War follow'd for revenge, or to fupplant
The envied tenants of fome happier fpot,
The chace 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 shiv'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 favor'd ifles
So lately found, although the conftant fun
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,
Can boaft but little virtue; and inert
Through plenty, lofe in morals what they gain
In manners, victims of luxurious eafe.
These therefore I can pity, plac'd remote
From all that fcience traces, art invents,
Or inspiration teaches; and inclofed
In boundless oceans, never to be pass'd
By navigators uninformed as they,
Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again.
But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle favage! whom no love of thee
Or thine, but curiofity perhaps,
Or elfe vain glory, prompted us to draw
Forth from thy native bow'rs, to fhow thee here
With what superior skill we can abuse
The gifts of Providence, and fquander life.
The dream is paft; 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 feen our ftate,
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 ours?
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 see thee ftraying on the beach,
And asking of the furge that bathes thy foot
If ever it has wash'd our distant fhore.
I fee thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country: thou art fad
At thought of her forlorn and abject state,
From which no power 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 fpeck
Seen in the dim horizon, turns thee pale
With conflict of contending hopes and fears.
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,
And fends thee to thy cabbin, 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 yours.
But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial foil of cultivated life
Thrive moft, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities; thither flow,
As to a common and most noifome fewer,
The dregs and fæculence of ev'ry land.
In cities foul example on moft minds
Begets its likenefs. Rank abundance breeds
In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft,
And wontonnefs and gluttonous excefs.
In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,
Or feen with leaft reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapfe, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' atchievement of fuccessful flight.
I do confefs them nurf'ries of the arts,
In which they flourish moft: where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect fize.
Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which Nature fees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chiffel occupy alone
The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
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