THE HOP-GARDEN. A GEORGIC. In Two BOOKS. THE HOP-GARDEN. A GEORGIC. BOOK the FIRST. THE land that answers best the farmer's care, And silvers to maturity the Hop: When to inhume the plants; to turn the glebe; And wed the tendrils to th' aspiring poles: Under what sign to pluck the crop, and how To cure, and in capacious sacks infold, I teach in verse Miltonian. Smile the muse, And meditate an honour to that land Where first I breath'd, and struggled into life Impatient, Cantium, to be call'd thy son. Oh! cou'd I emulate Dan Sydney's muse, Thy Sydney, Cantium — He from court retir'd In Penshurst's sweet elysium sung delight, Sung transport to the soft-responding streams Of Medway, and enliven'd all her groves: While ever near him, goddess of the green, Fair Pembroke sat, and smil'd immense applause. With vocal fascination charm'd the Hours Unguarded left Heav'ns adamantine gate, And to his lyre, swift as the winged sounds That skim the air, danc'd unperceiv'd away. Had I such pow'r, no peasants toil, no hops Shou'd e'er debase my lay: far nobler themes, The high atchievements of thy warrior kings Shou'd raise my thoughts, and dignify my song. But I, young rustic, dare not leave my cot, For so enlarg'd a sphere — ah! muse beware, Lest the loud larums of the braying trump, Lest the deep drum shou'd drown thy tender reed, And mar its puny joints: me, lowly swain, Every unshaven arboret, me the lawns, Me the voluminous Medway's silver wave, Content inglorious, and the hopland shades! Yeomen, and countrymen attend my song: Whether you shiver in the marshy Weald, Egregious shepherds of unnumber'd flocks, Whose fleeces, poison'd into purple, deck All Europe's kings: or in fair Madum's vale Imparadis'd, blest denizons, ye dwell; Or Dorovernia's awful tow'rs ye love: Or plough Tunbridgia's salutiferous hills Industrious, and with draughts chalybiate heal'd, Confess divine Hygeia's blissful seat; The muse demands your presence, ere she tune Her monitory voice; observe her well, And catch the wholesome dictates as they fall. 'Midst thy paternal acres, Farmer, say Has gracious heav'n bestow'd one field, that basks Its loamy bosom in the mid-day sun, Emerging gently from the abject vale, Nor yet obnoxious to the wind, secure There shall thou plant thy hop. This soil, perhaps, Thou'lt say, will fill my garners. Be it so. But Ceres, rural goddess, at the best Meanly supports her vot'ry', enough for her, If ill-persuading hunger she repell, And keep the soul from fainting: to enlarge, To glad the heart, to sublimate the mind, And wing the flagging spirits to the sky, Require th' united influence and aid Of Bacchus, God of hops, with Ceres join'd 'Tis he shall gen'rate the buxom beer. Then on one pedestal, and hand in hand, Sculptur'd in Parian stone (so gratitude Indites) let the divine co-part'ners rise. Stands eastward in thy field a wood? 'tis well. Esteem it as a bulwark of thy wealth, And cherish all its branches; tho' we'll grant, Its leaves umbrageous may intercept The morning rays, and envy some small share Of Sol's beneficence to the infant germ. Yet grutch not that: when whistling Eurus comes, With all his worlds of insects in thy lands To hyemate, and monarchize o'er all Thy vegetable riches, then thy wood Shall ope it's arms expansive, and embrace The storm reluctant, and divert its rage. Armies of animalc'les urge their way In vain: the ventilating trees oppose Their airy march. They blacken distant plains. This site for thy young nursery obtain'd, Thou hast begun auspicious, if the soil (As sung before) be loamy; this the hop Loves above others, this is rich, is deep, Is viscous, and tenacious of the pole. Yet maugre all its native worth, it may Be meliorated with warm compost. See! Yon craggy mountain, whose fastidious head, Divides the star-set hemisphere above, And Cantium's plains beneath; the Appennine Of a free Italy, whose chalky sides With verdant shrubs dissimilarly gay, Still captivate the eye, while at his feet The silver Medway glides, and in her breast Views the reflected landskip, charm'd she views And murmurs louder ectasy below. Here let us rest awhile, pleas'd to behold Th' all-beautiful horizon's wide expanse, Far as the eagle's ken. Here tow'ring spires First catch the eye, and turn the thoughts to heav'n. The lofty elms in humble majesty Bend with the breeze to shade the solemn groves, And spread an holy darkness; Ceres there Shines in her golden vesture. Here the meads Enrich'd by Flora's daedal hand, with pride Expose their spotted