BY OLIVER GOLDSMITHSweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd —Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please —How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;How often have I paus'd on every charm —The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,The never failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topp'd the neighboring hill,The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shadeFor talking age and whispering lovers made;How often have I bless'd the coming dayWhen toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train from labor free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree —While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd,And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round:And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd —The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down,The swain mistrustless of his smutted faceWhile secret laughter titter'd round the place,The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;These were thy charms – but all these charms are fled.Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,And desolation saddens all thy green:One only master grasps the whole domain,And half a tillage stints thy smiling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 chok'd with sedges works its weedy way;Along thy glades, a solitary guest,The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;Amid 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 o'ertops the mouldering wall;And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,Far, far away thy children leave the land.Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates and men decay;Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade —A breath can make them, as a breath has made;But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.A time there was, ere England's griefs began,When every rood of ground maintain'd its man:For him light labor spread her wholesome store,Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more;His best companions, innocence and health,And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.But times are altered; trade's unfeeling trainUsurp the land, and dispossess the swain:Along the lawn, where scatter'd 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 ask'd but little room,Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene,Liv'd in each look and brighten'd 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 roundsAmid thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds,And, many a year elaps'd, return to viewWhere 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,Amid 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,Amid the swains to show my book-learn'd 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 pass'd,Here to return – and die at home at last.O bless'd 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 labor 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 unperceiv'd decay,While resignation gently slopes the way —And, all his prospects brightening to the last,His heaven commences ere the world be pass'd.Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's closeUp yonder hill the village murmur rose.There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow,The mingling notes came soften'd from below:The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,The sober herd that low'd 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 bay'd the whispering wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind —These all in sweet confusion sought the shadeAnd fill'd 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 footway tread,For all the bloomy flush of life is fled —All but yon widow'd, 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 smil'd,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 chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place;Unpractic'd he to fawn, or seek for powerBy doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour.Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize —More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train,He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain:The long remember'd beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd.The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away —Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won.Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd 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 lean'd to virtue's side —But in his duty, prompt at every call,He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:And, as a bird each fond endearment triesTo tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.Beside the bed where parting life was laid,And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd,The reverend champion stood: at his controlDespair and anguish fled the struggling soul;Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.At church with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorn'd the venerable place;Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.The service pass'd, around the pious man,With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;Even children follow'd, with endearing wile,And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile:His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd.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 stormThough round its breast the rolling clouds are spreadEternal sunshine settles on its head.Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossom'd 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 learn'd to traceThe day's disasters in his morning face;Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited gleeAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he;Full well the busy whisper, circling round,Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd —Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault.The village all declar'd how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too,Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage —And even the story ran that he could gauge.In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,For even though vanquish'd he could argue still;While words of learned length and thundering soundAmaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around —And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grewThat one small head could carry all he knew.But pass'd is all his fame: the very spot,Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot.Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd.Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd,Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound.And news much older than their ale went round.Imagination fondly stoops to traceThe parlor splendors of that festive place:The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door —The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay,A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day —The pictures plac'd for ornament and use,The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose —The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,With aspen bows, and flowers, and fennel gay —While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,Rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.Vain, transitory splendors! could not allReprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impartAn hour's importance to the poor man's heart:Thither no more the peasant shall repairTo sweet oblivion of his daily care;No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;The host himself no longer shall be foundCareful to see the mantling bliss go round;Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd,Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train —To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art.Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway —Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd;But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd,In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain —And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who surveyThe rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay —'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits standBetween a splendid and an happy landProud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,And shouting folly hails them from her shore;Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,And rich men flock from all the world around;Yet count our gains: this wealth is but a nameThat leaves our useful product still the same.Not so the loss. The man of wealth and prideTakes up a space that many poor supplied —Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;The robe that wraps his limbs in silken slothHas robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth;His seat where solitary sports are seen,Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;Around the world each needful product flies,For all the luxuries the world supplies;While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure – allIn barren splendor feebly waits the fall.As some fair female unadorn'd and plain,Secure to please while youth confirms her reignSlights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes —But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail,When time advances, and when lovers fail —She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,In all the glaring impotence of dress.Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd:In nature's simplest charms at first array'd —But verging to decline, its splendors rise,Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;While, scourg'd by famine, from the smiling landThe mournful peasant leads his humble band —And while he sinks, without one arm to save,The country blooms – a garden and a grave.Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?If to some common's fenceless limits stray'dHe drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,And even the bare-worn common is denied.If to the city sped – what waits him there?To see profusion that he must not share;To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'dTo pamper luxury, and thin mankind;To see those joys the sons of pleasure know,Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe:Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train —Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy:Sure these denote one universal joy!Are these thy serious thoughts? – ah! turn thine eyesWhere the poor houseless shivering female lies.She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd —Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;Now lost to all – her friends, her virtue fled,Near her betrayer's door she lays her head —And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,With heavy heart deplores that luckless hourWhen 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?Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,At proud men's doors they ask a little bread.Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,Where half the convex world intrudes between,Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.Far different there from all that charm'd before,The various terrors of that horrid shore;Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,And fiercely shed intolerable day —Those matted woods where birds forget to singBut silent bats in drowsy clusters cling —Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'dWhere the dark scorpion gathers death around —Where at each step the stranger fears to wakeThe rattling terrors of the vengeful snake —Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,And savage men more murderous still than they —While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies.Far different these from every former scene;The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,The breezy covert of the warbling grove,That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,That call'd them from their native walks away,When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd,Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last,And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vainFor seats like these beyond the western main —And shuddering still to face the distant deep,Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.The good old sire, the first, prepar'd to goTo new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe —But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave;His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,The fond companion of his helpless years,Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,And left a lover's for a father's arms;With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose,And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear —While her fond husband strove to lend reliefIn all the silent manliness of grief.O luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven'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 vigor not their own;At every draught more large and large they grow,A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe —Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.Even now the devastation is begun,And half the business of destruction done;Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,I see the rural virtues leave the land;Down, where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,That idly waiting flaps with every gale,Downward they move – a melancholy band —Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand,Contented Toil and hospitable Care,And kind connubial Tenderness, are there —And Piety with wishes plac'd above,And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love.And thou, sweet Poetry! thou loveliest maid,Still first to fly where sensual joys invade,Unfit in these degenerate times of shameTo catch the heart, or strike for honest fame —Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried,My shame in crowds, my solitary pride —Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so —Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,Thou nurse of every virtue – fare thee well.Farewell! and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,On Tornea's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,Redress the rigors of the inclement clime.Aid slighted Truth: with thy persuasive strainTeach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd,Though very poor, may still be very bless'd;That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away —While self-dependent power can time defy,As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE FUGITIVE KING AT BOSCOBEL; ADVENTURES OF THE MERRY MONARCH

