Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/161

 And still the sad barbarian, roving, mix'd With beasts of prey; or for his acorn-meal Fought the fierce tusky boar; a shivering wretch! Aghast, and comfortless, when the bleak north, With winter charg'd, let the mix'd tempest fly, Hail, rain, and snow, and bitter-breathing frost: Then to shelter of the hut he fled; And the wild season, sordid, pin'd away. For home he had not; home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends, And dear relations mingle into bliss. But this the rugged savage never felt, Even desolate in crouds; and thus his days Roll'd heavy, dark, and unenjoy'd along; A waste of time! till approach'd And rous'd him from his miserable sloth: His faculties unfolded; pointed out, Where lavish Nature the directing hand Of art demanded; shew'd him how to raise His feeble force by the mechanic powers, To dig the mineral from the vaulted earth, On what to turn the piercing rage of fire, On what the torrent, and the gather'd blast; Gave the tall ancient forest to his ax; Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone, Till by degrees the finished fabric rose; Tore from his limbs the blood-polluted fur, And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm, Or bright in glossy silk, and flowing lawn; With wholesome viands fill'd his table, pour'd The generous glass around, inspir'd to wake The life-refining soul of decent wit: Nor stopp'd at barren bare necessity; But still advancing bolder, led him on To