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 redress'd.
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 smouldering 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, unimproved, 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

Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way,
These, far dispersed, 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,
Pleased 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 faltering still,
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill;
Yet would the village praise my wonderous power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.

Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days

Have led their children through the mirthful maze;

And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestick lore,
Has frisk'd, beneath the burden of threescore.

So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display; Thus idly busy rolls their world away·

Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,

Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffick round the land:
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;

They please, are pleased; they give, to get esteem,
Till, seeming bless'd, 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 loved, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought.

And the weak soul, within itself unbless'd,
Leans, for all 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 frieze 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.

To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom'd in the deep, where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow;
Spreads its long arms, amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore.

While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile;
The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale,
The willow tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,

A new creation rescued from his reign.

Thus, while around, the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil,

Industrious habits in each bosom reign,

And industry begets a love of gain.

Hence, all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,

Are here display'd. Their much loved wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts:

But view them closer, craft and fraud appear;

E'en liberty itself is barter'd here!

At gold's superiour charms all freedom flies;

The needy sell it, and the rich man buys:

A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves;