The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys Late Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States of America to the Court of Madrid |
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 | The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys |  |
And are there men, with civil bliss at strife,
Who lavish wanton praise on savage life?
Is licence freedom? Can the general good
Bid each barbarian quench revenge in blood?
While wrongs, ev'n fancied, set his soul on fire,
Can judgment cool unite with burning ire?
Or numb'd in apathy, can that alone
Afford the fond endearments I have known?
See the rude Indian, reason's dictates braves,
And treats the females as his abject slaves:
He, round his hearth, no circle calls, at ev'n,
To share the sweetest pleasures under heav'n.
Regard yon desert, dark and drear, where roam
Hordes who ne'er knew a comfortable home:
On them no peaceful arts their influence shed,
But fierce as panthers on the mountains bred,
They prowl for prey. For them the hunted wood
Now yields redundant, now penurious food—
Regorg'd or famish'd oft—a miscreant crew—
If few their wants, their comforts still more few!
Ah! when will virtue's evangelic flame
The frigid wildness of their tempers tame?
Till that bright hour, no hope beyond the sky—
Forlorn they live, and like the brute they die!
Who lavish wanton praise on savage life?
Is licence freedom? Can the general good
Bid each barbarian quench revenge in blood?
While wrongs, ev'n fancied, set his soul on fire,
Can judgment cool unite with burning ire?
Or numb'd in apathy, can that alone
Afford the fond endearments I have known?
See the rude Indian, reason's dictates braves,
And treats the females as his abject slaves:
He, round his hearth, no circle calls, at ev'n,
To share the sweetest pleasures under heav'n.
Regard yon desert, dark and drear, where roam
Hordes who ne'er knew a comfortable home:
On them no peaceful arts their influence shed,
But fierce as panthers on the mountains bred,
They prowl for prey. For them the hunted wood
Now yields redundant, now penurious food—
Regorg'd or famish'd oft—a miscreant crew—
If few their wants, their comforts still more few!
Ah! when will virtue's evangelic flame
The frigid wildness of their tempers tame?
Till that bright hour, no hope beyond the sky—
Forlorn they live, and like the brute they die!
| The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys | |