Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire, To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Bless'd 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 destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering 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 placed on high, above the storm's career, That good, which makes each humbler bosom vain? And wiser he, whose sympathetick mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering 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 flowery vale, 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; 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, To see the sum 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 wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss, to see my fellows bless'd. But where to find that happiest spot below, The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 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. To different nations, makes their blessings even. Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call; Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails; Hence, every state, to one loved blessing prone, Each to the favourite happiness attends, But let us view these truths with closer eyes, Its uplands, sloping, deck the mountain's side, While oft some temple's mouldering top between, With venerable grandeur marks the scene. |