The kine in scatter’d groups, with patient gaze, 105
Shine, golden-chestnut, in the sun’s glad rays;
And the gale breathes as fresh, the sky as bright,
As if no fane of Mammon met the sight!
No city on the dimm’d horizon lay
A cloud, which but a breeze might waft away: 110
So faint the trace of yon stupendous mart,
Where gold can buy—all!—genius—fame, and art!
And yet, fair scenes! these charms so well thine own,
Live to the many slandered or unknown;