This is the position which he conducts through Italy, Swisserland, France, Holland, and England; and which he endeavours to confirm by remarking the manners of every country.
Having censured the degeneracy of the modern Italians, he proceeds thus:
'My soul turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May; No Zephyr fondly soothes the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot, the lot of all; See no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loath his vegetable meal; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.'
But having found that the rural life of a Swiss has its evils as well as comforts, he turns to France.
'To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, We turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please.-- Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour forms the social temper here.-- From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise; They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.'
'For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought, And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans all for pleasure on another's breast.-- The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.'
Having then passed through Holland, he arrives in England, where,
'Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims, irregularly great, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand.'