This box I deem a small estate Where all my prospects are complete, Whose oval round, and clasp, confines The riches of Potosi's mines. My best ideas here are sown, (And best expressed when most alone) Here, every muse can find a place Yet take no atom of its space. Tobacco! what to thee we owe, Is what alone true smokers know: To thee they owe the lively thought, And joys without repentance bought. To thee they owe the moral song, The night that never seems too long, The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep, And sense that all should strive to keep. It cures the pride of self-debate, And pensive care, and deadly hate; And love itself would nearer bring, Did females love this coaxing thing.-- But they, the slaves of custom's rule, Are ever to the smoker cool, And hate the plant, whose gentle sway Bids us their noisy tongues obey. The happy days I would recall When Jane to me was all in all! The firm we to the town did show Was, Salem, Jane, Segar, and Co. The sanded box was near us placed Which held the dregs we chose to waste; Thus pleased to pass the winter's eve, And thus the lingering hours deceive. No wrangling was permitted there-- 'Twas friendship all, and love sincere; And they received affronts enough Who entered with the Cloven Hoof. The social whiff went cheerly on!-- But Jane is to that people gone Where dear tobacco!--strong and sound-- Is not upon their invoice found!-- It sheds a magic on my pen To deaden all despotic men, A charm that can the soul command, Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand: Such, vested with imperial sway, O'er bodies reign, dull, stupid, blind; But us the nobler powers obey, We reign, despotic, o'er the mind! It aids us in the tuneful art To catch the ear, or move the heart; An hour with Nancy can beguile, But meets not her approving smile. Of northern pine her floors were made, A carpet on the boards was spread; And who shall dare this floor prophane, Which Nancy keeps without a stain? The watchful demon in her eye The smallest speck can there espy; And he shall curse his natal hour Who spits upon this velvet floor: I saw her anger waxing hot, I heard her threaten, Do it not, Or, instant, quit these doors of mine, And be converted into swine.-- This powerful plant, if fortune frown, Can make the bitter draught go down; It keeps me warm in Greenland's frost, And gives me more than all I lost. The joys of wine, without its bane, That kindles frenzy in the brain; All these are here--and more than these In this tobacco box I'll squeeze. It holds a part of all I prize Within this world that bounded lies; And when the ashes only shows, The spirit into aether goes. Dismissed to that Serene Abode, Where no tobacco is allowed!---- The comfort is, that free from care, We neither wish, nor want it There.