they at first rival Poetry, and at length supplant her; they engross all that favour once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, seize upon the elder's birth- 30 right. Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard of late in favour of blank verse, and Pindaric 35 odes, choruses, anapæsts and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence! Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it; and as he is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to say; for error is ever talkative. 40 But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, I mean Party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the tiger, that 45 seldom desists from pursuing man after having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the most agreeable feast upon murdered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half-witted thing, 50 who wants to be thought a bold man, having lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the name of poet; his tawdry lampoons are called satires, his turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. What reception a Poem may find, which has neither 55 abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. Without espousing the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endeavoured to show, that there may be equal happiness in states, that are 60 differently governed from our own; that every state has a particular principle of happiness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mischievous excess. There are few can judge, better than yourself, how far these positions are illustrated in this Poem. I am, dear Sir, Your most affectionate Brother, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 65 REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 5 10 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 ev'ning fire; Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair, 15 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, 20 25 But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wand'ring 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. 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, Look downward where a hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 30 35 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. 41 Ye glitt❜ring towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd, For me your tributary stores combine; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! 50 As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts 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, 55 60 To see th hoard of human bliss so small; But where to find that happiest spot below, As different good, by Art or Nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even. 80 Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 85 Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call ; 90 95 And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; This favourite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right where Apennine ascends, 105 |