O leave that pomp that can but tire,Those piles, among the clouds at home;Cease for a moment to admireThe smoke, the wealth, the noise of Rome!In change e'en luxury finds a zest:The poor man's supper, neat, but spare,With no gay couch to seat the guest,Has smooth'd the rugged brow of care.Now glows the Ethiop maiden's sire;Now Procyon rages all ablaze;The Lion maddens in his ire,As suns bring back the sultry days:The shepherd with his weary sheepSeeks out the streamlet and the trees,Silvanus' lair: the still banks sleepUntroubled by the wandering breeze.You ponder on imperial schemes,And o'er the city's danger brood:Bactrian and Serian haunt your dreams,And Tanais, toss'd by inward feud.