The Sugar Cane

Such, green Saint Christopher, thy happy soil!—   
Not Grecian Tempe, where Arcadian Pan,   
Knit with the Graces, tuned his sylvan pipe,   
While mute Attention hushed each charmèd rill;   
Not purple Enna, whose irriguous lap,           
Strewed with each fruit of taste, each flower of smell,   
Sicilian Proserpine, delighted, sought,   
Can vie, blest isle, with thee. Though no soft sound   
Of pastoral stop thine echoes e’er awaked;   
Nor raptured poet, lost in holy trance,           
Thy streams arrested with enchanting song:   
Yet virgins, far more beautiful than she   
Whom Pluto ravished, and more chaste, are thine:   
Yet probity, from principle, not fear,   
Actuates thy sons, bold, hospitable, free;           
Yet a fertility, unknown of old,   
To other climes denied, adorns thy hills;   
Thy vales, thy dells adorns.