OF composts shall the Muse descend to sing, Nor soil her heavenly plumes? The sacred Muse Naught sordid deems, but what is base; naught fair Unless true Virtue stamp it with her seal. Then, planter, wouldst thou double thine estate, Never, ah never, be ashamed to tread Thy dung-heaps, where the refuse of thy mills, With all the ashes, all thy coppers yield, With weeds, mould, dung and stale, a compost form, Of force to fertilize the poorest soil. But, planter, if thy lands lie far remote And of access are difficult; on these, Leave the cane's sapless foliage; and with pens Wattled (like those the Muse hath oft-times seen When frolic fancy led her youthful steps, In green Dorchestria's plains), the whole inclose: There well thy stock with provender supply; The well-fed stock will soon that food repay.... Whether the fattening compost in each hole 'Tis best to throw, or on the surface spread, Is undetermined: trials must decide. Unless kind rains and fostering dews descend, To melt the compost's fertilizing salts, A stinted plant, deceitful of thy hopes, Will from those beds slow spring where hot dung lies: But, if 'tis scattered generously o'er all, The cane will better bear the solar blaze; Less rain demand; and, by repeated crops, Thy land improved its gratitude will show. Enough of composts, Muse.... | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DONKEY by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON BIRD AND BROOK by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT [1583] by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A LETTER TO LADY [MISS] MARGARET-CAVANDISH-HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD by MATTHEW PRIOR SONGS by RICHARD HENRY STODDARD A CHURCHYARD SOLILOQUY by HENRY ALFORD |