TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. DEAR SIR, I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a-year. I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished nations; but in a country verging to the extremes of refinement, painting and As these offer the music come in for a share. feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, G they at first rival poetry, and at length sup. | plant her; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birthright. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in great danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric orders, choruses, anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger,.that seldom desists from pursuing man, after having once preyed upon buman flesh, the reader who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet: his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbulence is said to be force, and his phrenzy fire. What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there 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, THE TRAVELLER; OR A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.* Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; • In this poem, as it passed through different editions, several alterations were made, and some additional verses introduced. We have followed the ninth edition, which was the last that appeared in the lifetime of the Author. Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire Where all the ruddy family around But me, not destined such delights to share, That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, pear; 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? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery 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, Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies; Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; 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 shuddering 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, Nature, a mother kind alike to all, And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone, But let us try these truths with closer eyes, Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; Its uplands sloping, deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mouldering tops be tween With venerable grandeur mark the scene. These here disporting 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 florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; state; At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; The canvass 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 shores display'd her sail : While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied, By arts, the splendid wrecks for former pride ; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find.. As in those domes where Cæsars once bore sway, Defac'd by time and tottering in decay, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion | Their level life is but a smouldering fire, tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast tho' small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But binds him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; Their wants but few, their wishes all confined. That first excites desire, and then supplies; Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit like falcons cowering on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Thro' life's more cultured walks, and charm the way; These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. How often have I led thy sportive choir, Where shading elms along the margin grew, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought: And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, Thus, while around the wave-subjected Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; brow How much unlike the sons of Britain now! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, There all around the gentlest breezes stray, charms, Yet think not, thus while Freedom's ills I I mean to flatter kings or court the great; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, O then how blind to all that truth requires, Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; |