There in the ruin, heedlefs of the dead,
The fhelter-feeking peasant builds his shed,
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a finile.

My foul turn from them, turn we to furvey
Where rougher climes a nobler race difplay,
Where the bleak Swifs their ftormy manfion tread,
And force a curlifh foil for feanty bread;
No produ& here the barren hills afford,

But man and fteel, the foldier and his fword.
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May ;
No zephyr fondly fues the mountain's breaft,
But meteors glare, and ftoriny glooms inveft.

Yet ftill, ev'n here, content can fpread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage difarm.
Tho' poor the peafant's hut, his feafts tho' fmail,
He sees his little lot the lot of all;

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To fhame the meanness 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.
Chearful at morn he wakes from short repofe,
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 steep;

Or feeks the den where fnow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling favage into the day.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,

He fits him down the monarch of a fhed ;
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 every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot paffion on his heart, And ev❜n those ills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the blifs his fcanty fund fupplies : Dear is that flied to which his foul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the ftorms; And as a child when scaring founds moleft, 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 affign'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 every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a fource of pleasure when redrest. Whence from fuch lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites defire, and then fupplies;

Unknown

Unknown to them when fenfual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid paufe with finer joy;

Unknown thofe powers that raise the foul to flame,
Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame.
Their level life is but a mouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong defire;
Unfit for raptures; or, if raptures cheer
On fome high festival of once a year,
In wild exce's the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the blifs expire.

But not their joys alone thus coarfely flow;
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;
For, as refinement stops, from fire to fon,
Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some fterner virtues o'er the mountain's breaft
May fit, like falcons cow'ring on the nest:
But all the gentler morals, fuch as play

Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the

way;

Thefe, far difpers'd, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder fky.

To kinder fkies, where gentle manners reign,
I turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay fprightly land of mirth and focial eafe;
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please;
How often have I led thy fportive choir,
With tunelefs pipe, befide the murmuring Loire !

Where

Where fhading elins along the margin grew,
And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew;
And haply, though my harsh touch, faltʼring still,
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill;
Yet would the village praife my wond'rous power,
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, fkill'd in geftic lore,
Has frifk'd beneath the burthen of threescore.

So bleft a life these thoughtless realms difplay
Thus idly bufy rolls their world away.
Theirs are thofe arts that mind to mind endear;
For honour forms the focial temper here.
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,

Here paffes current: paid from hand to hand,
It fhifts in fplendid traffick round the land:
From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise :

They please, are pleas'd; they give to get esteem,
Till, feeming bleft, they grow to what they feem.

But while this fofter art their bliss fupplies,
It gives their follies alfo room to rise;
For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly fought,
Enfeebles all internal ftrength of thought;
And the weak foul, within itself unbleft,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.

Hence

Hence oftentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart.
Here vanity affumes her pert grimace.

And trims her robe of frize with copper lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one fplendid banquet once a year:
The mind ftill turns where fhifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the folid worth of felf applause.

To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embofom'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 methinks, and diligently flow,
The firm connected bulwark feems to grow;
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and ufurps the shore;
While the pent ocean, rifing 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-fubjected foil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bofom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.

Hence