He tills a farm.
His war-scar'd visage, paints no more deform—
His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,
Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm—
He wears a hat.
His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,
Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,
Is laid aside—to think, to plan, to read—
He keeps a store.
This is the law of progress—kindlier arts