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 cow’ring 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 falt’ring 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 noon-tide 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 bless’d 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 e’en 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 bless’d, they grow to what they seem. 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