While low delights, succeeding fast behind,

In happier meanness occupy the mind.

As in those domes where Cæsars once bore sway,

Defac’d by time and tottering in decay, 160

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;

And, wondering man could want the larger pile,

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

My soul, turn from them; turn we to survey 165

Where rougher climes a nobler race display;