« ForrigeFortsett »
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 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;