 | The Sugar-Cane |  |
85
BOOK III.
86
ARGUMENT.
Hymn to the month of January, when crop begins. Address. Planters have employment all the year round. Planters should be pious. A ripe Cane-piece on fire at midnight. Crop begun. Cane cutting described. Effects of music. Great care requisite in feeding the mill. Humanity towards the maimed recommended. The tainted Canes should not be ground. Their use. How to preserve the laths and mill-points from sudden squalls. Address to the Sun, and praise of Antigua. A cattle-mill described. Care of mules, &c. Diseases to which they are subject. A water-mill the least liable to interruption. Common in Guadaloupe and Martinico. Praise of Lord Romney. The necessity of a strong, clear fire, in boiling. Planters should always have a spare set of vessels, because the iron furnaces are apt to crack, and copper vessels to melt. The danger of throwing cold water into a thorough-heated-furnace. Cleanliness, and skimming well, recommended. A boiling-house should be lofty, and open at top, to the leeward. Constituent parts of vegetables. Sugar an essential salt. What retards its granulation. How to forward it. Dumb Cane. Effects of it. Bristol-lime the best temper. Various uses of Bristol lime. Good muscovado described. Bermudas-lime recommended. The Negroes should not be hindered from drinking the hot liquor. The chearfulness and healthiness of the Negroes in crop-time. Boilers to be encouraged. They should neither boil the Sugar too little, nor too much. When the Sugar is of too loose a grain, and about to boil over the teache, or last copper, a little grease settles it, and makes it boil closer. The French often mix sand with their Sugars. This practice not followed by the English. A character. Of the skimmings. Their various uses. Of rum. Its praise. A West-India prospect, when crop is finished. An address to the Creoles, to live more upon their estates than they do. The reasons.
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From scenes of deep distress, the heavenly Muse,
Emerging joyous, claps her dewy wings.
As when a pilgrim, in the howling waste,
Hath long time wandered, fearful at each step,
Of tumbling cliffs, fell serpents, whelming bogs;
At last, from some long eminence, descries
Fair haunts of social life; wide-cultur'd plains,
O'er which glad reapers pour; he chearly sings:
So she to sprightlier notes her pipe attunes,
Than e'er these mountains heard; to gratulate,
With duteous carols, the beginning year.
Emerging joyous, claps her dewy wings.
As when a pilgrim, in the howling waste,
Hath long time wandered, fearful at each step,
Of tumbling cliffs, fell serpents, whelming bogs;
At last, from some long eminence, descries
Fair haunts of social life; wide-cultur'd plains,
O'er which glad reapers pour; he chearly sings:
So she to sprightlier notes her pipe attunes,
Than e'er these mountains heard; to gratulate,
With duteous carols, the beginning year.
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Hail, eldest birth of Time! in other climes,
In the old world, with tempests usher'd in;
While rifled nature thine appearance wails,
And savage winter wields his iron mace:
But not the rockiest verge of these green isles,
Tho' mountains heapt on mountains brave the sky,
Dares winter, by his residence, prophane.
At times the ruffian, wrapt in murky state,
Inroads will, sly, attempt; but soon the sun,
Benign protector of the Cane-land isles,
Repells the invader, and his rude mace breaks.
Here, every mountain, every winding dell,
(Haunt of the Dryads; where, beneath the shade
Of broad-leaf'd china, idly they repose,
Charm'd with the murmur of the tinkling rill;
Charm'd with the hummings of the neighbouring hive;)
Welcome thy glad approach: but chief the Cane,
Whose juice now longs to murmur down the spout,
Hails thy lov'd coming; January, hail!
In the old world, with tempests usher'd in;
While rifled nature thine appearance wails,
And savage winter wields his iron mace:
But not the rockiest verge of these green isles,
Tho' mountains heapt on mountains brave the sky,
Dares winter, by his residence, prophane.
At times the ruffian, wrapt in murky state,
Inroads will, sly, attempt; but soon the sun,
Benign protector of the Cane-land isles,
Repells the invader, and his rude mace breaks.
Here, every mountain, every winding dell,
(Haunt of the Dryads; where, beneath the shade
Of broad-leaf'd china, idly they repose,
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Charm'd with the hummings of the neighbouring hive;)
Welcome thy glad approach: but chief the Cane,
Whose juice now longs to murmur down the spout,
Hails thy lov'd coming; January, hail!
O M***! thou, whose polish'd mind contains
Each science useful to thy native isle!
Philosopher, without the hermit's spleen!
Polite, yet learned; and, tho' solid, gay!
Critic, whose head each beauty, fond, admires;
Whose heart each error flings in friendly shade!
Planter, whose youth sage cultivation taught
Each secret lesson of her sylvan school:
To thee the Muse a grateful tribute pays;
She owes to thee the precepts of her song:
Nor wilt thou, sour, refuse; tho' other cares,
The public welfare, claim thy busy hour;
With her to roam (thrice pleasing devious walk)
The ripened cane-piece; and, with her, to taste
(Delicious draught!) the nectar of the mill!
Each science useful to thy native isle!
Philosopher, without the hermit's spleen!
Polite, yet learned; and, tho' solid, gay!
Critic, whose head each beauty, fond, admires;
Whose heart each error flings in friendly shade!
Planter, whose youth sage cultivation taught
Each secret lesson of her sylvan school:
To thee the Muse a grateful tribute pays;
She owes to thee the precepts of her song:
Nor wilt thou, sour, refuse; tho' other cares,
The public welfare, claim thy busy hour;
With her to roam (thrice pleasing devious walk)
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(Delicious draught!) the nectar of the mill!
The planter's labour in a round revolves;
Ends with the year, and with the year begins.
Ends with the year, and with the year begins.
Ye swains, to Heaven bend low in grateful prayer,
Worship the Almighty; whose kind-fostering hand
Hath blest your labour, and hath given the cane
To rise superior to each menac'd ill.
Worship the Almighty; whose kind-fostering hand
Hath blest your labour, and hath given the cane
To rise superior to each menac'd ill.
Nor less, ye planters, in devotion, sue,
That nor the heavenly bolt, nor casual spark,
Nor hand of malice may the crop destroy.
That nor the heavenly bolt, nor casual spark,
Nor hand of malice may the crop destroy.
Ah me! what numerous, deafning bells, resound?
What cries of horror startle the dull sleep?
What gleaming brightness makes, at midnight, day?
By its portentuous glare, too well I see
Palæmon's fate; the virtuous, and the wise!
Where were ye, watches, when the flame burst forth?
A little care had then the hydra quell'd:
But, now, what clouds of white smoke load the sky!
How strong, how rapid the combustion pours!
Aid not, ye winds! with your destroying breath,
The spreading vengeance.—They contemn my prayer.
What cries of horror startle the dull sleep?
What gleaming brightness makes, at midnight, day?
By its portentuous glare, too well I see
Palæmon's fate; the virtuous, and the wise!
Where were ye, watches, when the flame burst forth?
A little care had then the hydra quell'd:
But, now, what clouds of white smoke load the sky!
How strong, how rapid the combustion pours!
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The spreading vengeance.—They contemn my prayer.
Rous'd by the deafning bells, the cries, the blaze;
From every quarter, in tumultuous bands,
The Negroes rush; and, 'mid the crackling flames,
Plunge, dæmon-like! All, all, urge every nerve:
This way, tear up those Canes; dash the fire out,
Which sweeps, with serpent-error, o'er the ground.
There, hew these down; their topmost branches burn:
And here bid all thy watery engines play;
For here the wind the burning deluge drives.
From every quarter, in tumultuous bands,
The Negroes rush; and, 'mid the crackling flames,
Plunge, dæmon-like! All, all, urge every nerve:
This way, tear up those Canes; dash the fire out,
Which sweeps, with serpent-error, o'er the ground.
There, hew these down; their topmost branches burn:
And here bid all thy watery engines play;
For here the wind the burning deluge drives.
In vain.—More wide the blazing torrent rolls;
More loud it roars, more bright it fires the pole!
And toward thy mansion, see, it bends its way.
Haste! far, O far, your infant-throng remove:
Quick from your stables drag your steeds and mules:
With well-wet blankets guard your cypress-roofs;
And where thy dried Canes in large stacks are pil'd.—
More loud it roars, more bright it fires the pole!
And toward thy mansion, see, it bends its way.
Haste! far, O far, your infant-throng remove:
Quick from your stables drag your steeds and mules:
With well-wet blankets guard your cypress-roofs;
And where thy dried Canes in large stacks are pil'd.—
Efforts but serve to irritate the flames:
Naught but thy ruin can their wrath appease.
Ah, my Palæmon! what avail'd thy care,
Oft to prevent the earliest dawn of day,
And walk thy ranges, at the noon of night?
What tho' no ills assail'd thy bunching sprouts,
And seasons pour'd obedient to thy will:
All, all must perish; nor shalt thou preserve
Wherewith to feed thy little orphan-throng.
Naught but thy ruin can their wrath appease.
Ah, my Palæmon! what avail'd thy care,
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And walk thy ranges, at the noon of night?
What tho' no ills assail'd thy bunching sprouts,
And seasons pour'd obedient to thy will:
All, all must perish; nor shalt thou preserve
Wherewith to feed thy little orphan-throng.
Oh, may the Cane-isles know few nights, like this!
For now the sail-clad points, impatient, wait
The hour of sweet release, to court the gale.
The late-hung coppers wish to feel the warmth,
Which well-dried fewel from the Cane imparts:
The Negroe-train, with placid looks, survey
Thy fields, which full perfection have attain'd,
And pant to wield the bill: (no surly watch
Dare now deprive them of the luscious Cane:)
Nor thou, my friend, their willing ardour check;
Encourage rather; cheerful toil is light.
So from no field, shall slow-pac'd oxen draw
More frequent loaded wanes; which many a day,
And many a night shall feed thy crackling mills
With richest offerings: while thy far seen flames,
Bursting thro' many a chimney, bright emblaze
The Æthiop-brow of night. And see, they pour
(Ere Phosphor his pale circlet yet withdraws,
What time grey dawn stands tip-toe on the hill,)
O'er the rich Cane-grove: Muse, their labour sing.
For now the sail-clad points, impatient, wait
The hour of sweet release, to court the gale.
The late-hung coppers wish to feel the warmth,
Which well-dried fewel from the Cane imparts:
The Negroe-train, with placid looks, survey
Thy fields, which full perfection have attain'd,
And pant to wield the bill: (no surly watch
Dare now deprive them of the luscious Cane:)
Nor thou, my friend, their willing ardour check;
Encourage rather; cheerful toil is light.
So from no field, shall slow-pac'd oxen draw
More frequent loaded wanes; which many a day,
And many a night shall feed thy crackling mills
With richest offerings: while thy far seen flames,
Bursting thro' many a chimney, bright emblaze
The Æthiop-brow of night. And see, they pour
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What time grey dawn stands tip-toe on the hill,)
O'er the rich Cane-grove: Muse, their labour sing.
Some bending, of their sapless burden ease
The yellow jointed canes, (whose height exceeds
A mounted trooper, and whose clammy round
Measures two inches full;) and near the root
Lop the stem off, which quivers in their hand
With fond impatience: soon it's branchy spires,
(Food to thy cattle) it resigns; and soon
It's tender prickly tops, with eyes thick set,
To load with future crops thy long-hoed land.
These with their green, their pliant branches bound,
(For not a part of this amazing plant,
But serves some useful purpose) charge the young:
Not laziness declines this easy toil;
Even lameness from it's leafy pallet crawls,
To join the favoured gang. What of the Cane
Remains, and much the largest part remains,
Cut into junks a yard in length, and tied
In small light bundles; load the broad-wheel'd wane,
The mules crook-harnest, and the sturdier crew,
With sweet abundance. As on Lincoln-plains,
(Ye plains of Lincoln sound your Dyer's praise!)
When the lav'd snow-white flocks are numerous penn'd;
The senior swains, with sharpen'd shears, cut off
The fleecy vestment; others stir the tar;
And some impress, upon their captives sides,
Their master's cypher; while the infant throng
Strive by the horns to hold the struggling ram,
Proud of their prowess. Nor meanwhile the jest
Light-bandied round, but innocent of ill;
Nor choral song are wanting: eccho rings.
The yellow jointed canes, (whose height exceeds
A mounted trooper, and whose clammy round
Measures two inches full;) and near the root
Lop the stem off, which quivers in their hand
With fond impatience: soon it's branchy spires,
(Food to thy cattle) it resigns; and soon
It's tender prickly tops, with eyes thick set,
To load with future crops thy long-hoed land.
These with their green, their pliant branches bound,
(For not a part of this amazing plant,
But serves some useful purpose) charge the young:
Not laziness declines this easy toil;
Even lameness from it's leafy pallet crawls,
To join the favoured gang. What of the Cane
Remains, and much the largest part remains,
Cut into junks a yard in length, and tied
In small light bundles; load the broad-wheel'd wane,
The mules crook-harnest, and the sturdier crew,
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(Ye plains of Lincoln sound your Dyer's praise!)
When the lav'd snow-white flocks are numerous penn'd;
The senior swains, with sharpen'd shears, cut off
The fleecy vestment; others stir the tar;
And some impress, upon their captives sides,
Their master's cypher; while the infant throng
Strive by the horns to hold the struggling ram,
Proud of their prowess. Nor meanwhile the jest
Light-bandied round, but innocent of ill;
Nor choral song are wanting: eccho rings.
Nor need the driver, Æthiop authoriz'd,
Thence more inhuman, crack his horrid whip;
From such dire sounds the indignant muse averts
Her virgin-ear, where musick loves to dwell:
'Tis malice now, 'tis wantonness of power
To lash the laughing, labouring, singing throng.
Thence more inhuman, crack his horrid whip;
From such dire sounds the indignant muse averts
Her virgin-ear, where musick loves to dwell:
'Tis malice now, 'tis wantonness of power
To lash the laughing, labouring, singing throng.
