Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, [ground

That proudly rise, or humbly court the Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to dieThese, here disporting, own the kindred soil,

Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand [land. To winnow fragrance round the smiling

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,

And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. [reign; Contrasted faults through all his manners Though poor, luxurious; though submis[untrue;

sive, vain;

Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet
And even in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind;
For wealth was theirs-not far removed
the date

When commerce proudly flourished through the state.

At her command the palace learned to rise, [skies; Again the long-fall'n column sought the The canvas glowed beyond e'en nature [form; The pregnant quarry teemed with human Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores displayed her sail,

warm,

[gave

While nought remained of all that riches But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave; [skill, And late the nation found, with fruitless Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Processions formed for piety and love-
A mistress or a saint in every grove.
By sports like these are all their cares
beguiled;

The sports of children satisfy the child.
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control,
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,

Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his

shed;

[pile, And, wondering man could want the larger Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

Breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; [the way,

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark And drags the struggling savage into day.

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 e'en those ills that round his mansion rise

Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, [storms;

And dear that hill which lifts him to the And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,

[roar, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's But bind him to his native mountains more.

FRANCE.

TO KINDER Skies, where gentler manners reign, [domain. I turn; and France displays her bright Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world

can please,

How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire, [grew, Where shading elms along the margin And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew ! falt'ring still, And haply- though my harsh touch, But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill[power,

Yet would the village praise my wondrous And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages: dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirth

ful maze;

And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burden of three

score.

[display;

So blest a life these thoughtless realms Thus idly busy rolls their world away. Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,

For honour forms the social temper here:

Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, [hand,
Here passes current-paid from hand to
It shifts, in splendid traffic, round the land;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise:
They please, are pleased; they give to get
esteem,
[seem.

Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they

But while this softer art their bliss supplies,

It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly loved 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 ;

Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace;

Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year: The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,

Norweighs the solid worth of self-applause.

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height

[fight;

O'er Minden's plains, spectatress of the Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife Her dearer self, the partner of her life; From hill to hill the rushing host pursued, And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed. [tread,

Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led; And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm, Slept on her kerchief, cradled on her arm; While round her brows bright beams of honour dart, [heart.

And love's warm eddies circle round her -Near and more near th' intrepid beauty pressed, [crest, Saw through the driving smoke his dancing Heard the exulting shout, "They run !-they run!" [battle's won!" "He's safe!" she cried, "he's safe! the -A ball now hisses through the airy tides (Some Fury wings it, and some demon guides), [deck, Parts the fine locks her graceful head that Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck; [veins The red stream issuing from her azure Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.

'Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the
ground,
[wound:

Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the
"Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn,
Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my love's
return!"
[from far,
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams
The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war ;-
"Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their
tender age!
[rage!"

On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your Then, with weak arms, her weeping babes caressed, [vest. And sighing, hid them in her blood-stained

From tent to tent th' impatient warrior flies,

Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes: Eliza's name along the camp he calls, "Eliza" echoes through the canvas walls; Quick through the murmuring gloom hi footsteps tread, [dead,

O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the Vault o'er the plain,-and in the tangled wood,

Lo! dead Eliza-weltering in her blood! Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, [bounds: With open arms and sparkling eyes he 'Speak low," he cries, and gives his little

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn, And having dropped the expected bagpass on. [wretch,

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

But oh the important budget! ushered in With such heart-shaking music, who can [awaked?

say

What are its tidings? Have our troops Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic [plumed

wave? *

That liberates and exempts me from them all.

It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold [war The tumult, and am still. The sound of Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride

And avarice that make man a wolf to man, Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, By which he speaks the language of his heart,

And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels, and expatiates, as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to
land;

The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repast for me.

He travels, and too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st
the sun

A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon,

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group

The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.

I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these
gates;

No powdered pert, proficient in the art
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of
the sound,

The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:
But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well- depicted
flower,

Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,

And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble fingers of the fair;

A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow

With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds

The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out,

And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,

And in the charming strife triumphant still,
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
On female industry: the threaded steel
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume closed, the customary rites
Of the last meal commence. A Roman
meal,
[found

Such as the mistress of the world once
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble
doors,

And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoyed, spare feast! a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth; Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at His awful name, or deem His praise

A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone Exciting oft our gratitude and love,

While we retrace with memory's pointing wand,

That calls the past to our exact review,

A star or two just twinkling on thy brow
Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine
No less than hers: not worn indeed on high
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.
Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary
calm,

Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:
And whether I devote thy gentle hours
To books, to music, or the poet's toil,
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit,
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,
When they command whom man was born
to please,
[still.

I slight thee not, but make thee welcome