O grant me, gods, if yet condemn'd to stray,
At least to spend life's sober evening here,
To plant a grove where winds yon' shelter'd bay,
And pluck these fruits that frost nor winter fear.
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Cassada shrubs abound—transplanted here
From every clime, exotic blossoms blow;
Here Asia plants her flowers, here Europe seeds,
And hyperborean plants, un-winter'd, grow.
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Here, a new herbage glads the generous steed,
Mules, goats, and sheep enjoy these pastures fair,
And for thy hedges, nature has decreed,
Guards of thy toils, the date and prickly pear.
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But chief the glory of these Indian isles
Springs from the sweet, uncloying sugar-cane,
Hence comes the planter's wealth, hence commerce sends
Such floating piles to traverse half the main.
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Whoe'er thou art that leav'st thy native shore,
And shall to fair West India climates come,
Taste not the enchanting plant—to taste forbear,
If ever thou wouldst reach thy much lov'd home.
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