AND pity the poor planter, when the blast, Fell plague of Heaven! perdition of the isles! Attacks his waving gold. Though well-manur'd; A richness though thy fields from Nature boast; Though seasons pour; this pestilence invades: Too oft it seizes the glad infant throng, Nor pities their green nonage: their broad blades, Of which the graceful wood-nymphs erst compos'd The greenest garlands to adorn their brows, First pallid, sickly, dry, and wither'd show; Unseemly stains succeed; which, nearer view'd By microscopic arts, small eggs appear, Dire fraught with reptile life; alas, too soon They burst their filmy gaol, and crawl abroad, Bugs of uncommon shape. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VILLAGE IN LATE SUMMER by CARL SANDBURG PORTRAIT OF A MACHINE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER HORATIUS [AT THE BRIDGE], FR. LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY EUROPE; THE 72ND AND 73RD YEARS OF THESE STATES by WALT WHITMAN HOMAGE TO QUINTUS SEPTIMIUS FLORENTIS CHRISTIANUS: TROY by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS DUSK; TO MADEMOISELLE MARIE LAURENCIN by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE |