robert speaight - the deserted village lyrics
sweet auburn, loveliest village of the plain
where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain
where smiling spring its earliest visit paid
and parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed
dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease
seats of my youth, when every sport could please
how often have i loitered o’er thy green
where humble happiness endеared each scenе!
how often have i paused on every charm
the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm
the never+failing brook, the busy mill
the decent church that topt the neighbouring hill
the hawth+rn bush, with seats beneath the shade
for talking age and whispering lovers made!
how often have i blest 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 circled in the shade
the young contending as the old surveyed;
and many a gambol frol!cked o’er the ground
and slights of art and feats of strength went round;
and still as each repeated pleasure tired
succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
the dancing pair that simply sought renown
by holding out to tire each other down;
the swain mistrustless of his sm+tted face
while secret laughter tittered round the place;
the bashful virgin’s side+long 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 chearful 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thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;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, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way;
along thy glades, a solitary guest
the hollow+sounding bittern guards its nest;
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 destroyed, can never be supplied
a time there was, ere england’s griefs began
when every rood of ground maintained its man;
for him light labour spread her wholesome store
just gave what life required, but gave no more:
his best companions, innocence and health;
and his best riches, ignorance of wealth
but times are altered; trade’s unfeeling train
usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose
unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
and every want to oppulence allied
and every pang that folly pays to pride
those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom
those calm desires that asked but little room
those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene
lived in each look, and brightened all the green;
these, far departing seek a kinder shore
and rural mirth and manners are no more
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 ruined grounds
and, many a year elapsed, return to view
where once the cottage stood, the hawth+rn 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 shew my book+learned sk!ll
around my fire an evening groupe to draw
and tell of all i felt, and all i saw;
and, as an hare whom hounds and h+rns pursue
pants to the place from whence at first she 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;
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;
no 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 unperceived 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 lowed 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 bayed the whispering wind
and the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind
these all in sweet confusion sought the shade
and filled 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 foot+way tread
for all the bloomy flush of life is fled
all but yon widowed, solitary thing
that feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
she, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread
to strip the brook with mantling cresses spread
to pick her wintry f+ggot from the th+rn
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 smiled
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 changed, nor wished to change his place;
unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power
by doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
far other aims his heart had learned to prize
more sk!lled to raise the wretched than to rise
his house was known to all the vagrant train
he chid their wanderings but relieved their pain;
the long+remembered beggar was his guest
whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
the ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud
claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
the broken soldier, kindly bade to stay
sate by his fire, and talked the night away;
wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done
shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won
pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow
and quite forgot their vices in their woe;
careless their merits, or their faults to scan
his pity gave ere charity began
thus to relieve the wretched was his pride
and even his failings leaned to virtue’s side;
but in his duty prompt at every call
he watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all
and, as a bird each fond endearment tries
to tempt its new+fledged offspring to the skies;
he tried each art, reproved each dull delay
allured to brighter worlds, and led the way
beside the bed where parting life was layed
and sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed
the reverend champion stood. at his control
despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise
and his last faltering accents whispered praise
at church, with meek and unaffected grace
his looks adorned the venerable place;
truth from his lips prevailed with double sway
and fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray
the service past, around the pious man
with steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
even children followed, with endearing wile
and plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile
his ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest
their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest:
to them his heart, his love, his griefs were given
but all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven
as some tall cliff that lifts its awful form
swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm
tho’ round its breast the rolling clouds are spread
eternal sunshine settles on its head
beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way
with blossomed furze unprofitably gay
there, in his noisy mansion, sk!ll’d to rule
the village master taught his little school;
a man severe he was, and stern to view
i knew him well, and every truant knew;
well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
the day’s disasters in his morning face;
full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee
at all his jokes, for many a joke had he:
full well the busy whisper circling round
conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;
yet he was kind, or if severe 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 presage
and ev’n the story ran that he could gauge
in arguing too, the parson owned his sk!ll
for even tho’ vanquished, he could argue still;
while words of learned length and thundering sound
amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
and still they gazed, and still the wonder grew
that one small head could carry all he knew
but past is all his fame. the very spot
where many a time he triumphed, is forgot
near yonder th+rn, that lifts its head on high
where once the sign+post caught the passing eye
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 stoops to trace
the parlour splendours of that festive place;
the white+washed wall, the nicely sanded floor
the varnished clock that cl!cked behind the door;
the chest contrived a double debt to pay
a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
the pictures placed for ornament and use
the twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
the hearth, except when winter chill’d the day
with aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
while broken tea+cups, wisely kept for shew
ranged o’er the chimney, glistened in a row
vain transitory splendours! could not all
reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!
