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Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge;

n arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
'or, even though vanquished, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering sound
mazed 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. lear yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, ow lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, here graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, here village statesmen talked with looks profound, nd news much older than their ale went round. nagination fondly stoops to trace

he parlor splendors of that festive place:
he white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
he varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
he chest contrived a double debt to pay,
bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
he pictures placed for ornament and use,
he twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
he hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
ith aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay;
hile broken teacups, wisely kept for show,
nged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

Vain transitory splendors! could not all prieve the tottering mansion from its fall? scure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 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 pressed,
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.

Oliver Goldsmith

287

THE

VILLAGE LIFE1

Village Life, and every care that reigns

O'er youthful peasants and declining swains; What labor yields, and what, that labor past, Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;

1 From the first book of The Village.

What form the real picture of the poor,

Demand a song-the Muse can give no more.

I grant, indeed, that fields and flocks have charms or him that grazes or for him that farms; ut when amid such pleasing scenes I trace The poor laborious natives of the place, nd see the midday sun, with fervid ray, In their bare heads and dewy temples play;

While some, with feebler heads and fainter hearts,
Deplore their fortune, yet sustain their parts:-
hen shall I dare these real ills to hide,
n tinsel trappings of poetic pride?

No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast,
Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast;
Where other cares than those the Muse relates,
and other shepherds dwell with other mates;
y such examples taught, I paint the cot,
s Truth will paint it and as bards will not:
or you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain,
'o you the smoothest song is smooth in vain;
''ercome by labor, and bowed down by time,
eel you the barren flattery of a rhyme?

an poets soothe you, when you pine for bread,
y winding myrtles round your ruined shed?
an their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower,
'r glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour?

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, ends the light turf that warms the neighb'ring poor; rom thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears; ank weeds, that every art and care defy,

eign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye:

There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar,
And to the ragged infant threaten war;

There poppies nodding mock the hope of toil;
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,

The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf;

O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendor vainly shines around.

Or will you deem them1 amply paid in health, Labor's fair child that languishes with wealth? Go then! and see them rising with the sun, Through a long course of daily toil to run; See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labor past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue, When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; Then own that labor may as fatal be

To these thy slaves as thine excess to thee.

Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; Yet, urged along, and proudly loath to yield, He strives to join his fellows of the field: Till long-contending Nature droops at last, 1 That is, the poor.

Declining health rejects his poor repast,

His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees,
And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease.

Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,
Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;
Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,
Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share!
Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,
Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal;
Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such
As you who praise would never deign to touch.

Ye gentle souls who dream of rural ease, Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share, Go look within, and ask if peace be there; If peace be his-that drooping weary sire; Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand!

Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these
Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease;
For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age
Can with no cares except his own engage;
Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see
The bare arms broken from the withering tree,
On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough,
Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.

He once was chief in all the rustic trade;
His steady hand the straightest furrow made;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud
To find the triumphs of his youth allowed;

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