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Avoid in youth luxurious diet,
Restrain the passions' lawless riot ;
Devoted to domestic quiet,

Be wisely gay ;
So shall ye, spite of age's fiat,

Resist decay.
Seck not in Mammon's worship pleasure,
But find your richest, dearest treasure
In God, his word, his work, not leisure :

The mind, not sense,
Is the sole scale by which to measure

Your opulence.

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.

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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 reclaimed 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 frantie 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 presome, 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, Breedls 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 seck 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 boy's; 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 heighbor'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,
And in thy borders take delight,

That lowly thing, a drunkard's wife!
An unconquered Canaanite.

And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild,
CHARLES LAMB. That withering blight, - a drunkard's child !

Go, he 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,
Go, feel what I have felt,

If all proclaimed, — 'T' is drink and die.
Go, bear what I have borne ;

Tell me I hate the bowl,
Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt,

Hate is a feeble word ;
And the cold, proud world's scorn.

I loathe, abhor, my very soul
Thus struggle on from year to year,
Thy sole relief the scalding tear.

By strong disgust is stirred

Whene'er 1 see, or hear, or tell
Go, weep as I have wept

O'er a loved father's fall;
See every cherished promise swept,

Youth's sweetness turned to gall ;
Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way

That led me up to woman's day.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Go, kneel as I have knelt;

Roger 's my dog: - - come here, you scamp!
Implore, beseech, and pray,

Jump for the gentlemen, mind your eye! Strive the besotted heart to melt,

Over the table, – look out for the lamp ! The downward course to stay ;

The rogue is growing a little old ; Be cast with bitter curse aside,

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.
And see the strong man bow;
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, We've learned what comfort is, I tell you !
And cold and livid brow;

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
Go, catch his wandering glance, and see

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! There mirrored his soul's misery.

The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Go, hear what I have heard, -

Plenty of catgut for
The sobs of sad despair,

(This out-door business is bad for the string),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the grid lle,
As memory's feeling fount hath stirred,

And Roger and I set up for kings !
And its revealings there
Have told him what he might have been,

No, thank ye, sir, - I never drink ;
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen.

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, –

Are n't we, Roger ? see him wink!
Go to my mother's side,

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel.
And her crushed spirit cheer ;

He's thirsty too, see him nod his head ?
Thine own deep anguish hide,

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk !
Wipe from her cheek the tear ;

He understands every word that's said,
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. The gray that streaks her dark hair now, The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, The truth is, sir, now I reflect, And trace the ruin back to him

I've been so sadly given to grog, Whose plighted faith, in early youth,

I wonder I've not lost the respect Promised eternal love and truth,

(Here's to you, sir :) even of my dog. But who, forsworn, hath yielded up

But he sticks by through thick and thin ; This promise to the deadly cup,

And this old coat, with its empty pockets, And led her down from love and light, And rays that smell of tobacco anıl gin, From all that made her pathway bright, He 'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

my fiddle

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