Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, n arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 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: 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 No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 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, No; cast by fortune on a frowning coast, an poets soothe you, when you pine for bread, 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, There poppies nodding mock the hope of toil; The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, 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, Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, 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 He once was chief in all the rustic trade; |