# The Peasant of Auburn

THE
PEASANT OF AUBURN:
A POEM.
"If I'm deſign'd yon lordling's ſlave
"By nature's law deſign'd
"Why was an independent wiſh "E'er planted in my mind? "If not, why am I ſubject to "His cruelty, or ſcorn? "Or why has Man the will and pow'r— "To make his fellow mourn?"
Burns.
GLASGOW; PRINTED FOR AND SOLD BY Braſh & Reid
THE PEASANT OF AUBURN.
"The ſhort and ſimple annals of the poor."
Gray
Dark was the ſky, and fatal was the morn,
When firſt from Auburn's vale I roam'd forlorn, The neighbouring ſwains came penſive o'er the lea.
And parting breath'd their laſt kind prayers for me, Ah! gentle ſouls, your prayer for me how vain, The man of ſorrow, penury, and pain Thus Edwin mourn'd, pale, melancholy, ſlow, Where wild Ohio's founding waters flow, The ſun ſet low'ring on the plaints he made, And ſavage howling doubly gloom'd the ſhade. O Thou, in public toils with glory tried, Whoſe high-born honours are thy humbleſt pride, Whoſe private worth, in Fame's proud ſane enroll'd, Time ſhall emblaze in characters of gold;
Illuſtrious Howard! shield th' unpoliſh'd lays, Which twine this cypreſs wreath around thy bay And whilſt thy breast matures each patriot plan, That gladdens life, and man endears to man, Hear what big woes village group befel, By Auburn's penſive bard foretold too well Night o'er the ſcene her duſky horrors drew, The ſtars burn'd dim, the rapid whirlwind flew, E'en the lone cot denied its cheering ray, As o'er the wild the wanderer urg'd his way. No more the birds prolong'd their ſoothing ſtrain No more the landſcape ſtole a pang from pain; In every buſh deſtruction ſeem'd to hide, And hearſe beneath him foam'd the ſullen tide. ​Amidſt uncoffin'd bones, as thus he paſs'd,
Where many a gallant Briton breath'd his laſt,
From diſtant hills ſtrange fires began to glow,
That mark'd the ravage of the barbarous foe.
The ſcene, the hour, renew'd the trickling tear,
When thus, with mingled groans, the mournful ſeer. God of my life! protect me as I ſtray,
Where panthers prowl, and murderous men betray.
Once I was bleſt beyond the peaſant's lot,
In humble neatneſs roſe my little cot.
I ſaw my whitening fleece the down adorn,
I ſaw my valley wave with golden corn,
I ſaw my duteous children round me bloom,
Nor envied pride its palace and its plume.
Pleas'd with what heaven had lent, and for from ſtrife, Calm, unreprov'd, I walk'd the vale of life. But vain the humbleſt hope the poor can form,
When fierce oppreſſion wings th' unfeeling ſtorm,
Nor peace, nor love, nor merit's modeſt wo, 
Can or avert, or mitigate the blow.
Alas! regardleſs of the ſuppliant train,
The tyrant lord uſurps the whole domain.
The peaſant's glebe, his garden's decent bound,
The ſhade he rear'd, the lane with ſweet-brier crown'd.
All, all muſt yield, as wills imperious pride,
And e'en the ſtraw-thatch'd cottage is denied.
Hence, at this hour, by deſperate ſorrow led,
A baniſh'd man, I roam the world for bread.
Yet witneſs Heav'n, tho' ſuch thy chang'd decrees, Ne'er did I waſte my hours in loit'ring eaſe;
Ne'er did the bleſſings prompt a wiſh to ſtray,
Health nerv'd my limbs, and virtue bleſs'd my day.
Conſtant at dawn to hardy toils I roſe,
Brav'd the bleak winds, and deſolating ſnows; ​Whilſt ſweet Contentment lent her magic power, Soften'd the gales, and warm'd the frozen ſhower. Still ſad remembrance fondly calls to view The field were once the branching poplar grew. 'Twas there when ſpring renew'd the ploughman's toil My long-drawn furrow turn'd the rugged ſoil; There, with my ſickle, thro' long ſummer days I work'd, regardleſs of the noontide blaze; And there the labouring band, as leiſure ſway'd, The bough-crown'd reaper, and the village maid, Led up the ſports along the bord'ring green, Whilſt age look'd on, and bleſs'd the harmleſs ſcene. Such were my toils, in days too bright to laſt, Such joys were mine, but all thoſe joys were paſt! Mean tho' I was, and circled too with care, Yet, bleſt with little, I had ſtill to ſpare. No neighbour's ſorrows but aſſail'd my breaſt, No poorer brother left my door unbleſt. To all my mite, to ſome, more ſingly dear, I gave the tender tribute of a tear. Oft times, returning from the taſk of day, I hail'd the weary trav'ller on his way, Remark'd the hour of reſt was nearly come, And preſs'd the ſtranger to my ſocial home. Heedleſs of future ills, the playful train, To meet their fire, came ſhouting o'er the plain, With eager joy their little news convey'd, Or round the green their mimic dance diſplay'd. Perhaps, ſome neighb'ring ſwain of genial ſoul Would lift the latch, and join our ſober bowl; And, whilſt his ſoothing tales engag'd the gueſt, Of ſlighted love, or modeſt worth diſtreſt, Whate'er our dairy, or our fields afford, In frugal plenty ſmil'd upon the board. ​Bleſt ſocial home! And ye dear diſtant bow'rs! Scenes of my youth, and all my bliſsful hours, Where'er by fortune's hand neglected thrown, This heart, this faithful heart, is all your own. E'en now, weak nature, rous'd to keener pain, Dwells on your charms, and bleeds in every vein. Good Heav'n! what anguiſh wrung this boding heart When the rough boatſwain gave the word to part. Then firſt the tear, at nature's bidding, fell, As bleeding Friendſhip preſs'd its long farewel. Pale on mine arm connubial mildneſs hung; Fond filial duty round my boſom clung. Firm for their ſakes, along the ſurf-beat ſtrand, And whiſp'ring peace, I led the weeping band; Deceiv'd their thoughts from Auburn's much-lov'd plain, And talk'd of happier feats beyond the main. Poor aged man! ſince that eventful day, Deſpair and terror mark'd thee for their prey. War, ſickneſs, famine burſting on thine head, Mock thy vain toils, and weigh thee to the dead. Ah me! the words our pious preacher ſpoke, When firſt to him my mournful mind I broke. "Edwin," he ſaid, with looks of kind diſmay, "Earth's meteor-hopes but glitter to betray. "Thou canſt not fly from God's all chaſt'ning hand, "Storms ſweep the ocean, diſcord blaſts the land, "Life's various roads all center on the tomb." Thus the meek ſage my raſh reſolve repreſt, Whilſt tears of pity bath'd his hoary breaſt. Oh! had I liſten'd to his wiſe alarms, Then had I died at home in Friendſhip's arms. Twelve tedious weeks we plough'd the wintry main, And hop'd the port, but hop'd alas! in vain ​Till left of Heav'n, and preſs'd for daily bread, Each gaz'd at each, and hung-the ſickly head. Two little ſons, my hope, my humble pride, Too weak to combat, languiſh'd, wail'd, and died. Stretch'd on the deck the breathleſs cherubs lay, As buds put forth in April's ſtormy day, Not Emma's ſelf remain'd my woes to cheer. Borne with her babes upon a wat'ry bier. Five days ſhe ſtruggled with the fever's fire. The ſixth ſad morn beheld my faint expire. Theſe trembling lips, her lips convulſive preſt, Theſe trembling hands ſuſtain'd her ſinking breaſt; Theſe trembling hands diſcharg'd each mournful rite, Sooth'd her laſt pang, and ſeal'd her dying ſight. To the ſame deep their dear remains were given, Their mingled ſpirits wing'd their flight to heaven. One only daughter, in life's vernal pride. Surviv'd the wreck that whelm'd my all beſide. Snatch'd from the peace of death, and loathing day, On bleak Henlopen's coaſt the mourner lay. Theſe aged arms her languid body bore Through the rude breakers to that ruder ſhore. Mercy, ſweet Heav'n! and did the pitying ſtorm Spare but for deeper ills that angel form! Bleſt had we ſunk unheeded in the wave, And mine and Lucy's been one common grave. But I am loſt, a worn-out, ruin'd man, And finds complete what tyranny began. Much had I heard, from men unus'd to feign, Of this New World, and Freedom's gentle reign. 'Twas fam'd that here, by no proud maſter ſpurn'd, The poor man ate ſecure the bread he earn'd; That verdant vales were fed by brighter ſtreams Than my own Medway, or the ſilver Thames; Fields without bounds ſpontaneous fruitage bore, And peace and virtue bleſs'd the favour'd ſhore. ​Such were the hopes which once beguil'd my care, Hopes form'd in dreams, and baſeleſs as the air. Is this, O dire reverſe, is this the land, Where nature ſway'd, and peaceful worthies plann'd! Where injur'd freedom, through the world impell'd Her hallow'd ſeat, her laſt aſylum held!
