Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah! turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show'r, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, Ah! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before, Designed by F.Wheatley R.A. Engraved by A.Smith A. New lost to all: her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head(. The Deserted Village. Published 1December 1800, by FJ.Du Roverty, London. Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Good heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And, shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, In all the silent manliness of grief. Oh luxury! thou curs'd by heav'n's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own; |