H.P.  PECK.

TOBACCO.

  The Indian weed, withered quite,
  Green at noon, cut down at night,
  Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay,
  Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

  The pipe that is so lily-white,
  Shows thee to be a mortal wight;
  And even such, gone with a touch,
  Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

  And when the smoke ascends on high,
  Thinke thou beholdst the vanity
  Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe,
  Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

  And when the pipe grows foul within,
  Think on thy soule defil’d with sin,
  And then the fire it doth require. 
  Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

  The ashes that are left behind,
  May serve to put thee still in mind,
  That unto dust return thou must. 
  Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

GEORGE WITHER, 1620.

VIRGINIA’S KINGLY PLANT.

BY AN “OLD SALT."

  Oh, muse! grant me the power
  (I have the will) to sing
  How oft in lonely hour,
  When storms would round me lower,
  Tobacco’s proved a king!

  Philanthropists, no doubt
  With good intentions ripe,
  Their dogmas may put out,
  And arrogantly shout
  The evils of the pipe.

  Kind moralists, with tracts,
  Opinions fine may show;
  Produce a thousand facts,—­
  How ill tobacco acts
  Man’s system to o’erthrow.

  Learn’d doctors have employed
  Much patience, time, and skill,
  To prove tobacco cloyed
  With acrid alkaloid,
  With power the nerves to kill.

  E’en popes have curst the plant;
  Kings bade its use to cease;
  But all the pontiff’s rant
  And royal James’s cant
  Ne’er made its use decrease.

  Teetotalers may stamp
  And roar at pipes and beer;
  But place them in a swamp,
  When nights are dark and damp,—­
  Their tunes would change, I fear.

  No advocate am I
  Of excess in one or t’other,
  And ne’er essayed to try
  In wine to drown a sigh,
  Or a single care to smother.

  Yet, in moderation pure,
  A glass is well enough;
  But a troubled heart to cure,
  Kind feelings to insure,
  Give me a cheerful puff.

  How oft a learn’d divine
  His sermons will prepare,
  Not by imbibing wine,
  But ‘neath th’ influence fine
  Of a pipe of “baccy” rare!

  How many a pleasing scene,
  How many a happy joke,
  How many a satire keen,
  Or problem sharp, has been
  Evolved or born of smoke!

  How oft amidst the jar,
  Of storms on ruin bent,
  On shipboard, near or far,
  To the drenched and shiv’ring tar,
  Tobacco’s solace lent!

  Oh, tell me not ’tis bad,
  Or that it shortens life! 
  Its charms can soothe the sad,
  And make the wretched glad,
  In trouble and in strife.