From injur’d man, his friend so late,
He fears the stroke of potent hate;
With grief looks back on periods past,
His bloodless food, a blest repast!
Which late he cropt in peace profound,
With flocks, and herds, and men around;
Yet now abhors that guiltless food,
To rapine doom’d, and thirst of blood;
And mourns the days (to this a slave)
When heav’n a happier nature gave: