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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.”
A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.
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;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
But me, not destined such delights to share,
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,
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 :
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know?