And round his dwelling guardian saints attend:

Bless’d be that spot, where cheerful guests retire

To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire;

Bless’d that abode, where want and pain repair,

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,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,

Or press the bashful stranger to his food,

And learn the luxury of doing good.

7

7

But me, not destin’d such delights to share,

My prime of life in wandering 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—

flies—

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