Awhile he writ, awhile he read,
Awhile he conn'd their grammar rules-
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)
Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him passing well,
Beheld in him a sound divine.
But those of more discerning eye,
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by,
To wander with his dearer bow.
The tedious hours of study spent,
The heavy moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walk'd, he run.
No mystic wonders fired his mind;
He sought to gain no learn'd degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.
The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possess'd,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy's gayest colors drest.
"And why," he cried, "did I forsake
My native wood for gloomy walls;
The silver stream, the limpid lake
For musty books, and college halls.
"A little could my wants supply—
Can wealth and honor give me more;
Or, will the sylvan god deny
The humble treat he gave before?
"Let seraphs gain the bright abode,
And heaven's sublimest mansions see-
I only bow to Nature's God-
The land of shades will do for me.
"These dreadful secrets of the sky
Alarm my soul with chilling fear-
Do planets in their orbits fly,
And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?
"Let planets still their course pursue,
And comets to the centre run-
In him my faithful friend I view,
The image of my God-the sun.
"Where nature's ancient forests grow,
And mingled laurel never fades,
My heart is fix'd and I must go
To die among my native shades."
He spoke, and to the western springs,
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.
HAPPY the man who, safe on shore,
Now trims, at home, his evening fire;
Unmoved, he hears the tempests roar,
That on the tufted groves expire:
Alas! on us they doubly fall,
Our feeble bark must bear them all.
Now to their haunts the birds retreat,
The squirrel seeks his hollow tree,
Wolves in their shaded caverns meet,
All, all are bless'd but wretched we-
Foredoom'd a stranger to repose,
No rest the unsettled ocean knows.
While o'er the dark abyss we roam,
Perhaps, whate'er the pilots say,
We saw the sun descend in gloom,
No more to see his rising ray,
But buried low, by far too deep,
On coral beds, unpitied, sleep!
But what a stange, uncoasted strand
Is that, where fate permits no day—
No charts have we to mark that land,
No compass to direct that way.
What pilot shall explore that realm,
What new Columbus take the helm?
While death and darkness both surround,
And tempests rage with lawless power,
Of friendship's voice I hear no sound,
No comfort in this dreadful hour—
What friendship can in tempests be,
What comfort on this troubled sea?
The bark, accustom❜d to obey,
No more the trembling pilots guide;
Alone she gropes her trackless way,
While mountains burst on either side-
Thus, skill and science both must fall
And ruin is the lot of all.
THE reign of old Saturn is highly renown'd
For many fine things that no longer are found,
Trees always in blossom, men free from all pains,
And shepherds as mild as the sheep on their plains.
In the midland equator, dispensing his sway,
The sun, they pretended, pursued his bright way,
Not rambled, unsteady, to regions remote,
To talk, once a year, with the crab and the goat.
From a motion like this, have the sages explain'd,
How summer for ever her empire maintain'd;
While the turf of the fields by the plough was unbroke,
And a house for the shepherd, the boughs of an oak.
Yet some say there never was seen on this stage
What poets affirm of that innocent age,
When the brutal creation from bondage was free,
And men were exactly what mankind should be.
But why should they labor to prove it a dream?—
The poets of old were in love with the theme,
And, leaving to others mere truth to repeat,
In the regions of fancy they found it complete.
Three ages have been on this globe, they pretend;
And the fourth, some have thought, is to be without end;
The first was of gold—but a fifth, we will say,
Has already begun, and is now on its way.
Since the days of Arcadia, if ever there shined
A ray of the first on the heads of mankind,
Let the learned dispute-but with us it is clear,
That the era of paper was realized here.
Four ages, however, at least have been told,
The first is compared to the purest of gold-
But, as bad luck would have it, its circles were few,
And the next was of silver-if Ovid says true.
But this, like the former, did rapidly pass
While that which came after was nothing but brass-
An age of mere tinkers-and when it was lost,
Hard iron succeeded-we know to our cost.
And hence you may fairly infer, if you please,
That we're nothing but blacksmiths of various degrees,
Since each has a weapon, of one kind or other,
To stir up the coals, and to shake at his brother.
Should the Author of nature reverse his decree,
And bring back the age we 're so anxious to see,
Agreement alas !—you would look for in vain,
The stuff might be changed, but the staff would remain.
The lawyer would still find a client to fleece,
The doctor, a patient to pack off in peace,
The parson, some hundreds of hearers prepared,
To measure his gifts by the length of his beard.
Old Momus would still have some cattle to lead,
Who would hug his opinions, and swallow his creed-
So it's best, I presume, that things are as they are-
If iron's the meanest-we 've nothing to fear.
EPISTLE TO A GAY YOUNG LADY WHO WAS MARRIED TO
A DOATING OLD DEACON.
THUS winter joins to April's bloom,
Thus daisies blush beside a tomb,
Thus, fields of ice o'er rivers grow,
While melting streams are found below.
How strange a taste is here display’d—
Yourself all light, and he all shade!
Each hour you live you look more gay,
While he grows uglier every day!
Intent upon celestial things,
He only Watts or Sternhold sings ;-
You tune your chord to different strains,
And merrier notes attract the swains.
Ah Harriot! why in beauty's prime
Thus look for flowers in Greenland's clime;
When twenty years are scarcely run
Thus hope for spring without a sun!
THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND.
In spite of all the learn'd have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands-
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.
His imaged birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.
His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.
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