Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 
’Twas but in a sort I blam’d thee;
None e’er prosper’d who defam’d thee;
Irony all, and feign’d 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 pain or not.

            Or, as men, constrain’d 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 any thing but die,
          And but seek 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 Katherine of Spain;
          And a seat, too,’mongst the joys
          Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
          Where, though I, by sour physician,
          Am debarr’d the full fruition
          Of thy favours, I may catch
          Some collateral sweets, and snatch
          Sidelong odours, that give life
          Like glances from a neighbour’s wife;
          And still live in the by-places
          And the suburbs of thy graces;
          And in thy borders take delight,
          An unconquer’d Canaanite.

TO T.L.H.

A Child

(1814)

  Model of thy parent dear,

Serious infant worth a fear: 
In thy unfaultering visage well
Picturing forth the son of TELL,
When on his forehead, firm and good,
Motionless mark, the apple stood;
Guileless traitor, rebel mild,