throng,
  And half man’s life is holiday and song? 
  Vain search for scenes like these! no view appears,
  By sighs unruffled, or unstain’d by tears;
  Since vice the world subdued and waters drown’d,
  Auburn and Eden can no more be found.”

And yet the poet at once proceeds to describe his village in much the same tone, and with much of the same detail as Goldsmith had done:—­

  “Behold the Cot! where thrives th’ industrious swain,
  Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain,
  Screen’d from the winter’s-wind, the sun’s last ray
  Smiles on the window and prolongs the day;
  Projecting thatch the woodbine’s branches stop,
  And turn their blossoms to the casement’s top;
  All need requires is in that cot contain’d,
  And much that taste untaught and unrestrain’d
  Surveys delighted:  there she loves to trace,
  In one gay picture, all the royal race;
  Around the walls are heroes, lovers, kings;
  The print that shows them and the verse that sings.”

Then follow, as in The Deserted Village, the coloured prints, and ballads, and even The Twelve Good Rules, that decorate the walls:  the humble library that fills the deal shelf “beside the cuckoo clock”; the few devotional works, including the illustrated Bible, bought in parts with the weekly sixpence; the choice notes by learned editors that raise more doubts than they close.  “Rather,” exclaims Crabbe: 

  “Oh! rather give me commentators plain
  Who with no deep researches vex the brain;
  Who from the dark and doubtful love to run,
  And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.”

The last line of which he conveyed, no doubt unconsciously, from Young.  Nothing can be more winning than the picture of the village home thus presented.  And outside it, the plot of carefully-tended ground, with not only fruits and herbs but space reserved for a few choice flowers, the rich carnation and the “pounced auricula":—­

  “Here, on a Sunday eve, when service ends,
  Meet and rejoice a family of friends: 
  All speak aloud, are happy and are free,
  And glad they seem, and gaily they agree. 
  What, though fastidious ears may shun the speech,
  Where all are talkers, and where none can teach;
  Where still the welcome and the words are old,
  And the same stories are for ever told;
  Yet theirs is joy that, bursting from the heart,
  Prompts the glad tongue these nothings to impart;
  That forms these tones of gladness we despise,
  That lifts their steps, that sparkles in their eyes;
  That talks or laughs or runs or shouts or plays,
  And speaks in all there looks and all their ways.”

This charming passage is thoroughly in Goldsmith’s vein, and even shows markedly the influence of his manner, and yet it is no mere echo of another poet.  The scenes described are those which had become dear and familiar to Crabbe during years of residence in Leicestershire and inland Suffolk.  And yet at this very juncture, Crabbe’s poetic conscience smites him.  It is not for him, he remembers, to deal only with the sweeter aspects, though he knows them to exist, of village life.  He must return to its sterner side:—­