verdure. Nor are you Pomona absent; you 'midst th' hoary leaves Swell the vermilion cherry; and on you trees Suspend the pippen's palatable gold. There old Sylvanus in that moss-grown grot Dwells with his wood-nymphs: they with chaplets green And russet mantles oft bedight, aloft From yon bent oaks, in Medway's bosom fair Wonder at silver bleak, and prickly pearch, That swiftly thro' their floating forests glide. Yet not even these — these ever-varied scenes Of wealth and pleasure can engage my eyes T' o'erlook the lowly hawthorn, if from thence The thrush, sweet warbler, chants th' unstudied lays Which Phoebus' self vaulting from yonder cloud Refulgent, with enliv'ning ray inspires. But neither tow'ring spires, nor lofty elms, Nor golden Ceres, nor the meadows green, Nor orchats, nor the russet-mantled nymphs, Which to the murmurs of the Medway dance, Nor sweetly warbling thrush, with half those charms Attract my eyes, as yonder hop-land close, Joint-work of art and nature, which reminds The muse, and to her theme the wand'rer calls. Here then with pond'rous vehicles and teams Thy rustics send, and from the caverns deep Command them bring the chalk: thence to the kiln Convey, and temper with Vulcanian fires. Soon as 'tis form'd, thy lime with bounteous hand O'er all thy lands disseminate; thy lands Which first have felt the soft'ning spade, and drank The strength'ning vapours from nutricious marl. This done, select the choicest hop, t' insert Fresh in the opening glebe. Say then, my muse, Its various kinds, and from th' effete and vile, The eligible separate with care. The noblest species is by Kentish wights The Master-hop yclep'd. Nature to him Has giv'n a stouter stalk, patient of cold, Or Phoebus ev'n in youth, his verdant blood In brisk saltation circulates and flows Indesinently vigorous: the next Is arid, fetid, infecund, and gross Significantly styl'd the Fryar: the last Is call'd the Savage, who in ev'ry wood, And ev'ry hedge unintroduc'd intrudes. When such the merit of the candidates, Easy is the election; but, my friend Would'st thou ne'er fail, to Kent direct thy way, Where no one shall be frustrated that seeks Ought that is great or good. Hail, Cantium, hail! Illustrious parent of the finest fruits, Illustrious parent of the best of men! For thee Antiquity's thrice sacred springs Placidly stagnant at their fountain head, I rashly dare to trouble (if from thence, If ought for thy util'ty I can drain) And in thy towns adopt th' Ascraean muse. Hail heroes, hail invaluable gems, Splendidly rough within your native mines, To luxury unrefined, better far To shake with unbought agues in your weald, Than dwell a slave to passion and to wealth, Politely paralytic in the town! Fav'rites of heav'n! to whom the general doom Is all remitted, who alone possess Of Adam's sons fair Eden — rest ye here, Nor seek an earthly good above the hop; A good! untasted by your ancient kings, And almost to your very sires unknown. In those blest days when great Eliza reign'd O'er the adoring nation, when fair peace Or spread an unstain'd olive round the land, Or laurell'd war did teach our winged fleets To lord it o'er the world, when our brave sires Drank valour from uncauponated beer; Then th' hop (before an interdicted plant, Shun'd like fell aconite) began to hang Its folded floscles from the golden vine, And bloom'd a shade to Cantium's sunny shores Delightsome, and in chearful goblets laught Potent, what time Aquarius' urn impends To kill the dulsome day — potent to quench The Syrian ardour, and autumnal ills To heal with mild potations; sweeter far Than those which erst the subtile Hengist mix'd T' inthral voluptuous Vortigern. He, with love Emasculate and wine, the toils of war, Neglected, and to dalliance vile and sloth Emancipated, saw th' incroaching Saxons With unaffected eyes; his hand which ought T' have shook the spear of justice, soft and smooth, Play'd ravishing divisions on the lyre: This Hengist mark'd, and (for curs'd insolence Soon fattens on impunity! and becomes Briareus from a dwarf) fair Thanet gain'd. Nor stopt he here; but to immense attempts Ambition sky-aspiring led him on Adventrous. He an only daughter rear'd, Roxena, matchless maid! nor rear'd in vain. Her eagle-ey'd callidity, grave deceit, And fairy fiction rais'd above her sex, And furnish'd her with thousand various wiles Preposterous, more than female; wondrous fair She was, and docile, which her pious nurse Observ'd, and early in each female fraud Her 'gan initiate: well she knew to smile, Whene'er vexation gall'd her; did she weep? 