#Goldsmith’s Deserted Village

[frimleyblogger]

Goldsmith’s Folly

How Hugh Goldsmith put the Logan Rock back on its pivot #Treen #Cornwall

In the early evening of April 8, 1824, Treen’s Logan Rock was dislodged from its pivot by Hugh Goldsmith and the crew of the HMS Nimble, dropping several feet on to a ledge. Once news of Goldsmith’s act of folly reached Penzance, it roused the sort of righteous indignation that only the strict application of Law 20.1.2 in cricket can today. Local worthy, Sir Richard Vyvyan of Trelowarren, vowed…

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1774 – Death of novelist, playwright and poet, Oliver Goldsmith.

Goldsmith lived a thoroughly interesting life, perennially in debt and always fearing the debtors prison. His literary work has been praised and decried. Following his graduation from Trinity College in 1749, he became a kind of wandering minstrel through mainland Europe until he finally settled in London in 1756 where he indulged in a bohemian life of drinking and gambling. His most famous works…

[reassambled-dragoon]

9: Lend An Ear

   Thundering Dusk poured himself a cup of tea and settled into his favorite chair with a sigh. The large house was empty for once, and the silence was a touch unnerving. Bhaldstyr spent most of her time in Ishgard now, which was only proper; his eldest grandchild had a young family of her own, with the Lord Commander of all people. Dusk liked the man well enough, but by the Twelve, he’d never dreamed that the brilliant, eternally-restless Star would aim so high.

   Dusk sipped his tea and watch the flames dance in the fireplace. Sadly, while the heat was very real–thanks to the fire shard array Bhaldstyr had invented–the flames themselves were illusion. He smiled as he remembered Bhaldstyr’s earnest explanation after the Calamity, when the village had realized the unnatural cold was here to stay in Coerthas: “We can’t count on trees continuing to grow properly, let alone in the same numbers, Old Man. Instead of wasting wood we need to build with, let’s try this instead…”

   He chuckled, recollecting how his adopted brother, Walking Oak, had agreed with that wild plan. Then again, if anyone would be able to determine how plants could adapt, it would be a master botanist. How many times over the decades had Dusk listened to Oak’s lectures, theories, and sometimes mad conjectures? Then again, the man was right far more often than he was wrong, as evidenced by the careful proliferation of flora around the snowy village. Some of their people, Dusk included, had foreign plantings thriving in their yards, like the twin wisteria trees out front.

   Dusk loosely crossed his legs at the ankle, his gaze drifting to the stairs leading to the bedrooms, all of which were empty at the moment. Joyful Dawn, his second grandchild, had married her childhood love and split her time between home and Ala Mhigo. Dawn and Ochre Canyon were part of the Resistance, and whenever they visited, they filled his ears with stories, some of which were probably the reason his hairline was making a continual retreat. Dusk wished those two would just come home and stay, but he doubted they ever would; they’d been miserable when the snows had come. Desert souls, those two were, and he couldn’t fault them for it.

   The older Hellsguard finished his cup and poured himself more, his eyes shifting to a closed book across from him, on the purple living room table. His third grandchild, Wandering Moon, had left it there before leaving to join his friends a few hours ago. Bless the young man, he couldn’t seem to make up his mind on whether to follow his mother into goldsmithing, or his stepfather into magitek. For all Dusk knew, Moon would somehow find a way to combine the two; certainly, Moon’s scarred face lit up when the boy started talking about the merits of both, though Dusk would never admit how baffled he was by the bizarreness of those conversations. Why not settle on one? Granted, Dusk knew that Cid had goldsmithing knowledge and made both disciplines work, but still…

   The front doors blew open, making Dusk jump a little. He craned his head to peer around one of the display cabinets as a veritable horde piled inside, filling the house with a cacophony of laughing voices. Styrmsatza’s rose over the hubbub, roaring everyone into silence for a moment that lasted only long enough for someone to shut the cold out again, and a flurry of giggles as someone else reminded the rowdies about the boots at the door rule. Dusk simply waited, refilling his cup again. When he looked up, his white eyebrows rose as…so many people, ye gods…

   Fordola and Arenvald: the former surly as always, but her throat finally bare of that accursed death sentence; the latter seated in his wheeled chair, a broad grin on his white-painted face. Bhaldstyr and Aymeric, the latter holding a six-month-old girl, with a pre-teen Elezen girl bouncing on her toes. (Catrine insisted Mama Star and Papa Aymeric hadn’t adopted her, she’d adopted them.) There was a flash of silvery-white hair behind Aymeric, and Dusk caught a glimpse of Estinien’s rare smile.

