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...THE SMALLISH SON by HAYDEN CARRUTH DOMESDAY BOOK: ANTON SOSNOWSKI by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE PROGRESS OF POESY; A PINDARIC ODE by THOMAS GRAY STRANGE FILAMENT by LILLIAN M. (PETTES) AINSWORTH OH, MOTHER DEAR! by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS CLOUDS by EDUARD VON BAUERNFELD |