One Might Believe That Natural Miseries Had Blasted France, And Made Of It A Land Unfit For Men; And That In One Great Band Her Sons Were Bursting Forth, To Dwell At Ease. But 'Tis A Chosen Soil, Where Sun And Breeze Shed Gentle Favours: 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 Dearth Of Knowledge; That Whole Myriads Should Unite To Work Against Themselves Such Fell Despite: Should Come In Phrensy And In Drunken Mirth, Impatient To Put Out The Only Light Of Liberty That Yet Remains On Earth!