XII.
[Why was I born in this more polish'd clime]
Why was I born in this more polish'd clime
Amid the scenes of artificial life?
Where custom rules, long-sanctified by time,
And fashion holds with nature endless strife?
A thousand wants start up, a thousand fears,
To shackle Love, or interrupt his course;
He struggles, yet the galling burthen bears,
Sighs with regret, but owns their sovereign force.
Eager to follow where the emotions lead,
Hides every wish, by violence supprest;
Gazes with ardour on the blooming maid,
But dreads the future anguish of her breast.
Our liberty we boast on Britain's shore,
Yet, slaves to gold, it's tyrant power obey;
Our vices spring from it's creative ore,
And e'en our virtues feel it's quickening ray.
Perils and crimes We scruple not to dare,
Or act the meanest part, intent on gold:
Yet, may the soul refused it's gifts to share,
With conscious pride, sublimer traits unfold.
Hence generous youth with riches unendow'd,
The mistress of his bosom scorns to gain;
Grief may advance, affliction threaten loud,
Firm he supports the accumulated pain.
Happy the free-born Hunters of the wild!
Their only art, how best to urge the chace;
No thoughts of wealth their passions e'er beguiled,
No rank they claim, for equal is the race.
They suffer not the torments of desire,
They are not doom'd to pour the fruitless tear,
To combat with the strong, the tender fire,
And pine from month to month, from year to year.
Happy the natives of more southern skies!
With softer manners, softer forms endued;
Where all around spontaneous harvests rise,
Where from each tree depends ambrosial food.
Of cruel bonds they utter no complaint;
The gentle Virgin hears his amorous tale,
Smiles on her favour'd Youth without restraint,
And crowns his wishes in the spicy vale.
Just are thy words my Thespia. —What delight
Could passive, brutal ignorance impart?
Disgust at once would rise before my sight;
My heart would loathe the unsympathising heart.
Nor could I, to the joys of sense resign'd,
The sportive wanton to my bosom press;
Forget the pure desire, the will refined,
The exalted sentiment, and chaste caress.
A single glance from virtue's melting eye,
The soul with more extatic pleasure warms;
A blush of innocence, one pitying sigh,
Transcends all luxury's prostituted charms.
Still let us cherish hope, whate'er befalls!
And see, where reason, wisdom, take their stand!
Drive the fierce passions from their hallow'd walls,
And lead cherubic Patience by the hand!
Say, that entangled in the social chain,
Wants, fears, and griefs intrude, a numerous crew?
Tho more dilated flows the stream of pain,
The source of pleasure is augmented too.
Just are thy words. —But when the present ill
Afflicts, this curious web we idly twine;
Nature and passion are victorious still,
O'erwhelm'd is my philosophy, and thine.
