“Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
    Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn: 
    Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen,
    And desolation saddens all thy green;
    One only master grasps the whole domain,
    And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
    No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
    But choked with sedges, works its weedy way;
    Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
    The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;
    Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
    And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
    Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
    And the long grass overtops the moldering wall;
    And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand,
    Far, far away, thy children leave the land.”

A titled gentleman by the name of Napier was the owner of the estate at that time, and as his tenantry had left, he in wrath pulled down their rows of pretty white cottages, demolished the schoolhouse, blew up the mill, and took all the material and built a splendid mansion on the hillside.

The cards had evidently turned in his direction, but anyway, he owned several other villages, so although he toiled not neither did he spin, yet he was well clothed and always fed.  But my lord Napier was not immortal, for he died, and was buried; and over his grave they erected a monument, and on it are these words:  “He was the friend of the oppressed.”

The records of literature, so far as I know, show no such moving force in a simple poem as the re-birth of the village of Auburn.  No man can live in a village and illuminate it by his genius.  His fellow townsmen and neighbors are not to be influenced by his eloquence except in a very limited way.  His presence creates an opposition, for the “personal touch” repels as well as attracts.  Dying, seven cities may contend for the honor of his birthplace; or after his departure, knowledge of his fame may travel back across the scenes that he has known, and move to better things.

The years went by and the Napier estate got into a bad way and was sold.  Captain Hogan became the owner of the site of the village of Lissoy.  Now, Captain Hogan was a poet in feeling, and he set about to replace the village that Goldsmith had loved and immortalized.  He adopted the name that Goldsmith supplied, and Auburn it is even unto this day.

In the village-green is the original spreading hawthorn-tree, all enclosed in a stone wall to preserve it.  And on the wall is a sign requesting you not to break off branches.

Around the trees are seats.  I sat there one evening with “talking age” and “whispering lovers.”  The mirth that night was of a quiet sort, and I listened to an old man who recited all “The Deserted Village” to the little group that was present.  It cost me sixpence, but was cheap for the money, for the brogue was very choice.  I was the only stranger present, and quickly guessed that the entertainment was for my sole benefit, as I saw that I was being furtively watched to see how I took my medicine.