Bear me, Pomona! to thy citron groves; To where the lemon and the piercing lime, With the deep orange, glowing through the green, Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclin'd Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes, Fann'd by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit. Deep in the night the massy locust sheds, Quench my hot limbs; or lead me through the maze, Embowering, endless, of the Indian fig; Or thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow, Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cool'd, Broad o'er my head the verdant cedar wave, And high palmettos lift their graceful shade. Oh! stretch'd amid these orchards of the sun, Give me to drain the cocoa's milky bowl, And from the palm to draw its freshening wine; More bounteous far than all the frantic juice Which Bacchus pours. Nor, on its slender twigs Low-bending, be the full pomegranate scorn'd; Nor, creeping through the woods, the gelid race Of berries. Oft in humble station dwells Unboastful worth, above fastidious pomp. Witness, thou best ananas, thou the pride Of vegetable life, beyond whate'er The poets imag'd in the golden age: Quick let me strip thee of thy tufty coat, Spread thy ambrosial stores, and feast with Jove! From these the prospect varies. Plains immense Lie stretch'd below, interminable meads, And vast savannas, where the wandering eye, Unfix'd, is in a verdant ocean lost. Another Flora there, of bolder hues And richer sweets, beyond our garden's pride, Plays o'er the fields, and showers with sudden hand Exuberant Spring; for oft these valleys shift Their green-embroidered robe to fiery brown, And swift to green again, as scorching suns, Or streaming dews and torrent rains, prevail. Along these lonely regions, where, retir'd From little scenes of art, great Nature dwells In awful solitude, and naught is seen But the wild herds that own no master's stall, Prodigious rivers roll their fattening seas; On whose luxuriant herbage, half-conceal'd, Like a fall'n cedar, far diffus'd his train, Cas'd in green scales, the crocodile extends. The flood disparts: behold! in plaited mail, Behemoth rears his head. Glanc'd from his side, The darted steel in idle shivers flies: He fearless walks the plain, or seeks the hills; Where, as he crops his varied fare, the herds, In widening circle round, forget their food, And at the harmless stranger wondering gaze.