1.

Wails the neglected Muse on Tago's shore;
No more his tears the barbarous Age upbraid :
His griefs and wrongs all sooth'd, his happy Shade
Beheld th' Ulysses of his age return

To Tago's banks; and earnest to adorn

The Hero's brows, he weaves the Elysian crown,
What time the letter'd Chiefs of old renown,
And patriot Heroes, in the Elysian bowers
Shall hail Braganza: of the fairest flowers

From Maxen field, the deathless wreath he weaves;
Anxious alone, nor be his vows in vain!

That long his toil unfinished may remain !

The view how grateful to the liberal mind,
Whose glow of heart embraces human kind,
To see a nation rise! But ah, my Friend,
How dire the pangs to mark our own descend!
With ample powers from ruin still to save,
Yet as a vessel on the furious wave,

Through sunken rocks and rav'nous whirlpools tost, 5%
Each power to save in counter-action lost,

Where, while combining storms the decks o'erwhelm,

Timidity slow faulters at the helm,

The crew, in mutiny, from every mast

Tearing its strength, and yielding to the blast ;
By Faction's stern and gloomy lust of change,
And selfish rage inspired and dark revenge—
Nor ween, my Friend, that favoring Fate forbodes
That Albion's state, the toil of demi-gods,

From ancient manners pure, through ages long, 580
And from unnumber'd friendly aspects sprung ;
When poison'd at the heart its soul expires,
Shall e'er again relume its generous fires :
No future day may such fair Frame restore :
When Albion falls, she falls to rise no more.

EPISTLE XV.

TO THE

REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH,

FROM

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

M. B.

THE

TRAVELLER;

OR, A

PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
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. 10

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ;

Blest be that spot, where chearful guests retire
To pause from toil and trim their evʼning fire ;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every 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.

20

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 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.

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, 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, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good, which makes each humbler bosom vain ?40 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 splendor 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 heaven 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,

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