Earth's total powers, her soil and air and sea,
Force them to yield their fruits at his known call,
And bear his mandates round the rolling ball,
Beneath the footstool all destructive things,
The mask of priesthood and the mace of kings,
Lie trampled in the dust; for here at last
Fraud, folly, error all their emblems cast.
Each envoy here unloads his wearied hand
Of some old idol from his native land:
One flings a pagod on the mingled heap,
One lays a crescent, one a cross to sleep;

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Swords, sceptres, mitres, crowns and globes and stars.
Codes of false fame and stimulants to wars

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Sink in the settling mass; since guile began,

These are the agents of the woes of man.

Now the full concourse, where the arches bend,
Pour thro by thousands and their seats ascend.
Far as the centred eye can range around

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Or the deep trumpet's solemn voice resound,
Long rows of reverend sires sublime extend,

And cares of worlds on every brow suspend.

High in the front, for soundest wisdom known,

A sire elect in peerless grandeur shone:

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He open'd calm the universal cause,

To give each realm its limit and its laws,

Bid the last breath of tired contention cease

And bind all regions in the leagues of peace;
Till one confederate, condependent sway
Spread with the sun and bound the walks of day,
One centred system, one all-ruling soul
Live thro the parts and regulate the whole.
"Here, then," said Hesper, with a blissful smile,
"Behold the fruits of thy long years of toil.
To yon bright borders of Atlantic day
Thy swelling pinions led the trackless way,
And taught mankind such useful deeds to dare,
To trace new seas and happy nations rear;
Till by fraternal hands their sails unfurl'd
Have waved at last in union o'er the world.
Then let thy stedfast soul no more complain
Of dangers braved and griefs endured in vain,

Of courts insidious, envy's poison'd stings,

The loss of empire and the frown of kings,
While these broad views thy better thoughts compose

To spurn the malice of insulting foes,
And all the joys descending ages gain

Repay thy labors and remove thy pain."

THE HASTY-PUDDING

CANTO I

Ye Alps audacious thro' the Heav'ns that rise
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies,
Ye Gallic flags that, o'er their heights unfurl'd,
Bear death to kings and freedom to the world,
I sing not you. A softer theme I chuse,
A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse,
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire
The purest frenzy of poetic fire.
Despise it not, ye Bards to terror steel'd,
Who hurld your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring,
Or on some distant fair your notes employ
And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy.
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,

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My morning incense and my evening meal,

The sweets of Hasty-Pudding. Come, dear bowl,

Glide o'er my palate and inspire my soul.
The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine,

Its substance mingled, married in with thine,

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Shall cool and temper thy superior heat,
And save the pains of blowing while I eat.
Oh, could the smooth, the emblematic song
Flow like thy genial juices o'er my tongue,
Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime,
And as they roll in substance roll in rhyme,

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No more thy aukward unpoetic name
Should shun the Muse or prejudice thy fame,
But, rising grateful to th' accustom'd ear,
All Bards should catch it, and all realms revere.

Assist me first with pious toil to trace
Thro' wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race:
Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore
(Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore),
First gave thee to the world; her works of fame
Have liv'd indeed, but liv'd without a name.

Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days,

First learn'd with stones to crack the well-dry'd maize,
Thro' the rough sieve to shake the golden show'r,

In boiling water stir the yellow flour:

The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stir'd with haste,
Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste,
Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim,
Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim;
The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks,
And the whole mass its true consistence takes.
Could but her sacred name, unknown so long,
Rise like her labors to the son of song,

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To her, to them, I'd consecrate my lays,

And blow her pudding with the breath of praise.

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If 't was Oella, whom I sang before,

I here ascribe her one great virtue more.

Not thro' the rich Peruvian realms alone

The fame of Sol's sweet daughter should be known,
But o'er the world's wide climes should live secure,
Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure.

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Dear Hasty-Pudding, what unpromis'd joy

Expands my heart to meet thee in Savoy!

Doom'd o'er the world thro' devious paths to roam,

Each clime my country, and each house my home,

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My soul is sooth'd, my cares have found an end;

For climes oblique, that fear the sun's full rays,

Chill'd in their fogs, exclude the generous maize,
A grain whose rich luxuriant growth requires
Short gentle showers and bright etherial fires.
But here, tho' distant from our native shore,
With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more.
The same I know thee by that yellow face,
That strong complexion of true Indian race,
Which time can never change nor soil impair,
Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air:
For endless years, thro' every mild domain,
Where grows the maize there thou art sure to reign.
But man, more fickle, the bold licence claims

In different realms to give thee different names.
Thee the soft nations round the warm Levant
Polanta call, the French of course Polante;
Ev'n in thy native regions how I blush
To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush!
On Hudson's banks while men of Belgic spawn
Insult and eat thee by the name suppain.
All spurious appellations, void of truth;
I've better known thee from my earliest youth.
Thy name is Hasty-Pudding! thus our sires
Were wont to greet thee fuming from their fires;
And while they argu'd in thy just defence
With logic clear, they thus explain'd the sense:
"In haste the boiling cauldron o'er the blaze
Receives and cooks the ready-powder'd maize;
In haste 't is serv'd; and then in equal haste
With cooling milk we make the sweet repast.
No carving to be done, no knife to grate
The tender ear and wound the stony plate;
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,
And taught with art the yielding mass to dip,
By frequent journeys to the bowl well stor'd
Performs the hasty honors of the board."
Such is thy name, significant and clear,
A name, a sound to every Yankey dear,
But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste
Preserve my pure hereditary taste.

There are who strive to stamp with disrepute
The luscious food, because it feeds the brute:

In tropes of high-strain'd wit while gaudy prigs
Compare thy nursling man to pamper'd pigs,
With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest,
Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast.
What though the generous cow gives me to quaff
The milk nutritious: am I then a calf?
Or can the genius of the noisy swine,

Tho' nurs'd on pudding, thence lay claim to mine?
Sure the sweet song I fashion to thy praise
Runs more melodious than the notes they raise.
My song resounding in its grateful glee

No merit claims; I praise myself in thee.
My father lov'd thee thro' his length of days:
For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize;
From thee what health, what vigor he possest,
Ten sturdy freeman sprung from him attest;
Thy constellation rul'd my natal morn,

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And all my bones were made of Indian corn.
Delicious grain, whatever form it take,
To roast or boil, to smother or to bake,
In every dish 't is welcome still to me,
But most, my Hasty-Pudding, most in thee.

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Let the green Succatash with thee contend,
Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend,
Let butter drench them in its yellow tide,
And a long slice of bacon grace their side:

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Not all the plate, how fam'd soe'er it be,

Can please my palate like a bowl of thee.

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Some talk of Hoe-cake, fair Virginia's pride;

Rich Johnny-cake this mouth has often tri'd:

Both please me well, their virtues much the same,
Alike their fabric as allied their fame-

Except in dear New-England, where the last

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Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste,

To give it sweetness and improve the taste.
But place them all before me, smoaking hot:
The big round dumplin rolling from the pot;
The pudding of the bag, whose quivering breast,
With suet lin'd, leads on the Yankey feast;
The Charlotte brown, within whose crusty sides
A belly soft the pulpy apple hides;

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