So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display; 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, Here passes current-paid from hand to hand, And all are taught an avarice of praise They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming bless'd, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, 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. 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, Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil |