THE TRAVELLER. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 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, But me, not destined such delights to share, 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. |