What cannot song? all nature feels its power:
The hind's blithe whistle, as thro' stubborn soils
He drives the shining share; more than the goad,
His tardy steers impells.—The muse hath seen,
When health danc'd frolic in her youthful veins,
And vacant gambols wing'd the laughing hours;
The muse hath seen on Annan's pastoral hills,
Of theft and slaughter erst the fell retreat,
But now the shepherd's best-beloved walk:
Hath seen the shepherd, with his sylvan pipe,
Lead on his flock o'er crags, thro' bogs, and streams,
A tedious journey; yet not weary they,
Drawn by the enchantment of his artless song.
What cannot musick?—When brown Ceres asks
The reapers sickle; what like magic sound,
Puff'd from sonorous bellows by the squeeze
Of tuneful artist, can the rage disarm
Of the swart dog-star, and make harvest light?
The hind's blithe whistle, as thro' stubborn soils
He drives the shining share; more than the goad,
His tardy steers impells.—The muse hath seen,
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And vacant gambols wing'd the laughing hours;
The muse hath seen on Annan's pastoral hills,
Of theft and slaughter erst the fell retreat,
But now the shepherd's best-beloved walk:
Hath seen the shepherd, with his sylvan pipe,
Lead on his flock o'er crags, thro' bogs, and streams,
A tedious journey; yet not weary they,
Drawn by the enchantment of his artless song.
What cannot musick?—When brown Ceres asks
The reapers sickle; what like magic sound,
Puff'd from sonorous bellows by the squeeze
Of tuneful artist, can the rage disarm
Of the swart dog-star, and make harvest light?
And now thy mills dance eager in the gale;
Feed well their eagerness: but O beware;
Nor trust, between the steel-cas'd cylinders,
The hand incautious: off the member snapt
Thou'lt ever rue; sad spectacle of woe!
Feed well their eagerness: but O beware;
Nor trust, between the steel-cas'd cylinders,
The hand incautious: off the member snapt
Thou'lt ever rue; sad spectacle of woe!
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Are there, the muse can scarce believe the tale;
Are there, who lost to every feeling sense,
To reason, interest lost; their slaves desert,
And manumit them, generous boon! to starve
Maim'd by imprudence, or the hand of Heaven?
The good man feeds his blind, his aged steed,
That in his service spent his vigorous prime:
And dares a mortal to his fellow man,
(For spite of vanity, thy slaves are men)
Deny protection? Muse suppress the tale.
Are there, who lost to every feeling sense,
To reason, interest lost; their slaves desert,
And manumit them, generous boon! to starve
Maim'd by imprudence, or the hand of Heaven?
The good man feeds his blind, his aged steed,
That in his service spent his vigorous prime:
And dares a mortal to his fellow man,
(For spite of vanity, thy slaves are men)
Deny protection? Muse suppress the tale.
Ye! who in bundles bind the lopt-off Canes;
But chiefly ye! who feed the tight-brac'd mill;
In separate parcels, far, the infected fling:
Of bad Cane-juice the least admixture spoils
The richest, soundest; thus, in pastoral walks,
One tainted sheep contaminates the fold.
But chiefly ye! who feed the tight-brac'd mill;
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Of bad Cane-juice the least admixture spoils
The richest, soundest; thus, in pastoral walks,
One tainted sheep contaminates the fold.
Nor yet to dung-heaps thou resign the canes,
Which or the sun hath burnt, or rats have gnaw'd.
These, to small junks reduc'd, and in huge casks
Steept, where no cool winds blow; do thou ferment:—
Then, when from his entanglements inlarg'd
Th' evasive spirit mounts; by Vulcan's aid,
(Nor Amphitryte will her help deny,)
Do thou through all his winding ways pursue
The runaway; till in thy sparkling bowl
Confin'd, he dances; more a friend to life,
And joy, than that Nepenthe fam'd of yore,
Which Polydamna, Thone's imperial queen,
Taught Jove-born Helen on the banks of Nile.
Which or the sun hath burnt, or rats have gnaw'd.
These, to small junks reduc'd, and in huge casks
Steept, where no cool winds blow; do thou ferment:—
Then, when from his entanglements inlarg'd
Th' evasive spirit mounts; by Vulcan's aid,
(Nor Amphitryte will her help deny,)
Do thou through all his winding ways pursue
The runaway; till in thy sparkling bowl
Confin'd, he dances; more a friend to life,
And joy, than that Nepenthe fam'd of yore,
Which Polydamna, Thone's imperial queen,
Taught Jove-born Helen on the banks of Nile.
As on old ocean, when the wind blows high,
The cautious mariner contracts his sail;
So here, when squaly bursts the speeding gale,
If thou from ruin would'st thy points preserve,
Less-bellying canvass to the storm oppose.
The cautious mariner contracts his sail;
So here, when squaly bursts the speeding gale,
If thou from ruin would'st thy points preserve,
Less-bellying canvass to the storm oppose.
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Yet the faint breeze oft flags on listless wings,
Nor tremulates the coco's airiest arch,
While the red sun darts deluges of fire;
And soon (if on the gale thy crop depend,)
Will all thy hopes of opulence defeat.
Nor tremulates the coco's airiest arch,
While the red sun darts deluges of fire;
And soon (if on the gale thy crop depend,)
Will all thy hopes of opulence defeat.
“Informer of the planetary train!”
Source undiminished of all-cheering light,
Of roseat beauty, and heart-gladning joy!
Fountain of being, on whose water broods
The organic spirit, principle of life!
Lord of the seasons! who in courtly pomp
Lacquay thy presence, and with glad dispatch,
Pour at thy bidding, o'er the land and sea!
Parent of Vegetation, whose fond grasp
The Sugar-Cane displays; and whose green car
Soft-stealing dews, with liquid pearls adorn'd,
Fat-fostering rains, and buxom genial airs
Attend triumphant! Why, ah why so oft,
Why hath Antigua, sweetly social isle,
Nurse of each art; where science yet finds friends
Amid this waste of waters; wept thy rage?
Source undiminished of all-cheering light,
Of roseat beauty, and heart-gladning joy!
Fountain of being, on whose water broods
The organic spirit, principle of life!
Lord of the seasons! who in courtly pomp
Lacquay thy presence, and with glad dispatch,
Pour at thy bidding, o'er the land and sea!
Parent of Vegetation, whose fond grasp
The Sugar-Cane displays; and whose green car
Soft-stealing dews, with liquid pearls adorn'd,
Fat-fostering rains, and buxom genial airs
Attend triumphant! Why, ah why so oft,
Why hath Antigua, sweetly social isle,
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Amid this waste of waters; wept thy rage?
Then trust not, planter, to the unsteddy gale;
But in Tobago's endless forests fell
The tall tough hiccory, or calaba.
