Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher Lands he could measure, terms and tides. pre sage, And even the story ran that he could gauge; The pictures placed for ornament and use, goose; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen-boughs and flowers and fennel gay; While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Vain, transitory splendors! could not all While words of learned length and thunder- Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart ing sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; grew That one small head could carry all he knew. An hour's importance to the poor man's Thither no more the peasant shall repair No more the smith his dusky brow shall Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown The host himself no longer shall be found draughts inspired, Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, retired, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Relax his ponderous strength and lean to hear; Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain, And news much older than their ale went These simple blessings of the lowly train; round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive placeThe whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, sway; The varnished clock that clicked behind the Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay- Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined; But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade As some fair female, unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey plies, 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, The rich man's joys increase, the poor's She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, decay, In all the glaring impotence of dress,'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits Thus fares the land by Luxury betrayed: stand Between a splendid and a happy land. ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. In Nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a Where, then-ah! where-shall Poverty re name same. side That leaves our useful products still the To 'scape the pressure of contiguous Pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed Not so the loss. The man of wealth and He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of Wealth divide, 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, For all the luxuries the world supplies; While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. And even the bare-worn common is denied. There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight | Far different there from all that charmed reign before Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous The various terrors of that horrid shoreThose blazing suns that dart a downward train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 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 thine eyes Where the poor houseless, shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Now, lost to all, her friends, her virtue, fled, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn-thine the loveliest train Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. And, shuddering still to face the distant | Even now the devastation is begun, deep, And half the business of destruction done; Returned and wept, and still returned to Even now, methinks, as pondering here I weep! The good old sire, the first, prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe, But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. stand. I see the rural virtues leave the land: the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move-a melancholy bandPass from the shore and darken all the strand. Contented toil and hospitable care His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, woes, And kind connubial tenderness are there, And piety with wishes placed above, And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, And blessed the cot where every pleasure Still first to fly where sensual joys invade, Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, rose, And kissed her thoughtless babes with many To catch the heart or strike for honest fame; a tear, Dear, charming nymph, neglected and de My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, Of youthful pleasure's giddy round; That Trade's proudempire hastes to swift decay, | It comes with memories deeply fraught OLIVER GOLDSMITH. TWELVE YEARS HAVE FLOWN. Of forms that roved life's sunniest bowers- TWELVE years have flown since last I A brief but eloquent reply! saw My birthplace and my home of youth: How oft its scenes would Memory draw, Her tints the pencillings of truth! Unto that spot I come once more— The dearest life hath ever knownAnd still it wears the look it wore, Although twelve weary years have flown. Again upon the soil I stand Where first my infant footsteps strayed; Again I view my fatherland And wander through its pleasant shade; I gaze upon the hills, the skies, The verdant banks with flowers o'ergrown, And while I look with glistening eyes Almost forget twelve years have flown. Twelve years have flown! Those words are brief, Yet in their sound what fancies dwell! The hours of bliss, the days of grief, The joys and woes remembered well; The hopes that filled the youthful breast Alas! how many a one o'erthrown! Deep thoughts that long have been at rest Wake at the words "twelve years have flown." The past! the past! A saddening thought, A withering spell, is in the sound: have Where are youth's hopes, life's morning dream? Seek for the flowers that floated by Upon the rushing mountain-stream. Yet gems beneath that wave may sleep Till after-years shall make them known: Thus golden thoughts the heart will keep, That perish not though years have flown. |