To a Fragment of Cotton

Methinks thou'rt indestructible. At firstBut the slight remnant of a spruce cravat,Thou cam'st unbidden to my premises,And then the baby tore thee, and the dogDid 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 boastGreat 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 dowOf infancy was on thee, to thine hourOf finish'd beauty 'neath the shuttle's skill.

So, thou wert known in history! and thy sireThe sounding name of Sir Gossypium bore.He was a younger brother of the fleece,And of the flax of Egypt, and the silkWhich the poor spinning-worm doth die to makeA present of, to those who thank her not.Thy race have multiplied exceedingly,And sown themselves in every sunny zoneOf both the hemispheres. The planter's hand,Well pleased, doth play about their thickening beardWhen 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 makeMuch clamour in the world, with thundering crashOf water-wheel, and loom, and steaming smokeFrom coal-fed chimneys, fusing to the skiesWith blacken'd breath. Yet mid thy vassal throngOf toiling artisans, 'tis sad to seeSuch 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 countThy many transmigrations, or to keepTithe of the dramas where thou dost enactMost changeful parts. Thou in the vessel's holdDost slumber heavily, in ponderous bales,Like precious ingots, or with winged sailImpel its trackless journey o'er the deep,Or, closely furl'd, embrace the groaning mastThat crouches to the tempest. Thou dost stoop,With garment coarse, to wrap the labouring kind,And deck the country-dame in Sunday-gownOf 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 browWhen friend and lover have forsaken him.

But yet thou hast a higher ministryOf kindliness, and, when thou well hast served

His body's need, dost turn thy hand and touchThe ethereal mind. Yea, when thou seem'st to die,Thou only dropp'st thy grosser elementsTo commune with the soul.Mysterious guestI seem to fear thee. Would that I had knownThy lineage better, and been less remissIn the good grace of hospitality.I much bemoan myself that thou shouldst beSo treated in my house. With reverent handAnd genuflection, I do take thee upAnd straight bespeak for thee more fitting placeMid thy compeers.But who can say what formThou next may'st wear?Perchance the pictured pageThrough which the lisping and delighted childHath its first talk with knowledge, or the chartThat saves the mariner mid rocks and shoalsUpon the wrecking sea.Or lov'st thou bestTo be the tablet of the sage? or bearThe bard's rich music to another age?Or with some message from the Book of Life,Wake the dead slumber of benighted lands?