The Indian

Alone, unfriended, on a foreign shore,

Behold an hapless, melancholy maid,

Begging her scanty fare from door to door,

With piteous voice, and humbly bended head.

Alas! her native tongue is known to few:

Her manners and her garb excite suprise;

The vulgar stare to see her bid adieu;

Her tattered garments fix their curious eyes.

Cease, cease your laugh, ye thoughtless vain;

Why sneer at yon poor Indian’s pain?

’Tis nature’s artless voice that speaks:

Behold the tear bedew her cheeks!

Imploring actions, bursting sighs,

Reveal enough to British eyes.