Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the bufy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
Yet he was kind, or if fevere in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides prefage,
And even the ftory ran that he could gauge.
In arguing too, the parfon owned his skill,
For e'en tho' vanquished, he could argue ftill;
While words of learned length, and thundering found,
Amazed the gazing ruftics ranged around,
And ftill they gazed, and ftill the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But paft is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the fign-poft caught the passing eye,
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly ftoops to trace
The parlour fplendours of that festive place;
The white-washed wall, the nicely fanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The cheft contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a cheft of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goofe;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With afpen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay,
While broken tea-cups, wifely kept for fhew,
Ranged o'er the chimney, gliftened in a row.
Vain tranfitory fplendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering manfion from its fall! Obfcure it finks, nor fhall 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 wood-man's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
Relax his ponderous ftrength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to fee the mantling blifs go round;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be preft,
Shall kifs the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These fimple bleffings of the lowly train, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the glofs of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The foul adopts, and owns their first born sway, Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolefted, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
In thefe, ere trifflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure fickens into pain;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye ftatesmen who survey
The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a fplendid and an happy land.
Proud fwells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her fhore;
Hoards,' even beyond the mifer's wifh abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products ftill the fame.
Not fo the lofs. 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 horfes, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in filken floth,
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His feat, where folitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world fupplies.
While thus the land adorned for pleasure all
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As fome 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 paft, for charms are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth follicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of drefs.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed,
In nature's fimpleft charms at first arrayed,
But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its viftas ftrike, its palaces furprize;
While scourged by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
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