1. Wails the neglected Muse on Tago's shore; To Tago's banks; and earnest to adorn The Hero's brows, he weaves the Elysian crown, From Maxen field, the deathless wreath he weaves; That long his toil unfinished may remain ! The view how grateful to the liberal mind, Through sunken rocks and rav'nous whirlpools tost, 5% Where, while combining storms the decks o'erwhelm, Timidity slow faulters at the helm, The crew, in mutiny, from every mast Tearing its strength, and yielding to the blast ; From ancient manners pure, through ages long, 580 EPISTLE XV. TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH, FROM OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M. B. THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; Blest be that spot, where chearful guests retire Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 20 But me, not destin'd such delights to share, Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; Even 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 an 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 ?40 Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd, 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 wand'ring 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? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, bo |