Oliver Goldsmith (ओलिवर गोल्डस्मिथ)

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain.

Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed.

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, where every sport could please.

How often have I loitered o'er your green,Where humble happiness endeared each scene.

How often have I paused on every charm,The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm.

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill.

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whispering lovers made.

How often have I blessed the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play.

And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree.

While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old surveyed.

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.

And still as each repeated pleasure tired,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired.

The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each other down!.

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter tittered round the place.

The bashful virgin's sidelong look of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.

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Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn.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 choked with sedges works its weedy way.

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,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.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade,A breath can make them, as a breath has made.

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

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,When every rood of ground maintained 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 altered; trade's unfeeling train,Usurp the land and dispossess the swain.

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet's rose,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 asked but little room.

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,Lived in each look, and brightened all the green.

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,And rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.

Here as I take my solitary rounds,Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined 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 share—.

I 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.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill.

Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt and all I saw.

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first she flew.

I still had hopes, my long vexations passed,Here to return—and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,Retreats from care, that never must be mine.

How happy he who crowns in shades like these,A youth of labour with an age of ease.

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!.

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep.

No surly porter stands in guilty state,To spurn imploring famine from the gate.

But on he moves to meet his latter end,Angels round befriending Virtue's friend.

Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,While Resignation gently slopes the way.

All, all his prospects brightening to the last,His Heaven commences ere the world be past!.

Sweet was the sound when oft at evening's close,Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.

There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,The mingling notes came softened from below.

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,The sober herd that lowed to meet their young.

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,The playful children just let loose from school.

The watchdog's voice that bayed the whisp'ring wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail,No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale.

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.

All but yon widowed, solitary thing,That feebly bends beside the plashy spring.

She, wretched matron, forced in age for bread,To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread.

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn.

She only left of all the harmless train,The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,And still where many a garden flower grows wild.

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour.

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.

The long remembered beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast.

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed.

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talked the night away.

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot their vices in their woe.

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side.

But in his duty prompt at every call,He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all.

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies.

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed.

The reverend champion stood. At his control,Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul.

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorned the venerable place.

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service passed, around the pious man,With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran.

Even children followed with endearing wile,And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed.

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm.

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossomed furze unprofitably gay.

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,The village master taught his little school.

A man severe he was, and stern to view,I knew him well, and every truant knew.

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace,The day's disasters in his morning face.

Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,At all his jokes, for many a joke had he.