Classic Poem

Awake yee westerne Nymphs, arise and sing:
And with fresh tunes salute your welcome spring,
Behold a choyce, a rare and pleasant plant,
Which nothing but it's parallel doth want.
T'was but a tender slip a while agoe,
About twice ten years or a little moe,
But now 'tis grown unto such comely state
That one would think't an Olive tree or Date.

A skilfull Husband-man he was, who brought
This matchles plant from far, and here hath sought
A place to set it in: and for it's sake,
The wildernes a pleasant land doth make,
And with a tender care it setts and dresses,
Digs round about it, waters, dungs and blesses,
And, that it may fruit forth in season bring,
Doth lop and cut and prune it every spring.

Bright Phoebus casts his silver sparkling ray,
Upon this thriving plant both night and day.
And with a pleasant aspect smiles upon
The tender buds and blooms that hang theron.
The lofty skyes their chrystall drops bestow;
Which cause the plant to flourish and to grow.
The radiant Star is in it's Horoscope:
And there't will raigne and rule for aye, we hope.

At this tree's roots Astraea sits and sings
And waters it, whence upright JUSTICE springs,
Which yearly shoots forth Lawes and Libertyes,
That no man Will or Wit may tyrannize.
Those Birds of prey, who somtime have opprest
And stain'd the Country with their filthy nest,
Justice abhors; and one day hopes to finde
A way to make all promise-breakers grinde.

On this tree's top hangs pleasant LIBERTY,
Not seen in Austria, France, Spain, Italy.
Some fling their swords at it, their caps some cast
In Britain 't will not downe, it hangs so fast.
A loosnes (true) it breeds (Galen ne'r saw)
Alas! the reason is, men eat it raw.
True Liberty's there ripe, where all confess
They may do what they will, but wickednes.

PEACE is another fruit; which this tree bears,
The cheifest garland that this Country wears,
Which over all house-tops, townes, fields doth spread,
And stuffes the pillow for each weary head.
It bloom'd in Europe once, but now 't is gon:
And's glad to finde a desart-mansion.
Thousands to buye it with their blood have sought
But cannot finde it; we ha't here for nought.

In times of yore, (some say, it is no ly)
There was a tree that brought forth UNITY.
It grew a little while, a year or twain,
But since 'twas nipt, 't hath scarce been seen again,
Till some here sought it, and they finde it now
With trembling for to hang on every bough.
At this faire fruit, no wonder, if there shall
Be cudgells flung sometimes, but 't will not fall.

Forsaken TRUTH, Times daughter, groweth here.
(More pretious fruit, what tree did ever beare?)
Whose pleasant sight aloft hath many fed,
And what falls down knocks Error on the head.
Blinde Novio sayes, that nothing here is True,
Because (thinks he) no old thing can be new.
Alas poor smoaky Times, that can't yet see,
Where Truth doth grow, on this or on that Tree.

Few think, who only hear, but doe not see,
That PLENTY groweth much upon this tree.
That since the mighty COW her crown hath lost,
In every place shee's made to rule the rost:
That heaps of Wheat, Port, Bisket, Beef and Beer,
Masts, Pipe-staves, Fish should store both farre and neer:
Which fetch in Wines, Cloth, Sweets and good Tobacc-
O be contented then, you cannot lack.

Of late from this tree's root within the ground
Rich MINES branch out, Iron and Lead are found,
Better then Peru's gold or Mexico's
Which cannot weapon us against our foes,
Nor make us howes, nor siths, nor plough-shares mend:
Without which tools mens honest lives would end.
Some silver-mine, if any here doe wish.
They it may finde i' th' bellyes of our fish.

But lest this Olive plant in time should wither,
And so it's fruit and glory end togither,
The prudent Husband-men are pleas'd to spare
No work or paines, no labour, cost or care,
A NURSERY to plant, with tender sprigs,
Young shoots and sprouts, small branches, slips and twigs;
Whence timely may arise a good supply
In room of sage and aged ones that dye.

The wildest SHRUBS, that forrest ever bare,
Of late into this Olive, grafted are.
Welcome poor Natives, from your salvage fold.
Your hopes we prize above all Western gold.
Your pray'rs, tears, knowledge, labours promise much,
Wo, if you be not, as you promise, such.
Sprout forth, poor sprigs, that all the world may sing
How Heathen shrubs kisse Jesus for their King.