Thefe here difporting own the kindred foil,
Nor afk luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While fea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the fmiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And fenfual blifs is all this nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
Man feems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrafted faults through all his manners reign,
Though poor, luxurious, though fubmiffive, vain,
Though grave, yet trifling, zealous, yet untrue,
And ev'n in penance planning fins 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 flate;
At her command the palace learn'd to rife,
Again the long-fall'n column fought the fkies;
The canvafs glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.
Till, more unfteady than the fouthern gale,
Commerce on other shores difplay'd her fail :
While nought remain❜d of all that riches gave,
But towns unman'd, and lords without a slave :
And late the nation found with fruitless skill
Its former ftrength was but plethoric ill.

Yet ftill the lofs of wealth is here fupplied
By arts, the fplendid wrecks of former pride:
From thefe the feeble heart and long-fallen mind
An eafy compenfation feem to find.

Here may be feen, in bloodlefs pomp array'd,
The pafte-board triumph and the cavalcade;
Proceffions form'd for piety and love,

A miftrefs or a faint in ev'ry grove.

By fports like thefe are all their cares beguil'd,
The fports of children fatisfy the child;

Each nobler aim repreft by long controul,
Now finks at laft, or feebly mans the foul;
While low delights, fucceeding faft behind,
In happier meannefs occupy the mind :
As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway,
Defac'd by time and tott'ring in decay,
There in the ruin, heedlefs of the dead,
The fhelter-feeking peasant builds his shed,
And, wond'ring man could want a larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

My foul turn from them, turn we to survey, Where rougher climes a nobler race difplay, Where the bleak Swiss their ftormy manfions tread, And force a churlish foil for fcanty bread: No product here the barren hills afford, But man and feel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly fues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and ftormy glooms invest.

Yet ftill, ev'n here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage difarm.

Though poor the peasants hut, his feasts though small, He fees his little lot the lot of all;

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head

To fhame the meannefs of his humble fhed;
No coftly lord the fumptuous banquet deal
To make him loath his vegetable meal ;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each with contracting, fits him to the foil.
Chearful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breaths the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,

Or drives his vent'rous plough-fhare to the steep;
Or feeks the den where fnow-tracts mark the way,
And drags the ftruggling favage into day.

At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He fits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his chearful fire, and round furveys
His childrens looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Difplays her cleanly platter on the board:
And haply too fome pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot paffion on his heart,
And ev'n thofe hills, that round his manfion rife,
Enhance the blifs his fcanty fund fupplies.
Dear is that shed to which his foul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the ftorms;
And as a child, when fearing founds moleft,
Clings clofe and clofer to the mother's breaft,
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar,
But bind him to his native mountains more.

Such are the charms to barren ftates affign'd;
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd.
Yet let them only fhare the praises due,

If few their wants, their pleafures are but few;
For ev'ry want that ftimulates the breast,
Becomes a fource of pleasure when redreft.
Whence from fuch lands each pleafing science flies,
That firit excites defire, and then fupplies;
Unknown to them, when fenfual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid paufe with finer joy;

Unknown thofe pow'rs that raise the foul to flame,
Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame.
Their level life is but a mould'ring fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong defire;
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On fome high feftival of once a year,
In wild excefs the vulgar breaft takes fire,
Till buried in debauch, the blifs expire.

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow: Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low, For, as refinement stops, from fire to son, Unalter'd, unimprov'd their manners run, And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Falls blunted from each indurated heart. Some fterner virtues o'er the mountain's breaft May fit, like falcons cow'ring on the neft; But all the gentler morals, fuch as play Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, Thefe far difpers'd on timorous pinions fly, To fport and flutter in a kinder fky.

To kinder fkies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn; and France difplays her bright domain.
Gay fprightly land of mirth and focial eafe,
Pleas d with thyfelf, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy fportive choir,

With tunelefs pipe, befide the murmuring Loire ?
Where thading elms along the margin grew,
And frefhen'd from the wave the zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring ftill,
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill;
Yet would the village praife my wond'rous pow'r,
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 grandfire fkill'd in geftic lore,
Has frifk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.

So bleft a life thefe thoughtless realms difplay,
Thus idly bufy rolls their world away :
Theirs are thofe arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the focial temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or ev'n imaginary worth obtains,

Here paffes current; paid from hand to hand,
It fhifts in fplendid traffic round the land;

From courts, to camps, to cottages it trays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise ;

They pleafe, are pleas'd they give to get efleem,
Till, feeming bleft, they grow to what they feem.

But while this fofter art their blifs fupplics,
It gives their follies alfo room to rife;
For praife too dearly lov'd, or warmly fought,
Enfeebles all internal ftrength of thought.
And the weak foul, within itself unbleft,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence oftentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praife which fools impart ;
Here vanity affumes her pert grimace,

And trims her robes of frize with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boaft one fplendid banquet once a year;
The mind ftill turns where fhifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the folid worth of felf applaufe.

To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embofom'd in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient fons before me ftand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, fedulous to ftop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward me thinks, and diligently flow
The firm connected bulwark feems to go;
Spreads its long arms amidst the watry roar,
Scoops out an empire, and ufurps the fhore.
While the pent ocean rifing o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him fmile;
The flow canal, the yellow bloffom'd vale,
The willow tufted bank, the gliding fail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,
A new creation refcu'd from his reign.

Thus while around the wave-fubjected foil Impels the native to repeated toil,