These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But smali the bliss that sense alone beftows, And sensual bliss is all this 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 submiffive, 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 fate; At her command the palace learn’d to rile, Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; The canvass glow'd beyond e'en Nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form. Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display ü her fail : While nought remaind of all that riches gave, But towns unman'd, and lords without a slave : And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Yet ftill the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the fplendid wrecks of former pride :
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind
An easy compensation feem to find
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The patte-board triumph and the cavalcade ;
Processions form’d for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove.
By sports like these are all their cares beguild,
The sports of children satisfy the child;

Each nobler aim represt by long controul;
Now finks at last, or feebly mans the foul ;
While low delighte, succeeding faft behind,
In happier meadnose 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, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his fhed,
And, wond'ring man could'want a 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 mansionë tread, And force a churlish foil for fcanty bread: No product here the barren hills afford, But man and teel, the soldier and his sword.' No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breaft, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms inveft.

Yet ftill, evin here, content can spread a chart, Redress the clime, and all its rage difarm. Though poor the peasants hut, his fealts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble Thed; No costly lord the fumptuous banquet deal To make him loath his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, tits him to the soil. Chearful at morn he wakes from Short repose, Breathe the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous plough-share to the feep; Or seeks the den where snow-tracts mark the way, And drags the struggling savage 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 surveys
His childrens looks, that brighten at the blaze ;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays 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 bis native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart, And ev’n those hills, that round his manfion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund fupplies. 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 molett, 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 ev'ry 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 pow'rs that raise the soul to flaine, 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 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 low, For, as refinement stops, from fire to fon, Unalter'd, unimprov'd their manners run, And lore's and friendship's finely pointed dart Falls blunted from each indurated heart, Some fterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May fit, like falcons cow'ring on the neft ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm 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 domain.
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 flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still,
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill

;
Yet would the village praise 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 skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display,
Thus idly busy rolls their world away :
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or er'n imaginary worth obtains,
Here países currert; paid from hand to hand,
It hifts in splendid traffic round the land ;

From courts, to camps, to cottages it Itrays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise ;
They please, are pleas'd they give to get efteem,
Till, seeming bleft, they grow to what they seem.

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 foul, within itself unbleft,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breaft.
Hence oftentation 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 beast one splendid banquet once a year;
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self applaule.

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

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,