Some squally clouds increas'd the midnight blast,

While lock'd in sleep the lovely Susan's fast;

With left hand firm he holds the tugging sheet, 135
Now driving hard before the hail and sleet;
While oft his right assumes a nobler part,

To guide the helm with all the Indian art.
Undaunted minds no common danger fear,
Each howling blast is music to his ear.
Now when the dawn foretold the rising sun
A hundred miles on his right course had run,
His anxious eye the stretching woods explore;
And soon he saw the rough Pictonian shore,
Where hardy men their natal soil disown,

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And wand'ring Scots have built the thriving town; Where tyrants 'greed, 'tis said, with frost's increase, To pinch the poor, and rob the cottage peace; Where Avarice keen, in spider ambush lay,

Sits weaving snares in ev'ry good man's way.

The winds indignant spurn the servile shore,

And Edward's barge to happier harbours bore;
Far down that gulph where broad St. Lawrence lies,
Whose rapid tides in awful billows rise.

Now every one for food has keen desire,

And wearied limbs some gentle rest require :
A neighb'ring creek its silver op'ning show'd,
And up its stream the hast'ning Edward row'd;
A bason deep, whose clear unruffled flood
Reflects the beauties of the hanging wood,
Receives the burthen of the gay canoe,
And breathes delight to all the drooping crew.
The anxious dog first springs upon
the strand,
And whines with joy to walk the solid land!

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Then cheerful Susan marks a nicer place,

And steps ashore with all her native grace;

No child of art, in high-bred cities born,
Could vie the beauties of that matchless form.

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From such fine limbs that own'd no maiden flaw,
The painter might a fainter Venus draw;
Then Edward last the cooling stream must wade,
And lays his ship beneath th' inglorious shade,
Where spreading boughs, by nature kindly wove,
In leafy splendour form'd the beechen grove.

END OF THE FOURTH CANTO.

THE INDIAN.