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Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts
And drags the struggling savage into day.
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her
hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board :
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds im
part, Imprints the patriot paffion on his heart, And even those hills, that round his mansion
rife, 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 founds 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 af,
sign'd : Their wants but few, their wishes all cone
fin'd. Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but
For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest.
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 foul to
fame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the
frame. Their level life is but a smould'ring fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by ftrong
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
For, as refinement stops, from fire to fon, Unalter'd, unimprov’d the manners run, And love's and friendship's finely pointed
dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some fterner virtues o'er the mountain's
breast May fit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultur'd walks, and
charın the way, These far dispers’d, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and Autter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners
reign, I turn; and France displays her bright do:
main. 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
Yet would the village praise my wonderous
And the gay grandfire, skill'd in gestic lore,