obscure it sinks, nor shall 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 woodman’s ballad shall prevail;
no more the smith his dusky brow shall clear
relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;
the host himself no longer shall be found
careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest
shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest
yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain
these simple blessings of the lowly train;
to me more dear, congenial to my heart
one native charm, than all the gloss of art;
spontaneous joys, where nature has its play
the soul adopts, and owns their first+born sway;
lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind
unenvied, unmolested, unconfined
but the long pomp, the midnight masquerade
with all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed
in these, ere triflers half their wish obtain
the toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
and, even while fashion’s brightest arts decoy
the heart distrusting asks, if this be joy
ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
the rich man’s joys encrease, the poor’s decay
’tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
between a splendid and a happy land
proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore
and shouting folly hails them from her shore;
h++rds even beyond the miser’s wish 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 still the same
not so the loss. the man of wealth and pride
takes up a sp+ce that many poor supplied;
sp+ce for his lake, his park’s extended bounds
sp+ce for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
the robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
has robbed the neighbouring 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 splendour feebly waits the fall
as some 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 past, for charms are frail
when time advances, and when lovers fail
she then shines forth, solicitous to bless
in all the glaring impotence of dress
thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed:
in nature’s simplest charms at first arrayed;
but verging to decline, its splendours rise
its vistas strike, its palaces surprize;
while, scourged by famine from the smiling land
the mournful peasant leads his humble band;
and while he sinks, without one arm to save
the country blooms—a garden, and a grave
where then, ah where, shall poverty reside
to scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
if to some common’s fenceless limits strayed
he drives his flock to pick the scanty blade
those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide
and ev’n the bare+worn common is denied
if to the city sped—what waits him there?
to see profusion that he must not share;
to see ten thousand baneful arts combined
to pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
to see those joys the sons of pleasure know
extorted from his fellow+creature’s woe
here while the courtier glitters in brocade
there the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
here while the proud their long+drawn pomps display
there the black gibbet glooms beside the way
the dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign
here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous 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
has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
her modest looks the cottage might adorn
sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the th+rn:
now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled
near her betrayer’s door she lays her head
and, pinch’d with cold, and shrinking from the shower
with heavy heart deplores that luckless hour
when idly first, ambitious of the town
she left her wheel and robes of country brown
do thine, sweet auburn, thine, the loveliest train
do thy fair tribes partic+p+te her pain?
even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led
at proud men’s doors they ask a little bread!
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
far different there from all that charm’d before
the various terrors of that horrid shore;
those blazing suns that dart a downward ray
and fiercely shed intolerable day;
those matted woods where birds forget to sing
but silent bats in drowsy cl+sters cling;
those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned
where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
where at each step the stranger fears to wake
the rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey
and savage men, more murderous still than they;
while oft in whirls the mad tornado flies
mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies
far different these from every former scene
the cooling brook, the grassy vested green
the breezy covert of the warbling grove
that only shelter’d thefts of harmless love
good heaven! what sorrows gloom’d that parting day
that called them from their native walks away;
when the poor exiles, every pleasure past
hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last
and took a long farewell, and wished in vain
for seats like these beyond the western main;
and shuddering still to face the distant deep
returned and wept, and still returned to 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
his lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears
the fond companion of his helpless years
silent went next, neglectful of her charms
and left a lover’s for a father’s arms
with louder plaints the mother spoke her woes
and blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;
and kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear
and claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
in all the silent manliness of grief
o luxury! thou curst by heaven’s decree
how ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
how do thy potions, with insidious joy
diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown
boast of a florid vigour not their own;
at every draught more large and large they grow
a bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
till sapped their strength, and every part unsound
down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round
even now the devastation is begun
and half the business of destruction done;
even now, methinks, as pondering here i stand
i see the rural virtues leave the land:
down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail
that idly waiting flaps with every gale
downward they move, a melancholy band
pass from the shore, and darken all the strand
contented toil, and hospitable care
and kind connubial tenderness, are there;
and piety with wishes placed above
and steady loyalty, and faithful love
and thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid
still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
unfit in these degenerate times of shame
to catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
dear charming nymph, neglected and decried
my shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe
that found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so;
thou guide by which the n0bler arts excell
thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
farewell, and o where’er thy voice be tried
on torno’s cliffs, or pambamarca’s side
whether were equinoctial fervours glow
or winter wraps the polar world in snow
still let thy voice, prevailing over time
redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain
teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
teach him, that states of native strength possest
tho’ very poor, may still be very blest;
that trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay
as ocean sweeps the labour’d mole away;
while self+dependent power can time defy
as rocks resist the billows and the sky
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