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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.

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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,

Omia.

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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