This favourite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,

And trace them through the prospect as it lies:

Here, for a while my proper cares resign’d,

Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;

Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,

That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,

Bright as the summer, Italy extends:

Its uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side.

Woods over woods in gay theatric pride,

12

While oft some temple’s mouldering tops between

With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could Nature’s bounty satisfy the breast,

The sons of Italy were surely bless’d.

Whatever fruits in different climes are found,

That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground—

ground—

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,

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