Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where gray-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 parlor splendors of that festive place: With aspen-boughs, and flowers and fennel gay; Vain, transitory splendor! 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, e'en 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 increase, the poor's decay! 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between à splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from her shore; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 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, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; 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, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 663 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- And savage men more murderous still than play, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train; Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies: Near her betrayer's door she lays her head: they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, | Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting That called them from their native walks away; And took a long farewell, and wished in vain And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the The good old sire the first prepared to go With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; Do thine, sweet Auburn-thine the loveliest Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 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 left a lover's for her father's arms. And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, Far different there, from all that charmed be- How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! fore, The various terrors of that horrid shore: How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 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- That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so! Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel ! Thou nurse of every virtue - fare thee well! Farewell! and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, Though very poor, may still be very blest; OLIVER GOLDSMITH. The Bells of Shandon. Sabbata pango; Funera plango; INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD BELL. WITH deep affection I often think of Those Shandon bells, On this I ponder Sweet Cork, of theeWith thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling From the VaticanAnd cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; And the people-ah, the people — And who tolling, tolling, tolling, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor humanThey are ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; A pæan from the bells! Of the bells: To the throbbing of the bells- Keeping time, time, time, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music. AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won The godlike hero sate His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; (So should desert in arms be crowned); The lovely Thais by his side Sate, like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth and beauty's pride. None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. CHORUS. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre; The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. |