may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem,

I am, dear Sir,

Your most affectionate brother,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE

TRAVELLER.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a length'ning chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire Το pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire;

Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry 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,

And learn the luxury of doing good.

But me, not destin'd such delights to share,

My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care;
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;

My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.

E'en 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.

Derigned by F.Wheatley R.A.

Engraved by T.Medland

Ev'n now,

where atpine solitudes ascend?

I sit me down a pensive hour to spend.

The Traveller.

Published 1 December 1800, by EJ. Du Roveray London.

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