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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-e’er I roam, Whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee: Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
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.