THE DESERTED VILLAGE. FIRST PRINTED IN 1769. ΤΟ 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 do not pretend to inquire: 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 inqui- . ries have led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But this is not the place to enter into an inquiry, 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 increase 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, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, [hill, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, [fled. 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," When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more; His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumberous pomp repose; And every want to luxury 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, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has given my shareI still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: |