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editions published ; and yet it is said that all Goldsmith received for this Poem was twenty guineas, in small installments,—a marked exhibition of the estimate then placed on poetry by either the publishers or the reading public.

". The Traveller was dedicated to “ The Rev. Henry Goldsmith,” brother of the author, at that time a curate in Kilkenny, “a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a year.” A summary of the nature and aim of the work is contained in the closing paragraph of the dedication, which is as follows: “What reception a Poem may find which has neither abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it I can not tell, nor ap: I; solicitous to:krow:: My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavored to show that there may be equal happiness in states that are differently governed from our own; that each state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous

There are few that can judge better than yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this Poem.”






EMOTE, unfriended, melan.

choly, 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.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend :
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire :

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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.

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.

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,
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 ? 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 glittering 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 flowery 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 wandering 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?

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