Propell'd by skilful hands, and strong,
Down cataracts and rivers pass'd,
And over lakes, it went along.

With spears, from stone or iv'ry, wrought,
Or hooks, ingenious made of bone,
He stores from out the waters brought,
Nor look'd for forest gifts, alone.

Contentment dwelt within his heart,
And, from his dark and piercing eye
His freedom showed, unbred of art,
His honor look'd unconsciously.

Untaught by books, untrain'd by men,
Vers'd in the thoughts of bard or sage,
He yet had read from nature's hand,
A book unwrit, yet wise its page.

One would have thought a man so bless'd
And richly, too, with manly pow'rs,
Had surely some far higher quest,
Than living thus, in nature's bow'rs.

One would have thought, that when he knew
The laws of God, and cultur'd men,
His mind would take a nobler view,
And light pursue, with eager ken.

But such is not his happy state,