39. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here, 40. "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign: And shall we never, never part, 41. "No, never, from this hour to part, 42. "Here amidst sylvan bow'rs we'll rove, From lawn to woodland stray; Blest as the songsters of the grove, And innocent as they. 43. "To all that want, and all that wail, And when this life of love shall fail, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. A POEM. [DEDICATION.] TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. DEAR SIR, I can have no expectations, in an address of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel; and I may lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, therefore, aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be indulged at present in following my affections. The only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. How far you may be pleased with the versification and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I don't pretend to enquire; but I know you will object, (and indeed several of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's own imagination. To this I can scarce make any other answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have written; that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege; and that all my views and enquiries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an enquiry whether the country be depopulating or not: the discussion would take up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh against the encrease of our luxuries; and here also I expect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest national advantages; and all the wisdom of antiquity in that particular as erroneous. Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late on the other side of the question, that, merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in the right. I am, dear sir, your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, How often have I blest the coming day, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, A time there was, ere England's griefs began, But times are alter'd: trade's unfeeling train And every pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. In all my wand'rings round this world of care, |