When Jove from darkness smote the sun,
And Nature earth from chaos won,
One part she left a barren waste
By stormy seas and fogs embraced.
Jove saw her vile neglect, and cried,
"What madness did your fancy guide—
Why have you left so large a space
With winter brooding o'er its face?
No trees of stately growth ascend,
Eternal fogs their wings expand—
My favorite—man—I placed not there,
But spirits of a darker sphere.
If Nature's self neglects her trade
What strange confusion will be made:
Such climes as these I doomed to fall
On Saturn's cold unsocial ball:
But such a blemish, here, to see—
How can it else but anger me?
Where chilling winds forever freeze,
What fool will fix on lands like these?"
Nature, abashed, thus made reply:
"When earth I formed, I don't deny,
Some parts I portioned out for pain,
Hard storms, dull skies, and—little gain.
Mankind are formed with different souls:
Some will be suited near the poles,
Some pleased beneath the scorching line,
And some, New Scotland, will be thine.
Yet, in due time, my plastic hand
Shall mould it o'er, if you command;
By you I act—if you stand still
The world comes tumbling down the hill!"
Untouched—(said Jove)—remain the place!
In days to come I'll form a race,
Born to betray their country's cause,
And aid an alien monarch's laws.
When traitors to their country die,
To lands, like this, their phantoms fly;
But when the brave by death decay
The mind explores a different way.
Then, Nature, hold your aiding hand—
Let fogs and tempests chill the land;
While this degenerate work of thine
To knaves and knapsacks I resign.