'Twas not sincere, the fountains of her eyes Play'd artificial streams, yet so well forc'd They look'd like nature; for ev'n art to her Was natural, and contrarieties Seem'd in Roxena congruous and allied. Such was she, when brisk Vortigern beheld, Ill-fated prince! and lov'd her. She perceiv'd, Soon she perceiv'd her conquest; soon she told, With hasty joy transported, her old sire. The Saxon inly smil'd, and to his isle The willing prince invited, but first bad The nymph prepare the potions; such as fire The blood's meand'ring rivulets, and depress To love the soul. Lo! at the noon of night Thrice Hecate invok'd the maid — and thrice The goddess stoop'd assent; forth from a cloud She stoop'd, and gave the philters pow'r to charm. These in a splendid cup of burnish'd gold The lovely sorceress mix'd, and to the prince Health, peace, and joy propin'd, but to herself Mutter'd dire exorcisms, and wish'd effect To th' love-creating draught: lowly she bow'd Fawning insinuation bland, that might Deceive Laertes' son; her lucid orbs Shed copiously the oblique rays; her face Like modest Luna's shone, but not so pale, And with no borrow'd lustre; on her brow Smil'd Fallacy, while summoning each grace, Kneeling she gave the cup. The prince (for who! Who cou'd have spurn'd a suppliant so divine?) Drank eager, and in ecstasy devour'd Th' ambrosial perturbation; mad with love He clasp'd her, and in Hymeneal bands At once the nymph demanded and obtain'd. Now Hengist, all his ample wish fulfill'd, Exulted; and from Kent th' uxorious prince Exterminated, and usurp'd his seat. Long did he reign; but all-devouring time Has raz'd his palace walls — Perchance on them Grows the green hop, and o'er his crumbled bust In spiral twines ascends the scancile pole. — But now to plant, to dig, to dung, to weed; Tasks how indelicate? demand the muse. Come, fair magician, sportive Fancy come, With thy unbounded imagery; child of thought, From thy aeriel citadel descend, And (for thou canst) assist me. Bring with thee Thy all-creative Talisman; with thee The active spirits ideal, tow'ring flights, That hover o'er the muse-resounding groves, And all thy colourings, all thy shapes display. Thou too be here, Experience, so shall I My rules nor in low prose jejunely say, Nor in smooth numbers musically err; But vain is Fancy and Experience vain, If thou, O Hesiod! Virgil of our land, Or hear'st thou rather, Milton, bard divine, Whose greatness who shall imitate, save thee? If thou O Philips fav'ring dost not hear Me, inexpert of verse; with gentle hand Uprear the unpinion'd muse, high on the top Of that immeasurable mount, that far Exceeds thine own Plinlimmon, where thou tun'st With Phoebus' self thy lyre. Give me to turn Th' unwieldly subject with thy graceful ease, Extol its baseness with thy art; but chief Illumine, and invigorate with thy fire. When Phoebus looks thro' Aries on the spring, And vernal flow'rs promise the dulcet fruit, Autumnal pride! delay not then thy setts In Tellus' facile bosom to depose Timely: if thou art wise the bulkiest chuse: To every root three joints indulge, and form The Quincunx with well regulated hills. Soon from the dung-enriched earth, their heads Thy young plants will uplift, their virgin arms They'll stretch, and marriageable claim the pole. Nor frustrate thou their wishes, so thou may'st Expect an hopeful issue, jolly Mirth, Sister of taleful Jocus, tuneful Song, And fat Good-nature with her honest face. But yet in the novitiate of their love, And tenderness of youth suffice small shoots Cut from the widow'd willow, nor provide Poles insurmountable as yet. 'Tis then When twice bright Phoebus' vivifying ray, Twice the cold touch of winter's icy hand, They've felt; 'tis then we fell sublimer props. 'Tis then the sturdy woodman's axe from far Resounds, resounds, and hark! with hollow groans Down tumble the big trees, and rushing roll O'er the crush'd crackling brake, while in his cave Forlorn, dejected, 'midst the weeping dryads Laments Sylvanus for his verdant care. The ash, or willow for thy use select, Or storm-enduring chesnut; but the oak Unfit for this employ, for nobler ends Reserve untouch'd; she when by time matur'd, Capacious, of some British demi-god, Vernon, or Warren, shall with rapid wing Infuriate, like Jove's armour-bearing bird, Fly on thy foes; They, like the parted waves, Which to the brazen beak murmuring give way Amaz'd, and roaring from the fight recede. — In that