Believe me stile, as Ide steadfast Liver eff I have ever beau my weakness, lives of herly leberty; my breek the with that all months won fe, Free veel by blead redeemed but not lex enne Each fetter broken, but in God's own time! Johne & Whitten POEMS OF TEMPERANCE AND LABOR. MORAL COSMETICS. YE who would have your features florid, Adopt this plan, "T will make, in climate cold or torrid, A hale old man. 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), Half my love, or half my hate; 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, Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay Much, too, in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath 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. 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! Or judge of thee meant: only thou Scent to match thy rich perfume Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue ! Irony all, and feigned abuse, 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. 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 Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Like glances from a neighbor's wife; Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear; Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, The gray that streaks her dark hair now, The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith, in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth, But who, forsworn, hath yielded up This promise to the deadly cup, And led her down from love and light, From all that made her pathway bright, Over the table, — look out for the lamp! The rogue is growing a little old; Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank - and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! (This out-door business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings! No, thank ye, sir, — I never drink ; Roger and I are exceedingly moral, we won't quarrel. see him nod his head? What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said, And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir !) even of my dog. He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. |