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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.

CHORUS.

Smiling years, that gayly run
Round the zodiac with the sun,
Tell if ever you have seen
Realms so quiet and serene.

IMITATION II.AMB, PHILIPS,

Tenues fugit ceu fumus in auras. VIRG. LITTLE tube of mighty pow'r, 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 agen the night returns, When agen the taper burns,

When
agen

the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed :
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men.

IMITATION III. - JAMES THOMSON.

-Prorumpit ad æthera nubem

Turbine, fumantem piceo. VIRG. O 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 tawny mines Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue formd, And glaz'd magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. From Pætotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd, Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed Each parent ray; then rudely ramm'd illume, With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, Marked 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 Muse's bowl.
Oh 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.

IMITATION IV.-DR. YOUNG.

Bullatis mihi nugis Pagina turgescat—dare pondus idonea fumo. PERS. CRITICs avaunt! Tobacco is my theme; Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam. And you, court-insects, futter 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, though 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

every thing.

IMITATION V.-MR. POPE.

Solis ad ortus

LUCAN.

Vanescit fumus.

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 though 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.

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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 spew,
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,

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