But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supply'd Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil❜d, As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, My soul turn from them, turn we to survey Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword: Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed; |