sweet month, when to the list'ning swains Fair Philomel sings love, and every cot With garlands blooms bedight, with bandage meet The tendrils bind, and to the tall pole tie, Else soon, too soon their meretricious arms Round each ignoble clod they'll fold, and leave Averse the lordly prop. Thus, have I heard Where there's no mutual tye, no strong connection Of love-conspiring hearts, oft the young bride Has prostituted to her slaves her charms, While the infatuated lord admires Fresh-budding sprouts, and issue not his own. Now turn the glebe: soon with correcting hand When smiling June in jocund dance leads on Long days and happy hours, from ev'ry vine Dock the redundant branches, and once more With the sharp spade thy numerous acres till. The shovel next must lend its aid, enlarge The little hillocks, and erase the weeds. This in that month its title which derives From great Augustus' ever sacred name! Sovereign of Science! master of the Muse! Neglected Genius' firm ally! Of worth Best judge, and best rewarder, whose applause To bards was fame and fortune! O! 'twas well, Well did you too in this, all glorious heroes! Ye Romans! — on Time's wing you've stamp'd his praise, And time shall bear it to eternity. Now are our labours crown'd with their reward, Now bloom the florid hops, and in the stream Shine in their floating silver, while above T'embow'ring branches culminate, and form A walk impervious to the sun; the poles In comely order stand; and while you cleave With the small skiff the Medway's lucid wave, In comely order still their ranks preserve, And seem to march along th' extensive plain. In neat arrangement thus the men of Kent, With native oak at once adorn'd and arm'd, Intrepid march'd; for well they knew the cries Of dying Liberty, and Astraea's voice, Who as she fled, to echoing woods complain'd. Of tyranny, and William; like a god, Refulgent stood the conqueror, on his troops He sent his looks enliv'ning as the sun's, But on his foes frown'd agony, frown'd death. On his left side in bright emblazonry His falchion burn'd; forth from his sevenfold shield A basilisk shot adamant; his brow Wore clouds of fury! — on that with plumage crown'd Of various hue sat a tremendous cone: Thus sits high-canopied above the clouds, Terrific beauty of nocturnal skies, Northern Aurora; she thro' th' azure air Shoots, shoots her trem'lous rays in painted streaks Continual, while waving to the wind O'er Night's dark veil her lucid tresses flow. The trav'ler views th' unseasonable day Astound, the proud bend lowly to the earth, The pious matrons tremble for the world. But what can daunt th' insuperable souls Of Cantium's matchless sons? On they proceed, All innocent of fear; each face express'd Contemptuous admiration, while they view'd The well-fed brigades of embroider'd slaves That drew the sword for gain. First of the van, With an enormous bough, a shepherd swain Whistled with rustic notes; but such as show'd A heart magnanimous: The men of Kent Follow the tuneful swain, while o'er their heads The green leaves whisper, and the big boughs bend. 'Twas thus the Thracian, whose all-quick'ning lyre The floods inspir'd, and taught the rocks to feel, Play'd before dancing Haemus, to the tune, The lute's soft tune! The flutt'ring branches wave, The rocks enjoy it, and the rivulets hear, The hillocks skip, emerge the humble vales, And all the mighty mountain nods applause. The conqueror view'd them, and as one that sees The vast abrupt of Scylla, or as one That from th' oblivious Lethaean streams Has drank eternal apathy, he stood. His host an universal panic seiz'd Prodigious, inopine; their armour shook, And clatter'd to the trembling of their limbs; Some to the walking wilderness gan run Confus'd, and in th' inhospitable shade For shelter sought — Wretches! they shelter find, Eternal shelter in the arms of death! Thus when Aquarius pours out all his urn. Down on some lonesome heath, the traveller That wanders o'er the wint'ry waste, accepts The invitation of some spreading beech Joyous; but soon the treach'rous gloom betrays Th' unwary visitor, while on his head Th' inlarging drops in double show'rs descend. And now no longer in disguise the men Of Kent appear; down they all drop their boughs, And shine in brazen panoply divine. Enough — Great William (for full well he knew How vain would be the contest) to the sons Of glorious Cantium, gave their lives, and laws, And liberties secure, and to the prowess Of Kentish wights, like Caesar, deign'd to yield. Caesar