The putrid steams that overswarm the sky;
This caustic venom would perhaps corrode
Those tender cells that draw the vital air,
In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew'd. ...
While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds
Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales; 35
The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial
breeze

That fans the ever undulating sky;

A kindly sky! whose fost'ring pow'r regales
Man, beast, and all the vegetable reign.... 39

Behold the laborer of the glebe, who toils
In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies!
Save but the grain from mildews and the flood,
Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend. 45
He knows no laws by Esculapius2 given;
He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs
Infest, nor those envenom'd shafts that fly
When rabid Sirius3 fires th' autumnal noon.

65

Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone;
The greener juices, are by toil subdu'd,
Mellow'd and subtiliz'd, the vapid old
Expell'd, and all the rancor of the blood.
Come, my companions, ye who feel the charms
Of Nature and the year; come, let us stray
Where chance or fancy leads our roving walk.
Come, while the soft voluptuous breezes fan
The fleecy heavens, enwrap the limbs in balm,
And shed a charming langour o'er the soul.
Nor when bright Winter sows with prickly
frost

70

Imbibe the recent gale. The cheerful morn Beams o'er the hills; go, mount th' exulting steed.

85

Already, see, the deep-mouth'd beagles catch
The tainted mazes; and, on eager sport
Intent, with emulous impatience try
Each doubtful trace. Or, if a nobler prey
Delight you more, go chase the desperate deer;
And through its deepest solitude awake
The vocal forest with the jovial horn.

But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale 90
Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue,
Not less delightful, the prolific stream
Affords. The crystal rivulet, that o'er
A stony channel rolls its rapid maze,
Swarms with the silver fry. Such, through the

bounds

95

7 A small river in Roxburgshire. Armstrong was born at Castleton in that shire.

Through meads more flowery, or more romantic groves,

Rolls toward the western main. Hail, sacred flood!

105

May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence; thy mountains still
Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods
For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay
With painted meadows, and the golden grain!
Oft, with thy blooming sons, when life was new,
Sportive and petulant, and charm'd with toys,
In thy transparent eddies have I lav'd:
Oft trac'd with patient steps thy fairy banks,
With the well-imitated fly to hook

The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the shore

112

115

The struggling, panting prey: while vernal clouds

And tepid gales' obscur'd the ruffled pool,
And from the deeps called forth the wanton

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS

(From The Schoolmistress, 1742)

Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,

To think how modest worth neglected lies! While partial fame doth with her blast adorn Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise;

Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize! 5 Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies; Such as I oft have chanced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

The school of Pythagoras, who prescribed abstinence from animal food, as did many of the Hindus and Buddhists.

WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY To thee, fair Freedom! I retire

From flatt'ry, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot, or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign; And ev'ry health which I begin, Converts dull port to bright champaigne; Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!

I fly from falsehood's specious grin! Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an inn.

Here, waiter, take my sordid ore,

Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store;
It buys me freedom, at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome, at an inn.

Oliver Goldsmith

1728-1774

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

(1770)

5

10

15

20

15

For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

1 Some of the details of the poem are thought to have been suggested by the village of Lissoy in Ireland, where Goldsmith's childhood was spent; but in his account of the desertion of the village, the poet is true to conditions that actually prevailed in England at that time. Throughout the land a new aristocracy of wealth was pushing aside the small farmer (11. 270-280); the harvests were correspondingly diminished; and even the commons, formerly opened to the poor, were shut off, or "denied" (1.307). Luxury, which Goldsmith regards as the source of national corruption, was also increasing in consequence of a rapid growth in material prosperity.

And all the village train from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;

20

While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd,
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round!

And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25
By holding out to tire each other down,

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place,
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks

reprove.

30

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;

These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 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 chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

40

45

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.

50

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fadeA breath can make them, as a breath has made

55

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man: For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no

more;

His best companions, innocence and health, 61 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swair: Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose, 65 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 70