But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 125 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manner reign; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And e’en in penance planning sins anew. 130 All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs, not far remov’d the date, When commerce proudly flourish’d through the state; At her command the palace learn’d to rise, 135 Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies; The canvas glow’d beyond e’en Nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem’d with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display’d her sail; 140 While nought remain’d of all that riches gave, But towns unmann’d, and lords without a slave; And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 145 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array’d, The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade; 150 Processions form’d for piety and love, 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, 155 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 Caesars once bore sway, Defac’d by time and tottering in decay, 160 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, And, wond’ring man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey 165 Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 170 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling’ring chills the lap of May; No Zephyr fondly sues the mountain’s breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.