The Deserted Village

THE DESERTED VILLAGE The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Deserted Village This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : The Deserted Village Author : Oliver Goldsmith Illustrator : England) Etching Club (London Release date : November 19, 2015 [eBook #50500] Most recently updated: October 22, 2024 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50500 Credits : Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by Google Books *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESERTED VILLAGE *** THE DESERTED VILLAGE By Oliver Goldsmith Illustrated by the Etching Club New York: D. Appleton And Co. Broadway MDCCCLVII The Illustrations in this Volume are copied, with permission, from a series of Etchings published some years since by the "Etching Club." Only a few impressions of that work were printed, the copper-plates were destroyed, and the book, except in a very expensive form, has long been unattainable. Great care has been taken to render the present Wood-blocks as like the original Etchings as the different methods of engraving will allow. THE DESERTED VILLAGE ILLUSTRATIONS Page Sweet Auburn! loveliest milage of the plain...T. Creswick, R.A.. ...007 The never-failing brook, the busy mill........T. Creswick, R.A.. ...008 The hawthorn bush, with seals in shade........C. W. Cope, R.A... ...009 The matron's glance that would reprove........H. J. Townsend.... ...010 The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest...F. Tayler......... ...012 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore.....C. Stonhouse...... ...014 Amidst the swains show my book-learn'd skill..J. C. Horsley..... ...015 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue..F. Tayler......... ...016 To spurn imploring famine from the gale.......C. W. Cope, R.A... ...017 While resignation gently slopes the way.......T. Creswick, R.A.. ...018 The playful children let loose from school....T. Webster, R.A... ...019 All but yon widow'd solitary thing............F. Tayler......... ...020 The village preacher's modest mansion rose....T. Creswick, R.A.. ...021 He chid their wanderings; relieved pain.......C. W. Cope, R.A... ...022 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd fields won..C. W. Cope, R.A... ...023 Beside the bed where parting life was laid....R. Redgrave, R.A.. ...025 And pluck'd his gown, share the man's smile...J. C. Horsley..... ...026 The village master taught his little school...T. Webster, R.A... ...027 Full well they laugh'd with glee..............T. Webster, R.A... ...028 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd...T. Webster, R.A... ...028 In arguing too the parson own'd his skill.....C. W. Cope, R.A... ...029 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head high...T. Creswick, R.A.. ...030 Where village statesmen with looks profound...F. Tayler......... ...031 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade....J. C. Horsley..... ...033 Proud swells the tide with loads of ore.......T. Creswick, R.A.. ...034 If to some common's fenceless limit stray'd...C. Stonhouse...... ...036 Where the poor houseless female lies..........J. C. Horsley..... ...037 She left her wheel and robes of brown.........J. C. Horsley..... ...038 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake....T. Creswick, R.A.. ...040 The cooling brookt the grassy-vested green....T. Creswick, R.A.. ...041 The good old sire the first prepared to go....C. W. Cope, R.A... ...042 Whilst her husband strove to lend relief......R. Redgrave, R.A.. ...043 Down where yon vessel spreads the sail........T. Creswick, R.A.. ...044 Or winter wraps the polar world in snow.......T. Creswick, R.A.. ...045 As rocks resist the billows aNd the sky.......T. Creswick, R.A.. ...046 Drawn on wood, from the original Etchings, by E. K. Johnson, and engraved by Horace Harral, Thomas Bolton, and James Cooper. THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest 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 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 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 titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove; 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, 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 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 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 cumbrous 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; 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 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 share— To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd 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 he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 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 blest is 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 around befriending virtue's friend; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, 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 pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd 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, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled; All but yon widow'd 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 wish'd to change his place Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent 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 remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd 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 lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt, at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd 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 dismay'd, 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 whisper'd praise.

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