Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 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, Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind Here may be seen in bloodless pomp array'd, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, 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 Or drives the vent'rous plough-share to the steep; At night returning, every labor sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed; Thus every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on 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. II. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow: 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; To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ? 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, So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away; Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, Here passes current, paid from hand to hand, 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. |