From “The Traveller”
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 untravelled...
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From “The Traveller”
TURN me to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread:
No product here the barren hills afford
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword;
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But... -
From “The Vicar of Wakefield”
“TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.“For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.”“Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries,...
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From “The Traveller”
FIRED at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide.
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentler music melts on every spray;
Creation’s mildest charms are there... -
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o’er thy green,
Where humble... -
From “The Traveller”
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,
Pleased with each good that heaven to man supplies:
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall... -
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene’er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes:
The naked... -
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize;
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor—
Who left a pledge behind.She strove the neighborhood to please,
With manner wondrous winning...