The Enquirer

FOR THE ENQUIRER.

A POEM ON CHILTERN MILLS.

INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM JACKSON.

YE Muses, daughters of the Poet's brain,
Poor meagre Bards, who knew no arts of gain,
While themes of solid food in numbers shine,
And well fed genius forms the nervous line,
I come to ask your aid, your flights pursue,
Or own the help of such a starving crew.
Some nobler thoughts of Bards, more nobly fed.
Some dextrous hand that feels the strength of bread,
Should guide the pen, and all the arts reveal,
Of Mill-wrights, Millers, and the works of Meal.
O thou whose cares o'er Chiltern Mills preside,
Where swift Southanna rolls her rapid tide,
While magic work before thy sight appears
And whirling shafts are thundering round thy ears,
Observe, O Jackson, how these notes agree,
One ruling genius moves the Mill and me,
Dispels my dulness, clears thy duty fogs,
Rhymes heavy thoughts, & wheels the rolling cogs.
Amaz'd I view the schemes in ev'ry part,
And pleas'd behold the wond'rous works of art:
All moving art the great machine inspires,
Art pours the golden grain on moving wires,
Makes lifeless forms their stated motions know
Collects the winds and points them where to blow.
As when in air autumnal clouds prevail,
And thick descending pours the rattling hail,
Fierce drives the storm along the darken'd sky
And drifted leaves thro'all the forest fly:
So falls the grain; the fan a tempest brings,
And drives the chaff before its whirling wings.
Now pure from dust the grain descends below,
Where grinding stones in rapid circles go;
Where the whirl'd shaft resistless motion feels,
And foaming waters dash around the wheels.
There near the hopper stands industrious Moore
His hat, his hair, his body powder'd o'er :
Now with discerning touch, the flour he tries,
Now to the boults his skilful hand applies;
All parts alike his aid and presence claim,
For art and Isaac are in mills the same.
He moves a gate—life seems o'er all to rage,
Wheels turn on wheels, & cogs with cogs engage,
Thick flights of chaff before the fan are seen,
And clouds of dust involve the rolling screen!
What! quit me, William, in my loftiest train?
"The waggon's waiting with a load of grain—
"I'll back again—but run and fix the scales—
"A moment's loss may spoil the finest sales!"-
Now ev'ry hand his proper office knows,
Some poise the balance, some the corn dispose;
Those bear the burdens, these the measures fill,
And keen industry moves thro' all the mill.
The barrel too, that from the roof impends.
Inform'd by art, mounts upward, and descends :
Takes the large tribute of the farmer's bag,
And bears it onward like a living cag.
My friends, if Tao's genius now could rise,
Or modern Bards could see with Tasso's eyes;
That sight would soon the wond'rous cause reveal
Find active demons turning ev'ry wheel;
And last conclude the glaring sprites in view,
The Mill enchanted, and the witches you.
But I, who all the various parts have seen,
And trac'd pure Nature thro' the whole machine;
Have found the secret spring—it must be said—
'The life, the soul, the moving cause is—bread.
But, noble art, all own thy needful aid,
The pompous state around the rich display'd;
'The sweet content that decks the humble scene,
The placid smile that keeps the brow serene;
The bloom of health that gives the lively grace,
The rosy tint that paints the virgin's face;
The pleasing charms the hands of Plenty spread,
And life, and strength are all sustain'd with Bread.
Whirl on, ye Mills, nor let your fame descend,
"Till copious fields in wider bounds extend ;
Till barren lands with rising verdure spring,
"Till useless woods with sounding axes ring;
Till thousand Burrs the foaming Peck shall feel,
And ev'ry stream be pour'd upon a wheel.
For you, their seeds, industrious farmers sow,
And dusty smiths the roaring bellows blow;
Carts, drays and waggons shall your works employ,
And hardy drivers smack their whips for joy.
See from his fall, brought forth, the pamper'd steed,
Of Celon's race, or Blaze's noble breed;
Whose curry'd sides once shone against the sun,
And on whose speed were thousands lost and won
Fleet in the hunt, as rapid in the race,
With hounds and men he urg'd the flying chase
Now stript of honors, fed with mules and steers,
He falls a victim to the driver's geers.
Go on, ye Mills, and all ye Millers, hail !
May all your plans and honest schemes prevail;
Protecting states Shall lend their helping laws,
And hungry Poets glory in the cause.

Isaac Moore, miller.