   Joyful Dawn and Ochre Canyon popped up behind Fordola, who shockingly didn’t glare at their proximity. Wandering Moon had his toddler half-brother, Laughing Sky, on his broad shoulders, the small boy waving excitedly at his bemused grandfather. Someone pushed Cid through the crowd, Dusk never did see who, and someone else playfully shoved X’rhun through as well. X’rhun dragged the ever-tiny Alphinaud and Alisaie with him, and Storm and her twin’s grinning faces suddenly appeared at the back of the melee. The jostling suddenly stopped as Storm Singer let loose a piercing whistle; poor X’rhun’s ears actually pinned back with a wince.

   “All right, you lot. Is someone going to tell me just why a not-so-small army has invaded my living room?” Dusk demanded, raising an eyebrow as he surveyed the barely-retrained chaos.

   Estinien’s slightly-roughened voice spoke up. “Well, Old Man, a big red birdie told us it’s your nameday. As we could not figure out what to give the man who had given this family so much–”

   “Well, we did have some ideas, but–” Ochre started, only to grunt as Fordola stomped on his toes.

   X’rhun chuckled and crossed his arms, flicking an ear with amusement. “How many times, over the years, have you listened to all of our tales of joy and woe, fiction and fact?”

   Dusk narrowed his eyes, then whipped around to stare at the dragon’s eye that peered through the window at him. “Hekaarn–”

   -Fear not, Old Man. I’m not joining your flock in there. This time.-

   Before Dusk could do more than splutter, Catrine bounced over to his chair and strangled him with a fierce hug. “We wanted to lend an ear to your stories tonight. Unless you wanted to be buried in gifts…”

   Forget breathing; Dusk wrapped the girl in a bear-hug before she could let go, then released his hold, gazing at his massive family–blood and otherwise. At some point, Walking Oak had snuck in, beaming at his brother from near the kitchen–the only spot big enough for him.

   “By the gods, you lot are the best gift anyone could ask for. All right. Oak, if you could brew enough tea for this crowd, and Styrmsatza, if you’d be kind enough to pass out enough cushions so everyone’s comfortable?” Dusk watched as everyone found somewhere to sit. Alisaie pulled the fat cat rug over from the staircase-bookshelf, and the three Elezen youths claimed it as their own, seated at Dusk’s feet.

[dragoon-mid-jump]

2 and 15 for Y’dehlya

5 and 19 for U’reksh!

Give me the catte lore

Someone who influenced my muse over a longer span of time and Someone my muse is afraid of

"Truthfully," Y'dehlya begins, "I was afraid of the Endsinger, and what her song was capable of. But, I couldn't allow that fear to hold me for very long. I had to keep hope up that we could overcome her. So yes, I am capable of being afraid."

She puts a hand to her chin. "As for that first part, my father's parents always used to tell me stories about the adventures they had when they were younger. It's why I wanted to become an adventurer myself." She gives a sad smile. "They died right before I struck out on my own as one. I miss them dearly; there's so much I would've loved to tell them."

Someone my muse used to like / respect / love, but doesn’t any more and Someone who gets on my muse’s nerves

U'reksh crosses his arms and frowns. "I thought Hamon was pretty cool as the Guildmaster of the Pugilists...And then he asked me to take him to my village. Thought it was gonna be for some more training and recruiting, but no! Bastard started ogling a bunch of my friends from back home! What the hells, man?"

His frown deepens and his hands clench into fists as he grits his teeth. "Fuck that Eric guy in the Goldsmith Guild! I'm not stupid, I grew up in a small village the middle of the godsdamned desert with little technology! I didn't know shit about ambient aetheric measurements, what the fuck did you want from me?"

(Thanks, Reed!)

(Prompt!)

[thekeyofreason]

Found in "Americans Into Orbit" by Gene Gurney. Published by Random House, 1962.

Found in "The Children's Friend" by Mrs. Adelaide Bee Evans. Published by Review and Herald, 1928.

Found in "The Stories of John Cheever" published by Alfred A. Knopf, 1978.

Found in "Girl With a Pearl Earring" by Tracy Chevalier. Published by Plume, 2001.

Found in "Spurs for Suzanna" by Betty Cavanna. Published by Scholastic, 1962.

Found in "The Moonstone Castle Mystery" by Carolyn Keene. Published by Grosset and Dunlap, 1985.

Found in "Yinka-Tu the Yak" by Alice Alison Lide. Published by The Viking Press, 1938.

Found in "The Comforts of Madness" by Paul Sayer. Published by Doubleday, 1990.

Found in "Misery" by Stephen King. Published by Viking, 1987.

Found in "The Deserted Village" by Oliver Goldsmith. Published by Coates & Co., no date.

Forgotten Bookmarks found in books (x)

[curtiscroachblog]

From failure to success (3)

Word for Today written by Bob and Debby Gass

Thursday 8th February 2024

'Many...say of me, "There is no help for him."' Psalm 3:2 NKJV

A Christian leader writes: 'Oliver Goldsmith was born the son of a poor preacher in Ireland in the 1700s. Growing up, he wasn't a great student. In fact, his schoolmaster labelled him a "stupid blockhead". He did manage to earn a [university] degree, but he finished at the bottom of his class. He was unsure of what he wanted to do. At first he tried to become a preacher, but it didn't suit him...Next he tried law but failed at it. He then settled on medicine, but he was an indifferent doctor...not passionate about his profession. He was able to hold several posts only temporarily. Goldsmith lived in poverty, was often ill, and once even had to pawn his clothes to buy food. It looked like he would never find his way. But then he discovered an interest and aptitude for writing and translating. At first, he worked as a Fleet Street reviewer and writer. But then he began to write works that came out of his own interests. He secured his reputation as a novelist with The Vicar of Wakefield, a poet with "The Deserted Village", and a playwright with She Stoops to Conquer.'

Goldsmith's story sounds like the psalmist David's - and maybe yours too: 'Many are they who say of me, "There is no help for him in God." But you, O Lord, are a shield for me, my glory and the one who lifts up my head' (Psalm 3:2-3 NKJV).

You may be down today, but God will lift you up if you turn to him for guidance and cooperate with his plan for your life.

[whatisqa]

What are names of the books written by Oliver Goldsmith?

What are names of the books written by Oliver Goldsmith?Name: Oliver Goldsmith. Date of Birth: 10 November 1728. Died: 4 April 1774. Nationality: Irish. Country: Kingdom of Ireland. Occupation: Playwright, Poet, Busker, Apothecary’s assistant. Books: The Vicar of Wakefield. The Deserted Village. The Citizen of the World. An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. The Traveller (poem). A History of the Earth … Read the full article

[engravedinaash]

Memory

Part 3- Young Adult (1.0 era)

cw for blood mention, reference to self destructive behavior

Lore Masterpost

the link contained within one of the sentences of this post links to another piece of lore that delves deeper into Keeper of the Moon specific lore I have and how my character copes with it. Its completely optional to read, there may only be vague references to it in the future like it is written vaguely here. See the annotation at the end for more info

Sen does not initially enjoy the hot desert air of Thanalan, but it welcomes him nonetheless.

Things settle with the villagers rather painlessly; Ul’dah will give them refuge thanks to the copious amounts of valuable minerals and ore they have to trade. Sen makes sure each family has enough to get them on their feet. He is on auto-pilot and doesn’t even register the horrified stares of the guards and citizens at his disheveled and dirty appearance. Sea water can only clean up so much blood, and he knew his tail was stiff with it.

Darek all but forces Sen to stay with him when things settle. He encourages the young man to take a break and recover, which is a tall bargain for the stubborn miqo’te. At the very least they both seem to silently agree that Sen should not be dealing with weapons or combat for a while. Sen expected Darek to settle into the miner’s guild for income, but the old man says something about retiring and revisiting a passion he used to be able to indulge before focusing on mining out of necessity: Goldsmithing. He is welcomed in that guild and provides his own special expertise. 

After everything heightened to the extreme physically and emotionally during…the incident, coming back down and trying to stay there has left Sen feeling numb. All he can do is go about the motions of life as he knew it. He spends most days out in the sweltering heat mining: repetitive and familiar motions. He would go for hours and push his body to its limit to feel something. Darek catches on quickly to his habit of overworking in the field as a distraction and must have gone to the miner’s guild himself to make sure Sen is forced to stop at some point or another. Usually something about leaving some quarries for the rest of the guild.

He soon stops returning home each night after putting up his tools. He wanders Ul’dah’s streets and hides in the dark corners into the late hours feeling little more than a hollow shell. Keepers already were prone to insomnia, usually more so during their individual lunar cycles*, but Sen has found it happening more frequently since… 

He can’t think about it. He doesn’t. 

Or at least he tries not to.

It soon becomes worse. At least when he’s working he can tune out any looming thoughts with the noises of his pickaxe. Alone, he feels those clouds in his mind become darker and heavy. 

He has not forgotten about his mother and brother, but the thought of mailing them fills him with fear and dread. He feels like a failure, in every way possible. And he’s angry about it. He failed his brother who perished to wolves, he failed his remaining family by leaving them behind even if he needed to, he failed to get the information he sought about his ancestry, and most of all he failed–

No. He can’t think about him in such a miserable way again. Many nights now his mind has tortured him with scenarios and regrets, I shouldn’t have left, I should have known, I failed to protect them– and he runs out of ways to silence everything. He promised he would live. His stubbornness and love are keeping him breathing. 

So he finds other ways to tire his body and mind in any way available to him, anything he can do to silence the voices. Even if it’s destructive to himself.

This is Sen’s life for about half a year or so. Numb, pain, empty, overflowing. Repeated. Occupied with his agony, he doesn’t even notice the increasing size of the moon Dalamud until he hears of it by word of mouth. He sees it now. The sky is brighter at night. The weather is strange. Some are frightened, and some are skeptical. 

He nearly thinks nothing of it until he hears new information from a drunken Immortal Flames private that frequents Amajina and Sons. This is the Garlean Empire’s doing. An attack on Eorzea is imminent. 

Sen’s ears ring loudly. All this time he tried to forget, to live life in ignorance. Bliss was not an option for him but he could handle looming misery. But then he finally wakes up. What he did that night in Ilsabard was not enough. One army was not enough to avenge him. Emrys. When the time comes, he will unleash the same beast again. The Empire will pay.

His heart is beating as fast as it did once before as he swiftly leaves the guild and goes straight for Ul’dah’s Grand Company office. 

•·················•·················•

Sen climbs the ranks of the Immortal Flames quickly and with ease. Between hunting logs, various missions, training his chocobo Mikha, and training himself, he finds his days full of activity and purpose again. He doesn’t have time to dwell on any of those thoughts he had before, has no time for his usual self deprecating activities. His mind is occupied with thoughts of revenge, of vengeance. 

He hears whispers now and then about himself. About that night that felt like yesterday and a thousand years ago all at once. The rage that unleashed from inside him fit enough to call a him a bloodthirsty animal that slaughtered a small army of Imperials on his own. Impressive, terrifying, impossible, heroic. He tries to not listen too closely. He keeps to himself still, as he always has. He works alone as much as he can. 

Soon enough there comes a time when he is personally briefed about the current situation about the Empire. And then all at once preparations are made, and before Sen knows it he and the rest of the Grand Company are converging in Northern Thanalan with other members of the Eorzean Alliance to march onward. To fight. Sen stares at the ever descending Dalamud, the star bright and as red as fresh blood. He has a feeling he will be seeing more of that color soon.

•·················•·················•

*lunar cycles: reference to my own personal lore for all my Keepers of the Moon OCs

Each umbral moon(every other month) in the middle of the lunar cycle, keepers experience a sudden onset of insomnia, keeping them awake the entire period the moon is full. For adults, there is an annual heat period that will be triggered by the moon on one of these nights**. 

(**the latter is explored in the optional lore piece contained in the link. yes i dusted off my old ao3 account just to post it)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"CHIEF DOESN'T WANT WARDS PUT IN POLICEMEN'S HOMES," Toronto Star. April 9, 1943. Page 2. ---- Chief Draper Strongly Opposes Request of Children's Aid Society ---- INSPECTORS ALSO ==== "I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't report against this proposal," Chief Draper stated to the board of police commissioners Thursday in a report on the request of the Children's Aid society that policemen's homes be again opened to foster children.

At the last meeting, a deputation of the Welfare council urged the ban put on in 1936 against police officers taking in children, be lifted for duration of the war. Appended to Chief Draper's report were statements of 15 police inspectors, all against allowing policemen the chance of caring for homeless children.

Colonel A. E. Kirkpatrick said he needed time to read the reports and the matter was held over to another meeting.

"The public has been wasteful for years," declared Col. A. E. Kirkpatrick while urging legislation to change the name of junk yards to salvage yards. "We want to create the impression on the public that salvage is valuable in wartime," he added.

Judge Frank Denton opposed the suggested change on the grounds the places "are properly named at present."

Mayor Conboy voted with Col. Kirkpatrick and a motion was passed asking legislation committee of city council to. seek permissive legislation.

"The professional gambler never sleeps," said Chief Draper during discussion on the legality of electric "anti-aircraft guns" use in Toronto stores. J. Palmer Kent, commission secretary, said no returns were paid and that it was a game of skill. "It is the thin edge of the wedge," argued Chief Draper, "to bring back slot machines into general use in Toronto."

Sergt. Albert Marshall of the license office said there were only at few such machines in Toronto. The board asked a further report on the machines.

"Jarvis street is now like Goldsmith's deserted village." argued E. J. Murphy when the Victory Taxi issue was reopened. At the last meeting, the license was cancelled. Mr. Murphy said early closing of the beverage rooms had improved conditions on Jarvis St.

Inspector Robert Davie declared conduct was better in vicinity of the Victory office.

"They have a lease on the present office until Sept. 15," asserted Mr. Murphy. He asked the cancellation order be lifted until then.

"I'm not content to lift the cancellation order at present," declared the mayor. The matter was held over but the company was given permission to operate pending a final decision.

"We intend to clean up Jarvis St.," the mayor added.

Major R. C. Witthun of No. 31. company. Provost Corps. M.D. 2. Toronto, told the commissioners the "riot act had to be read to some soldiers found in the Select Lunch, Queen St. W. It was put out of bounds because number of a "doubtful looking women" frequented the restaurant, Major Witthun said.

Inspector Robert Davie, recommending cancellation of the license, told of fights, and "other disturbances" and said they were almost nightly occurrences.

John Grudeff, counsel for the licensee, said new management was taking over. The license was continued on probation and instructions given that men in uniform be barred.

A special advisory committee "to straighten out the taxi-cab mess" will be appointed, it was decided. Proposed by Jack Gadd, president of the taxi-cab drivers' union, the committee will comprise employees, representatives of the union and police.

The matter of women cab drivers was left over pending views of the advisory committee of the transit controller. K. R. Wallace, representing the Federal Association of Taxi Cab Owners, asked for permission to hire women.

Mr. Gadd said the union still could find sufficient men.

[poems-quotes-etc]

Angela’s Ashes Quote 31

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule

The village master taught his little school.

A man sever he was and stern to view,

I knew him well, and every truant knew,

Full well the boding temblers learned to trace

The day’s disaster in his morning face.

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes for many a joke had he.

Full well the busy whisper circling round

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.

 -

Yet he was kind, or, if sever in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault.

The village all declared how much he knew.

‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too.

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,

For, even though vanquished, he could argue still,

While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around.

