Or, if with doubt the bosom heaves. The heart for Grecian sorrows grieves, And pines to see them fail. Such critics sometimes court the muse, And I perchance the rhymes peruse, Then heaves the breast with pain. To soothe the mind in such an hour, A pinch of snuff has ample power-- One pinch--all's well again. A pinch of snuff delights again, And makes me view with great disdain, And soothes my patriot grief. Thus for the list of human woes, The pangs each mortal bosom knows, I find in snuff relief: It makes me feel less sense of sorrow, When modern bards their verses borrow, And soothes my patriot grief. Then let me sing the praise of snuff-- Give me, ye gods, I pray, enough-- Let others boast their wine; Let some prefer the nice _morceau_ And piquant joys of feasting know, The bliss of snuff be mine. * * * * * ODE ON A COLLEGE FEAST DAY. (_For the Mirror._) Hark! hear ye not yon footsteps dread That shook the hall with thundering tread? With eager haste, The fellows past. Each intent on direful work. High lifts the mighty blade and points the deadly fork! But hark! the portals sound and pacing forth, With steps, alas! too slow, The college gips of high illustrious worth With all the dishes in long order go; In the midst, a form divine, Appears the fam'd Sir-loin; And soon with plums and glory crown'd, A mighty pudding sheds its sweets around. Heard ye the din of dinner bray? Knife to fork, and fork to knife: Unnumber'd heroes through the glorious strife, Through fish, flesh, pies, and puddings cut their destin'd way. See, beneath the mighty blade, Gor'd with many a ghastly wound, Low the fam'd Sir-loin is laid, And sinks in many a gulph profound. Arise, arise, ye sons of glory, Pies and puddings stand before ye; See, the ghosts of hungry bellies Point at yonder stand of jellies; While such dainties are beside ye. Snatch the goods the gods provide ye: Mighty rulers of this state, Snatch before it be too late, For, swift as thought, the puddings, jellies, pies, Contract their giant bulks, and shrink to pigmy size. From the table now retreating, All around the fire they meet, And, with wine, the sons of eating, Crown, at length, the mighty treat: Triumphant plenty's rosy graces Sparkle in their jolly faces: And mirth and cheerfulness are seen In each countenance serene. Fill high the sparkling glass, And drink the accustom'd toast; Drink deep, ye mighty host, And let the bottle pass. Begin, begin, the jovial strain, Fill, fill, the mystic bowl, And drink, and drink, and drink again, For drinking fires the soul