Читать книгу The Complete Poetical Works of Oliver Goldsmith - Оливер Голдсмит - Страница 13

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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, 55

Pleas'd with each good that heaven to man supplies:

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,

To see the hoard of human bliss so small;

And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find

Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 60

Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest,

May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd.

But where to find that happiest spot below,

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?

The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 65

Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,

Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,

And his long nights of revelry and ease;

The naked negro, panting at the line,

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 70

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,

And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,

His first, best country ever is, at home.

And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 75

And estimate the blessings which they share,

Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find

An equal portion dealt to all mankind,