Mylo, forbear to call him blest,
That only boasts a large estate:
Should all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great,—
Should a broad stream with golden sands
Through all his meadows roll,—
He’s but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a narrow soul.
Were I so tall as reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,