Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; For wealth was their's, not far remov'd the date, When Commerce proudly flourish'd through the state; At her command the palace learnt to rise; Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies; The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm; The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave; And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied, By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd; As in those domes where Cæsars once bore sway, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, With patient angle trolls the finny deep, way, And drags the struggling savage into day. While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 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; For every want that stimulates the breast, Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest, Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve, and vibrate thro' the frame. In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; Thro' life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way, These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, 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, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancers' skill, Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. Alike all ages: dames of ancient days Have led their children thro' the mirthful maze; And the grey grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 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, They please, are pleas'd; they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought; |