Oliver Goldsmith: The Deserted Village

Lyrics

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung The sober herd that lowed to meet their young The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool The playful children just let loose from school The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind And thе loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind Thesе all in sweet confusion sought the shade And filled each pause the nightingale had made But now the sounds of population fail No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread For all the bloomy flush of life is fled All but yon widowed, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train The sad historian of the pensive plain Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose The village preacher's modest mansion rose 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 e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise His house was known to all the vagrant train He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan His pity gave ere charity began Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way Beside the bed where parting life was layed And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise And his last faltering accents whispered praise At church, with meek and unaffected grace His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray The service past, around the pious man With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread Eternal sunshine settles on its head Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossomed furze unprofitably gay There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge In arguing too, the parson owned his skill For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew