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Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;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 the green.
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints the smiling plain. . . .
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
— OLIVER GOLDSMITH, The Deserted Village.
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