My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And plac'd on high, above the storm's career, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor 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, Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. But where to find that happiest spot below, As different good, by art or nature given To different nations, makes their blessings even. Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call: 82 With food as well the peasant is supplied Each to the favorite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends Till, carried to excess in each domain, This favorite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: Here, for a while my proper cares resign'd, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 104 |