THE DESERTED VILLAGE. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. [OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born in 1731, at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, where his father was the clergyman. He received his education at Dublin, Edinburgh, and Leyden; for some cause he abruptly quitted the latter city, and resolved to travel on foot through Europe. His adventures were singular and various; he frequently subsisted on the bounty of the peasants, and in return for a meal or a night's lodging played upon the flute. On his return to London, he obtained the situation of usher in a school at Peckham. By his publication of "The Traveller" he emerged from obscurity, and was enabled to take a high rank among literary celebrities. His "Vicar of Wakefield," "Deserted Village," and various other works speedily followed, and his circumstances seemed to be in a favourable condition; but his eccentric disposition, and an unfortunate propensity to gambling, involved him in constant difficulties. He died of a painful disease, at his chambers in the Temple, April the 4th, 1774-] Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd. Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 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 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 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! One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, F |