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

Page 287 paperback

(The Village Schoolmaster or The Deserted Village by Oliver Goldsmith)

[harrypotterhousequotes]

RAVENCLAW:

“And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all it knew.”

–Oliver Goldsmith (The Deserted Village)

[eights-of-spades]

Knave’s Deal: Highway Robbery

Ul'dah is known as the 'Jewel of the Desert' throughout Eorzea. One of the many reasons the moniker has stuck is the rich gemstone and goldsmithing trade that goes on behind the city's walls which is then shipped out across the Alliance. Yet not all that glitters is gold and not every precious material sparkles. Ul'dahn mines produce more than just gold, silver and gemstones. Valuable mineral and ores are also mined from the many mountains to then be shipped off for processing by Limsa Lominsa's formidable metallurgic guilds.

The Ul'ana Mining Concern is a collective of a few wealthy landowners who combine the results of their mining companies to demand higher prices from foreign markets. (As well as claiming false ties to the royal line) For the past few moons the Concern seems to be operating just above 'breaking even'... yet the landowners still seem to be rolling in riches. They're frequently spotted at society events and along the Gold Court flaunting their material wealth. Something isn't quite adding up.

Despite turning almost no profit the Concern is very adamant about their charitable missions to the outer edges of the Thanalans. Port towns in particular. Twice a moon a shipment of 'relief' consisting of food and second-hand clothing is shipped out to the Silver Bazaar. Yet a short trip reveals that often times the villagers receive little more than some moth-eaten blankets and a few rotten cabbages. It's become obvious that the Concern is far more concerned with lining their pockets than the well-being of the Bazaar residents.

Any self-respecting citizen would feel compelled to act. To correct these wrongful actions. Filing a formal complaint would take moons and give the Concern far too much warning to clean up their act before inspection. It would be much faster and far more effective to teach them a valuable lesson out on the open road.

keywords: ul'dah, light crime, thievery, heist aesthetics, masked hijinks, rogues with hearts of gold (or at least a semi-precious metal)

power level: low to mid

OOC Info Under the Cut:

Hello! I'm looking for players for some crime flavoured events, primarily ones involving theft. They will consist of two parts: a meeting where characters plan their approach to a situation, followed by an event where they execute their plan. Characters that best fit the concept are good at teamwork, primarily attempt to solve problems through non-violent means and, despite being thieves and crooks (or other professionals willing to dabble in thievery), have some sense of morals.

Due to the low-med power level and my goal of keeping the events within their theme and timeframe, I am not recruiting characters with concepts that, when revealed to others, would demand attention or cause immediate conflict between player characters (e.g. voidsent and voidtouched, black and white mages, ashkin, warriors of light, outworlders). Thank you for your understanding!

Promotional Image and OOC blurb by @guttergodsknife

To join: Send me or @guttergodsknife​ a private message. You can also contact me directly on Discord: Klynk#3543 . You’ll need discord to join the scheduling discussions.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1774 – Death of novelist, playwright and poet, Oliver Goldsmith.

#OTD in 1774 – Death of novelist, playwright and poet, Oliver Goldsmith.

Goldsmith lived a thoroughly interesting life, perennially in debt and always fearing the debtors prison. His literary work has been praised and decried. Following his graduation from Trinity College in 1749, he became a kind of wandering minstrel through mainland Europe until he finally settled in London in 1756 where he indulged in a bohemian life of drinking and gambling. His most famous works…

[thesquireinvictus]

The Deserted Village BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed, Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove! These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please; These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed, These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choaked 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, 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. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: 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, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to oppulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, 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, 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, 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, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out 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 shew my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening groupe to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns, in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from the gate, But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 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 towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was layed, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain transitory splendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes. But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped—What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others woe. But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose; And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excell, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and O where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether were equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

[jawnkeets]

hi :-) do you happen to have recs for any british authors/poets that are a little more.. obscure, i guess? i'm not a native speaker of english but studying it at university, and i would like to branch out a little in my reading - i feel like we only talk about the same people in my seminars, eg. milton, austen, dickens, shakespeare, pope, some of the romantics etc., and i would like to read sth that's a little.... idk how to say it, i love these authors but i'd like to find sth different? thx 🌹

hi!! so i’m not sure what is and isn’t well-known outside of the uk (some of these are still pretty well-known within the uk), but i’ll dump a load and hopefully a few will be new to you :+) let’s do it in periods.

if you’re feeling adventurous and want to go medieval/ pre-shakespeare, i recommend (in translation) the elegies and riddles of the exeter book, ‘the wanderer’ (one of said elegies), ‘the dream of the rood’, ‘the phoenix’, ‘the whale’ (these are old english), mandeville’s book of marvels and travels, julian of norwich’s revelations of divine love (middle english), the poetry of william dunbar (a scottish makar active late 15th/ early 16th century), especially ‘the goldyn targe’. also if you’d like to venture into chaucer (not obscure obviously but equally lots of syllabuses don’t stretch this far back), his dream visions r my fav and a great place to start.

if you like shakespeare and want stuff from a similar-ish period that’s still quite different to shakespeare, try andrew marvell and george herbert. they have a couple of v v famous poems that come up again and again in uk secondary school syllabuses (’love (iii)’ for herbert, ‘to his coy mistress’ for marvell), but they are consistently excellent poets.*

if you’re a pope fan, try john gay, especially trivia, and lady mary wortley montagu. swift is my favourite writer from this period, but gulliver’s travels is massive, so he’s not a very out-there recommendation.

if you’re a fan of the romantics, try john clare – he’s a lesser-known late romantic poet who i absolutely adore. this is a fabulous poem. charlotte smith is a female romantic poet (there were female romantic poets…?) who wrote this lovely nightingale poem, which is of course a popular romantic subject. also i know mary shelley’s v famous, but if you haven’t read the last man, it’s about a plague slowly wiping out all of mankind… interesting too is what comes in between pope and co. and the romantics: william collins (try ‘ode on the poetical character’), oliver goldsmith (’the deserted village’), thomas gray (’elegy written in a country churchyard’ is pretty famous, but i like ‘ode on a distant prospect of eton college’, too).

into victorian: i’m super into victorian horror and spookiness so this is pretty weighted towards that, my apologies. richard marsh’s the beetle outsold dracula at the time, but has since faded into obscurity. it’s got some serious issues but i have a soft spot for it. arthur machen is a welsh writer who wrote this AMAZING story called the great god pan, which i think has been SO unfairly neglected. well-known authors like robert louis stevenson and george eliot wrote lesser-known stuff that is great and that i rly hope ppl will give some love to (the body snatchers and the lifted veil respectively).

moving into modern and beyond, i struggle to keep it british as i tend to prefer american modernism, postmodernism etc. but try samuel beckett (huge but good), philip larkin, and, if you’re looking for a challenge, j. h. prynne (the white stones). edit: i forgot jez butterworth’s jerusalem - big mistake.

i also have a poetry recommendations list! most of the lesser-known english-speaking poets on it are american, though, rather than british. but a lot of the poets i’ve mentioned above are on there, if you’re looking for a place to start with their poetry 😊 hope this helps, and happy reading!

- - - - 

*gap here bc there rly isn’t much like paradise lost lol it’s smth else

[detroitlib]

Oliver Goldsmith (10 November 1728 – 4 April 1774) 

Irish novelist, playwright and poet, who is best known for his novel The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), his pastoral poem The Deserted Village (1770), and his plays The Good-Natur'd Man (1768) and She Stoops to Conquer (1771, first performed in 1773). He is thought to have written the classic children's tale The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes (1765). (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Illustrations from The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith, M. B.  A New Edition, In Four Volumes. To which is prefixed, some account of his life and writings. Volume I. - IV.  London: Printed for J. Johnson; W.J. and J. Richardson; W. Otridge and Son; F. and C. Rivington; J. Walker, W. Lowndes; Vernor and Hood; Cuthell and Martin; F. Wingrave; Scatcherd and Letterman; Wilkie and Robinson; P. McQueen; R. Lea; Darton and Harvey; Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme; Cadell and Davies; and J. Matthews, 1806.