The grave Bavarian, midst his half year's frost, Delights to keep thy ruby fins awake; And as in traffic's maze his fancy's tost, Light skims the icy surface of the lake. The Indian Sachem at his wigwam-gate, By chiefs surrounded when the warfare ends, Seated in all the pomp of savage state, Circles the calumet[7] to cheer his friends. The Frenchman loves thee in another way, He grinds thy leaves to make him scented snuff; Boasts of improvements, and presumes to say, France still the polish gives and we the _rough_. Still let him boast, nor put John Bull to shame, His Gascon tales shall Englishmen divert; France for her trifles has been _dear_ to fame, From her the ruffle sprung, from us the shirt. The lib'ral Spaniard and the Portuguese, Spread richest dainties brought from realms afar; Nor think their festive efforts form'd to please, Unless redundant breathes the light cigar. So when our Druids inspiration sought, They burnt the misletoe to fume around; Th' inspiring vapours gave a strength to thought, They dealt out lore impressive and profound. Methinks I see them with the mental eye, I hear their lessons with attention's ear; Of early fishing with the summer fly, And many a pleasing tale to anglers dear. The while they draw from the inspiring weed, They boast a charm the smoker owns supreme; And now diverted with the polish'd reed, Forego the little fish-house by the stream. Tho' this be fancy, still it serves to shew, That Wisdom's sons have lov'd Columbia's pride; And shall, while waters round our island flow, Tho' fools and fops its healing breath deride. Mem'ry still hold me in thy high esteem, For lonely setting upon the day's decline; Visions sublime, before my fancy gleam, And rich ideas from her stores combine. _The Social Pipe._ WALTON AND COTTON.[8] Our sires of old esteemed this healing leaf, Sacred to Bacchus and his rosy train; And many a country squire and martial chief, Have sung its virtues mid a long campaign. Methinks I see Charles Cotton and his friend, The modest Walton from Augusta's town; Enter the fishing house an hour to spend, And by the marble[9] table set them down. Boy! bring me in the jug of Derby ale, My best tobacco and my smoking tray; The boy obedient brings the rich regale, And each assumes his pipe of polish'd clay. Thus sang young Cotton, and his will obey'd, And snug the friends were seated at their ease; They light their tubes without the least parade, And give the fragrance to the playful breeze. Now cloud on cloud parades the fisher's room, The Moreland ale rich sparkles to the sight; They draw fresh wisdom from the circling gloom, And deal a converse pregnant with delight.