What reception a Poem may find, which has neither 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 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.
THE TRAVELLER
OR
A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY
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 untravell'd fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
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