A time there was, ere England’s griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain’d its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more: 60 His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter’d; trade’s unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter’d hamlets rose, 65 Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask’d but little room, 70 Those healthful sports that grac’d the peaceful scene, Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet AUBURN! parent of the blissful hour, 75 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power. Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin’d grounds, And, many a year elaps’d, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wand’rings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and GOD has given my share— I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 85 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life’s taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn’d skill, 90 Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations pass’d, 95 Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; 100 Who quits a world where strong temptations try And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state 105 To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending Virtue’s friend; Bends to the grave with unperceiv’d decay, While Resignation gently slopes the way; 110 And, all his prospects bright’ning to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be pass’d! [Illustration: ] The Water-cress gatherer (John Bewick)