V.

The Colonists are waiting still, they prowl about their beach, For well they guess some English dupes will come within their reach; So they conjure up some Siren song, and have it put in print, And rub their hands, and slap their thighs, at folks believing in’t: They fabricate long letters home――from settlers well-to-do, All season’d high with luring lies, so couched to seem quite true; “Here capital must multiply, wealth waits each working clan, Here is――Eutopia itself, aye,――Paradise for man.”