10
THE TRAVELLER.
No product here the barren hills afford,But man and steel, the soldier and his sword.No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,But winter lingering chills the lap of May;No Zephyr fondly sooths the mountain's breast,But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small,He sees his little lot, the lot of all;Sees no contiguous palace rear its headTo shame the meanness of his humble shed;No costly lord the sumptuous banquet dealTo make him loath his vegetable meal;But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.Chearful at morn he wakes from short repose,Breasts the keen air, and carrols as he goes;With patient angle trolls the finny deep,Or drives his vent'rous plow-share to the steep;Or seeks the den where snow tracks mark the way,And drags the struggling savage into day.
At
