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, 45
  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. 50

  Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
  Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:[4]
  Princes and lords may nourish, or may fade;
  A breath can make them, as a breath has made:[5]
  But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride, 55
  When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

  A time there was, ere England’s griefs began,[6]
  When every rood of ground maintained its man;
  For him light labor spread her wholesome store,
  Just gave what life required, but gave no more:  60
  His best companions, innocence and health;
  And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

  But times are altered; trade’s unfeeling train
  Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
  Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65
  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, 70
  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, 75
  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, 80
  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, 85
  Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
  To husband out[7] 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, 90
  Around my fire an evening group to draw,
  And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
  And, as an hare[8] whom hounds and horns pursue
  Pants to[9] the place from whence at first she flew,
  I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95
  Here to return—­and die at home at last.