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Whence from fuch lands each pleasing science
That firft excites defire, and then fupplies; Unknown to them, when fenfual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown thofe powers that raise the foul to
and vibrate through the
Their level life is but a fmould'ring fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by ftrong
Catch every nerve, frame.
Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer
But not their joys alone thus coarfely flow: Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low;
For, as refinement ftops, from fire to fon,
Some fterner virtues o'er the mountain's
May fit, like falcons cow'ring on the neft;
These far difpers'd, on timorous pinions fly,
To kinder fkies, where gentler manners
I turn; and France difplays her bright domain.
Gay sprightly land of mirth and focial ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please,
How often have I led thy fportive choir,
Where fhading elms along the margin grew,
And haply, tho' my harfh tough faultering ftill,
But mock' all tune, and marr'd the dancer's fkill;
Yet would the village praise my wonderous
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 burden of threefcore.
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.
Till, feeming bleft, they grow to what they feem.
But while this fofter art their blifs fupplies, It gives their follies also room to rife ; 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 oftentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity affumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes 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 shifting paffion draws,
Nor weighs the folid worth of felf-applaufe. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embofom'd in the deep where Holland
Methinks her patient fons before me ftand, Where the broad ocean leans against the
land, VOL. I.
And, fedulous to ftop the coming tide,
The flow canal, the yellow bloffom'd vale,
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Hence all the good from opulence that
With all thofe ills fuperfluous treasure brings, Are here difplay'd. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance and arts;