The Deserted Village by Oliver Goldsmith — Read

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 lingering 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 topp'd the neighbouring hill, / The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, / For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made; / How often have I bless'd 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 survey'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 tir'd, / Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; / The dancing pair that simply sought renown, / By holding out to tire each other down; / The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, / While secret laughter titter'd round the place; / The bashful virgin's side-long 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.