Thus every good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And even those ills, that round his mansion rise Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies: Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the 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 redress'd. 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 through the frame: Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire, Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow-- Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners run-- And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way-- These, far dispers'd, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 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, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, Where shading elms along the margin grew, And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew! And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill-- Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages: dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze; And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score. [Illustration: AND DANCE, FORGETFUL OF THE NOONTIDE HOUR]