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Believe me stile, as I have ever been The steadfast liver of per fellow mend, my weakness, teel ofte liveet of holy libertés; with theat

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Free red by blard redeemed but rest by enn Each feller broken, but in Gordy

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Johie & Whitter

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Brother of Bacchus, later born!
The old world was sure forlorn,
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than, before,
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,

Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume,
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sovereign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys

For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant ;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinkingest of the stinking kind!
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind!
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison!
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you!
'T was but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prospered who defamed thee ;
Irony all, and feigned abuse,
Such as perplexed lovers use
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,

Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of dearest Miss,
Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her cockatrice and siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil,
Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor,
Monkey, ape, and twenty more;
Friendly trait'ress, loving foe,
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know,
A contentment to express
Borders so upon excess

That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be from pain or not.

-

Or, as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow 's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything 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 tittle 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 debarred 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 borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite.

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CHARLES LAMB.

WE are two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog :- come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentlemen, - mind your eye!
Over the table, -look out for the lamp!-
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank—and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow !
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for the strings),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, | I'd sell out heaven for something warm

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Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, She's married since,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin ! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you 're willing,

-

a parson's wife; "T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped;

But little she dreamed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;

sir !)

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- there! it I'm better now; that glass was warming.
You rascal limber your lazy feet!

Why not reform? That's easily said,

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

But I've gone through such wretched treat- Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

ment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach 's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;

The sooner the better for Roger and me!
J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

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