and William! Hail immortal worthies, Illustrious vanquish'd! Cantium, if to them, Posterity with all her chiefs unborn, Ought similar, ought second has to boast, Once more (so prophecies the Muse) thy sons Shall triumph, emulous of their sires — till then With olive, and with hop-land garlands crown'd, O'er all thy land reign Plenty, reign fair Peace. THE HOP-GARDEN. A GEORGIC. BOOK the SECOND. THE HOP-GARDEN. A GEORGIC. BOOK the SECOND. AT length the Muse her destin'd task resumes With joy; agen o'er all her hop-land groves She longs t' expatiate free of wing. Long while For a much-loving, much-lov'd youth she wept, And sorrow'd silence o'er th' untimely urn. Hush then, effeminate sobs; and thou, my heart, Rebel to grief no more — And yet a while, A little while, indulge the friendly tears. O'er the wild world, like Noah's dove, in vain I seek the olive peace, around me wide See! see! the wat'ry waste — In vain, forlorn I call the Phoenix fair Sincerity; Alas! — extinguish'd to the skies she fled, And left no heir behind her. Where is now Th' eternal smile of goodness? Where is now That all-extensive charity of soul, So rich in sweetness, that the classic sounds In elegance Augustan cloath'd, the wit That flow'd perennial, hardly were observ'd, Or, if observ'd, set off a brighter gem. How oft, and yet how seldom did it seem! Have I enjoy'd his converse? — When we met, The hours how swift they sweetly fled, and till Agen I saw him, how they loiter'd. Oh! THEOPHILUS, thou dear departed soul, What flattering tales thou told'st me? How thou'dst hail My Muse, and took'st imaginary walks All in my hopland groves! Stay yet, oh stay! Thou dear deluder, thou hast seen but half — He's gone! and ought that's equal to his praise Fame has not for me, tho' she prove most kind. Howe'er this verse be sacred to thy name, These tears, the last sad duty of a friend. Oft i'll indulge the pleasurable pain Of recollection; oft on Medway's banks I'll muse on thee full pensive; while her streams Regardful ever of my grief, shall flow In sullen silence silverly along The weeping shores — or else accordant with My loud laments, shall ever and anon Make melancholy music to the shades, The hopland shades, that on her banks expose Serpentine vines and flowing locks of gold. Ye smiling nymphs, th' inseparable train Of saffron Ceres; ye, that gamesome dance, And sing to jolly Autumn, while he stands With his right hand poizing the scales of heav'n, And with his left grasps Amalthea's horn: Young chorus of fair bacchanals, descend, And leave a while the sickle; yonder hill, Where stand the loaded hop-poles, claims your care. There mighty Bacchus stradling cross the bin, Waits your attendance — There he glad reviews His paunch, approaching to immensity Still nearer, and with pride of heart surveys Obedient mortals, and the world his own. See! from the great metropolis they rush, Th' industrious vulgar. They, like prudent bees, In Kent's wide garden roam, expert to crop The flow'ry hop, and provident to work, Ere winter numb their sunburnt hands, and winds Engoal them, murmuring in their gloomy cells. From these, such as appear the rest t' excell In strength and young agility, select. These shall support with vigour and address The bin-man's weighty office; now extract From the sequacious earth the pole, and now Unmarry from the closely clinging vine. O'er twice three pickers, and no more, extend The bin-man's sway; unless thy ears can bear The crack of poles continual, and thine eyes Behold unmoved the hurrying peasant tear Thy wealth, and throw it on the thankless ground. But first the careful planter will consult His quantity of acres, and his crop, How many and how large his kilns; and then Proportion'd to his wants the hands provide. But yet, of greater consequence and cost, One thing remains unsung, a man of faith And long experience, in whose thund'ring voice Lives hoarse authority, potent to quell The frequent frays of the tumultuous crew. He shall preside o'er all thy hop-land store, Severe dictator! His unerring hand, And eye inquisitive, in heedful guise, Shall to the brink the measure fill, and fair On the twin registers the work record. And yet I've known them own a female reign, And gentle Marianne's soft Orphean voice Has hymn'd sweet lessons of humanity To the wild brutal crew. Oft her command Has sav'd the pillars of the hopland state, The lofty poles from ruin, and sustain'd, Like ANNA, or ELIZA, her domain, With more than manly dignity. Oft I've seen, Ev'n at her