sir Joshua Reynolds' picture of "Resignation," is thus inscribed: "This attempt to express a character in 'The Deserted Village,' is dedicated to Dr. Goldsmith by his sincere friend and admirer, JOSHUA REYNOLDS."

She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,

The sad historian of the pensive plain.'

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
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 chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place;
Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,

3

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

1 The "sad historian of the pensive plain" (whose figure is to be seen on the copperplate vignette of the editions published in Goldsmith's life-time), was, it is said, Catherine Geraghty, of Lissoy. The brook and ditches near the spot where her cabin stood still furnish cresses, and several of her descendants were residing in the village in 1837.

2 The 66 village preacher" was, it is said, the poet's father-so at least his sister, Mrs. Hodson, believed; but the poet's brother, and his uncle Contarine, have both been named as the originals of this delightful character.

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"Unskilful he to fawn."-First edition, altered in fifth.

"More bent to raise."--First edition, altered in fifth.

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