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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, | 5 |
| A weary waste expanding to the skies: | |
| Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, | |
| My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee; | |
| Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, | |
| And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. | 10 |
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| 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 time their evening fire! | |
| Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, | 15 |
| And every stranger finds a ready chair! | |
| Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, | |
| Where all the ruddy family around | |
| Laughs 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 where to find that happiest spot below, | |
| Who can direct, when all pretend to know? | |
| The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone | 25 |
| Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; | |
| Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, | |
| And his long nights of revelry and ease: | |
| The naked negro, panting at the line, | |
| Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, | 30 |
| Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, | |
| And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. | |
| Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, | |
| His first, best country, ever is at home. | |
| And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, | 35 |
| And estimate the blessings which they share, | |
| Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find | |
| An equal portion dealt to all mankind; | |
| As different good, by art or nature given, | |
| To different nations makes their blessing even. | 40 |
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