Eline Foljambr

POEMS

SELECTED AND PRINTED

BY A SMALL

PARTY OF ENGLISH,

WHO made this amufement a fubftitute

FOR SOCIETY,

WHICH the disturbed fituation of the country
prevented their enjoying.

AT STRASBURG,

IN THE ΜΟΝΤΗ OF FEBRUARY

1792.

280.

l. 146

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

GOLDSMITH.

SWEET AUBURN! lovelieft village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain;
Where fmiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting fummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd.
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and eafe,

Seats of my youth, when ev'ry fport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm,

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church, that top't the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with feats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whifp'ring lovers made!

How often have I bleft the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circle'd in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd;
'And many a gambol frolicd o'er the ground,
And fleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And ftill as each repeated pleasure tir'd,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd,

A

The dancing pair that simply fought renown,

By holding out to tire each other down;
The fwain miftrustless of his fmutted face,
While fecret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's fide-long looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove,
These were thy charms, fweet village! fports like these,
With fweet fucceffion, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bow'rs 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Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;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 bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And defolation faddens all thy green:

One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain;
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choak'd with fedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a folitary guest,

The hollow-founding bittern guards its nest;
'Amidst thy defart walks the lapwing flies,
And tires thy echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall,
And trembling, shrinking from the fpoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land,