And lightly, shaking it with agile hand A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fogg Baotian, rising fast, Asks egress; which obtain'd, the overcharg'd And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank; And, purified, rejoices to have lost Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage Th' impatient fervor which it first conceives Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, And glossy, he commits to pots of size Diminutive, well fill'd with well-prepar'd And fruitful soil, that has been treasur'd long, And drank no moisture from the dripping clouds: These on the warm and genial earth, that hides The smoking manure and o'erspreads it all, He places lightly, and, as time subdues In the soft medium, till they stand immers’d. Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed 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 Grudge not, ye rich, (since luxury must have That day and night are exercis'd, and hang 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, 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; 1 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, |