Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; One only master grasps the whole domain, Along thy glades, a solitary guest, D Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, A time there was, ere England's griefs began, But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 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— In all my wand'rings round this world of care, I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, O bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine? How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try- |