Cotton

Cotton

Cotton is king, high priest of Mammon,

Ruling the nation with imperial sway;

His will is law, all else is gammon—

The people murmur, but murmuring obey.

'Tis strange to notice how a simple thing,

Pregnant with force potential, yet occult,

O'erlooked, may mar far-sighted plans, and bring

To hopeful labor dishearening result.

For instance, take the history of these States,

At whose confederation all was thought on

That haply might effect its welfare, (see debates,)

Except the simple article called cotton.

Pre-science could not anticipate the trap

Inventive genius would ere long prepare,

Nor statecraft predicate the sad mishap

That Whitney's gin would prove the nation's snare.

As Troy, of old renown, which, after ten year's war,

Saw from her battered rampart baffled Greece depart,

Yet learned her seming victory to deplore,

And owed her ruin to a work of art.

So too may this great polity, whom pristine fame

Challenge detraction to find a blot on,

Recreant to principle, trace with shame

Its downfall to a thing for cleaning cotton.

Cotton hath smothered conscience, stifled law,

Made Truth to swerve, and Liberty to falter,

Capping the climax of its coup d'etat

By strangling Freedom with a cotton haltar.

NEW YORK, Dec. 3, 1859.

York

1:23, p. 1

12.24.1859