Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 105
  Bright as the summer, Italy extends: 
  Its uplands sloping deck the mountain’s side,
  Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
  While oft some temple’s mould’ring tops between
  With venerable grandeur mark the scene, 110

  Could Nature’s bounty satisfy the breast,
  The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
  Whatever fruits in different climes were found,
  That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
  Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 115
  Whose bright succession decks the varied year;
  Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
  With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
  These, here disporting, own the kindred soil,
  Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil; 120
  While sea-born gales their gelid[13] wings expand
  To winnow[14] fragrance round the smiling land.

  But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
  And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.[15]
  In florid beauty groves and fields appear; 125
  Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
  Contrasted faults through all his manners reign: 
  Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain;
  Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue;
  And ev’n in penance planning sins anew. 130
  All evils here contaminate the mind
  That opulence departed leaves behind;
  For wealth was theirs,[16] not far removed the date
  When commerce proudly nourished through the state,
  At her command the palace learnt to rise,[17] 135
  Again the long-fallen column sought the skies,[18]
  The canvas glowed, beyond e’en nature warm,[19]
  The pregnant quarry teemed with human form;
  Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
  Commerce on other shores displayed her sail;[20] 140
  While nought remained of all that riches gave,
  But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave: 
  And late the nation found with fruitless skill
  Its former strength was but plethoric ill.[21]

  Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 145
  By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
  From these the feeble heart and long-fall’n mind
  An easy compensation seem to find. 
  Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed,
  The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade, 150
  Processions formed for piety and love,
  A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
  By sports like these are all their cares beguiled;
  The sports of children satisfy the child. 
  Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, 155
  Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
  While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
  In happier meanness occupy the mind: 
  As in those domes where Caesars[22] once bore sway,
  Defaced by time and tottering in decay,