Save when against the winter's drench

ing rain,

And driving snow, the cottage shut the door :

Then as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legends when the beldam 'gan impart,

Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart;

Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.

Various and strange was the longwinded tale;

And halls, and knights, and feats of arms, display'd;

Or merry swains, who quaff the nut. brown ale;

And sing enamour'd of the nut-brown maid;

The moonlight revel of the fairy glade; Or hags, that suckle an infernal brood, And ply in caves th' unutterable trade, 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood,

Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.

But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the beldam would rehearse,

A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.

O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart by lust of lucre sear'd to stone!

For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls be

moan

Those helpless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,

The babes now famish'd lay them down to die,

'Midst the wild howl of darksome woods forlorn,

Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry:

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!"

[OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774.] THE DESERTED VILLAGE. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid

And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd;

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and

ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each

scene;

How often have I paus'd on every charm,

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whisp'ring 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,

While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old sur vey'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 tired,