Will top the elm; the violet-bed,The myrtle, each delicious sweet,On olive-grounds their scent will shed,Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;Thick bays will screen the midday rangeOf fiercest suns. Not such the ruleOf Romulus, and Cato sage,And all the bearded, good old school.Each Roman's wealth was little worth,His country's much; no colonnadeFor private pleasance wooed the NorthWith cool “prolixity of shade.”None might the casual sod disdainTo roof his home; a town alone,At public charge, a sacred faneWere honour'd with the pomp of stone.For ease, in wide Aegean caught,The sailor prays, when clouds are hidingThe moon, nor shines of starlight aughtFor seaman's guiding: