War and the chase engross the savage whole; War follow'd for revenge, or to fupplant The envied tenants of fome happier spot,. The chafe for sustenance, 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 scarce aught befide. Thus fare the shiv'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 conftant 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 ease. These therefore I can pity, plae'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 rest, and with most cause, Thee, gentle * savage! 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 show thee here With what fuperior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and squander life. The dream is past; and thou haft found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But haft thou
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 simple 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 so dull of heart
And spiritless, as never to regret Sweets tasted here, and left as foon as known. Methinks I fee thee straying on the beach, And afking of the furge that bathes thy foot If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. I fee thee weep, and thine are honest 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 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 dusky 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, As to a common and most noisome few'r, The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and luft, And wantonness and gluttonous excess. In cities vice is hidden with most ease, Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond th' achievement of fuccefsful 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 size. Such London is, by tafte and wealth proclaim'd The faireft 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 sees
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 style 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 she will, The richest scen'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 she calculates, computes, and scans, All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, As London-opulent, enlarg'd, and still Increasing, London? Babylon of old
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