ELEGY ON A QUID OF TOBACCO.
Ir lay before me on the close-grazed grass,
Beside my path, an old tobacco quid:
And shall I by the mute adviser pass
Without one serious thought? now heaven forbid !
Perhaps some idle drunkard threw thee there,
Some husband, spendthrift of his weekly hire,
One who for wife and children takes no care,
But sits and tipples by the alehouse fire.
Ah! luckless was the day he learnt to chew!
Embryo of ills the quid that pleas'd him first!
Thirsty from that unhappy quid he grew,
Then to the alehouse went to quench his thirst.
So great events from causes small arise,
The forest oak was once an acorn seed;
And many a wretch from drunkenness who dies,
Owes all his evils to the Indian weed.
Let not temptation, mortal, ere come nigh!
Suspect some ambush in the parsley hid!
From the first kiss of love ye maidens fly!
Ye youths avoid the first tobacco quid!
Perhaps I wrong thee, O thou veteran chaw,
And better thoughts my musings should engage;
That thou wert rounded in some toothless jaw,
The joy, perhaps, of solitary age.
One who has suffered fortune's hardest knocks,
Poor, and with none to tend on his grey hairs,
Yet has a friend in his tobacco-box,
And whilst he rolls his quid, forgets his cares.
Even so it is with human happiness,
Each seeks his own according to his whim; One toils for wealth, one fame alone can bless, One asks a quid, a quid is all to him.
O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong,
Whilst ought remain'd to chew thy master chew'd, Then cast thee here, when all thy juice was gone, Emblem of selfish man's ingratitude!
A happy man, O cast-off quid, is he
Who, like as thou, has comforted the poor. Happy his age, who knows himself like thee, Thou didst thy duty, man can do no more.
TO A FRIEND SETTLED IN THE COUNTRY.
RICHARD, the lot which fate to thee has given,
Almost excites my envy. This green field
Sweet solace to the wearied mind must yield;
And yonder wide circumference of heaven,
At morn or when the day-star rides on high,
Or when the calm and mellowed light of even
Softens the glory of the western sky,
Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye..
And when these scenes, these lovely scenes so fair,
Hill, vale, and wood, are hidden from thy sight,
Still through the deepness of the quiet air,
Canst thou behold the radiant host of night,
And send thy spirit through the infinite,
Till lofty contemplation end in prayer.
Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given,
I not unenvying shall recall to mind,
In that foul town, by other fate confined,
Where never running brook, nor verdant field,
Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven,
Sweet solace to the wearied soul can yield.
COOL REFLECTIONS DURING À
MIDSUMMER WALK.
O spare me spare me, Phoebus! if, indeed,
Thou hast not let another Phaeton
Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car;
Mercy! I melt! I melt! no tree-no bush,
No shelter! not a breath of stirring air
East, west, or north, or south! dear god of day,
Put on thy night-cap!-crop thy locks of light,
And be in the fashion! turn thy back upon us,
And let thy beams flow upward! make it night
Instead of noon! one little miracle,
In pity, gentle Phoebus!
Oh, what a joy to be a seal and flounder,
On an ice-island! or to have a den
With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow!
It were a comfort to shake hands with death-
He has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's self
In the gift shirt Deianeira sent,
Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep
The sun off,-or toast cheese for Beelzebub,
That were a cool employment to this journey
Along a road whose white intensity
Would now make platina uncongelable,
Like quicksilver.
Were it midnight, I should walk
Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jove!
O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more
Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven.
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars
For cardimum, and drinks down peppermint,
Making what's left as precious as Tokay.
Send Mercury to salivate the sky
Till it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove!
But some such little kindness to a wretch
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat-
Who swells with calorique as if a Prester
Had leavened every limb with poison-yeast-
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings,
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee
And turn true pagan.
Not a cloud nor breeze
O you most heathen deities! if ever
My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them That hath resolved itself into a dew),
I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Most vile Phoebus,
Set me a Persian sun-idolater
Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him
With no inquisitorial argument
But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wretch,
That I was in a heretic country born!
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,
And burn away the calx of their offences
In that great purgatory crucible,
Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion!
I am made a copper-Indian of already.
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,
My very cellular membrane will be changed-
I shall be negrofied.
Oh what a sweet cool sound!
It runs like life through every strengthen'd limbNymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer.
A DELICATE pinch! oh how it tingles up
The titillated nose, and fills the eyes
And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze
The full collected pleasure bursts at last!
Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this
The only Christopher in my kalendar.
Why, but for thee, the uses of the nose
Were half unknown, and its capacity
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,
At midnoon glittering with the golden furze,
Bears its balsamic odours, but provokes,
Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt
And disappoint, bloom for so short a spacè,
TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO TRAVEL.
That half the year the nostrils would keep lent,
But that the kind tobacconist admits
No winter in his work; when nature sleeps
His wheels roll on, and still administer
1 plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.
What is Peru and those Brazilian mines
To thee, Virginia? miserable realms,
They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools'
But thine are common comforts! to omit
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco praise,
Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives,
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name
Write Raleigh in thy records of renown!
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold
His master's box produced, for when he sees
The thumb and finger of authority
Stuff'd up the nostrils, when hat, head, and wig
Shake all; when on the waistcoat black the dust
Or drop falls brown, soon shall the brow severe
Relax, and from vituperative lips
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,
And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.
TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO
TRAVEL.
DOST thou, then, listening to the traveller's tale
Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fame, And spacious bays, and streams renown'd of name That roll their plenty through the freshen'd vale; Dost thou then long to voyage far away,
And visit other lands, that thou mayest view
These varied scenes so beautiful and new?
Thou dost not know how sad it is to stray
Amid a foreign land, thyself unknown,
And when o'erwearied with the toilsome day,
To rest at eve and feel thyself alone.
Delightful sure it is at early morning
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