The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1878-09-18

darkened sky and cast food OF light upon
the peaceful valley in which the village
stood. The ether dbove the landscape was
Just as blue and deep as when Goldsmith
wrote, the heecy clouds were as shsdowy
and as far away, the sunlight was as warm
and gorgeous, the valley was as green and
the hedges as fragrant, but still the hand OF
poverty and decay was visible on every side,
and the poor cabins of the impoverished
peasautry were the only blemlshes On the
smiling scene As II looked | realized the
absolute truth OF the lines:
Sweet Auburni parent OF the blissful hour.
Thy glaces forlorn confess thy tyrants power,
And now the sounds of population tail,
No cheerful murmurs nuctuase In the gaze.
THE RUINS OF THE VILLAGE INN
were pointed out TO me by a sweet faced
Irish lass of tee peasant class, with brown,
bare feet, and the sun shining through the
tangled masses of her uncombed hair. She
lived in a rude straw matched hut near at
hand, and had never been a dozen miles
from the spot At my rsqueft she
repeated the opening stanzas of the
poem with due appreciation for their
sweetness and beauty. The vivacity and in
telligence of one who D esented such beg
carly appearance pleased me much, and
confirmed my previous impressions OF the
superior natural abilities OF these poor peo-
pie. There is no telling what liberal laws,
q humane and just government, and thor
ough system OF public instruction, such as Is
enjoyed in America, would do for them.
The inn In question is a ruin of not very
imposing character The gable walls are still
in a pretty good state of preservation, but the
side walls are crumbled nearly to level
with the ground, and the roof is gone.
Obscure IL sinks, nor shall II more impart
An hours importance to the poor mans heart,
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion OF MS daily care; .,. toll.
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail.
One may stand on the top of the pyramids
of Cheops, his soul filled with the grandeur
of the past or may walk amid the ancient
RUNS. OF Thebes and Carthage, his mind
overwhelmed with a flood OF recollectlons OF
their faded glory, or may wander amid the
voiceless ruins of ancient Ninevah, and
stand face to face with the people of buried
centuries, or may visit Jerusalem, the sacred
city of the EARTH and stand upon the site of
temple OF Solomon or tread the sacred hills the
pressed by the wandering feet OF Christ. but
do not believe that any of these will fill
the human breast with
SUCH FLOOD or FEELGNG
as the sight of this humble ruin, rendered
glorious by the tenderness and pathos of this
poor Irish vagabond poets genius. | took
a stone from It's crumbling walls and passed
along.
Not a vestige OF the village school house is
now TO be seen, and without guide one can
not even find the spot where it stood. Time
has swept away "the noisy mansion, and
the fame of the village master has departed
with the rest The truant flock, who
had learned TO trace
The days disaster In his morning face,
lie sleeping under the sod IN the yard of Eau
decent church that topped the neighborine
hill" the ragged gables OF which yet stand
to mark the place. In this church Gold
smiths father used TO preach, and, II we may
believe the loving words OF his partial, but
no doubt truthful, biographer,
Truth from his lips prevailed with double
sway,
And fools who came to scof remained to pray
Others say of him that he was a loving
good man, with no knack OF getting on In
the world, which characteristic Oliver SCENT
to have Inherited without diminution OF
modification.
LITTLE SHEET Oh WATER,
fed by sedgy brook, smiling In the sunlight
through the willows, attracted my attention
but 1.-The noisy geese that gobbled Ger the
pool'' were not there 10 complete the picture
made by the poet. The sweet voice of th'
Irish thrush heard in the place OF the LAP
wings UNMARRIED cries" and the solemn flight
OF the clerical rock saw instead of the soil
tary bittern guarding his nest amidst these
deserted walls.
next turned my attention Co the home o
the Goldsmith family, the ruined walls o
which observed rising above the low treei
and shrubs some distance from the pike
This was once the parsonage house, made "a
miliar by many illusions IN The Vicar oil
Wakefield" The grassy lawn in front o.
the ruin, the stately sycamores that line the
wide walk leading to the door, the hawthorne
hedges on either side of the path, and the
beauty OF the surrounding country, all com
bine to make this a delightful spot.
Near yonder corpse, where once the garden
smiled,
And still where many garden flower grow
Wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis
close,
The village preachers modest mansion rose.
Here Oliver lived for a number OF year
With his father, mother, brothers and sisters
IN home OF Innocence and ease" Thu
house is of stone, two stories high. in thu
form OF parallelogram, with a central arch
way towards the street which formed tb
main entrance to the mansion. II is situai
ed SOME 200 yards from the road, and IA wide
green lawn is spread out in front OF it, Fou
shrubs still flourish along the neglected
walk, and some
GRAND OLD ELMs AND sYCAMoREs,
| which must have been the friends OF tn
! youthful past, still lift their mighty tops 4
| heaven and cast their outrageous shad
upon the grass. The oil garden has quit
disappeared and the place IL occupied ha
been turned intoa field for tubers. TIL
premises, though showing neglect and dc
cay, still give evidence of the ancient quie
beauty which once charmed the poets ey
and inspired his heart. l walked up tn
path leading to the door with feelings Q
pensive pleasure. 1 passed under the oil
arch, still looking wide aud hospitablt
through which Oliver must have entere
many times. | stood within the inclosur
and gazed upon those silent walls whic
have echoed the voices OF love and affectio
OF this simple guieless family. thought {
the peace and gentleness which once dive
there, and of the sanity head of the family
'more bent 10 raise the wretched than
rise" | tried 10 picture TO my mind III
family gathered there in the dim evening
when the shadows we're over the siler
world, and thought OF
The broken soldier, kindly babe to stay,
Sat by his fire and talke the night away;
Wept DER his wounds, or tales OF sorrow don,
Shouldered his crutch and showed how field
were won.