She begs an idle pin of all she meets
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though prefs'd with hunger oft, or comelier
Though pinch'd with cold, afks never.-Kate is
I fee a column of flow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that shirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miferable meal. A kettle flung Between two poles upon a stick tranfverfe, Receives the morfel; flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or at beft, of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge,
Which kindled with dry leaves, just faves unquench'd
The fpark 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 worthlefs drofs into its place.
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange that a creature rational, and caft
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 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 fafe occafion offers, and with dance
And music 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 loathfome 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; placed within the easy reach
Of temp'rate wishes and induftrious hands.
Here virtue thrives as in her proper foil ;
Not rude and furly, and beset with thorns,
And terrible to fight, as when the fprings,
(If e'er fhe 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 chace engross the favage whole.
War follow'd for revenge, or to fupplant
The envied tenants of fome happier fpot,
The chace for fuftenance, precarious truft!
His hard condition with fevere constraint
Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth
Of wisdom, proves a fchool 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 fun
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,
Can boaft but little virtue; and inert
Through plenty, lose in morals, what they gain
In manners, victims of luxurious eafe.
These therefore I can pity, placed remote
From all that fcience traces, art invents,
Or infpiration teaches; and inclosed
In boundlefs oceans never to be pass'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 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 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 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 opce? 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 spiritless, as never to regret
Sweets tafted 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 distant shore.
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 power of thine can raise her
up.
Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err,
Perhaps errs little, when fhe 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 wat'ry waste
For fight of thip 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 compafs 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 most, 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 moft noisome fewer,
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