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1. Lo! the poor Indian-whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;

Yet simple nature to his hope has given,

Behind the cloud-topp'd hills, an humbler heaven.

POPE'S Essay on Man.

2. Where beasts with man divided empire claim.

3. Is not the red man's wigwam home


As dear to him as costly dome?

Is not his lov'd one's smile as bright

As the proud white man's worshipp'd light?


4. True, they have vices-such are nature's growth, But only the barbarian's-we have both.

BYRON'S Island.

5. Shall not one line lament the lion race,
For us struck out from sweet creation's face?
Freedom-the self-same freedom we adore,
Bade them defend their violated shore.


6. He saw-and, maddening at the sight,
Gave his bold bosom to the fight;
To tiger rage his soul was driven;
Mercy was neither sought nor given;-
The pale man from his land must fly;
He would be free-or he would die.


7. But the doom'd Indian leaves behind no trace

To save his own, or serve another's race;
With his frail breath his power has pass'd away,
His deeds, his thoughts, are buried with his clay.

8. Alas, for them! their day is o'er,

Their fires are out from shore to shore ;
No more for them the wild deer bounds—
The plough is on their hunting grounds.
The pale man's axe rings thro' their woods,
The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods;
Their pleasant springs are dry;

Their children — look, by power oppress'd,
Beyond the mountains of the West—

Their children go-to die!



1. I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love, as I was wont to have.



Not the basilisk

More deadly to the sight than is to me
The cool ingenious eye of frozen kindness.

3. Let me this fondness from my bosom tear;
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair:
Come, cool Indifference, and heal my breast ;
Wearied, at length, I seek thy downy rest
Not all her arts my steady soul shall move,
And, she shall find, indifference conquers love.

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4. The one deep cloud, that darkens every sky, Is chang'd affection's cold, averted eye.



5. I once was quick of feeling—that is o'er.

6. I trust the frown thy features wear Ere long into a smile will turn;

I would not, that a face so fair

As thine, belov'd, should look so stern.



7. Your coldness I heed not, your frown I defy;
Your affection I need not the time has gone by,
When a blush or a smile on that cheek could beguile
My soul from its safety, with witchery's smile.



1. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?


Famine is in thy cheeks;

Need and oppression stareth in thine eyes;

Upon thy back hangs ragged misery ;


The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law.


3. A begging prince what beggar pities not?


4. Think, too, in what a woful plight

The wretch must be, whose pocket's light;
Are not his hours by want deprest?
Penurious cares corrode his breast;
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends.

GAY's Fables.

5. O grant me, Heaven! a middle state,

Neither too humble, nor too great;
More than enough for nature's ends,
With something left to treat my friends.


6. Be honest poverty thy boasted wealth;

So shall thy friendships be sincere tho' few;

So shall thy sleep be sound, thy waking cheerful.


7. Want is a bitter and a hateful good,

Because its virtues are not understood;
Yet many things, impossible to thought,

Have been by need to full perfection brought.
The daring of the soul proceeds from thence,
Sharpness of wit, and active diligence;
Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives,
And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.

8. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unfold; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.


GRAY'S Elegy.

9. What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed, Solicit the cold hand of charity!

To shock us more, solicit it in vain!

YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.

10. Aye! idleness!—the rich folks never fail To find some reason why the poor deserve Their miseries.

11. But poverty, with most who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, Th' effect of laziness, or sottish waste.







O, blissful poverty !

Nature, too partial to thy lot, assigns

Health, freedom, innocence, and downy peace-
Her real goods; and only mocks the great
With empty pageantries.

He views, with keen desire,
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire.




But for pride,

We had not felt our poverty, but as

BYRON'S Werner.

Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully.

15. Behold yon grey-hair'd prisoner, who reclines,
Silent and sad, upon his bed of straw :—
Look on his venerable form; behold

The snow-white beard that hangs adown his breast.
"Tis Winter-cold and dreary Winter-and
The storm-king rages fearfully without;

Yet no bright blaze adds comfort to his hearth;
No cheering friends sit smiling at his side;
But a cold, biting freezing numbs his limbs,
And he is lone and comfortless indeed.

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