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 title 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 favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy holders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite. WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS. BYRON. If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont, (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream broad Hellespont! If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both! For ME, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo--and--Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory; 'Twere hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague THE LISBON PACKET. BYRON. Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favorable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom-house; Trunks unpacking, Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearched amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet. Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient--push from shore. "Have a care! that case holds liquor-- Stop the boat--I'm sick--O Lord!" "Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board." Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.-- Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.