War and the chafe engrofs the favage whole;
War follow'd for revenge, or to fupplant
The envied tenants of fome happier spot,
The chafe for fuftenance, precarious truft!
His hard condition with fevere constraint
Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth
Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns
Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,
Mean felf-attachment, and fcarce 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 feafons with a grateful fimile,
Can boast 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 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 reft, and with most cause,
Thee, gentle * savage! whom no love of thee
Or thine, but curiofity perhaps,
Or else vain glory, prompted us to draw
Forth from thy native bow'rs, to fhow thee here
With what fuperior 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
Their former charms? And, having feen 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 fpiritlefs, as never to regret
Sweets tafted here, and left as foon as known.
Methinks I fee thee ftraying on the beach,
And asking of the furge that bathes thy foot
If ever it has wash'd our diftant fhore.
I fee thee weep, and thine are honeft tears,
A patriot's for his country: thou art fad
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 she 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 wafte
For fight of fhip from England. Ev'ry fpeck
Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale
With conflict of contending hopes and fears.
But comes at laft 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 compafs 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 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 noisome few'r,
The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land.
In cities foul example on moft minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In grofs and pamper'd cities floth and luft,
And wantonnefs and gluttonous excess.
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' achievement of successful flight.
I do confefs them nurs'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 ftyle as much;
Each province of her art her equal care.
With nice incifion of her guided steel
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a foil
So fterile with what charms foe'er fhe will,
The richeft fcen'ry and the loveliest forms.
Where finds philosophy her eagle eye,
With which the gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots?
In London: where her implements exact,
With which he calculates, computes, and fcans,
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce fuch a mart,
So rich, fo throng'd, fo drain'd, and fo fupplied,
As London-opulent, enlarg`d, and still
Increafing, London? Babylon of old
|