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Amidst thy desart walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall,
And, trer bling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.

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The sounds of population fail, No chearful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow'd solitary thing, That feebly bends besides the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forc'd, in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mant’ling crésses 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.


The man of wealth and pride, Takes up a space that many poor supply'd ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage and hounds.

Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contagious pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is deny’d.

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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, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here, while the proud their long-drawn ponips

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

reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.


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

Deserted Village.

TAKE physic, pomp ;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may’st shake the superflux to them,
And shew the heavens more just.


Lear, act iii. Ah little think the


licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;


They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot waste;
Ah little think they, how many feel, this very

moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain :
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs : how many drink the cup
Of Baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery : sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty :-Thought fond man
Of these-
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate ;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh ;,
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work.

Seasons : Wintera

Their's is yon house that holds the parish

poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There where the putrid vapours flagging play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the

day : There children dwell who know no parents care, Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ; Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; Dejected widows with unheeded tears,


Dejected widows with unheeded tears,
And crippled age with more than childhood fears !
The lame, the blind, and far the happiest they !
The moping ideot and the madman gay.

Here too the sick their final doom receive,
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve:
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber

Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below,
Here sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of man to man:
Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from

But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't deny.

Say ye, opprest by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that bafiles your repose ;
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance
With cimid eye, to read the distant glance ;
Who with sad



doctor tease,
'To naine the naineless ever-new disease;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain and that alone can cure;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despis’d, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched

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for death
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between ;


Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch’d, gives

To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day :
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile.

The Village

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