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.
Sharp, craggy rocks repell the surging brine,
Whose cavern'd sides, by restless billows wore,
Resemblance claim to that remoter isle
Where once the winds' proud lord the sceptre bore.
Betwixt old Cancer and the mid-way line,
In happiest climate lies this envied isle:
Trees bloom throughout the year, streams ever flow,
And fragrant Flora wears a lasting smile.
The happy waters boast, of various kinds,
Unnumber'd myriads of the scaly race;
Sportive they glide above the delug'd sand,
Gay as their clime, in ocean's ample vase.
Some, streak'd with burnish'd gold, resplendent glare,
Some cleave the limpid deep all silver'd o'er,
Some clad in living green delight the eye,
Some red, some blue, of mingled colours more.
Here glides the spangled Dolphin through the deep;
The giant-carcas'd whales at distance stray;
The huge green turtles wallow through the wave,
Well pleas'd alike with land or water they. . . .
Sweet verdant isle, through thy dark woods I rove
And learn the nature of each native tree:
The fustick hard, the poisonous manchineel,
Which for its fragrant apple pleaseth thee;
Alluring to the smell, fair to the eye,
But deadliest poison in the taste is found-
O shun the dangerous tree, nor taste, like Eve,
This interdicted fruit in Eden's ground.
The lowly mangrove, fond of watry soil,
The white-bark'd gregory, rising high in air,
The mastick in the woods you may descry;
Tamarind and lofty plumb-trees flourish there.
Sweet orange groves in lonely vallies rise,
And drop their fruits unnotic'd and unknown;
The cooling acid limes in hedges grow,
The juicy lemons swell in shades their own.
So broad, so long: through these refresh'd I stray,
And though the noon-sun all his radiance shed,
These friendly leaves shall shade me all the way,
And tempt the cooling breeze to hasten there,
With its sweet odorous breath to charm the grove;
High shades and verdant seats, while underneath
A little stream by mossy banks doth rove,
Where once the Indian dames slept with their swains,
Or fondly kiss'd the moon-light eves away;
The lovers fled, the tearful stream remains,
And only I console it with my lay.
But, shepherd, haste, and leave behind thee far
Thy bloody plains and iron glooms above;
Quit the cold northern star, and here enjoy
Beneath the smiling skies this land of love.
The drowsy pelican wings home his way,
The misty eve sits heavy on the sea,
And though yon' sail drags slowly o'er the main,
Say, shall a moment's gloom discourage thee?
To-morrow's sun now paints the faded scene;
Though deep in ocean sink his western beams,
His spangled chariot shall ascend more clear,
More radiant, from the drowsy land of dreams.
1776.
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT
By some sad means, when Reason holds no sway,
Lonely I rov'd at midnight o'er a plain
Where murmuring streams and mingling rivers flow
Far to their springs or seek the sea again.
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