But imp, O Muse, a stronger wing
Mount, leaving self below, and sing
What thoughts these Cuban exiles bring!
He that knows aught of mythic lore
Knows how god Bacchus wandered o'er
The earth, and what strange names he bore.
The Bishop of Avranches supposes
That all these large and varying doses
Of fable mean naught else than Moses;
But waiving doubts, we surely know
He taught mankind to plough and sow,
And from the Tigris to the Po
Planted the vine; but of his visit
To this our hemisphere, why is it
We have no statement more explicit?
He gave to us a leaf divine
More grateful to the serious Nine
Than fierce inspirings of the vine.
And that _he_ loved it more, this proved,--
He gave his name to what he loved,
Distorted now, but not removed.
Tobacco, sacred herb, though lowly,
Baffles old Time, the tyrant, wholly,
And makes him turn his hour-glass slowly;
Nay, makes as 'twere of every glass six,
Whereby we beat the heathen classics
With their weak Chians and their Massics.
These gave his glass a quicker twist,
And flew the hours like driving mist,
While Horace drank and Lesbia kissed.
How are we gainers when all's done,
If Life's swift clepsydra have run
With wine for water? 'Tis all one.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45