DESCENDING now from these superior themes,
Do muse, in notes familiar teach the swain
The hidden properties of ev'ry glebe,
And what the different culture each requires.
The naturalist, to sand, or loam, or clay,
Reduces all the varying soils, which clothe
The bosom of this earth with beauty. Sand,
Hot, open, loose, admits the genial ray
With freedom, and with greediness imbibes
The falling moisture: hence the embryo seeds,
Lodg'd in its fiery womb, push into life
With early haste, and hurry'd to their prime,
(Their vital juices spent) too soon decay.
Correct this error of the ardent soil,
With cool manure: let stiff cohesive clay
Give the loose glebe consistence and firm strength.
So shall thy labouring steers, when harvest calls,
Bending their patient shoulders to the yoke,
Drag home in copious loads the yellow grain.
Has fortune fix'd thy lot to toil in clay?
Despair not, nor repine: the stubborn soil
Shall yield to cultivation, and reward
The hand of diligence. Here give the plough
No rest. Break, pound the clods, and with warm dungs
Relieve the steril coldness of the ground,
Chill'd with obstructed water. Add to these
The sharpest sand, to open and unbind
The close-cohering mass; so shall new pores
Admit the solar beam's enlivening heat,
The nitrous particles of air receive,
And yield a passage to the soaking rain.
Hence fermentation, hence prolific power,
And hence the fibrous roots in quest of food,
Find unobstructed entrance, room to spread,
And richer juices feed the swelling shoots:
So the strong field shall to the reaper's hand
Produce a plenteous crop of waving wheat.
But blest with ease in plenty shall he live,
Who heaven's kind hand, indulgent to his wish
Hath placed upon a loamy soil. He views
All products of the teeming earth arise
In plenteous crops, nor scarce the needful aid
Of culture deigns to ask. Him, nor the fears
Of scorching heat, nor deluges of rain
Alarm. His kindly fields instain all change
Of seasons, and support a healthy seed,
In vigour thro' the perils of the year.
But new improvements curious wouldst thou learn,
Hear then the lore of fair Berkeria's son,
Whose precepts drawn from sage experience, claim
Regard. The pasture, and the food of plants,
First let the young agricolist be taught:
Then how to sow, and raise the embryo feeds
Of every different species. Nitre, fire,
Air, water, earth, their various powers combine
In vegetation; but the genuine food
Of every plant is earth: hence their increase,
Their strength and substance. Nitre first prepares
And separates the concreted parts; which then,
The wat'ry vehicle assumes, and through
Th' ascending tubes, impell'd by subtle air,
Which gives it motion, and that motion heat,
The fine terrestrial aliment conveys.
Is earth the food of plants? their pasture then
By ceaseless tillage, or the use of dung,
Must or ferment, or pulverize, to fit
For due reception of the fibrous roots:
But from the steams of ordure, from the stench
Of putrefaction, from stercoreous fumes
Of rottenness and filth, can sweetness spring?
Or grateful, or salubrious food to man?
As well might virgin innocence preserve
Her purity from saint, amidst the stews.
Defile not then the freshness of thy field
With dung's polluting touch; but let the plough,
The hoe, the harrow, and the roller lend
Their better powers, to fructify the soil;
Turn it to catch the sun's prolific ray,
Th' enlivening breath of air, the genial dews,
And every influence of indulgent heaven.
These shall enrich and fertilize the glebe,
And toil's unceasing hand full well supply
The dunghill's sordid and extraneous aid.
Thus taught the Shalborne swain; who first with shill
Led through the field the many-coulter'd plough;
Who first his seed committed to the ground,
Shed from the drill by flow revolving wheels,
In just proportion, and in even rows;
Leaving 'twixt each a spacious interval,
To introduce with ease, while yet the grain
Expanding crown'd the intermediate ridge,
His new machine, form'd to exterminate
The weedy race (intruders who devour,
But nothing pay) to pulverize the soil,
Enlarge and change the pasture of the roots,
And to its last perfection raise the crop.
He taught, alas! but practis'd ill the lore
Of his own precepts. Fell disease, or sloth,
Relax'd the hand of industry: his farm,
His own philosophy disgracing, brought
Discredit on the doctrines he enforc'd.
Then banish from thy fields the loiterer sloth,
Nor listen to the voice of thoughtless ease.
Him sordidness and penury surround,
Beneath whose lazy hand the farm runs wild;
Whose heart nor feels the joy improvement gives,
Nor leaden eye the beauties that arise
From labour sees. Accumulated filth
Annoys his crowded steps; even at his door
A yellow mucus from the dunghill stands
In squalid pools; his buildings unrepair'd,
To ruin ruth precipitate; his fields
Disorder governs, and licentious weeds
Spring up uncheck'd; the nettle and the dock,
Wormwood and thistles, in their seasons rise,
And deadly nightshade spreads his poison round,
Ah! wretched he! if chance his wandering child,
By hunger prompted, pluck th' alluring fruit!
Benumbing stupor creeps upon his brain;
Wild grinning laughter soon to this succeeds;
Strange madness then, and death in hideous form.
Mysterious Providence! ah, why conceal'd
In such a tempting form, should poisons lurk;
Ah, why so near the path of innocents,
Should spring their bane? But thou alone art wise.