In boundless oceans never to be pass'd 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 elfe vain-glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bow'rs, to fhow thee here The gifts of providence, and fquander life. The dream is past. And thou haft found again And homeftall thatch'd with leaves. But haft thou found Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rude I cannot think thee yet fo dull of heart Sweets tafted here, and left as foon as known. I fee thee weep, and thine are honest tears, Thou climb'ft the mountain top, with eager eye But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, To dream all night of what the day denied. We travel far 'tis true, but not for nought; But though true worth and virtue, in the mild And genial foil of cultivated life Thrive moft, and may perhaps thrive only there, And And wantonnefs and gluttonous excefs. In which they flourish most. Where in the beams Of public note they reach their perfect size. 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, Nor does the chiffel occupy alone The pow'rs of fculpture, but the ftyle as much; With nice incifion of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil The richest scen'ry and the loveliest forms. Not more the glory of the earth, than she She has her praife. Now mark a spot or two That fo much beauty would do well to purge; |