In the Pleasures of Memory we are forcibly reminded of Goldsmith and the Deserted Village. We feel how deeply the genius of that exquisite writer had affected the mind of Rogers in his youth. There is a striking similarity of style, of imagery, and of subject. It is not a deserted village, but a deserted mansion, which is described, and where we are led to sympathize with all that is picturesque in nature, and dear to the heart in domestic life. "Mark yon old mansion peering through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. The moldering gateway shows the grass-grown court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; When nature pleased, for life itself was new, And the heart promised what the fancy drew. See, through the fractured pediment revealed, Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield, The martin's old hereditary nest-- Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board in due degree, We sweetened every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the exciting jest; And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we traced the slipper by the sound. And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring; And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chained each wondering ear; And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood. Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower, O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. Ye household deities! whose guardian eye Marked each pure thought we registered on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round.