He places lightly, and, as time subdues
The rage of fermentation, plunges deep
In the soft medium, till they stand immers❜d.
Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick,
And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first
Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon,
If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air,

Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid

green.

Two leaves produc'd, two rough indented leaves,

Cautious he pinches from the second stalk

A pimple, that portends a future sprout,

And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish; Prolific all, and harbingers of more.

The crowded roots demand enlargement now, And transplantation in an ampler space. Indulg'd in what they wish, they soon supply Large foliage, overshadowing golden flow'rs, Blown on the summit of th' apparent fruit.

These have their sexes; and, when summer shines,

The bee transports the fertilizing meal

From flow'r to flow'r, and ev'n the breathing air

Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use.

Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art
Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass
The glad espousals, and ensures the crop.

Grudge not, ye rich, (since luxury must have His dainties, and the world's more num'rous half Lives by contriving delicates for you)

Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares,

The vigilance, the labour, and the skill,

That day and night are exercis'd, and hang
Upon the ticklish balance of suspense,

That ye may garnish your profuse regales
With summer fruits brought forth by wintry suns.
Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart

The process. Heat and cold, and wind, and steam,
Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming

flies,

1

Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work

Dire disappointment, that admits no cure,

And which no care can obviate. It were long, Too long, to tell th' expedients and the shifts Which he that fights a season so severe

Devises, while he guards his tender trust;

And oft, at last, in vain. The learn'd and wise Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit Of too much labour, worthless when produc'd.

Who loves a garden loves a green-house too, Unconscious of a less propitious clime, There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle and the snows descend.

The spiry myrtle with unwith'ring leaf

Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast

Of Portugal and western India there,

The ruddier orange, and the paler lime,

Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm,

And seem to smile at what they need not fear. Th' amomum there with intermingling flow'rs And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long.

All plants, of ev'ry leaf, that can endure

The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd bite,
Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,
Levantine regions these; th' Azores send

Their jessamine, her jessamine remote
Caffraia: foreigners from many lands,
They form one social shade, as if conven'd
By magic summons of th' Orphean lyre.
Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass
But by a master's hand, disposing well
The gay diversities of leaf and flow'r,

Must lend its aid t' illustrate all their charms,

And dress the regular yet various scene.
Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van

The dwarfish, in the rear retir'd, but still

Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand.

So once were rang'd the sons of ancient Rome,
A noble show! while Roscius trod the stage;
And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he,
The sons of Albion; fearing each to lose
Some note of Nature's music from his lips,
And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen
In ev'ry flash of his far-beaming eye.
Nor taste alone and well-contriv'd display
Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace
Of their complete effect. Much yet remains
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind,
And more laborious; cares on which depend
Their vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor❜d.
The soil must be renew'd, which, often wash'd,
Loses its treasure of salubrious salts,

And disappoints the roots; the slender roots
Close interwoven, where they meet the vase,
Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch
Must fly before the knife; the wither'd leaf