Of this, be forc'd two pillars in the ground,
Four paces distant, and two cubits high:
Other two pillars raise; the wood the same,
Of equal size and height. The Calaba
Than steel more durable, contemns the rain,
And sun's intensest beam; the worm, that pest
Of mariners, which winds its fatal way
Through heart of British oak, reluctant leaves
The closer calaba.—By transverse beams
Secure the whole; and in the pillar'd frame,
Sink, artist, the vast bridge-tree's mortis'd form
Of ponderous hiccory; hiccory time defies:
To this be nail'd three polish'd iron plates;
Whereon, three steel Capouces, turn with ease,
Of three long rollers, twice-nine inches round,
With iron cas'd, and jagg'd with many a cogg.
The central Cylinder exceeds the rest
In portly size, thence aptly Captain nam'd.
To this be rivetted th' extended sweeps;
And harness to each sweep two seasoned mules:
They pacing round, give motion to the whole.
The close brac'd cylinders with ease revolve
On their greas'd axle; and with ease reduce
To trash, the Canes thy negroes throw between.
Fast flows the liquor thro' the lead-lin'd spouts;
And depurated by opposing wires,
In the receiver floats a limpid stream.
So twice five casks, with muscovado fill'd,
Shall from thy staunchions drip, ere Day's bright god
Hath in the Atlantic six times cool'd his wheels.
But in Tobago's endless forests fell
The tall tough hiccory, or calaba.
Of this, be forc'd two pillars in the ground,
Four paces distant, and two cubits high:
Other two pillars raise; the wood the same,
Of equal size and height. The Calaba
Than steel more durable, contemns the rain,
And sun's intensest beam; the worm, that pest
Of mariners, which winds its fatal way
Through heart of British oak, reluctant leaves
The closer calaba.—By transverse beams
Secure the whole; and in the pillar'd frame,
Sink, artist, the vast bridge-tree's mortis'd form
Of ponderous hiccory; hiccory time defies:
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Whereon, three steel Capouces, turn with ease,
Of three long rollers, twice-nine inches round,
With iron cas'd, and jagg'd with many a cogg.
The central Cylinder exceeds the rest
In portly size, thence aptly Captain nam'd.
To this be rivetted th' extended sweeps;
And harness to each sweep two seasoned mules:
They pacing round, give motion to the whole.
The close brac'd cylinders with ease revolve
On their greas'd axle; and with ease reduce
To trash, the Canes thy negroes throw between.
Fast flows the liquor thro' the lead-lin'd spouts;
And depurated by opposing wires,
In the receiver floats a limpid stream.
So twice five casks, with muscovado fill'd,
Shall from thy staunchions drip, ere Day's bright god
Hath in the Atlantic six times cool'd his wheels.
Wouldst thou against calamity provide?
Let a well shingled roof, from Raleigh's land,
Defend thy stock from noon's inclement blaze,
And from night-dews; for night no respite knows.
Let a well shingled roof, from Raleigh's land,
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And from night-dews; for night no respite knows.
Nor, when their destin'd labour is perform'd,
Be thou asham'd to lead the panting mules
(The muse, soft parent of each social grace,
With eyes of love God's whole creation views)
To the warm pen; where copious forage strowed,
And strenuous rubbing, renovate their strength.
So, fewer ails, (alas, how prone to ails!)
Their days shall shorten; ah, too short at best!
Be thou asham'd to lead the panting mules
(The muse, soft parent of each social grace,
With eyes of love God's whole creation views)
To the warm pen; where copious forage strowed,
And strenuous rubbing, renovate their strength.
So, fewer ails, (alas, how prone to ails!)
Their days shall shorten; ah, too short at best!
For not, even then, my friend, art thou secure
From fortune: spite of all thy steady care,
What ills, that laugh to scorn Machaon's art,
Await thy cattle! farcy's tabid form,
Joint-racking spasms, and cholic's pungent pang,
Need the muse tell? which, in one luckless moon,
Thy sheds dispeople; when perhaps thy groves,
To full perfection shot, by day, by night,
Indesinent demand their vigorous toil.
From fortune: spite of all thy steady care,
What ills, that laugh to scorn Machaon's art,
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Joint-racking spasms, and cholic's pungent pang,
Need the muse tell? which, in one luckless moon,
Thy sheds dispeople; when perhaps thy groves,
To full perfection shot, by day, by night,
Indesinent demand their vigorous toil.
Then happiest he, for whom the Naiads pour,
From rocky urns, the never-ceasing stream,
To turn his rollers with unbought dispatch.
From rocky urns, the never-ceasing stream,
To turn his rollers with unbought dispatch.
In Karukera's rich well-water'd isle!
In Matanina! boast of Albion's arms,
The brawling Naiads for the planters toil,
Howe'er unworthy; and, thro' solemn scenes,
Romantic, cool, with rocks and woods between,
Enchant the senses! but, among thy swains,
Sweet Liamuiga! who such bliss can boast?
Yes, Romney, thou may'st boast; of British heart,
Of courtly manners, join'd to antient worth:
Friend to thy Britain's every blood-earn'd right,
From tyrants wrung, the many or the few.
By wealth, by titles, by ambition's lure,
Not to be tempted from fair honour's path:
While others, falsely flattering their Prince,
Bold disapprov'd, or by oblique surmise
Their terror hinted, of the people arm'd;
Indignant, in the senate, he uprose,
And, with the well-urg'd energy of zeal,
Their specious, subtle sophistry disprov'd;
The importance, the necessity display'd,
Of civil armies, freedom's surest guard!
Nor in the senate didst thou only win
The palm of eloquence, securely bold;
But rear'd'st thy banners, fluttering in the wind:
Kent, from each hamlet, pour'd her marshal'd swains,
To hurl defiance on the threatening Gaul.
In Matanina! boast of Albion's arms,
The brawling Naiads for the planters toil,
Howe'er unworthy; and, thro' solemn scenes,
Romantic, cool, with rocks and woods between,
Enchant the senses! but, among thy swains,
Sweet Liamuiga! who such bliss can boast?
Yes, Romney, thou may'st boast; of British heart,
Of courtly manners, join'd to antient worth:
Friend to thy Britain's every blood-earn'd right,
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By wealth, by titles, by ambition's lure,
Not to be tempted from fair honour's path:
While others, falsely flattering their Prince,
Bold disapprov'd, or by oblique surmise
Their terror hinted, of the people arm'd;
Indignant, in the senate, he uprose,
And, with the well-urg'd energy of zeal,
Their specious, subtle sophistry disprov'd;
The importance, the necessity display'd,
Of civil armies, freedom's surest guard!
Nor in the senate didst thou only win
The palm of eloquence, securely bold;
But rear'd'st thy banners, fluttering in the wind:
Kent, from each hamlet, pour'd her marshal'd swains,
To hurl defiance on the threatening Gaul.
Thy foaming coppers well with fewel feed;
For a clear, strong, continued fire improves
Thy muscovado's colour, and its grain.—
Yet vehement heat, protracted, will consume
Thy vessels, whether from the martial mine,
Or from thine ore, bright Venus, they are drawn;
Or hammer, or hot fusion, give them form.
