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Thefe here difporting own the kindred foil,
Nor afk luxuriance from the planter's toil
While fea-born gales their gelid wings ex-

To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
But fmall the blifs that fenfe alone bestows,
And fenfual blifs is all this nation knows.
In florid beauty groves and fields appear,

Man feems the only growth that dwindles


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Contrafted faults through all his manners


Though poor, luxurious; though fubmiffive,


Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet


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

When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state:

At her command the palace learnt to rife, Again the long-fall'n column fought the skies;

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The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form.

Till, more unsteady than the fouthern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her fale; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave,

But towns unmann'd, and lords without a

flave :

And late the nation found with fruitlefs fkill Its former ftrength was but plethoric ill.

Yet ftill the lofs of wealth is here supplied By arts, the fplendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind,

An eafy compenfation feem to find.
Here may be seen in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pafte-board triumph and the cavalcade
Proceffions form'd for piety and love,

A mistress or a faint in every grove.

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By fports like these are all their cares beguil'd,

The fports of children fatisfy the child; Each nobler aim repreft by long controu!, Now finks at last, or feebly mans the foul;


While low delights, fucceeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind:

As in those domes, where Cæfars once bore


Defac'd by time and tottering in decay,
Amidst the ruin, heedlefs of the dead,
The shelter-fecking peasant builds his shed,
And, wond'ring man could want the larger

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

My foul turn from them, turn me to furvey

Where rougher climes à nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,

And force a churlish foil for scanty bread;
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the foldier and his sword.
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May;
No zephyr fondly fues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and ftormy glooms in-

Yet ftill, even here, Content can fpread a


Redrefs the clime, and all its




Though poor the peafant's hut, his feafts though small,

He fees his little lot the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To fhame the meannefs of his humble fhed;
No coftly lord the fumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each with contracting, fits him to the foil,
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breafts the keen air, and carols as he goes;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his vent'rous plough-fhare to the


Or feeks the den where fnow-tracks mark

the way,

And drags the struggling favage into day.
At night returning, every labcur sped,
He fits him down the monarch of a fhed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round furveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the

While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,

Difplays her cleanly platter on the board :


And haply too fome pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds im


Imprints the patriot paffion on his heart, And even those hills, that round his manfion


Enhance the blifs his fcanty fund fupplies, Dear is that shed to which his foul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the ftorms.

And as a child, when scaring founds moleft, Clings clofe and closer to the mother's breast; So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's


But bind him to his native mountains more.

Such are the charms to barren ftates af


Their wants but few, their wishes all con fin'd.

Yet let them only fhare the praises due,
If few their wants, their pleasures are but


For every want that ftimulates the breast, Becomes a fource of pleasure when redreft.


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