848 



THE TRAVELLER. 



JIow small, of all that human hearts endure, 

 That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. 

 Still to ourselves in every place consigned, 

 Our own folicity we make or find ; 

 With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 



Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 

 The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 

 Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 

 To men remote from power but rarely known, 

 Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