If prudence guides thee then, thy stores shall hold
Of well-siz'd vessels a complete supply:
For every hour, thy boilers cease to skim,
(Now Cancer reddens with the solar ray,)
Defeats thy honest purposes of gain.
For a clear, strong, continued fire improves
Thy muscovado's colour, and its grain.—
Yet vehement heat, protracted, will consume
Thy vessels, whether from the martial mine,
104
Or hammer, or hot fusion, give them form.
If prudence guides thee then, thy stores shall hold
Of well-siz'd vessels a complete supply:
For every hour, thy boilers cease to skim,
(Now Cancer reddens with the solar ray,)
Defeats thy honest purposes of gain.
Nor small the risque, (when piety, or chance,
Force thee from boiling to desist) to lave
Thy heated furnace, with the gelid stream.
The chemist knows, when all-dissolving fire
Bids the metalline ore abruptly flow;
What dread explosions, and what dire effects,
A few cold drops of water will produce,
Uncautious, on the novel fluid thrown.
Force thee from boiling to desist) to lave
Thy heated furnace, with the gelid stream.
The chemist knows, when all-dissolving fire
Bids the metalline ore abruptly flow;
What dread explosions, and what dire effects,
A few cold drops of water will produce,
Uncautious, on the novel fluid thrown.
For grain and colour, wouldst thou win, my friend,
At every curious mart, the constant palm?
O'er all thy works let cleanliness preside,
Child of frugality; and, as the skum
Thick mantles o'er the boiling wave, do thou
The skum that mantles carefully remove.
At every curious mart, the constant palm?
O'er all thy works let cleanliness preside,
Child of frugality; and, as the skum
105
The skum that mantles carefully remove.
From bloating dropsy, from pulmonic ails,
Would'st thou defend thy boilers, (prime of slaves,)
For days, for nights, for weeks, for months, involv'd
In the warm vapour's all-relaxing steam;
Thy boiling-house be lofty: all atop
Open, and pervious to the tropic breeze;
Whose cool perflation, wooed through many a grate,
Dispells the steam, and gives the lungs to play.
Would'st thou defend thy boilers, (prime of slaves,)
For days, for nights, for weeks, for months, involv'd
In the warm vapour's all-relaxing steam;
Thy boiling-house be lofty: all atop
Open, and pervious to the tropic breeze;
Whose cool perflation, wooed through many a grate,
Dispells the steam, and gives the lungs to play.
The skill'd in chemia, boast of modern arts,
Know from experiment, the sire of truth,
In many a plant that oil, and acid juice,
And ropy mucilage, by nature live:
These, envious, stop the much desir'd embrace
Of the essential salts, tho' coction bid
The aqueous particles to mount in air.
Know from experiment, the sire of truth,
In many a plant that oil, and acid juice,
And ropy mucilage, by nature live:
These, envious, stop the much desir'd embrace
Of the essential salts, tho' coction bid
The aqueous particles to mount in air.
'Mong salts essential, sugar wins the palm,
For taste, for colour, and for various use:
And, in the nectar of the yellowest Cane,
Much acor, oil, and mucilage abound:
But in the less mature, from mountain-land,
These harsh intruders so redundant float,
Muster so strong, as scarce to be subdued.
For taste, for colour, and for various use:
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Much acor, oil, and mucilage abound:
But in the less mature, from mountain-land,
These harsh intruders so redundant float,
Muster so strong, as scarce to be subdued.
Muse, sing the ways to quell them. Some use Cane,
That Cane, whose juices to the tongue apply'd,
In silence lock it, sudden, and constrain'd,
(Death to Xantippe,) with distorting pain.
That Cane, whose juices to the tongue apply'd,
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(Death to Xantippe,) with distorting pain.
Nor is it not effectual: But wouldst thou
Have rival brokers for thy cades contend;
Superior arts remain.—Small casks provide,
Replete with lime-stone thoroughly calcin'd,
And from the air secur'd: This Bristol sends,
Bristol, Britannia's second mart and eye!
Have rival brokers for thy cades contend;
Superior arts remain.—Small casks provide,
Replete with lime-stone thoroughly calcin'd,
And from the air secur'd: This Bristol sends,
Bristol, Britannia's second mart and eye!
Nor “to thy waters only trust for fame,”
Bristol; nor to thy beamy diamonds trust:
Tho' these oft deck Britannia's lovely fair;
And those oft save the guardians of her realm.
Thy marble-quarries claim the voice of praise,
Which rich incrusts thy Avon's banks, sweet banks!
Tho' not to you young Shakespear, Fancy's child,
All-rudely warbled his first woodland notes;
Tho' not your caves, while terror stalk'd around,
Saw him essay to clutch the ideal sword,
With drops of blood distain'd: yet, lovely banks,
On you reclin'd, another tun'd his pipe;
Whom all the Muses emulously love,
And in whose strains your praises shall endure,
While to Sabrina speeds your healing stream.
Bristol; nor to thy beamy diamonds trust:
Tho' these oft deck Britannia's lovely fair;
And those oft save the guardians of her realm.
Thy marble-quarries claim the voice of praise,
Which rich incrusts thy Avon's banks, sweet banks!
Tho' not to you young Shakespear, Fancy's child,
All-rudely warbled his first woodland notes;
Tho' not your caves, while terror stalk'd around,
Saw him essay to clutch the ideal sword,
With drops of blood distain'd: yet, lovely banks,
On you reclin'd, another tun'd his pipe;
Whom all the Muses emulously love,
108
While to Sabrina speeds your healing stream.
Bristol, without thy marble, by the flame
Calcin'd to whiteness, vain the stately reed
Would swell with juice mellifluent; heat would soon
The strongest, best-hung furnaces, consume.
Without its aid the cool-imprison'd stream,
Seldom allow'd to view the face of day,
Tho' late it roam'd a denizen of air;
Would steal from its involuntary bounds,
And, by sly windings, set itself at large.
But chief thy lime the experienc'd boiler loves,
Nor loves ill-founded; when no other art
Can bribe to union the coy floating salts,
A proper portion of this precious dust,
Cast in the wave, (so showers alone of gold
Could win fair Danae to the God's embrace;)
With nectar'd muscovado soon will charge
Thy shelving coolers, which, severely press'd
Between the fingers, not resolves; and which
Rings in the cask; and or a light-brown hue,
Or thine, more precious silvery-grey, assumes.
Calcin'd to whiteness, vain the stately reed
Would swell with juice mellifluent; heat would soon
The strongest, best-hung furnaces, consume.
Without its aid the cool-imprison'd stream,
Seldom allow'd to view the face of day,
Tho' late it roam'd a denizen of air;
Would steal from its involuntary bounds,
And, by sly windings, set itself at large.
But chief thy lime the experienc'd boiler loves,
Nor loves ill-founded; when no other art
Can bribe to union the coy floating salts,
A proper portion of this precious dust,
Cast in the wave, (so showers alone of gold
Could win fair Danae to the God's embrace;)
With nectar'd muscovado soon will charge
Thy shelving coolers, which, severely press'd
Between the fingers, not resolves; and which
Rings in the cask; and or a light-brown hue,
Or thine, more precious silvery-grey, assumes.
