ENGLISH LITERATURE.

[Description of Auburn -- The Village Preacher, the

Schoolmaster, and Alehouse-Reflections.]
Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain ;
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm!
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm;
The never-failing brook, the busy mili,
The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed 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 surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
| And sleights of art and feats of strength went rouna.

T

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : Eternal sunshine settles on its head. ! The dancing pair that simply sought renown,

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, | By holding out to tire each other down ;

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,

There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The village master taught his little school; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove-| I knew him well, and every truant knew. 1 These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please. The day's disasters in his morning's face;

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, | Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee Up younder hill the village murmur rose;

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; There as I passed, with careless steps and slow, Full well the busy whisper circling round, The mingling notes came softened from below; Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,

Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The love he bore to learning was in fault; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,

The village all declared how much he knew;
The playful children just let loose from school; 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, | Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage;
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; And even the story ran that he could guage;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. For even, though vanquished, he could argue still;

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

That one small head could carry all he knew.
A man he was to all the country dear.

But past is all his fame: the very spot And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;

Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Remote from towns, he ran his godly race,

Near youder thorn that lists its head on high, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, | Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

And news much older than their ale went round. His house was known to all the vagrant train; Imagination fondly stoops to trace He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. The parlour splendours of that festive place; The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The ruined spendthrift now no longer proud,

The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

The pictures placed for ornament and use, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ;

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; Wcpt o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, And quite forgot their vices in their wo;

Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

Vain transitory splendour ! could not all His pity gare ere charity began.

Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;

An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. But, in his duty prompt at every call,

Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
To tempt her new fledged offspring to the skies, No more the woodman's ballad shall prerail;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

The host himself no longer shall be found And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; The reverend champion stood. At his control

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Shall kiss the up to pass it to the rest. Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. These simple blessings of the lowly train; At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

To me more dear, congenial to my heart, His looks adorned the venerable place ;

One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway; Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway: The service past, around the pious man,

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. Even children followed with endearing wile,

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile; With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, And even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. The heart distrusting asks if this be joy? As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm; | The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,