The smiling isles, nam'd Fortunate of old,
First on her Ocean's bosom fair unfold:

Thy world, Columbus, spreads its various breast,
Proud to be first by Lisboa's waves carest ;
And Afric woes and leads her easy way
To the fair regions of the rising day.
If Turkey's drugs invite or silken pride,
Thy straits, Alcides, give the ready tide;
And turn the prow, and soon each shore expands
From Gallia's coast to Europe's northern lands.

When Heaven decreed low to the dust to bring That lofty oak, Assyria's boastful King, Deep, said the angel voice, the roots secure With bands of brass, and let the life endure, For yet his head shall rise.—And deep remain The living roots of Lisboa's ancient reign, Deep in the castled isle on Asia's strand, And firm in fair Brazilia's wealthy land. And say, while ages roll their length'ning train, Shall Nature's gifts to Tagus still prove vain, An idle waste!-A dawn of brightest ray Has boldly promis'd the returning day Of Lisboa's honors, fairer than her prime Lost by a rude unletter'd Age's crimeNow Heaven-taught Science and her liberal band Of Arts, and dictates by experience plann'd, Beneath the smiles of a benignant Queen Boast the fair opening of a reign serene,

Of omen high.-And Camoens' Ghost no more

Wails the neglected Muse on Tago's shore ;
No more his tears the barbarous Age upbraid:
His griefs and wrongs all sooth'd, his happy Shade
Beheld th' Ulysses of his age return

To Tago's banks; and earnest to adorn

The Hero's brows, he weaves the Elysian crown,
What time the letter'd Chiefs of old renown,
And patriot Heroes, in the Elysian bowers
Shall hail Braganza: of the fairest flowers
Of Helicon, entwin'd with laurel leaves

From Maxen field, the deathless wreath he weaves;
Anxious alone, nor be his vows in vain!

That long his toil unfinish'd may remain !

The view how grateful to the liberal mind,
Whose glow of heart embraces human kind,
To see a nation rise! But ah, my Friend,
How dire the pangs to mark our own descend!
With ample powers from ruin still to save,
Yet as a vessel on the furious wave,

Through sunken rocks and rav'nous whirlpools tost,
Each power to save in counter-action lost,

Where, while combining storms the decks o'erwhelm, Timidity slow faulters at the helm,

The crew, in mutiny, from every mast

Tearing it's strength, and yielding to the blast;
By Faction's stern and gloomy lust of change,
And selfish rage inspir'd and dark revenge-
Nor ween, my Friend, that favoring Fate forbodes
That Albion's state, the toil of demi-gods,

From ancient manners pure, through ages long,
And from unnumber'd friendly aspects sprung;
When poison'd at the heart it's soul expires,
Shall e'er again relume it's generous fires:
No future day may such fair Frame restore :
When Albion falls, she falls to rise no more!

EPISTLE XV.

TO THE

REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH,

FROM

OLIVER GOLDSMITH,

M. B.

THE

TRAVELLER,

OR, A

PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, 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 untravell'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;

Blest be that spot where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ;
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair :

Blest 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 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.

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