From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race! They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge,

Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un quench'd

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows 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 dross into its place;

Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange! that a creature rational, and cast

In human mould, should brutalize by choice
His nature; and, though capable of arts

By which the world might profit, and himself,
Self-banish'd from society, prefer

Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!

Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial sores,

Can change their whine into a mirthful note

When safe occasion offers; and, with dance,

And music of the bladder and the bag,

Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy

The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;

And, breathing wholesome air, and wand'ring

much,

Need other physic none to heal th' effects

Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure,

Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside

His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn,

The manners and the arts of civil life.

His wants, indeed, are many; but supply
Is obvious, plac'd within the easy reach

Of temp'rate wishes and industrious hands.
Here virtue thrives as in her
proper soil;

whole;

Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,
And terrible to sight, as when she springs
(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote
And barb'rous climes, where violence prevails,
And strength 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 chase engross the savage
War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant
The envied tenants of some happier spot,
The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!
His hard condition with severe constraint
Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth
Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns
Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,

Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.
Thus fare the shiv'ring natives of the north,
And thus the rangers of the western world,

Where it advances far into the deep,

Towards th' antarctic.

II.

Ev'n the favour'd isles,

Ꭰ

So lately found, although the constant sun

Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,
Can boast but little virtue; and, inert
Through plenty, lose 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 occans, never to be pass'd
By navigators uninform'd as they,

Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again:
But, far beyond the rest, and with most cause,

Thee, gentle savage! 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 show thee here

With what superior skill we can abuse

The gifts of Providence, and squander life.

a Omia.

The dream is past; and thou hast found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,

And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast

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 music; are thy simple friends,
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights,
As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys
Lost 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 so dull of heart
And spiritless, as never to regret

Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.
Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,

And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot
If ever it has wash'd our distant shore.

I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,