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Upon a fertile spot of land
Do's Plaistow, thriving
Plaistow, stand,
The sea, which whilome rowl'd his
flood,
And hither brought the fatt'ning mud,
Has left a richness
in the soil,
That well rewards the peasant's toil,
One side the level
marshes sees
And all is interspers'd with trees.
From hence the silver Thames appears,
And the wing'd
vessels which he bears;
In which the vast supplies of trade
To
fam'd Augusta are convey'd,
A pleasing sight to see them ride
With
sails unfurl'd, with wind and tide!
From hence to our delighted eyes,
Do Greenwich regal
spires arise;
Those stately domes, in which the poor
And aged Tar,
with bounteous store,
Is richly fed ; a happy case,
That they can die
in plenteous peace,
Who do for king, and country's good,
Have
spent their strength, and youthful blood.
Thee, Woolwich, also o'er a green
And fruitful marsh,
that lies between,
We hence behold ; thou art not poor
In dreadfull
arms, and naval store
For Britain's safety.
Please our eyes,
With curious fire-works in the skies;
But silent all
thy cannon keep,
Nor let their thunder break our sleep.
But, wand'ring muse, no flights pursue;
Keep Plaistow
always in my view.
Grand ships may sail where'er they please,
But
little vessels coast the seas;
A lofty genius may explore
New regions,
but keep thou the shore
within thou ken; those dangers shun,
On which
the bold and foolish run.
You, that a soft retirement chuse,
And to a point contract your
views,
May here enjoy a safe retreat
From pomp, and ev'ry
thing that's great,
Here you are free from noise and strife,
And all
those carking cares of life,
That plague the town; from jilting
jade,
From nauseous fops, and bites in trade.
With wholesome fare our villa's stor'd,
Our lands the
best of corn afford,
Not Hartford wheat, or Derby rye,
Or Ipswich peas, can ours out-vye;
Let Irish wights
no longer boast
The fam'd potatoes of their coast;
Potatoes
now are Plaistow's pride,
Whole markets are from hence supply'd.
The largest Ox,
that England bred,
Was in our grassy pastures fed;
Nor finer mutton
can you spend
Than what our fatt'ning marshes send
And in our
farmers yards you find
Delicious
fowls of ev'ry kind;
Whose cellars hardly ever fail
To
keep a cask of nappy ale;
These blessings with
a friend sincere,
Can furnish out the best of cheer.
Around our fields bold Nimrods sons
With hounds,
or nets, or lethal guns,
Pursue the game. The hare in vain,
Swift
as the wind, flies o'er the plain;
In vain the chuckling partridge
glides
Thro' thorny brakes, or skulking hides
His head in grass; the
fatal lead
No sooner flies, but strikes 'em dead.
Does curious fruit your palate please?
Profusion
wantons on our trees.
The pippin, and the Windsor-pear
Grow
ripe in their perfection here.
Our orchards hit each taste that
comes,
With grapes, nuts, berries, medlars, plumbs.
Walk thro' this garden, view this wall,
How plump this peach
! nor is it small,
These apricocks, ripe to decay,
Wou'd in
your mouth dissolve away.
What flavour ! what delicious juice,
These
nect'rines to the tongue produce!
And what more lovely can you
see,
Than those red cherries on the tree?
Come here ; for
what I need not tell,
Ambrosial sweets will meet your smell,
Pinks,
roses, lillies, to your eyes
At once in gay confusion rise.
Wild
variegated scenes appear,
And mingles sweets perfume the air.
Vain tulip! now so richly dressed,
And proudly tall
above the rest;
Like haughty mortals, e'er so high,
Thou soon
must wither, droop, and die.
Long had my muse (whose friendly aid
I often, ere
engag'd in trade,
Had try'd,) since then repuls'd my vows;
And
left me dull to write in prose,
No learning cou'd inspire my strain,
And
I invok'd her help in vain.
But, Plaistow, thy salubrious air,
Thy rural walks,
thy fields so fair,
Thy silent shades, so sweet, so plain,
Have
brought her to me again;
For which in these unlabour'd lays,
I
sing thy just deserving praise.
Delusive trade! thy fair deceit
Did my unguarded
judgment cheat;
By thee misled, I meanly chose
For noble verse,
thy grov'ling prose;
But I from hence renounce thy charms,
And
like a serpent, shun thy arms;
For when I yielded to thy vile embrace,
I
left a faithful muse, reproach, disgrace!
And took thee, jilting
baggage, in her place.
Quintillanus Icenus
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