Ye glitt'ring towns that crown th' Atlantic deep, Witneſs the change, and as ye witneſs weep. Mourn all ye ſtreams, and all ye fields deplore. Your ſlaughter'd ſons, for your verdure ſtain'd with gore. Time was, bleſt time, to weeping thouſands dear When all that poets picture flouriſh'd here. Then war was not, religion ſmil'd and ſpread, Arts, manners, learning, rear'd their polisſh'd head; Commerce, her ſails to every breeze unfurl'd, Pour'd on their coaſts the treaſures of the world. Paſt are the halcyon days. The very land Droops a weak mourner, wither'd and unmann'd. Brothers againſt brother riſe in vengeful ſtrife, The parent's weapon drinks the children's life; Sons, leagu'd with foes, unſheath their impious ſword, And gore the nurturing breaſt they late ador'd. How vain my ſearch to find ſome lowly bower, Far from thoſe ſcenes of death, this rage for power; Some quiet ſpot, conceal'd from every eye, In which to pauſe from wo, and calmly die. No ſuch retreat these boundleſs ſhades embrace, But man with beaſt divides the bloody chace. What tho' ſome cottage riſe amid the gloom, In vain its paſtures ſpring, its orchids bloom: Far, far away the wretched owners roam, Exiles like me, the world their only home. Here, as I trace my melancholy way, The prowling Indian ſnuffs his wanted prey. ​Ha!—ſhould I meet him in his duſky round—
Late in theſe woods I heard his murd'rous ſound— Still the deep war-whoop vibrates on mine ear, And ſtill I hear his tread, or ſeem to hear. Hark, the leaves ruſtle! what a ſhriek was there! 'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air. Hold, coward heart, I'll anſwer to the yell, And chace the murderer to his gory cell. Savage!—but oh! I rave—o'er yonder wild, E'en at this hour he drives my only child; She, the dear ſource and ſoother of my pain, My tender daughter, drags the captive chain. Ah my poor Lucy! in whoſe face, whoſe breaſt, My long-loſt Emma liv'd again confeſt, Thus robb'd of thee, and every comfort fled, Soon ſhall the turf infold this wearied head; Soon ſhall my ſpirit reach that peaceful ſhore, Where bleeding friends unite, to part no more. Then ſhall I ceaſe to rue the fatal morn When firſt from Auburn's vale I roam'd forlorn. He ſpoke—and frantic with the ſad review, Prone on the ſhore his tottering limbs he threw. Life's crimſon ſtrings were burſting round his heart, And his torn ſoul was throbbing to depart; No pitying friend, no meek-ey'd ſtranger near To tend his throes or calm them with a tear. Angels of grace, your golden pinions ſpread, Temper the winds and ſhield his houſeleſs head. Let no rude ſounds diſturb life's awful cloſe, And guard his relicks from inhuman foes. O haſte, and waſt him to thoſe radiant plains, Where fiends torment no mare, and love eternal reigns.
FINIS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse