I fee a column of flow rifing smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miferable meal. A kettle, flung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morfel-flesh obfcene of dog, Or vermin, or, at beft, of cock purloin'd From his accuftom'd perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge,
Which, kindled with dry leaves, juft faves unquench'd The spark of life. The sportive winds blow wide Their flutt'ring rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of the pedigree they claim.
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless drofs into its place; Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Strange! that a creature rational, and caft In human mould, fhould brutalize by choice His nature; and, though capable of arts By which the world might profit, and himself, Self-banish'd from fociety, prefer
Such fqualid floth to honourable toil!
Yet even these, though, feigning fickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial fores,
Can change their whine into a mirthful note When safe occafion offers; and, with dance, And mufic of the bladder and the bag, Beguile their woes, and make the woods refound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy
The houseless rovers of the fylvan world;
And, breathing wholesome air, and wand'ring much, Need other phyfic none to heal th' effects
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.
Bleft he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells fecure, Where man, by nature fierce, has laid afide
His fierceness, having learnt, though flow to learn, The manners and the arts of civil life.
His wants, indeed, are many; but fupply Is obvious, plac'd within the easy reach Of temp'rate wishes and industrious hands. Here virtue thrives as in her proper foil; Not rude and furly, and befet with thorns, And terrible to fight, as when she springs (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote And barb'rous climes, where violence prevails, And ftrength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, By culture tam'd, by liberty refresh'd, And all her fruits by radiant truth matur’d.
War and the chafe engross the favage whole; War follow'd for revenge, or to fupplant The envied tenants of fome happier spot, The chafe for fuftenance, precarious trust! His hard condition with fevere conftraint Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,
Mean felf-attachment, and scarce aught befide. Thus fare the fhiv'ring natives of the north, And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep, Towards th' antarctic. Ev'n the favour'd ifles, So lately found, although the constant sun Cheer all their feasons with a grateful smile, Can boaft but little virtue; and, inert Through plenty, lofe in morals what they gain In manners-victims of luxurious ease. These therefore I can pity, plac'd remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed In boundless oceans, never to be pafs'd By navigators uninform'd as they, Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again: But, far beyond the reft, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle * favage! whom no love of thee Or thine, but curiosity perhaps,
Or else vain glory, prompted us to draw
Forth from thy native bow'rs, to fhew thee here With what superior skill we can abuse
The gifts of Providence, and fquander life. The dream is past; and thou haft found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homeftall thatch'd with leaves. But haft thou found Their former charms? And, having seen our state,
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, And heard our mufic; are thy fimple friends, Thy fimple fare, and all thy plain delights, As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys Loft nothing by comparison with our's? Rude as thou art, (for we return'd thee rude And ignorant, except of outward show) I cannot think thee yet fo dull of heart And spiritlefs, as never to regret
Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. Methinks I fee thee ftraying on the beach, And asking of the furge that bathes thy foot If ever it has wafh'd our diftant fhore.
I fee thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country: thou art sad At thought of her forlorn and abject state, From which no pow'r of thine can raise her up. Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, Perhaps errs little when the paints thee thus. She tells me, too, that duly ev'ry morn Thou climb'ft the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the watʼry waste For fight of ship from England. Ev'ry speck Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale With conflict of contending hopes and fears. But comes at last the dull and dufky eve, And fends thee to thy cabin, well-prepar'd To dream all night of what the day denied. Alas! expect it not. We found no bait To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Difinterested good, is not our trade.
We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought; And must be brib'd, to compass earth again, By other hopes and richer fruits than your's.
But, though true worth and virtue in the mild And genial foil of cultivated life
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow
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