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Thou who despisest so debased a fate, As in the pride of wisdom thou may'st call These meek submissive Indians' low estate, Look round the world, and see where over all Injurious passions hold mankind in thrall! How barbarous Force asserts a ruthless reign, Or Mammon, o'er his portion of the ball, Hath learn'd a baser empire to maintain, Mammon, the god of all who give their rouls to gain.

Behold the fraudful arts, the covert strife, The jarring interests that engross mankind; The low pursuits, the selfish aims of life; Studies that weary and contract the mind, That bring no joy, and leave no peace behind; And Death approaching to dissolve the spell! The immortal soul, which hath so long been blind, Recovers then clear sight, and sees too well The error of its ways, when irretrievable.