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Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;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

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55 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

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,

100

105

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;
Nor 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,
Bends to the grave with unperceiv'd 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

110

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170

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,

175

And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

181

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

195

200

With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd 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 learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declar'd how much he knew;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too,
Lands he could measure, terms and tides
presage,

205

And even the story ran that he could gauge. 210
In arguing too the parson own'd his skill,
For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still;
While words of learned length and thundering
sound

Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;

And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.216

But past is all his fame: the very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,

220

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd,

Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

225

261

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 267 Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around;
Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a name
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied-276
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their
growth;

280

His seat, where solitary spots are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, all 285
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,

When time advances, and when lovers fail,

save,

301

310

The country blooms-a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 305
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And even the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped-what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps
display,

There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;

320

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing

371

And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 380
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a

tear,

375

At every draught more large and large they grow,

A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe; Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,

395

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural Virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the