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Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year; ,
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign;
Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
And even in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date,
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state;
At her command the palace learnt to rise,
Again the long fall'n column sought the skies;
The canvass glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm;
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail;
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave,
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave.
And late the nation found with fruitless skill
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mini

An easy compensation seem to find.

Here may be seen in bloodless pomp array'd,

The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade;

Processions form'd for piety and love,

A mistress or a saint in every grove.

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd,

The sports of children satisfy the child;

Each nobler aim, represt by long control,

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;

While low delights succeeding fast behind,

In happier meanness occupy the mind:

As in those domes, were Csesars once bore sway,

Defac'd by time and tott'ring in decay,

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;

And wondering man could want the larger pile,

Exults, andownr his cottage with a smile.

My soul turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; 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 sues 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 feast tho' small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contigious palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed;

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal

To make him loath his vegetable meal;

But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,

Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.

Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,

Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes;

With patient angle trolls the finny deep,

Or drives the vent'rous plough-share to the steep;

Or seeks the den where snow tracks mark the way,

And drags the struggling savage into day.

At night returning, eveiy labor sped,

He sits him down the monarch of a shed;

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys

His children's looks that brighten at the blaze;

With his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,

Displays heif cleanly platter on the board:

And haply too some pilgrim thither led,

With many a tale repays the nightl; »bed.

Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion 6n his heart; And e'en those ills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assign'd; Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest,

Vol. If. G

Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies,
That first excites desire, and then supplies;
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
Their level life is but a mouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire:
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow:
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low,
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son
Unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Thro' life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way,;
These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly,
To^sport and flutter in a kinder sky.

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire? Where shading elms along the margin grew, And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew; And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, But mock'd all tunc, and marr'd the dancer's skill;

Yet would the village praise my wonderous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirthful maze,
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away;
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honor forms the social temper here.
Honor, that praise which real merit gains,
Or even imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current, paid from hand to hand,
It shifts its splendid traffic round the land:
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,' Enfeebles all internal strength of thought. And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all the pleasure on another's breast. Hence, ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frize with copper lace Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self applause.

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