Yet time and art shall other changes find, And open still and vary still the mind. The countless clans that tread these dank abodes, Who glean spontaneous fruits and range the woods, Fixt here for ages, in their swarthy face Display the wild complexion of the place. Yet when the hordes to happy nations rise, And earth By culture warms the genial skies, A fairer tint and more majestic grace Shall flush their features and exalt the race; While milder arts, with social joys refined, Inspire new beauties in the growing mind. Thy followers too, old Europe's noblest pride, When future gales shall wing them o'er the tide, A ruddier hue and deeper shade shall gain, And stalk, in statelier figures, on the plain. While nature's grandeur lifts the eye abroad O'er these last labors of the forming God, Wing'd on a wider glance the venturous soul Bids greater powers and bolder thoughts unrol; The sage, the chief, the patriot unconfined, Shield the weak world and meliorate mankind. But think not thou, in all the range of man, That different pairs each different cast began; Or tribes distinct, by signal marks confest, Were born to serve or subjugate the rest. The Hero heard, and thus resumed the strain: Who led these wanderers o'er the dreary main? Could their weak sires, unskill'd in human lore, Build the bold bark, to seek an unknown shore? A shore so distant from the world beside, So dark the tempests, and so wild the tide, That Greece and Tyre, and all who tempt the sea, Have shunn'd the task, and left the fame to me. When first thy roving race, the Power replied, Learn'd by the stars the devious sail to guide, From stormy Hellespont explored the way, And sought the limits of the Midland sea; Before Alcides form'd his impious plan To check the sail, and bound the steps of man, This hand had led them to this rich abode, And braved the wrath of that strong demigod. Driven from the Calpian strait, a hapless train Roll'd on the waves that sweep the western main; Storms from the orient bhcken'd heaven with shade, Nor sun nor stars could yield their wonted aid. For many a darksome day o'erwhelm'd and tost, Their sails, their oars in swallowing surges lost, At length, the clouds withdrawn, they sad descry Their course directing from their native sky. No hope remains; far onward o'er the zone The trade wind bears them with the circling sun; Till wreck'd and stranded here, the sylvan coast Receives to lonely seats the suffering host. The fruitful vales invite their steps to roam, Renounce their sorrows and forget their home; Revolving years their ceaseless wanderings led, And from their sons descending nations spread.