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The fam'd Bermuda's ever-healthy isles,
More fam'd by gentle Waller's deathless strains,
Than for their cedars, which, insulting, fly
O'er the wide ocean; 'mid their rocks contain
A stone, which, when calcin'd, (experience says,)
Is only second to Sabrina's lime.
More fam'd by gentle Waller's deathless strains,
Than for their cedars, which, insulting, fly
O'er the wide ocean; 'mid their rocks contain
A stone, which, when calcin'd, (experience says,)
Is only second to Sabrina's lime.
While flows the juice mellifluent from the Cane,
Grudge not, my friend, to let thy slaves, each morn,
But chief the sick and young, at setting day,
Themselves regale with oft-repeated draughts
Of tepid Nectar; so shall health and strength
Confirm thy Negroes, and make labour light.
Grudge not, my friend, to let thy slaves, each morn,
But chief the sick and young, at setting day,
Themselves regale with oft-repeated draughts
Of tepid Nectar; so shall health and strength
Confirm thy Negroes, and make labour light.
While flame thy chimneys, while thy coppers foam,
How blithe, how jocund, the plantation smiles!
By day, by night, resounds the choral song
Of glad barbarity; serene, the sun
Shines not intensely hot; the trade-wind blows:
How sweet, how silken, is its noontide breath?
While to far climes the fell destroyer, Death,
Wings his dark flight. Then seldom pray for rain:
Rather for cloudless days thy prayers prefer;
For, if the skies too frequently relent,
Crude flows the Cane-juice, and will long elude
The boiler's wariest skill: thy Canes will spring
To an unthrifty loftiness; or, weighed
Down by their load, (Ambition's curse,) decay.
How blithe, how jocund, the plantation smiles!
By day, by night, resounds the choral song
Of glad barbarity; serene, the sun
Shines not intensely hot; the trade-wind blows:
How sweet, how silken, is its noontide breath?
While to far climes the fell destroyer, Death,
Wings his dark flight. Then seldom pray for rain:
Rather for cloudless days thy prayers prefer;
110
Crude flows the Cane-juice, and will long elude
The boiler's wariest skill: thy Canes will spring
To an unthrifty loftiness; or, weighed
Down by their load, (Ambition's curse,) decay.
Encourage thou thy boilers; much depends
On their skill'd efforts. If too soon they strike,
E'er all the watery particles have fled;
Or lime sufficient granulate the juice:
In vain the thickning liquor is effus'd;
An heterogeneous, an uncertain mass,
And never in thy coolers to condense.
On their skill'd efforts. If too soon they strike,
E'er all the watery particles have fled;
Or lime sufficient granulate the juice:
In vain the thickning liquor is effus'd;
An heterogeneous, an uncertain mass,
And never in thy coolers to condense.
Or, planter, if the coction they prolong
Beyond its stated time; the viscous wave
Will in huge flinty masses chrystalize,
Which forceful fingers scarce can crumble down;
And which with its melasses ne'er will part:
Yet this, fast-dripping in nectarious drops,
Not only betters what remains, but when
With art fermented, yields a noble wine,
Than which nor Gallia, nor the Indian clime,
Where rolls the Ganges, can a nobler show.
So misers in their coffers lock that gold;
Which, if allowed at liberty to roam,
Would better them, and benefit mankind.
Beyond its stated time; the viscous wave
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Which forceful fingers scarce can crumble down;
And which with its melasses ne'er will part:
Yet this, fast-dripping in nectarious drops,
Not only betters what remains, but when
With art fermented, yields a noble wine,
Than which nor Gallia, nor the Indian clime,
Where rolls the Ganges, can a nobler show.
So misers in their coffers lock that gold;
Which, if allowed at liberty to roam,
Would better them, and benefit mankind.
In the last coppers, when the embrowning wave
With sudden fury swells; some grease immix'd,
The foaming tumult sudden will compose,
And force to union the divided grain.
So when two swarms in airy battle join,
The winged heroes heap the bloody field;
Until some dust, thrown upward in the sky,
Quell the wild conflict, and sweet peace restore.
With sudden fury swells; some grease immix'd,
The foaming tumult sudden will compose,
And force to union the divided grain.
So when two swarms in airy battle join,
The winged heroes heap the bloody field;
Until some dust, thrown upward in the sky,
Quell the wild conflict, and sweet peace restore.
False Gallia's sons, that hoe the ocean-isles,
Mix with their Sugar, loads of worthless sand,
Fraudful, their weight of sugar to increase.
Far be such guile from Britain's honest swains.
Such arts, awhile, the unwary may surprise,
And benefit the Impostor; but, ere long,
The skilful buyer will the fraud detect,
And, with abhorrence, reprobate the name.
Mix with their Sugar, loads of worthless sand,
112
Far be such guile from Britain's honest swains.
Such arts, awhile, the unwary may surprise,
And benefit the Impostor; but, ere long,
The skilful buyer will the fraud detect,
And, with abhorrence, reprobate the name.
Fortune had crown'd Avaro's younger years,
With a vast tract of land, on which the cane
Delighted grew, nor ask'd the toil of art.
The Sugar-bakers deem'd themselves secure,
Of mighty profit, could they buy his cades;
For, whiteness, hardness, to the leeward-crop,
His muscovado gave. But, not content
With this pre-eminence of honest gain,
He baser sugars started in his casks;
His own, by mixing sordid things, debas'd.
One year the fraud succeeded; wealth immense
Flowed in upon him, and he blest his wiles:
The next, the brokers spurn'd the adulterate mass,
Both on the Avon and the banks of Thame.
With a vast tract of land, on which the cane
Delighted grew, nor ask'd the toil of art.
The Sugar-bakers deem'd themselves secure,
Of mighty profit, could they buy his cades;
For, whiteness, hardness, to the leeward-crop,
His muscovado gave. But, not content
With this pre-eminence of honest gain,
He baser sugars started in his casks;
His own, by mixing sordid things, debas'd.
One year the fraud succeeded; wealth immense
Flowed in upon him, and he blest his wiles:
The next, the brokers spurn'd the adulterate mass,
Both on the Avon and the banks of Thame.
Be thrifty, planter, even thy skimmings save:
For, planter, know, the refuse of the Cane
Serves needful purposes. Are barbecues
The cates thou lov'st? What like rich skimmings feed
The grunting, bristly kind? Your labouring mules
They soon invigorate: Give old Baynard these,
Untir'd he trudges in his destin'd round;
Nor need the driver crack his horrid lash.
For, planter, know, the refuse of the Cane
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The cates thou lov'st? What like rich skimmings feed
The grunting, bristly kind? Your labouring mules
They soon invigorate: Give old Baynard these,
Untir'd he trudges in his destin'd round;
Nor need the driver crack his horrid lash.
Yet, with small quantities indulge the steed,
Whom skimmings ne'er have fatten'd: else, too fond,
So gluttons use, he'll eat intemperate meals;
And, staggering, fall the prey of ravening sharks.
