Rash song, forbear!  Thou canst not hope,
  Untutored as thou art, to cope
  With themes of such an epic scope.

  Enough if thou give thanks to him
  Who sent these leaves (forgive the whim)
  Plucked from the dream-tree’s sunniest limb.

  My gratitude feels no eclipse,
  For I, whate’er my other slips,
  Shall have his kindness on my lips.

  The prayers of Christian, Turk, and Jew
  Have one sound up there in the blue,
  And one smell all their incense, too.

  Perhaps that smoke with incense ranks
  Which curls from ’mid life’s jars and clanks,
  Graceful with happiness and thanks.

  I pledge him, therefore, in a puff,—­
  rather frailish kind of stuff,
  But still professional enough.

  Hock-cups breed hiccups; let us feel
  The god along our senses steel
  More nobly and without his reel.

  Each temperately ’baccy plenus,
  May no grim fate of doubtful genus
  E’er blow the smallest cloud between us.

  And as his gift I shall devote
  To fire, and o’er their ashes gloat,—­
  Let him do likewise with this note.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

[From “The Letters of James Russell Lowell.”  Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers.]

AN ENCOMIUM ON TOBACCO.

  Thrice happy isles that stole the world’s delight,
  And thus produce so rich a Margarite! 
  It is the fountain whence all pleasure springs,
  A potion for imperial and mighty kings.

  He that is master of so rich a store
  May laugh at Croesus and esteem him poor;
  And with his smoky sceptre in his fist,
  Securely flout the toiling alchemist,
  Who daily labors with a vain expense
  In distillations of the quintessence,
  Not knowing that this golden herb alone
  Is the philosopher’s admired stone.

  It is a favor which the gods doth please,
  If they do feed on smoke, as Lucian says. 
  Therefore the cause that the bright sun doth rest
  At the low point of the declining west—­
  When his oft-wearied horses breathless pant—­
  Is to refresh himself with this sweet plant,
  Which wanton Thetis from the west doth bring,
  To joy her love after his toilsome ring: 
  For ’tis a cordial for an inward smart,
  As is dictamnum to the wounded hart. 
  It is the sponge that wipes out all our woe;
  ’Tis like the thorn that doth on Pelion grow,
  With which whoe’er his frosty limbs anoints,
  Shall feel no cold in fat or flesh or joints. 
  ’Tis like the river, which whoe’er doth taste
  Forgets his present griefs and sorrows past. 
  Music, which makes grim thoughts retire,
  And for a while cease their tormenting fire,—­
  Music, which forces beasts to stand and gaze,
  And fills their senseless spirits with amaze,—­
  Compared to this is like delicious strings,
  Which sound but harshly while Apollo sings. 
  The train with this infumed, all quarrel ends,
  And fiercest foemen turn to faithful friends;
  The man that shall this smoky magic prove,
  Will need no philtres to obtain his love.