Such are the charms to barren states assign’d: Their wants but few, their wishes all confin’d. 210 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, 215 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: 220 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, 225 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; 230 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 235 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. 240 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, 245 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. 250 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 burthen of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display; 255 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 even imaginary worth obtains, 260 Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, 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 pleas’d; they give to get esteem, 265 Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.