Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. IX.—February, 1851.—Vol. II.

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, untravel'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. 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. Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And placed 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, Amid 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!