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 Heav'ns 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 zeinth 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 for 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, felfish 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."