marking you his prey below,

in his breast no pity dwells,

strong necessity compels:

but man, to whom alone is giv'n

a ray direct from pitying heav'n,

glories in his heart humane—

and creatures for his pleasure slain!

in these savage, liquid plains,

only known to wand'ring swains,

where the mossy riv'let strays,

far from human haunts and ways;

all on nature you depend,

and life's poor season peaceful spend.

or, if man's superior might

dare invade your native right,

on the lofty ether borne,

man with all his pow'rs you scorn;

swiftly seek, on clanging wings,

other lakes and other springs;

and the foe you cannot brave,

scorn at least to be his slave.