Ask of thy mother earth the needful maize;
She loves the race that courts her yielding soil,
And gives her bounties to the sons of toil.
When now the ox, obedient to thy call,
Repays the loan that fill'd the winter stall,
Pursue his traces o'er the furrow'd plain,
And plant in measur'd hills the golden grain.
But when the tender germe begins to shoot,
And the green spire declares the sprouting root,
Then guard your nursling from each greedy foe,
Th' insidious worm, the all-devouring crow:
A little ashes sprinkled round the spire,
Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire;
The feather'd robber with his hungry maw
Swift flies the field before your man of straw,
A frightful image, such as school-boys bring
When met to burn the Pope or hang the King.
Thrice in the season, through each verdant row Wield the strong plow-share and the faithful hoeThe faithful hoe a double task that takes,
To till the summer corn and roast the winter cakes.
Slow springs the blade while check'd by chilling rains,
Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains;
But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land,
Then start the juices, then the roots expand,
Then, like a column of Corinthian mould,
The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold,
The bushy branches all the ridges fill,
Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill.
Here cease to vex them; all your cares are done;
Leave the last labors to the parent sun:
Beneath his genial smiles the well-drest field,
When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield.
Now the strong foliage bears the standards high,
And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky;
The suckling ears their silky fringes bend,
And, pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend;
The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows,
O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows.
High as a hop-field waves the silent grove,
A safe retreat for little thefts of love,
When the pledg'd roasting-ears invite the maid
To meet her swain beneath the new-form'd shade:
His generous hand unloads the cumbrous hill,
And the green spoils her ready basket fill;
Small compensation for the two-fold bliss,
The promis'd wedding and the present kiss.
Slight depredations these: but now the moon
Calls from his hollow tree the sly raccoon;
And while by night he bears his prize away,
The bolder squirrel labors thro' the day;
Both thieves alike, but provident of time-
A virtue rare that almost hides their crime.
Then let them steal the little stores they can,
And fill their grain'ries from the toils of man;
We 've one advantage where they take no part-
With all their wiles they ne'er have found the art
To boil the Hasty-Pudding; here we shine
Superior far to tenants of the pine:
This envy'd boon to man shall still belong,
Unshar'd by them in substance or in song.
At last the closing season browns the plain,
And ripe October gathers in the grain;
Deep-loaded carts the spacious corn-house fill,
The sack distended marches to the mill;
The lab'ring mill beneath the burthen groans,
And show'rs the future pudding from the stones;
Till the glad house-wife greets the powder'd gold,
And the new crop exterminates the old.
The days grow short; but tho' the falling sun
To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done,
Night's pleasing shades his various task prolong,
And yield new subjects to my various song.
For now, the corn-house fill'd, the harvest home,
Th' invited neighbours to the Husking come-
A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play
Unite their charms to chace the hours away.
Where the huge heap lies center'd in the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed nymphs and strong hard-handed beaux,
Alternate rang'd, extend in circling rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack:
The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.
The laws of Husking ev'ry wight can tell,
And sure no laws he ever keeps so well:
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear she smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast
Red as her lips and taper as her waist,
She walks the round and culls one favor'd beau,
Who leaps the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the sport as are the wits and brains
Of well-pleas'd lasses and contending swains,
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the last ear wins the day.
Meanwhile the house-wife urges all her care
The well-earn'd feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal already waits her hand,
The milk is strain'd, the bowls in order stand;
The fire flames high, and, as a pool—that takes
The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam breaks
Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils,
So the vext cauldren rages, roars, and boils.
First with clean salt she seasons well the food;
Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood;
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand:
To stir it well demands a stronger hand;
The husband takes his turn, and round and round
The ladle flies. At last the toil is crown'd;
When to the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn before.
I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More copious matters to my faithful song;
For rules there are, tho' ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.
Some with molasses line the luscious treat,
And mix, like Bards, the useful with the sweet:
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise;
A great resource in those bleak wintry days
When the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow.
Blest cow, thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy!
How oft thy teats these pious hands have prest;
How oft thy bounties prov'd my only feast;
How oft I've fed thee with my fav'rite grain;
And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain!
Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah, house her well from Winter's angry skies.
Potatoes, Pumpkins should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When Spring returns she 'll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.
Milk, then, with pudding I should always chuse;
To this in future I confine my Muse,
Till she in haste some farther hints unfold,
Well for the young nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand: you 've got the portion 's due;
So taught our sires, and what they taught is true.
There is a choice in spoons. Tho' small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 't is clear.
The deep-bowl'd Gallic spoon, contriv'd to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings,
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace
The gentle curve and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave but still more dilate
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests unknown to vulgar eyes:
Experienc'd feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide,
Tho' not in song; the muse but poorly shines
In cones and cubes and geometric lines.
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg-shell
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the center to the side.
Fear not to slaver; 't is no deadly sin.
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee,
Just in the zenith your wise head preject
Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall;
The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all.
THE BEAUTIES OF SANTA CRUZ
Sick of thy northern glooms, come, shepherd, seek
More equal climes and a serener sky:
Why shouldst thou toil amid thy frozen ground,
Where half year's snows a barren prospect lie,
When thou mayst go where never frost was seen,
Or north-west winds with cutting fury blow,
Where never ice congeal'd the limpid stream,
Where never mountain tipt its head with snow?
Twice seven days prosperous gales thy barque shall bear |
To isles that flourish in perpetual green,
Where richest herbage glads each shady vale,
And ever verdant plants on every hill are seen. . . . .
From the vast caverns of old ocean's bed
Fair SANTA CRUZ arising laves her waist;
The threat'ning waters roar on every side,
For every side by ocean is embrac'd.
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