And night returning, every labour sped, Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys Thus every good his native wilds impart, And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: 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 molest, 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; Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Their level life is but a mouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire; On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, bury'd 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 sire to son Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run; And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; 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 flutter 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! And haply, though my harsh touch fault'ring still, Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land; They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, 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 soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward methinks, and diligently slow, The firm, connected bulwark seems to grow; |