BY AGNES STRICKLAND

Boscobel House, which has obtained so much historical celebrity, in connection with the romantic adventures of Charles II., after his defeat at Worcester, is situated in Shropshire, on the borders of Staffordshire, lying between Tong Castle and Brewood. It was built in the reign of James I., by John Giffard, Esq., a Roman Catholic gentleman, who, when it was completed, having invited his neighbors to a house-warming feast, requested his friend, Sir Basil Brook, to give his new-built mansion a name. Sir Basil called it "Boscobel," from the Italian word, boscobella, because it was seated in the midst of many fair woods. The founder of the house had caused various places of concealment to be constructed, for the purpose of affording shelter to proscribed persons of his own religion, whom the severity of the penal laws often compelled to play at hide and seek, in queer corners.

The first fugitive of note who sought refuge, in his distress, at Boscobel House, was the unfortunate Earl of Derby, whose defeat at Bolton-le-Moors, near Wigan, was the precursor to that of the young king at Worcester, eight days later. The Earl of Derby, having escaped from his lost battle, with Colonel Roscarrock and two servants, got into the confines of Shropshire and Staffordshire, where he had the good luck to encounter an old friend, Mr. Richard Snead, an honest gentleman of that country, to whom he told the news of his own overthrow, and inquired if he knew of any private house, near at hand, where he might repose himself and his company in safety, till he could find an opportunity of joining the king. Mr. Snead, like a good Samaritan, conducted his noble friend to Boscobel House, where they arrived on Friday, August 29th, but found no one at home, except William Penderel, the housekeeper, and his wife, who, on their own responsibility, ventured to receive the noble cavalier, his companion, and servants, and kindly entertained them till the Sunday; and then, according to the earl's desire, conveyed them safely to Gataker Park, nine miles on their way to Worcester, where he arrived in time to take his part in that engagement which was emphatically styled by Stapylton, the roundhead, "the setting of the young king's glory."

The Earl of Derby and Colonel Roscarrock were in close attendance on Charles's person during the retreat from Worcester. They all made a stand on Kinner Heath, on the road to Kidderminster, as the night set in, to hold a consultation, when his majesty, being very tired, inquired of them and Lord Wilmot, "If they thought there was any place where he might venture to take a few hours' rest?" The Earl of Derby told him, "how, in his flight from Wigan to Worcester, he had met with that rara avis, a perfectly honest man, and a great convenience of concealment at Boscobel House; which, nevertheless, he thought it his duty to inform his majesty, was the abode of a recusant." At another time, some of the party might have objected to the young sovereign going to such quarters, but the danger being so imminent, now it was suggested, "that these people being accustomed to persecutions and searches, were most likely to possess the most ingenious contrivances to conceal him." At all events, the king made up his mind to proceed thither. When this decision was made known to Lord Talbot, he called for a young kinsman of the recusant master of Boscobel, Mr. Charles Giffard, who was fortunately among the sixty cavaliers who still shared the fortunes of their fugitive king. Lord Talbot inquired of this gentleman, if he could conduct his majesty to Boscobel. Charles Giffard cheerfully undertook to do so, having with him a servant of the name of Yates, who understood the country perfectly.

At a house about a mile beyond Stourbridge, the king drank a little water, and ate a crust of bread, the house affording no better provision. After this scanty refection, his majesty rode on, discoursing apart with Colonel Roscarrock about Boscobel House, and the security which he and the Earl of Derby had enjoyed at that place. Another privy-council was held, in the course of the journey, between the king and his most trusty friends, at which it was agreed, that the secret of his destination was too important to be confided to more than a select few of his followers; and Charles Giffard was asked if it were not possible to conduct him, in the first instance, to some other house in the neighborhood, the better to mask his design of concealing himself at Boscobel. The young cavalier replied, "Yes, there was another seat of the Giffards, about half a mile from Boscobel – Whiteladies; so called from its having been formerly a monastery of Cistercian nuns, whose habit was white." On which the king, and about forty of the party, separating themselves from the others, proceeded thither, under his faithful guidance. They arrived at break of day; and Giffard, alighting from his horse, told the king "that he trusted they were now out of immediate danger of pursuit." George Penderel, who had the charge of the house, opened the doors, and admitted the king and his noble attendants; after which, the king's horse was brought into the hall, and they all entered into an earnest consultation how to escape the fury of their foes; but their greatest solicitude was for the preservation of the king, who was, for his part, both tired and hungry with his forced march. Col. Roscarrock immediately dispatched a boy, of the name of Bartholomew Martin, to Boscobel, for William Penderel: Mr. Charles Giffard sent for another of these trusty brethren, Richard Penderel, who lived at Hobbal Grange, hard by. Both speedily obeyed the summons, and were brought into the parlor, where they found their old acquaintance, the Earl of Derby, who introduced them into the inner parlor, which formed then the presence chamber of their throneless sovereign: the earl, reversing the order of courtly etiquette on this occasion, instead of presenting these two noble men, of low degree, to their royal master, he presented him to them; addressing himself in particular to William Penderel, and pointing at his majesty, he said, "This is the king; thou must have a care of him, and preserve him, as thou didst me."

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