Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen, And desolation saddens all the green.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.