The hearth, except when winter chilled the | Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound. day, | And rich men flock from all the world around. With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a gay' While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain, transitory splendor! could not all name, That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss: the man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied- Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to For all the luxuries the world supplies; hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar- In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's de- 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand And shouting folly hails them from her While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all As some fair female, unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; When time advances, and when lovers fail, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; Where then, ah! where, shall poverty re side, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? And even the bare-worn common is denied. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. If to the city sped, what waits him there? To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 619 Far different there, from all that charmed be- The various terrors of that horrid shore: But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; around; There the black gibbet glooms beside the Where the dark scorpion gathers death way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight Where at each step the stranger fears to wake reign, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous Where crouching tigers wait their hapless train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing And savage men more murderous still than square prey, they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. thine eyes Where the poor, houseless, shivering female The breezy covert of the warbling grove, lies: She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the That called them from their native walks away; thorn; Now lost to all-her friends, her virtue fled-When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head; round the bowers, and fondly looked And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from their last, the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour Hung And took a long farewell, and wished in vain, The good old sire the first prepared to go And kissed her thoughtless babes with many Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, a tear, Or winter wraps the polar world in snowAnd clasped them close, in sorrow doubly Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; ! In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale- Contented toil, and hospitable care, Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel! On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Though very poor, may still be very blest; As ocean sweeps the labored mole away; OLIVER GOLDSMITHL THE BELLS OF SHANDON. Sabbata pango; Solemnia clango. INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD BELL WITH deep affection Those Shandon bells, On this I ponder Sweet Cork, of thee- Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming Spoke naught like thine They are neither man nor woman- And their king it is who tolls; Rolls, A pæan from the bells! With the pæan of the bells! To the pæan of the bells- Keeping time, time, time, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; To the rolling of the bells- To the tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR ALLAN POR THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 't will be when I am gone-- THOMAS MOORF |