THE TRAVELLER, OR A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Champania'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 lengthening chain. 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 *In this poem several alterations were made, and some new verses added, as it passed through different editions. We have printed from the last edition published in the life-time of the author. Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, But me, not destin'd such delights to share, When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er ; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 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 Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 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. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ; And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, |