What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell; nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness; and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, dear Sir, Your most affectionate brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. [Illustration: THE TRAVELLER] Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow-- Or by the lazy Scheldt, 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. 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. [Illustration] But me, not destin’d 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. [Illustration] Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And plac’d on high, above the storms career, Look downward where an hundred realms appear-- Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd’s humbler pride. [Illustration]