Sweet Auburn, Loveliest Village Of The Plain.

Hope, Like The Gleaming Taper's Light, Adorns And Cheers Our Way; And Still, As Darker Grows The Night, Emits A Brighter Ray.

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 Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

By Sports Like These Are All Their Cares Beguil'd; The Sports Of Children Satisfy The Child.

Could A Man Live By It, It Were Not Unpleasant Employment To Be A Poet.

Hope, Like The Gleaming Taper