The Needle. a Poetical Essay, Canto IV

Thus, from the essays of a lovesick heart, Mechlin and Brussels stole their mimic art; Hence lace, with all its gay creation, rose, Essential ornament of belles and beaux, Ally of beauty—supplement of sense, And, next to snuff, the orator's defence; Grac'd with this armour, if he wave his hand, Say, what plain shirt his prowess can withstand? Not half so strong the brilliant's shining aid, When on the finger in full light display'd. So when the flag of Britain waves on high, And gives its streaming glories to the sky, All other flags submit, and strike their pride To the known empress of old ocean's tide. Nor pass we here the knitting-needle's aid, Once the delight of each industrious maid:

In days of yore, near Nottingham's fair town, Ere the wove stocking to the leg was known, Young Leius, a Cantab, of learned fame, Sigh'd for Kinnetta with a virtuous flame, With unavailing passion, long he strove To win the icy virgin to his love; In vain he sung, in vain he touch'd the lyre, Or boasted sage Apollo as his sire, Apollo's self, in vain, to Daphne prov'd The high deserts, thro' which he fruitless lov'd, Like her, Kinetta fled the amorous swain, And he, like sage Apollo, wooed in vain; Tho' oft the laws of motion he explain'd, And why velocity its end attain'd, How the quick needles form'd the oblong squares, Or what proportion time to motion bears, Why the diameter of calf, and small, By due gradations, cause the threads to fall, Or, why the seam behind was like the Line, Parting each segment of the fair design.

Oft on his knee, imploring, would he beg To tell, why Italy was call'd the leg; Or, why some sages held a fond dispute, Affirming it was rather like—a boot. Deaf to his learning, on her work intent, She sought the safe retreat of winding Trent, Or oft to Sherwood's forest bent her way, And to her knitting sung the sprightly lay.

Enrag'd, his philosophic heart was turn'd To proud disdain, and whom he lov'd, he scorn'd; Within a wooden frame, by art divine, Assisted by Apollo, and the Nine, In order rang'd a thousand needles shone, A shuttle thro' the woof was taught to run With expedition, thus divinely taught, With disappointed love and passion fraught, He first, the stocking wove within a loom, Glorious discovery! in his peaceful room, His peaceful room the future scene of war, Whose arts ten thousand female hands debar From honest bread—so Thracian women tore Harmonious Orpheus, in the days of yore. With hasty step, full to Kinetta's eyes, Just-finish'd, he display'd the new-born prize:

" Now, scornful maid, he cries, to wisdom's lore " Dare to prefer thy Knitting Needles more; " Thine and thy sister females arts, proud fair, " For love despis'd, shall vanish into air; " From an unhappy, but an injur'd maid, " I learn'd the secret to destroy thy trade; " I spied Arachne's web thro' optic glass, " And saw where lines o'er lines transversely pass, " Enrag'd like her, she taught me first to know " The happy item of thine overthrow."

Stung to the heart, superior merit aw'd Kinetta's mind, and Leius seem'd a god, The work stupendous in the frame appear'd Like magic, or as if divinely rear'd; Now to Love's altar she submissive bow'd, Nor blush'd to own the new-born flame aloud, With soften'd look the blooming youth she eyed, Her brow unarm'd with supercilious pride, Conscious he felt the sympathetic heat Glow in his breast, and at his bosom beat.

" I know thee by myself, Oh nymph divine, " I feel thy heart's warm passion kindle mine," Young Leius cried—and clasp'd her to his arms, Then from the town he bore her vanquish'd charms, To Cambridge safe convey'd his happy prize, Ere the dread females should tumultuous rise, Too well he prophesied the dire event, Lo! to his chamber, with a fell intent, Forth rush'd in haste the Amazonian bands, Rage in their looks, and broomsticks in their hands;

First fell the victim of their ire, the loom, And next the chamber met its fated doom, Him too they sought for, author of their woe, Fatidic Phoebus sav'd him from the blow, He, with a beam of his all-seeing light, Had warn'd young Leius to a sudden flight, Else had they torn him piecemeal in their rage, As Thracian dames once serv'd the vocal Sage.

Maugre their fury, Leius perseveres, His labours flourish'd with his growing years; Ten thousand looms the happy texture wove, One reach'd the stars—a monument of love! A thousand shining needles, light array'd, Near Granby's hat, effulgent, are display'd; Hence mariners the well-known term assume, Who cry—how large the distant vessels loom! Here, 'mid the heavens, the Loom shall ever shine, A constellation sacred to the Nine! And, when we see a star glide cross the skies, Sage bards well know it is the shuttle flies; And when pale streamers gild the midnight air, These are the threads—like Ariadne's hair.