Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/To a Fragment of Cotton
TO A FRAGMENT OF COTTON.
Methinks thou'rt indestructible. At first
But the slight remnant of a spruce cravat,
Thou cam'st unbidden to my premises,
And then the baby tore thee, and the dog
Did munch thee in a corner, where he play'd;
Next thou wert hanging at the housemaid's broom,
Yet here thou art, for all.
Hast e'er a tongue?
No doubt. The veriest triflers oft can boast
Great store of words. If thou hast aught to say,
I'll be a listener. Tell me of thy birth,
And all thy strange mutations, since the dow
Of infancy was on thee, to thine hour
Of finish'd beauty 'neath the shuttle's skill.
So, thou wert known in history! and thy sire
The sounding name of Sir Gossypium bore.
He was a younger brother of the fleece,
And of the flax of Egypt, and the silk
Which the poor spinning-worm doth die to make
A present of, to those who thank her not.
Thy race have multiplied exceedingly,
And sown themselves in every sunny zone
Of both the hemispheres. The planter's hand,
Well pleased, doth play about their thickening beard
When its young promise tints the ripen'd cheek.
Thy name is mention'd where the merchants meet,
And Commerce loves thee well. Yea, thou dost make
Much clamour in the world, with thundering crash
Of water-wheel, and loom, and steaming smoke
From coal-fed chimneys, fusing to the skies
With blacken'd breath. Yet mid thy vassal throng
Of toiling artisans, 'tis sad to see
Such troops of little ones, with pallid cheek,
Yielding their joyous birthright at thy shrine,
And all sweet intercourse with fields and flowers,
That glads the peasant's child.
'Twere hard to count
Thy many transmigrations, or to keep
Tithe of the dramas where thou dost enact
Most changeful parts. Thou in the vessel's hold
Dost slumber heavily, in ponderous bales,
Like precious ingots, or with winged sail
Impel its trackless journey o'er the deep,
Or, closely furl'd, embrace the groaning mast
That crouches to the tempest. Thou dost stoop,
With garment coarse, to wrap the labouring kind,
And deck the country-dame in Sunday-gown
Of ample-flower'd and many-colour’d chints,
Or, slow emerging from the Indian loom,
Light as the texture of a dreamy thought,
Veil the fair bride, and drape the throned queen.
With man thou art when to the dust he goes,
And in thy snowy shroud dost fold his brow
When friend and lover have forsaken him.
But yet thou hast a higher ministry
Of kindliness, and, when thou well hast served
His body's need, dost turn thy hand and touch
The ethereal mind. Yea, when thou seem'st to die,
Thou only dropp'st thy grosser elements
To commune with the soul.
Mysterious guest
I seem to fear thee. Would that I had known
Thy lineage better, and been less remiss
In the good grace of hospitality.
I much bemoan myself that thou shouldst be
So treated in my house. With reverent hand
And genuflection, I do take thee up
And straight bespeak for thee more fitting place
Mid thy compeers.
But who can say what form
Thou next may'st wear?
Perchance the pictured page
Through which the lisping and delighted child
Hath its first talk with knowledge, or the chart
That saves the mariner mid rocks and shoals
Upon the wrecking sea.
Or lov'st thou best
To be the tablet of the sage? or bear
The bard's rich music to another age?
Or with some message from the Book of Life,
Wake the dead slumber of benighted lands?