While oft some temple's moldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely bless'd. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground- Whose bright succession decks the varied year- But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 130 All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs - nor far remov'd the date C 140 While naught remain'd, of all that riches gave, Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, A mistress or a saint in every grove: By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd; The sports of children satisfy the child. Each nobler aim, repress'd 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, Defac'd by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; 162 And, wondering man could want the larger pile, My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 172 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 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 No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal- Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 186 |