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Dr. James Grainger, ein, vermuthlich noch lebens ber, englischer Arzt, ist Verfasser eines Gedichts in'vier Büs chern: The Sugar Cane, das Zuckerrohr, überschrieben. Das erste Buch handelt von deffen Anbau und dem dazu ers foderlichen Boden; das zweite von den Unfällen, denen es während feines Wachsthums ausgesetzt ist; das dritte von der Behandlung des Rohrs und dem Zuckersieden; und das lette schildert den Zuftand der Negern in den Zuderpflans zungen, und fodert die Landesleute des Dichters zlı grdßerer menschlichkeit gegen dieselben auf. Da Dr. Grainger selbft, als Arzt, in Westindien einen Theil seines Lebens zus brachte, lo schildert er die bier vorkommenden Gegenftande, Scenen und Anftalten aus eigner Ansicht und Stenntniß; nur verliert er sich dadurch zu oft aus den Gränzen der Poes fie in das wiffenschaftliche, besonders botanische, Gebiete. Dadurch wird fein Gedicht weniger unterhaltend, als unters richtend; und dieß legtere ift es auch durch die beigefügten ausführlichen Anmerkungen. Unbenußt hat er indeß die Vortheile nicht gelassen, welche selbst die Beschaffenheit reis nes Gegenstandes ihm zu Schilderungen minder bekannter Naturscenen, zu kleinen erzálylenden Episoden, und interess fanten Beschreibungen darbot. Vergl. Durd's Briefe,
From scenes of deep distress, the heavenly Muse,
Emerging joyous, claps her dewy wings.
As when a pilgrim, in the howling waste,
Hath long time wandered, fearfui at each step,
Of tumbling cliffs, fell serpents, whelming bogs;
At last, from some long eminence, descries
Fair haunts of social life; wide-cultur'd plains,
Grainger. O'er which glad reapers pour; he chearly sings:
So she to sprightlier notes her pipe attunes,
Than e'er these mountains heard; to gratulate,
With duteous carols, the beginning year.
Hail, eldest birth of Time! in other climes,
In the old world, with tempests usher'd in;
While rifled nature thine appearance wails,
And savage winter wields his iron mace:
But not the rockiest verge of these green isles,
Tho' mountains heapt on mountains brave the sky,
Dares winter, by his residence, prophane.
At times the ruffian, wrapt in murky state,
In roads will, fly, attempt; but foon! the fun,
Benign protector of the Cane-land isles,
Repells the invader, and his rude mace breaks.
Here, every mountain, every winding dell,
(Haunt of the Dryads; where, beneath the shade,
Of broad - leafʼd china, idly they repole,
Charm'd with the murmur of the tinkling rill;
Charm'd with the hummings of the neighbouring
Welcome thy glad approach: but chief the Cane
Whole juice now longs to murmur down the
Hails thy lov’d coming; January, hail!
O! M**! thou, whose polish'd mind contains
Each science useful to thy native isle!
Philosopher, without the hermit's spleen!
Polite, yet learned ; and, tho' folid, gay!
Critic, whose heart each error Aings in friendly
Planter whose youth fage cultivation taught
Each secret lefion of her fylvan school:
To thee the Mufe a grateful tribute pays;
She owes to thee the precepts of her song:
Nor wilt thou, four, refuse; tho' other cares,
The public welfare, claim thy busy hour;
With her to roam (thrice pleasing devious walk)
The ripened cane-piece; and, with her, to taste
Delicious draught!) the nectar of the mill!
The planter's labour in a round revolves; Ends with the year, and with the year begins.
Ye fwains, to Heaven bend low in grateful
prayer, Worship the Almighty; whose kind - fostering
hand Hath bleft your labour, and hath given the cane To rise superior to each menac'd
Nor less, ye planters, in devotion, lue,
That nor the heavenly bolt, nor casual spark,
Nor hand of malice may the crop destroy.
Ah mc! what numerous, deafnings bells,
What cries of horror startle the dull sleep?
What gleaming brightness makes, at midnight,
By its portentuous glare, too well I see
Palaemon's fate; the virtuous, and the wise!
Where were ye, watches, when the fame burst
A little care had then the hydra quell'd:
But, now, whát clouds of white smoke load the
How strong, how rapid the combustion pours!
Aid not, ye winds! with your destroying breath,
The spreading vengeance — They contemn my
Rous'd by the deafning bells, the cries, the
From every quarter, in tumultuous bands,
The Negroes rush; and, 'mid the crackling flames,
Plunge, daemon-like! All, all, urge every nerve:
This way, tear up those Canes; dash the fire out,
Grainger., Which sweeps, with ferpent-error, o'er the grounde
There, hew thefe down; their topmost branches
And here bid all thy watery engines play:
For here the wind the burning deluge drives.
In vain. More wide the blazing torrent rolls; More loud it roars, more bright it fires the pole! And toward thy manfion, fee, it bends its way. Haste! far, o far, your infant-throng remove: Quick from your ftables drag your steeds and mug
With well-wet blankets guard your cypress-roofs;
And where thy dried Canes in large stacks are
Efforts but serve to irritate the flames:
Naught but thy ruin can their wrath appease.
Palarmon! what avail'd thy care,
Oft to prevent the earliest dawn of day,
And walk thy ranges, at the noon of night?
What tho' no ills afoild thy bunching fprouts,
And seasons pour'd obedient to thy will:
All, ail must perish; nor shalt thou preserve
Where with to feed thy little orphan-throng.
Oh, may the Cane-isles know few nights, like .
For now the fail-clad points, impatient, wait
The hour of sweet release, to court the gale.
The late-hung coppers wish to feel the warmth,
Which well-dried fewel from the Cane imparts:
The Negroe train, with placid looks, survey
Thy fields, which full perfection have attain'd,
And pant to wield the bill: (no surly watch
Dare now deprive them of the lusciods Cane :)
Nor thou, my friend, their willing ardour check;
Encourage rather; cheerful toil is light.
So from no field, shall flow-pac'd oxen draw
More frequent loaded wanes; which many a day,
And many a night shall feed thy cracklings mills, Grainger.
With richest offerings: while thy far seen flames, .
Bursting thro' many a chimney, bright emblaze
The Aethiop-brow of night. And Tee, they pour
(Ere phosphor his pale circlet yet withdraws,
What time grey dawn stands tip-toe on the hill,)
O'er the rich Cane-grove: Muse, their labour fing.
Some bending, of their fapless burden eale
The yellow ointed canes (whole height exceeds
A mounted trooper, and whose clammy round
Measures two inches full;) and near the root
Lop the item off which quivers in their hand
With fond impatience: soon it's branchy fpires,
(Food to thy cattle) it resigns; and soon
It's tender priskly tops, with eyes thick set,
To load with future crops thy long-hoed land.
These with their green, their pliant branchess
(For not a part of this amazing plant,
But ferves fome useful purpose) charge the young:
Not laziness from it's leafy pallet crawls,
To join the favoured gang. What of the Cane
Remains, and much the largest part remains,
Cut into junks a yard in length, and tied
In small light bundles; load the broad-wheeld
The mules crook-harnest, and the sturdier crew,
With sweet abundance. As on Lincoln-plains
(Ye plains of Lincoln found your Dyer's praise!)
When the lay'd snow - white flocks are numerous
The senior swains, with Charpen'd shears, cut off
The fleecy vestment; others stir the tar;
And fome impress, upon their captives fides,
Their master's cypher; while the infant throng
Strive by the horns to hold the struggling ram,
Proud of their prowess. Nor meanwhile the jest
Light-bandied round, but innocent of ill;
Nor choral fong are wanting; eccho rings.