Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ;— How much unlike the sons of Britain now! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But, foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : That independence Britons prize too high Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd: Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore, Till, over-wrought, the general system feels Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown: Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote far fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun, That those that think must govern those that toil Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, To call it freedom when themselves are free; Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, Brother, curse with me that baleful hour, When first ambition struck at regal power; And, thus polluting honour in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose? Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, Vain, very vain, my weary search to find With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, DEAR SIR, THE DESERTED VILLAGE. DEDICATION. TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 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 scarcely 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 inquiries 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. For 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. 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, SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill, |