Not so the rustic—with his trembling mate

He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,

Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,

Blasted below the dun hot breath of War.

No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star

Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:[72]

Ah, Monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,

Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;[cn]

The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet!