60
ON THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains,
She moves our envy who so well complains;
In vain has proud oppression laid her low,
So sweet a garland on her faded brow.
Now, Auburn, now absolve impartial fate,
Which if it made thee wretched, makes thee great:—
So, unobserved, some humble plant may bloom,
Till crushed it fills the air with sweet perfume;
So, had thy swains in ease and plenty slept,
Thy Poet had not sung, nor Britain wept.
Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay,
Unhonoured genius, and her swift decay;
O Patron of the poor! it cannot be,
While one—one Poet yet remains like thee!
Nor can the Muse desert our favoured isle,
Till thou desert the Muse and scorn her smile.
