REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor: Against the houseless stranger shut 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.
Perpetual 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 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 flecting 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.
Jests or pranks-It is to be feared, these words rather encourage more than innocent mirth or cheerfulness, and tend to lightness or dissipation.
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 a 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?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom
vain?
Let school taught pride dissemble all it can
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glitt'ring 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 flow'ry vale,
For me your tributary stores combine :
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:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n 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 wand'ring 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,
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