And leafy rustling grows the Lion's roaring.To several regions, several trees; there's oneIn Mexico, where shops are few, that givesHoney and vinegar, water, oil and wine—Its limpid liquor passes as all theseBy shrewd contrivance. Mark as well, my lads,That on Molucca coast, where the burnt airProposes to sea-captains strong desireFor stronger liquor, there the moral CloveAbounds, rich cargo; virtuous to absorbWhatever wine it neighbours. Whence it chancesThat often some bold boatswain, fondly drawnTowards the insidious hogshead, bawling hymns,Stops, Stares, Starts, rages at the emptied $tore,And sees too late the bags of Cloves beside.Him I may liken to the Java treeThat, at the rising of the sun, lets fallIts midnight buds, and in the heat all dayStands melancholy in a funeral robe.
But time contracts my amphitheatre,Time, that consumed even Nineveh, the mawTo which even this our City is a morsel.I know no monster in the world like himFor hunger, wildness and sad speech; not one.And yet there dwells in Ethiopian poolsA creature with a sighing dolorous toneOf which report is full; the sweetest sorrowFills the air there, beyond Amara's mountain,
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