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| THE HUMAN fabric early from its birth | |
| Feels some fond influence from its parent earth: | |
| In different regions different forms we trace, | |
| Here dwells a feeble, there an iron race; | |
| Here genius lives and wakeful fancies play, | 5 |
| Here noiseless stupor sleeps its life away. | |
| A rugged race the cliffs and mountains bear, | |
| They leap the precipice and breast the air, | |
| Follow the chamois on the pointed rock, | |
| And clamber heights to seek their bearded flock, | 10 |
| Loud from the Baltic sounds the dreadful storm, | |
| And gathering hosts the face of day deform: | |
| Beneath their rage the soft Italian yields | |
| His boasted laurels and his blooming fields. | |
| The wandering Tartars by their rigorous land, | 15 |
| Were led to war, to victory and command. | |
| While southern climes were sunk in deep repose, | |
| (An easy conquest to invading foes.) | |
| —Where spreads the quiet and luxuriant vale, | |
| For ever fann’d by spring’s ambrosial gale; | 20 |
| Where over pebbles runs the limpid rill, | |
| And woods o’ershade the wildly sloping hill: | |
| There roves the swain, all gentle and serene, | |
| And guards his sheep while browsing on the green. | |
| He leads the dance by Cynthia’s silver light, | 25 |
| And lulls with sport the dusky ear of night; | |
| Breathes from his pipe the dulcet strain of love, | |
| And warbles Ellen through the mead and grove. | |
| —In those drear climes where scorching suns prevail, | |
| And fever rides the tainted burning gale; | 30 |
| Where draws the giant snake his loathsome train, | |
| And poisons with his breath the yellow plain; | |
| There languid pleasure waves his gilded wings, | |
| And slothful ease the mental power unstrings. | |
| Where Iceland spreads her dark and frozen wild | 35 |
| On whose fell snows no cheering sunbeam smiled, | |
| There in their stormy, cold, and midnight cell, | |
| The cheerless fishermen with stupor dwell: | |
| Wrapt in their furs they slumber life away, | |
| And mimic with their lamps the light of day.— | 40 |
| Chill through his trackless pines the hunter pass’d, | |
| His yell arose upon the howling blast: | |
| Before him fled, with all the speed of fear, | |
| His wealth and victim, yonder helpless deer. | |
| Saw you the savage man, how fell and wild, | 45 |
| With what grim pleasure as he pass’d he smiled? | |
| Unhappy man! a wretched wigwam’s shed | |
| Is his poor shelter, some dry skins his bed; | |
| Sometimes alone upon the woodless height | |
| He strikes his fire and spends his watchful night; | 50 |
| His dog with howling bays the moon’s red beam, | |
| And starts the wild-deer in his nightly dream— | |
| Poor savage-man, for him no yellow grain | |
| Waves its bright billows o’er the fruitful plain; | |
| For him no harvest yields its full supply | 55 |
| When winter hurls his tempest through the sky. | |
| No joys he knows but those which spring from strife, | |
| Unknown to him the charms of social life. | |
| Rage, malice, envy, all his thoughts control, | |
| And every dreadful passion burns his soul.— | 60 |
| Should culture meliorate his darksome home, | |
| And cheer those wilds where he is wont to roam; | |
| Beneath the hatchet should his forests fall | |
| And the mild tabor warble through his hall, | |
| Should fields of tillage yield their rich increase, | 65 |
| And through his wastes walk forth the arts of peace; | |
| His sullen soul would feel a genial glow, | |
| Joy would break in upon the night of wo; | |
| Knowledge would spread her mild, reviving ray, | |
| And on his wigwam rise the dawn of day. | 70 |
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