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18.

October, 1803.

One might believe that natural miseriesHad blasted France, and made of it a landUnfit for Men; and that in one great BandHer Sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breezeShed gentle favors; rural works are there;And ordinary business without care;Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!How piteous then that there should be such dearthOf knowledge; that whole myriads should uniteTo work against themselves such fell despite:Should come in phrenzy and in drunken mirth,Impatient to put out the only lightOf Liberty that yet remains on Earth!
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