Whom skimmings ne'er have fatten'd: else, too fond,
So gluttons use, he'll eat intemperate meals;
And, staggering, fall the prey of ravening sharks.
But say, ye boon companions, in what strains,
What grateful strains, shall I record the praise
Of their best produce, heart-recruiting rum?
Thrice wholesome spirit! well-matur'd with age,
Thrice grateful to the palate! when, with thirst,
With heat, with labour, and wan care opprest,
I quaff thy bowl, where fruit my hands have cull'd,
Round, golden fruit; where water from the spring,
Which dripping coolness spreads her umbrage round;
With hardest, whitest sugar, thrice refin'd;
Dilates my soul with genuine joy; low care
I spurn indignant; toil a pleasure seems.
For not Marne's flowery banks, nor Tille's green bounds,
Where Ceres with the God of vintage reigns,
In happiest union; not Vigornian hills,
Pomona's lov'd abode, afford to man
Goblets more priz'd, or laudable of taste,
To slake parch'd thirst, and mitigate the clime.
What grateful strains, shall I record the praise
Of their best produce, heart-recruiting rum?
Thrice wholesome spirit! well-matur'd with age,
Thrice grateful to the palate! when, with thirst,
With heat, with labour, and wan care opprest,
I quaff thy bowl, where fruit my hands have cull'd,
Round, golden fruit; where water from the spring,
Which dripping coolness spreads her umbrage round;
With hardest, whitest sugar, thrice refin'd;
Dilates my soul with genuine joy; low care
114
For not Marne's flowery banks, nor Tille's green bounds,
Where Ceres with the God of vintage reigns,
In happiest union; not Vigornian hills,
Pomona's lov'd abode, afford to man
Goblets more priz'd, or laudable of taste,
To slake parch'd thirst, and mitigate the clime.
Yet, 'mid this blest ebriety, some tears,
For friends I left in Albion's distant isle,
For Johnson, Percy, White, escape mine eyes:
For her, fair Auth'ress! whom first Calpe's rocks
A sportive infant saw; and whose green years
True genius blest with her benignest gifts
Of happiest fancy. O, were ye all here,
O, were ye here; with him, my Pæon's son!
Long-known, of worth approv'd, thrice candid soul!
How would your converse charm the lonely hour?
Your converse, where mild wisdom tempers mirth;
And charity, the petulance of wit;
How would your converse polish my rude lays,
With what new, noble images adorn?
Then should I scarce regret the banks of Thames,
All as we sat beneath that sand-box shade;
Whence the delighted eye expatiates wide
O'er the fair landscape; where in loveliest forms,
Green cultivation hath array'd the land.
For friends I left in Albion's distant isle,
For Johnson, Percy, White, escape mine eyes:
For her, fair Auth'ress! whom first Calpe's rocks
A sportive infant saw; and whose green years
True genius blest with her benignest gifts
Of happiest fancy. O, were ye all here,
O, were ye here; with him, my Pæon's son!
Long-known, of worth approv'd, thrice candid soul!
How would your converse charm the lonely hour?
Your converse, where mild wisdom tempers mirth;
And charity, the petulance of wit;
115
With what new, noble images adorn?
Then should I scarce regret the banks of Thames,
All as we sat beneath that sand-box shade;
Whence the delighted eye expatiates wide
O'er the fair landscape; where in loveliest forms,
Green cultivation hath array'd the land.
See! there, what mills, like giants raise their arms,
To quell the speeding gale! what smoke ascends
From every boiling house! What structures rise,
Neat tho' not lofty, pervious to the breeze;
With galleries, porches, or piazzas grac'd!
Nor not delightful are those reed-built huts,
On yonder hill, that front the rising sun;
With plantanes, with banana's bosom'd-deep,
That flutter in the wind: where frolick goats,
Butt the young negroes, while their swarthy sires,
With ardent gladness wield the bill; and hark,
The crop is finish'd, how they rend the sky!—
To quell the speeding gale! what smoke ascends
From every boiling house! What structures rise,
Neat tho' not lofty, pervious to the breeze;
With galleries, porches, or piazzas grac'd!
Nor not delightful are those reed-built huts,
On yonder hill, that front the rising sun;
With plantanes, with banana's bosom'd-deep,
That flutter in the wind: where frolick goats,
116
With ardent gladness wield the bill; and hark,
The crop is finish'd, how they rend the sky!—
Nor, beauteous only shows the cultured soil,
From this cool station. No less charms the eye
That wild interminable waste of waves:
While on the horizon's farthest verge are seen
Islands of different shape, and different size;
While sail-clad ships, with their sweet produce fraught,
Swell on the straining sight; while near yon rock,
On which ten thousand wings with ceaseless clang
Their airies build, a water spout descends,
And shakes mid ocean; and while there below,
That town, embowered in the different shade
Of tamarinds, panspans, and papaws, o'er which
A double Iris throws her painted arch,
Shows commerce toiling in each crowded street,
And each throng'd street with limpid currents lav'd.
From this cool station. No less charms the eye
That wild interminable waste of waves:
While on the horizon's farthest verge are seen
Islands of different shape, and different size;
While sail-clad ships, with their sweet produce fraught,
Swell on the straining sight; while near yon rock,
On which ten thousand wings with ceaseless clang
Their airies build, a water spout descends,
And shakes mid ocean; and while there below,
That town, embowered in the different shade
Of tamarinds, panspans, and papaws, o'er which
117
Shows commerce toiling in each crowded street,
And each throng'd street with limpid currents lav'd.
What tho' no bird of song, here charms the sense
With her wild minstrelsy; far, far beyond,
The unnatural quavers of Hesperian throats!
Tho' the chaste poet of the vernal woods,
That shuns rude folly's din, delight not here
The listening eve; and tho' no herald-lark
Here leave his couch, high-towering to descry
The approach of dawn, and hail her with his song:
Yet not unmusical the tinkling lapse
Of yon cool argent rill, which Phœbus gilds
With his first orient rays; yet musical,
Those buxom airs that through the plantanes play,
And tear with wantonness their leafy scrolls;
Yet not unmusical the waves hoarse sound,
That dashes, sullen, on the distant shore;
Yet musical those little insects hum,
That hover round us, and to reason's ear,
Deep, moral truths convey; while every beam
Flings on them transient tints, which vary when
They wave their purple plumes; yet musical
The love-lorn cooing of the mountain-dove,
That woos to pleasing thoughtfulness the soul;
But chief the breeze, that murmurs through yon canes,
Enchants the ear with tunable delight.
With her wild minstrelsy; far, far beyond,
The unnatural quavers of Hesperian throats!
