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Belieuw me thike! av Ikonenberg My Westend loree Wheeley leberleri my
thee with the Fue celley Herdeedence betweetlepe enuus,
استرس زراعت رغما عنا معه
Avoid in youth luxurious diet,
Be wisely gay ;
The mind, not sense,
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, great plant ! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate ; For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More for a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine ! Bacchus's black servant, negro fine ! Sorcerer ! that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaiméd lovers take 'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay Much, too, in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses, or than death.
TAKE the open air,
The more you take the better ; Follow Nature's laws
To the very letter. Let the doctors go
To the Bay of Biscay, Let alone the gin,
The brandy, and the whiskey. Freely exercise,
Keep your spirits cheerful ; Let no dread of sickness
Make you ever fearful.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem ; And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters, — that who see us, fear us ; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplext lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of dearest Miss, Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her cockatrice and siren, Basilisk, and all that 's evil, Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor, Monkey, ape, and twenty more, Friendly trait'ress, loving foe, Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know, A contentment to express Borders so upon excess That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not.
Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? Some few vapors thou mayst raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze ; But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born! The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art ; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. ·
Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.
Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume, Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinkingest of the stinking kind ! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind ! Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison ! Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Catherine of Spain ; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest tobacco boys ; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places
Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue ! Blisters on the tongue would hurt you ! ’T was but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee ;
And the suburbs of thy graces ;
And chained her there mid want and strife,
That lowly thing, - a drunkard's wife !
And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild,
Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know
All that my soul hath felt and known, GO, FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT.
Then look within the wine-cup's glow; By a young lady who was told that she was a monomaniac in her
See if its brightness can atone ; hatred of alcoholic liquors.)
Think if its flavor you would try,
If all proclaimed, - 'T is drink and die.
Tell me I hate the bowl,
Hate is a feeble word ;
I loathe, abhor, my very soul
By strong disgust is stirred Thy sole relief the scalding tear.
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell
Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL!
O'er a loved father's fall;
Youth's sweetness turned to gall;
We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog : come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen,
mind your eye!
Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! The downward course to stay ; Be cast with bitter curse aside,
The rogue is growing a little old ;
Five years we've tramped through wind and Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.
weather, Go, stand where I have stood,
And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank -- and starved together.
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! There mirrored his soul's misery.
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
(This out-door business is bad for the strings), The sobs of sad despair,
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
And Roger and I set up for kings !
Roger and I are exceedingly moral,
Are n't we, Roger? - see him wink ! -
Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty too, see him nod his head ?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk !
He understands every word that's said,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
(Here's to you, sir !) even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin ;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He 'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.