frown the boist'rous uproar cease, And the mad pickers, tam'd to diligence, Cull from the bin the sprawling sprigs, and leaves That stain the sample, and its worth debase. All things thus settled and prepared, what now Can let the planters purposes? Unless The Heavens frown dissent, and ominous winds Howl thro' the concave of the troubled sky. And oft, alas! the long experienc'd wights (Oh! could they too prevent them) storms foresee. For, as the storm rides on the rising clouds, Fly the fleet wild-geese far away, or else The heifer towards the zenith rears her head, And with expanded nostrils snuffs the air: The swallows too their airy circuits weave, And screaming skim the brook; and fen-bred frogs Forth from their hoarse throats their old grutch recite: Or from her earthly coverlets the ant Heaves her huge eggs along the narrow way: Or bends Thaumantia's variegated bow Athwart the cope of heav'n: or sable crows Obstreperous of wing, in crouds combine: Besides, unnumber'd troops of birds marine, And Asia's feather'd flocks, that in the muds Of flow'ry-edg'd Cayster wont to prey, Now in the shallows duck their speckled heads, And lust to lave in vain, their unctious plumes Repulsive baffle their efforts: Next hark How the curs'd raven, with her harmful voice, Invokes the rain, ahd croaking to herself, Struts on some spacious solitary shore. Nor want thy servants and thy wife at home Signs to presage the show'r; for in the hall Sheds Niobe her prescious tears, and warns Beneath thy leaden tubes to fix the vase, And catch the falling dew-drops, which supply Soft water and salubrious, far the best To soak thy hops, and brew thy generous beer. But tho' bright Phoebus smile, and in the skies The purple-rob'd serenity appear; Tho' every cloud be fled, yet if the rage Of Boreas, or the blasting East prevail, The planter has enough to check his hopes, And in due bounds confine his joy; for see The ruffian winds, in their abrupt career, Leave not a hop behind, or at the best Mangle the circling vine, and intercept The juice nutricious: Fatal means, alas! Their colour and condition to destroy. Haste then, ye peasants; pull the poles, the hops; Where are the bins? Run, run, ye nimble maids, Move ev'ry muscle, ev'ry nerve extend, To save our crop from ruin, and ourselves. Soon as bright Chanticleer explodes the night With flutt'ring wings, and hymns the new-born day, The bugle-horn inspire, whose clam'rous bray Shall rouse from sleep the rebel rout, and tune To temper for the labours of the day. Wisely the several stations of the bins By lot determine. Justice this, and this Fair Prudence does demand; for not without A certain method cou'dst thou rule the mob Irrational, nor every where alike Fair hangs the hop to tempt the picker's hand. Now see the crew mechanic might and main Labour with lively diligence, inspir'd By appetie of gain and lust of praise: What mind so petty, servile, and debas'd, As not to know ambition? Her great sway From Colin Clout to Emperors she exerts. To err is human, human to be vain. 'Tis vanity, and mock desire of fame, That prompts the rustic, on the steeple top Sublime, to mark the outlines of his shoe, And in the area to engrave his name. With pride of heart the churchwarden surveys, High o'er the bellfry, girt with birds and flow'rs, His story wrote in capitals: "'Twas I " That bought the font; and I repair'd the pews. " With pride like this the emulating mob Strive for the mastery — who first may fill The bellying bin, and cleanest cull the hops. Nor ought retards, unless invited out By Sol's declining, and the evening's calm, Leander leads Laetitia to the scene Of shade and fragrance — Then th' exulting band Of pickers male and female, seize the fair Reluctant, and with boist'rous force and brute, By cries unmov'd, they bury her in the bin. Nor does the youth escape — him too they seize, And in such posture place as best may serve To hide his charmer's blushes. Then with shouts They rend the echoing air, and from them both (So custom has ordain'd) a largess claim. Thus much be sung of picking — next succeeds Th' important care of curing — Quit the field, And at the kiln th' instructive muse attend. On your hair-cloth eight inches deep, nor more, Let the green hops lie lightly; next expand The smoothest surface with the toothy rake. Thus far is just above; but more it boots That charcoal flames burn equably below, The charcoal flames, which from thy corded wood, Or antiquated poles, with wond'rous skill, The sable priests of Vulcan shall prepare. Constant and moderate let the heat ascend; Which to effect, there are, who with success Place in the kiln the ventilating fan. Hail, learned, useful man! whose head and heart Conspire to make us happy, deign t' accept One honest verse; and if thy industry Has serv'd the hopland cause, the Muse forebodes This sole invention, both in use and fame, The mystic fan of Bacchus shall exceed. When the fourth hour expires, with careful hand The half-bak'd hops turn over. Soon as time Has well exhausted twice two glasses more, They'll leap and crackle with their bursting seeds, For use domestic, or for sale mature. There are, who in the choice of cloth t'enfold Their wealthy crop, the viler, coarser sort, With prodigal oeconomy prefer: All that is good is cheap, all dear that's base. Besides, the planter shou'd a bait prepare, T' intrap the chapman's notice, and divert Shrewd Observation from her busy pry. When in the bag thy hops the rustic treads, Let him wear heel-less sandals; nor presume Their fragrancy barefooted to defile: Such filthy ways for slaves in Malaga Leave we to practise — Whence I've often seen, When beautiful Dorinda's iv'ry hands Had built the pastry-fabric (food divine For Christmas gambols and the hour of mirth) As the dry'd foreign fruit, with piercing eye, She cull'd suspicious — lo! she starts, she frowns With indignation at a negro's nail. Should'st thou thy harvest for the mart design, Be thine own factor; nor employ those drones Who've stings, but make no honey, selfish slaves! That thrive and fatten on the planter's toil. What then remains unsung? unless the care To stack thy poles oblique in comely cones, Lest rot or rain destroy them — 'Tis a sight Most seemly to behold, and gives, O Winter! A landskip not unpleasing ev'n to thee. And now, ye rivals of the hopland state, Madum and Dorovernia rejoice, How great amidst such rivals to excel! Let Grenovicum boast (for boast she may) The birth of great Eliza. — Hail, my queen! And yet I'll call thee by a dearer name, My countrywoman, hail! Thy worth alone Gives fame to worlds, and makes whole ages glorious! Let Sevenoaks vaunt the hospitable seat Of Knoll most ancient: Awefully, my Muse, These social scenes of grandeur and delight, Of love and veneration, let me tread. How oft beneath you oak has amorous Prior Awaken'd Echo with sweet Chloe's name! While noble Sackville heard, hearing approv'd, Approving, greatly recompens'd. But he, Alas! has number'd with th' illustrious dead, And orphan merit has no guardian now! Next Shipbourne, tho' her precincts are confin'd To narrow limits, yet can shew a train Of village beauties, pastorally sweet, And rurally magnificent. Here Fairlawn Opes her delightful prospects: Dear Fairlawn There, where at once at variance and agreed, Nature and art hold dalliance. There where rills Kiss the green drooping herbage, there where trees, The tall trees-tremble at th' approach of heav'n, And bow their salutation to the sun, Who fosters all their foliage — These are thine, Yes, little Shipbourne, boast that these are thine — And if — But oh! — and if 'tis no disgrace, The birth of him who now records thy praise. Nor shalt thou, Mereworth, remain unsung, Where noble Westmoreland, his country's friend, Bids British greatness love the silent shade, Where piles superb, in classic elegance, Arise, and all is Roman, like his heart. Nor Chatham, tho' it is not thine to shew The lofty forest or the verdant lawns, Yet niggard silence shall not grutch thee praise. The lofty forests by thy sons prepar'd Becomes the warlike navy, braves the floods, And gives Sylvanus empire in the main. Oh that Britannia, in the day of war, Wou'd not alone Minerva's valour trust, But also hear her wisdom! Then her oaks Shap'd by her own mechanics, wou'd alone Her island fortify, and fix her fame; Nor wou'd she weep, like Rachael, for her sons, Whose glorious blood, in mad profusion, In foreign lands is shed — and shed in vain. Now on fair Dover's topmost cliff I'll stand, And look with scorn and triumph on proud France. Of yore an isthmus jutting from this coast, Join'd the Britannic to the Gallic shore; But Neptune on a day, with fury fir'd, Rear'd his tremendous trident, smote the earth, And broke th' unnatural union at a blow. — "'Twixt you and you, my servants and my sons, " Be there (he cried) eternal discord — France "Shall bow the neck to Cantium's peerless offspring, " And as the oak reigns lordly o'er the shrub, "So shall the hop have homage from the vine."