But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise; For praise too dearly lov’d, or warmly sought Enfeebles all internal strength of thought: 270 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, 275 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, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 280 To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom’d in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 285 Lift the tall rampire’s artificial pride. Onward methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 290 While the pent ocean, rising o’er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile: The slow canal, the yellow-blossom’d vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,— 295 A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. 300 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display’d. Their much lov’d wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; But, view them closer, craft and fraud appear; 305 Even liberty itself is bartered here. At gold’s superior charms all freedom flies; The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 310 And calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old— Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 315 How much unlike the sons of Britain now!