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 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find. 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, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, 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 ; |