Tho' the chaste poet of the vernal woods,
That shuns rude folly's din, delight not here
The listening eve; and tho' no herald-lark
Here leave his couch, high-towering to descry
The approach of dawn, and hail her with his song:
Yet not unmusical the tinkling lapse
Of yon cool argent rill, which Phœbus gilds
With his first orient rays; yet musical,
Those buxom airs that through the plantanes play,
And tear with wantonness their leafy scrolls;
Yet not unmusical the waves hoarse sound,
That dashes, sullen, on the distant shore;
Yet musical those little insects hum,
That hover round us, and to reason's ear,
118
Flings on them transient tints, which vary when
They wave their purple plumes; yet musical
The love-lorn cooing of the mountain-dove,
That woos to pleasing thoughtfulness the soul;
But chief the breeze, that murmurs through yon canes,
Enchants the ear with tunable delight.
While such fair scenes adorn these blissful isles;
Why will their sons, ungrateful, roam abroad?
Why spend their opulence in other climes?
Why will their sons, ungrateful, roam abroad?
Why spend their opulence in other climes?
Say, is pre-eminence your partial aim?—
Distinction courts you here; the senate calls.
Here, crouching slaves, attendant wait your nod:
While there, unnoted, but for folly's garb,
For folly's jargon; your dull hours ye pass,
Eclips'd by titles, and superior wealth.
Distinction courts you here; the senate calls.
Here, crouching slaves, attendant wait your nod:
While there, unnoted, but for folly's garb,
For folly's jargon; your dull hours ye pass,
Eclips'd by titles, and superior wealth.
Does martial ardour fire your generous veins?
Fly to your native isles: Bellona, there,
Hath long time rear'd her bloody flag; these isles
Your strenuous arms demand; for ye are brave!
Nor longer to the lute and taber's sound
Weave antic measures. O, could my weak song,
O could my song, like his, heaven-favoured bard,
Who led desponding Sparta's oft-beat hosts,
To victory, to glory; fire your souls
With English ardor! for now England's swains,
(The Man of Norfolk, swains of England, thank;)
All emulous, to Freedom's standard fly,
And drive invasion from their native shore:
How would my soul exult with conscious pride;
Nor grudge those wreaths Tyrtæus gain'd of yore.
Fly to your native isles: Bellona, there,
Hath long time rear'd her bloody flag; these isles
Your strenuous arms demand; for ye are brave!
Nor longer to the lute and taber's sound
119
O could my song, like his, heaven-favoured bard,
Who led desponding Sparta's oft-beat hosts,
To victory, to glory; fire your souls
With English ardor! for now England's swains,
(The Man of Norfolk, swains of England, thank;)
All emulous, to Freedom's standard fly,
And drive invasion from their native shore:
How would my soul exult with conscious pride;
Nor grudge those wreaths Tyrtæus gain'd of yore.
Or are ye fond of rich luxurious cates?—
Can aught in Europe emulate the pine,
Or fruit forbidden, native of your isles?
Sons of Apicius, say, can Europe's seas,
Can aught the edible creation yields,
Compare with turtle, boast of land and wave?
Can Europe's seas, in all their finny realms,
Aught so delicious as the Jew-fish show?
Tell me what viands, land or streams produce,
The large, black, female, moulting crab excel?
A richer flavour not wild Cambria's hills,
Nor Scotia's rocks with heath and thyme o'erspread,
Give to their flocks; than, lone Barbuda, you,
Than you, Anguilla, to your sheep impart.
Even Britain's vintage, here, improv'd, we quaff;
Even Lusitanian, even Hesperian wines.
Those from the Rhine's imperial banks (poor Rhine!
How have thy banks been died with brother-blood?
Unnatural warfare!) strength and flavour gain
In this delicious clime. Besides, the Cane
Wafted to every quarter of the globe,
Makes the vast produce of the world your own.
Can aught in Europe emulate the pine,
Or fruit forbidden, native of your isles?
Sons of Apicius, say, can Europe's seas,
Can aught the edible creation yields,
Compare with turtle, boast of land and wave?
Can Europe's seas, in all their finny realms,
Aught so delicious as the Jew-fish show?
Tell me what viands, land or streams produce,
120
A richer flavour not wild Cambria's hills,
Nor Scotia's rocks with heath and thyme o'erspread,
Give to their flocks; than, lone Barbuda, you,
Than you, Anguilla, to your sheep impart.
Even Britain's vintage, here, improv'd, we quaff;
Even Lusitanian, even Hesperian wines.
Those from the Rhine's imperial banks (poor Rhine!
How have thy banks been died with brother-blood?
Unnatural warfare!) strength and flavour gain
In this delicious clime. Besides, the Cane
Wafted to every quarter of the globe,
Makes the vast produce of the world your own.
Or rather, doth the love of nature charm;
Its mighty love your chief attention claim?
Leave Europe; there, through all her coyest ways,
Her secret mazes, nature is pursued:
But here, with savage loneliness, she reigns
On yonder peak, whence giddy fancy looks,
Affrighted, on the labouring main below.
Heavens! what stupendous, what unnumbered trees,
“Stage above stage, in various verdure drest,”
Unprofitable shag its airy cliffs!
Heavens! what new shrubs, what herbs with useless bloom,
Adorn its channel'd sides; and, in its caves
What sulphurs, ores, what earths and stones abound!
There let philosophy conduct thy steps,
“For naught is useless made:” With candid search,
Examine all the properties of things;
Immense discoveries soon will crown your toil,
Your time will soon repay. Ah, when will cares,
The cares of Fortune, less my minutes claim?
Then, with what joy, what energy of soul,
Will I not climb yon mountain's airiest brow!
The dawn, the burning noon, the setting sun,
The midnight-hour, shall hear my constant vows
To Nature; see me prostrate at her shrine!
And, O, if haply I may aught invent
Of use to mortal man, life to prolong,
To soften, or adorn; what genuine joy,
What exultation of supreme delight,
Will swell my raptured bosom. Then, when death
Shall call me hence, I'll unrepining go;
Nor envy conquerors their storied tombs,
Tho' not a stone point out my humble grave.
Its mighty love your chief attention claim?
121
Her secret mazes, nature is pursued:
But here, with savage loneliness, she reigns
On yonder peak, whence giddy fancy looks,
Affrighted, on the labouring main below.
Heavens! what stupendous, what unnumbered trees,
“Stage above stage, in various verdure drest,”
Unprofitable shag its airy cliffs!
Heavens! what new shrubs, what herbs with useless bloom,
Adorn its channel'd sides; and, in its caves
What sulphurs, ores, what earths and stones abound!
There let philosophy conduct thy steps,
“For naught is useless made:” With candid search,
Examine all the properties of things;
Immense discoveries soon will crown your toil,
Your time will soon repay. Ah, when will cares,
The cares of Fortune, less my minutes claim?
Then, with what joy, what energy of soul,
Will I not climb yon mountain's airiest brow!
The dawn, the burning noon, the setting sun,
The midnight-hour, shall hear my constant vows
To Nature; see me prostrate at her shrine!
And, O, if haply I may aught invent
122
To soften, or adorn; what genuine joy,
What exultation of supreme delight,
Will swell my raptured bosom. Then, when death
Shall call me hence, I'll unrepining go;
Nor envy conquerors their storied tombs,
Tho' not a stone point out my humble grave.
The End of Book III.
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