Whilst haughty pride his gallery displays, Where hangs the row in sullen show Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days, The gaudy toil of Turkish loom Shall decorate the stately room; Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by. Not so where o'er the desart waste of sand Speds the rude Arab wild his wandering way; Leads on to rapine his intrepid band, And claims the wealth of India for his prey; There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand, The generous Arab gives the tent of rest, Guards him as the fond mother guards her child, Relieves his every want, and guides him o'er the wild. Not so amid those climes where rolls along The Oroonoko deep his mighty flood; Where rove amid their woods the savage throng, Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood; Fierce as their torrents, wily as the snake That sharps his venom'd tooth in every brake, Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear; Patient of hunger, and of pain, Close in their haunts the chiefs remain, And lift in secret stand the deadly spear. Yet, should the unarm'd traveller draw near, And proffering forth the friendly hand, Claim their protection from the warrior band; The savage Indians bid their anger cease, Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace. Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdraws To fashion's circle, far from nature's laws, How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast! Cold Prudence comes, relentless foe! Forbids the pitying tear to flow, And steels the soul of apathy to rest; Mounts in relentless state her stubborn throne, And deems of other bosoms by her own. BION. * * * * * SONNETS. * * * * * SONNET I. _TO ARISTE._ ARISTE! soon to sojourn with the crowd, In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go; Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud. I go: but still my soul remains with thee, Still will the eye of fancy paint thy charms, Still, lovely Maid, thy imaged form I see, And every pulse will vibrate with alarms. When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale, When envy at a rival's beauty sighs, When rancour prompts the female tongue to rail, And rage and malice fire the gamester's eyes, I turn my wearied soul to her for ease, Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please. BION. * * * * * SONNET II.