THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, * Several alterations were made in this Poem, and some new verses added to it, as it passed through different edi. tions..... We have followed the last edition published in the lifetime of the author. F Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, But me....not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care; Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And, plac'd on high above the storm's career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine. As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at ræst, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone And his long nights of revelry and ease: The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is supply'd On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side; And though the rocky crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent; Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. Yet these each other's power so strong contest, That either seems destructive of the rest. |