Ambarvalia/Burbidge/Goodman Tobacco-farmer
GOODMAN TOBACCO-FARMER.
WRITTEN IN SICILY IN 1846.
Goodman Tobacco-farmer spreads out his store to dry;
Row and row the green leaves in a seemly order lie;
The open shore invites him, row and row he spreads them there,
Binding neatly into bundles, as they answer to the air.
To-day's are fat and scentless, to-day's are green with dew;
Yesterday's are shrunk and brown, but the scent is creeping through.
The rocky open shore, better drying-field were none—
None freer to the breezes, nor fairer to the sun.
But the road runs close beside—wall or hedge he must not make,
Idle carmen, idle fisher boys! 'tis the farmer's purse at stake.
His purse and honour also—for our farmer doth maintain
To grow the best Tobacco on the rich Palermo plain.
Protection must be had, so with toil the boughs he cut,
With toil the stakes he planted, and wattled him a hut.
Three-sided was the lodge, but open to survey,
The green leaves and the brown that in seemly order lay,
—What carpeting of Astracan to him had seemed so sweet?
What rich floor-picture shuffled o'er by lordly Roman feet?
Then it was I stood and marked him, housed in his leafy cell;
Proud security was in his face, for he watched his treasure well.
If the roguish wind would make a clutch at a dry leaf in his play,
Out he darted!—weighted with a stone, the russet rambler lay.
Even in his noontide napping one ear was yet awake,
For the light-foot lizard's scamper, or the rustle of the snake.
Goodman Tobacco-farmer, you watch them with a will!
Better watching never yet was seen, and it is fruitless still!
Even honest I am robbing you, in every nerve I feel
The delicate Aleccia which I innocently steal.[1]
Neighbour, gently comprehend me—the sticky leaves you keep,
But the odour, friend, is flying free, o'er hill and plain and deep.
Over landward gardens floating, the truant fragrance flies,
Still before you lies your treasure, coffered in your careful eyes.
On the road the snuffing carman drives indolently past.
On the shore the sturdy fisherman stands and delays his cast.
Good neighbour, sack your treasure, take home what yet you may,
But the leaves are all that you can keep, the scent will fly away.
Now, friend Tobacco-farmer, shall I tell thee what I see,
That makes an image in my mind not much unlike to thee?
Look yonder o'er the silver Bay,—those stately ships that stand
Anchored on the glowing deep—isles of artificial land;
They are the watcher's lodge, good friend!—this land the precious store,
And the King is he that watches, as you do, evermore.
This folk may neither speak nor write but as he gives them rule,
They must ask his leave to come or go—like children in a school.
The corn shall not grow up an inch, but it fees him for his grace;
The fig-trees rain him pennies, the water pays its pace;
Doth the wild bird bear his licence under his speckled wing?
If the wild bird comes to Sicily, it shall surely pay the King.
Yes, he watches well, as you do, a shrewd and careful man;
What watchfulness can keep, that will he keep, and can.
From his lodges he has built him,—ships and citadels of might,—
Lidless iron eyes are watching, watching, watching, day and night;
Watching are all his scouts and spies, doganiers, police,—
Sixty thousand men are watching, with a new-cleaned gun a-piece.
Therefore all hath he that watching gives:—from his Palace set on high
He gazes;—all is safe, his own, betwixt the earth and sky.
His pennies come in punctually;—soft flatteries plump his throne;
Says the Ancient (lying meekly), "What is mine, Sire, is your own!"
Says the lusty-lying Younker, "Sire, I kiss my bride to-night,
That your Majesty may never lack defenders of your right!"
But the Ancient, going home, flings his stars upon the ground,
Groaning, "Will the wheel of Freedom never more turn round?
Hither, steward!—drain the vineyard, and never spare the land,
Gold, gold is of no country, get gold you understand!"
Through the banker's silent fingers see the golden streamlet glance,
To fat the sluggard English clays, or arid sands of France.
And that night the Young-man, lying silent by his bride,
Blasphemes the sacred fire of youth, that would not be denied:
Cursing Nature, hating Love, creeps to Beauty's breast the brave,
Whispering wildly, "Yet be fruitless,—son me never with a slave."
Weeps long that swelling mother,—hides her glory as she can,
Nor dare murmur "Noble husband, God hath owned thee for a Man!"
And Thought and Genius? What! think you that creatures stay
In a prison's noisome narrows, who have wings to get away?
On far Parisian garret-floors the alien tomes are spread,
When the historian's magic eye would question with the dead;
Feebly, by foreign breezes swept, the old Sicilian Tree
Murmurs its near-forgotten trick of honeyed melody.[2]
Thus, me-seemeth, gracious King, that Sovran Lord thou art
Of every thing about the land except its soul and heart.
To the outward flies, detesting thee, all energy of good,
Even vice, in its hot chamber, would forget thee if it could.
King, count well thy pennies—pouch, Soul-farmer, what you may,
But the leaves methinks are all you keep, the odour flies away.