But times are altered; trade’s unfeeling train
  Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
  Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,
  Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,
  And every want to opulence allied,
  And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
  These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
  Those calm desires that asked but little room,
  Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
  Lived in each look, and brightened 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,
  Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power. 
  Here, as I take my solitary rounds
  Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
  And, many a year elapsed, return to view
  Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
  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 griefs—­and God has given my share—­
  I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
  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-learned skill,
  Around my fire an evening group to draw,
  And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
  And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue
  Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
  I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
  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;
  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,
  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 unperceived decay,
  While resignation gently slopes the way;
  And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
  His Heaven commences ere the world be past!

  Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s close
  Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
  There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
  The mingling notes came softened 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 the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;—­
  These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
  And filled each pause the nightingale had made.