A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up The titillated nose, and fills the eyes And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze The full-collected pleasure bursts at last! Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this The only Christopher in my calendar. Why, but for thee the uses of the nose Were half unknown, and its capacity Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath, At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse, Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers, That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt And disappoint, bloom for so short a space, That half the year the nostrils would keep lent, But that the kind tobacconist admits No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps His wheels roll on, and still administer A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell. What are Peru and those Golcondan mines To thee, Virginia? miserable realms, The produce of inhuman toil, they send Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain. But thine are COMMON comforts!...To omit Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise, Think what a general joy the snuff-box gives, Europe, and far above Pizarro's name Write Raleigh in thy records of renown! Him let the school-boy bless if he behold His master's box produced, for when he sees The thumb and finger of authority Stuffed up the nostrils: when hat, head, and wig Shake all; when on the waistcoat black, brown dust, From the oft-reiterated pinch profuse Profusely scattered, lodges in its folds, And part on the magistral table lights, Part on the open book, soon blown away, Full surely soon shall then the brow severe Relax; and from vituperative lips Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, And jokes that MUST be laughed at shall proceed. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. CHARLES LAMB. May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love thee, so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death, Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes can not find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.