Such is the curse, Eugenio, where the soul Humane is wanting, but we boast no feats Of cruelty like Spain's unfeeling sons. The British Epithet is merciful: And we the sons of Britain learn like them To conquer and to spare; for coward souls Seek their revenge but on a vanquish'd foe. Gold, fatal gold was the alluring bait To Spain's rapacious mind, hence rose the wars From Chili to the Caribbean sea, O'er Terra-Firma and La Plata wide. Peru then sunk in ruins, great before With pompous cities, monuments superb Whose tops reach'd heav'n. But we more happy boast No golden metals in our peaceful land, No flaming diamond, precious emerald, Or blushing saphire, ruby, chrysolite Or jasper red; more noble riches flow From agriculture and th' industrious swain, Who tills the fertile vale or mountain's brow, Content to lead a safe, a humble life 'Midst his own native hills; romantic scenes, Such as the muse of Greece did feign so well. Envying their lovely bow'rs to mortal race. LEANDER Long has the rural life been justly fam'd; And poets old their pleasing pictures drew Of flow'ry meads, and groves and gliding streams. Hence, old Arcadia, woodnymphs, satyrs, fauns And hence Elysium, fancy'd heav'n below. Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings, Once exercis'd the royal hand, or those Whose virtue rais'd them to the rank of gods. See old Laertes in his shepherd weeds, Far from his pompous throne and court august, Digging the grateful soil, where peaceful blows The west wind murm'ring thro' the aged trees Loaded with apples red, sweet scented peach And each luxurious fruit the world affords, While o'er the fields the harmless oxen draw Th' industrious plough. The Roman heroes too, Fabricius and Camillus, lov'd a life Of sweet simplicity and rustic joy; And from the busy Forum hast'ning far, 'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of age. How grateful to behold the harvests rise And mighty crops adorn the golden plains! Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herds Stalk o'er the grassy hill or level mead, Or at some winding river slake their thirst. Thus fares the rustic swain; and when the winds Blow with a keener breath, and from the North Pour all their tempests thro' a sunless sky, Ice, sleet and rattling hail, secure he sits In some thatch'd cottage fearless of the storm; While on the hearth a fire still blazing high Chears ev'ry mind, and nature sits serene On ev'ry countenance, such the joys And such the fate of those whom heav'n hath bless'd With souls enamour'd of a country life. EUGENIO