"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 my 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 constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, thou mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege do'st lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud do'st 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 height'ning steam
Does like a smoking Ætna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou though 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 feel Chimeras
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
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 may'st 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 gods' victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls,
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stole, 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.
Scent to match thy rich perfume—
Chemic art did ne'er presume,
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign 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.
Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her fois on
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite——
Nay, rather,
Plant divine of rarest virtue:
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prospered who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feigned abuse,
Such as perplex'd 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 traitress, loving foe,
Not that she is truly so,
But no other may they know,
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot,
Whether it be pain or not;
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 oppose 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.
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 title of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine 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,
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquered Canaanite."
Thomas Jones, in the following neat little tribute to tobacco, pays a deserved compliment, not only to the plant, but to the great English smoker, "ye renowned Sir Walter Raleigh."
"Let poets rhyme of what they will,
Youth, Beauty, Love or Glory, still
My theme shall be Tobacco!
Hail, weed, eclipsing every flow'r,
Of thee I fain would make my bow'r
When fortune frowns, or tempests low'r,
Mild comforter of woe!
"They say in truth an angel's foot
First brought to life thy precious root,
The source of every pleasure!
Descending from the skies he press'd
With hallow'd touch Earth's yielding breast,
Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless'd,
As man's chief treasure!
"Throughout the world who knows thee not?
Of palace and of lowly cot
The universal guest;
The friend of Gentile, Turk and Jew,
To all a stay—to none untrue,
The balm that can our ills subdue,
And soothe us into rest.
"With thee the poor man can abide
Oppression, want, the scorn of pride,
The curse of penury,
Companion of his lonely state,
He is no longer desolate,
And still can brave an adverse fate,
With honest worth and thee!
"All honor to the patriot bold,
Who brought instead of promised gold,
Thy leaf to Britain's shore;
It cost him life; but thou shall raise
A cloud of fragrance to his praise,
And bards shall hail in deathless lays
The valiant knight of yore.
"Ay, Raleigh! thou wilt live till Time
Shall ring his last oblivious chime,
The fruitful theme of story;
And man in ages hence shall tell,
How greatness, virtue, wisdom fell,
When England sounded out thy knell,
And dimmed her ancient glory.
"And thou, O Plant! shall keep his name
Unwither'd in the scroll of fame,
And teach us to remember;
He gave with thee content and peace,
Bestow'd on life a longer lease,
And bidding ev'ry trouble cease,
Made Summer of December!"
The smoker of cigarettes is passionately attached to his "little roll" and regards this mode of obtaining the flavor of tobacco the best. The finest are made in Havana and, vast quantities are used by the Cubans and Spaniards. A writer in "The Tobacco Plant" gives this pleasing effusion in regard to them:—