With what delight he shares the rustic revelry. There falls the light of lingering love on each and every line and word: "These were thy charms, but all these charms are fled," he cries, "And desolation saddens all thy green." He depicts emigration and its devastating and enforced exile, so widely diverse from the healthful, free, and willing spirit of true and liberal colonisation: "Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay." Years later the man wrote these lines, but the thoughts, the burning sense of burning wrong, the pain and anguish, were hidden in the heart of the youth, outwardly so careless: "A bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied." There is a majesty in the lines-- "His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth." A little later he speaks of "Every pang that folly pays to pride." There is a depth in the man who could write: "Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain; In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my grief--and God has given my share-- I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down." How pretty and how pathetic is the picture in this poem of the end that he had fancied for his days! A thousand and a thousand times the ceaseless humanity, seeking only love, endears the man. Mark the sweet, true, and sublime ideal: "Angels around befriending Virtue's friend: Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be past!" In simplicity Goldsmith equals Gray. There is a Miltonic dignity truly classical in the line-- "The sad historian of the pensive plain." Failures have been indicated in the literary construction of the finest poems. Critics have held that Burns, in "The Cotter's Saturday Night," lost the Scottish and gave the piece an English colour. Macaulay contended that the deserted hamlet pictured by Goldsmith was neither one thing nor the other, but first Irish and then English. Criticism purely aesthetic cannot destroy the poignancy and profoundness of the theme and throughout the touch of a master power. From beginning to end the piece proceeds in a picturesque progress which in its steady advancement and maintained dignity is splendidly processional. At last we come to the village pastor, and line after line, love leads the light: "A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor ere had changed, nor wished to change, his place." "Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise."