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 ev’ning fire; Bless’d that abode, where want and pain repair, 15 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, 20 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. 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 25 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. 30 E’en 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 a hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, 35 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 splendour crown’d, 45 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! 50 As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts 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, 55 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, 60 Where my worn soul, each wand’ring hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows bless’d.