Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene. British sons no longer, now, Hurl the bar, or twang the bow; Nor of crimson combat think, But securely smoke and drink.
Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.
IMITATION IÌ.
LITTLE tube, of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire:
And thy snowy, taper waist,
With my finger gently brac'd ;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns;
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Vol. II.
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine,
Happy thrice and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men.
Thou, matur'd by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco! fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care;
And at each puff imagination burns.
Flash on thy bard, and, with exalting fires,
Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise,
In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tauny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glaz'd magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill.
From Pætotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd,
Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbib'd
Each parent ray; then rudely ramm'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet,
Mark'd with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires: I all the while,
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm.
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
In genial strife and orthodoxal ale,
Stream life and joy into the Muses' bowl.
O be thou still my great inspirer, thou
My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin'd,
Burst forth all oracle and mystic song,
RITICS avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam.
And you, court-insects, flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine my verse inspire,
So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff;
Yet all their claim to wisdom is-a puff:
Lord Foplin smokes not-for his teeth afraid:
Sir Tawdry smokes not-for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon;
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town:
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe--no matter,
Strange, if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but shew their ignorance; can he
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, tho' it makes him--spit.
Citronia vows it has an odious stink;
She will not smoke (ye gods!)-but she will drink.
And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, Pipes are us'd by that vile creature Man:
Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame:
Fame, of our actions universal spring,
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,-ev'ry thing.
BLEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense: So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's shrine, Drank inspiration from the steam divine. Poison that cures, a vapour that affords Content more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wise and good:
Inspir'd by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What tho' to love and soft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexcis'd by kings.
BOY! bring an ounce of Freeman's best,
And bid the vicar be my guest:
Let all be plac'd in manner due;
A pot wherein to spit, or spue,
And London Journal, and Free-Briton,
Of use to light a pipe, or
This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, shall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write, or vote for *.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all, which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as • • Brass is :
And scorning rascals to caress,
Extol the days of good queen Bess,
When first Tobacco blest our isle,
Then think of other queens--and smile.
Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry, and song;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City hall;
The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.
I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compass Britain's ruin:
Britons, if undone, can go,
Where Tobacco loves to grow.
The authors imitated in these poems are, Colley Cibber, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, Young, Pope, and Swift.
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