The canvass glow'd beyond even nature warm, Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; A mistress or a saint in every grove: By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd; Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind. As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, 140 150 160 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display 170 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 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- Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep; And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labour sped, Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys Displays her cleanly platter on the board: And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And even those ills, that round his mansion rise, 180 190 200 170 Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, |