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 ev'ry grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd; Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; As in those domes, where Cesars once bore sway, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey No product here the barren hills afford, 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 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 shed; To make him loath his vegetable meal; Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed; His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart, And e'en those ills, that round his mansion rise, Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 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; |