With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets.
There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves. To distant shores; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death- And never smiled again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, And there, unless when charity forbids, The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal A bosom heaved with never ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of all she meets, And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Kate is crazed!
I see a column of slow rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of every hedge,
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their fluttering 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 wandering much, Need other physic none to heal the 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, placed within the easy reach Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; 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 barbarous climes, where violence prevails, And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, By culture tamed, by liberty refresh'd, And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. War and the chase engross the savage whole; 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 shivering natives of the north, And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep,
Towards the antarctic. E'en the favour'd isles, 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, placed remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed In boundless oceans, 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 vainglory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here With what superior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and squander life. 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 ours? 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, 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 she paints thee thus. She tells me, too, that duly every morn Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the watery waste For sight of ship from England. Every speck 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 sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared 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, Disinterested good, is not our trade.
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