Though, were his sight convey’d from zone to zone,
He would not find one spot of ground his own;
Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee,
These bounding prospects all are made for me:
For me yon waving fields their burden bear,
For me yon labourer guides the shining share;
While happy I, in idle ease recline,
And mark the glorious visions as they shine.
This is the charm, by sages often told,
Converting all it touches into gold.