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Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the fail,
That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,
And steady royalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly when sensual joys invade ;
Unfit in these degen'rate times of shame
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd,
My shame in crowds, my folitary pride :
Thou source of bliss, as well as fource of wo,
Thou found'st me puor at first, and keep'st me so ;
Thou guide, by which the nubler arts excel,
Thou source of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well ;
Farewell ! and oh! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's fide,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ;
And flighted truth with thy persuasive strain,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ;
Teach him that Itates, of native strength poffeft,
Though very poor, may still be very bleft;
That trade's proud empire haltes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ;
While felf-dependent pow'r can time defy,
As rocks resilt the billows and the skys
The Traveller ; or, a prospeit of fociety:
Inscribed to the Author's Brother.
REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, flow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering 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 lengthening chain.
Perpetual blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian faints attend !
Bless'd be that spot where cheerful guests retire,
To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire :
Bless'a that abode where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair :
Bless'd be thoie feasts, with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or figh 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 fuch delights to share,
My prime of life in wand'ring spent, and care ;
Impelld with steps unceasing, to pursue
Some feeting good that mocks me with the view ;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet as I follow flies ;
Me fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E’en now, where Alpine folitudes 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 ?
Say, thould the philofophic mind disdain
'That good which makes each humbler bofom vain?
Let school-taught pride diffemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man ;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of ail mankind.
Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd;
Ye fields, where summer spreads profufion 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 boards his rifing raptures fill,
Yet still he fighs, for hoards are wanting till !
Thus to my breast alternate paflions rife,
Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to man supplies ;
Yet oft a figh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find
Some fpot to real happiness consign'd ;
Where my worn foul, each wand'ring hope at rest,
May gather bliss to see my fellows blelt.
But where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy feas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease :
The naked negro panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden lands and palmy wine ;
Basks in the glare, or ftems 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 bleflings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, fill shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations, makes their blellings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
her bliss at labour's earnelt call.
With food as well the peasant is suppli'd
On Idra's cliffs, as Arno's shelvy fide ;
And though the rocky-crested fummits frown,
These rocks by cultom turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings fent,
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content ;
Yet these each other's power so lírong contest
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails ;
And honour finks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every ftate, to one lov'd blelling prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone,
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends
Till carried to excess in each domain,
This favourite good begets peculiar pain.
Bui let us try these truths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies :
Here for a while, my proper cares religo'd,
Here let me fit, in forrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub at random caft,
That Thades the steep, and lighs at every blast.
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer Italy extends ;
Its uplands, floping, deck the mountain's fide,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ;
While oft fome temple's mouidering tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely bleft.
Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
That proudly rise or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ;
Whatever sweets falute the northern fky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die :
These here difporting, own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand,
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows;
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In Aorid beauty groves and fields appear ;
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contralted faults through all his mariners reign,
Though poor, luxurious, though fubmiffive, vain ;
Though grave, yet trilling; zealous, yet untrue ;
And e'er in penance planning fins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behird ;
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the itate :
At her command ihe palace learn’d to rise,
Again the long fall'n column fought the skies ;
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm ;
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form ;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other fhores display'd her fail !
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave,
But towns unman'd, and lords without a flave :
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet still the loss of wealth is here fupply'd
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride :
From these the feeble heart and long-tail'n mind.
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph, and the cavalcade ;
Proceflions form'd for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
. By sports like these are all their cares beguild ;
The sports of children satisfy the child.
Each nobler aim repress’d by long control,
Now links at last, or feebly mans the foul
While low delights, fucceeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind ;
As in those domes where Cesars once bore sway,
Defac'd by time, and tott’ring in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-feeking peasant builds his shed
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
The Traveller continued. My soul, turn from them-turn we to survey Where roughest climes a nobler race display ; Where the bleak Swiss their stormy, mansion tread, And force a churlish foil for scanty bread ; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly lues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still e'en here content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage
disarm. Tho' poor the peasant's hut, his fealt tho' small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loatbe his vegetable meal ;