"From gaiety that fills t/ie bones with pains,
The month with blasphemy, the heart with woe."

Page 126.

With prickly goss, that shapeless and deform
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 trimmed
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 followed 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 tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown
More tattered 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 pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinched 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 purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of every hedge, Which kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched 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-banished 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 undistinguished 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 springs spontaneous,) in remote And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed, And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. War and the chase engross the savage whole: War followed 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. Even the favoured isles So lately found, although the constant sun Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Can boast but little virtue; and mert 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 passed By navigators uninformed as they,

Or ploughed 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 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 thatched 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 fair, 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 returned 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 washed 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 climbst 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.

We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought;

And must be bribed to compass earth again

By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.

But though true worth and virtue in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft,—in proud and gay
1 Omai.

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