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For property stripp'd off by cruel chance;
From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.
The earth was made so various, that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change,
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.
Prospects however lovely may be seen
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,

Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.



Then snug inclosures in the shelter'd vale,

Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us, happy to renounce a while 3,


Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,
That such short absence may endear it more.
Then forests, or the savage rock may please,

That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts
Above the reach of man: his hoary head
Conspicuous many a league, the mariner
Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist
A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows,
And at his feet the baffled billows die.

The common overgrown with fern 37, and rough


But if much converse

Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield,
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.

Par. Lost, ix. 247.

37 E'en the wild heath displays her purple dies, And midst the desert fruitful fields arise.

Pope. Windsor Forest.



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 sattin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound.
A serving-maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea and died.
Her fancy follow'd 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 tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown
More tatter'd 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 press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinch'd with cold, asks never 38.-Kate is crazed.

28 Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,

But God will never.

Book vi. 442.


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 purloin'd
From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race!
They pick their fuel out of every hedge,
Which kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd
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-banish'd from society, prefer

Such squalid sloth to honourable toil.

Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft

An assembly such as earth





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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 39, and wandering much, Need other physic none to heal the effects

Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Blest he, though undistinguish'd 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, 595
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 spring spontaneous,) in remote
And barbarous climes, where violence prevails,
And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,
By culture tamed, by liberty refresh'd,
And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.
War and the chase engross the savage whole :
War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant
The envied tenants of some happier spot,

39 The physic of the field.

Essay on Criticism, iii. 174.



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 favour'd isles 620
So lately found, although the constant sun
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,
Can boast but little virtue; and inert
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 inclosed
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 bowers, to show thee here

40 Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.-

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.

Goldsmith. Traveller.



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