 | Original Poems and Translations |  |
117
THE SMOKING Doctor's SOLILOQUY over his Pipe.
Dulce tubo genitos haurire & reddere fumos.
Emerging awful thro' a cloud of smoke,
The tall lean doctor snapt his box and spoke.
‘Tho' scorn'd by fribbles all bedawb'd with snuff,
I value not their censures of a puff,
Who, if kind heav'n had furnish'd 'em with brains,
Would into pipes convert their taper canes,
Be sick that nauseous nostril-dust to see,
And substitute tobacco for rappee.
I less regard the rage of female railings—
Some ladies have their waters, and their failings:
Tho' when gray prudence comes, and youth is past,
They'll learn to smoke (or I am deceiv'd) at last!
Peace to the beaux, and every scented belle,
Who cries, ‘Tobacco has an odious smell:’
To men of sense I speak, and own with pleasure,
That smoking sooths my studies and my leisure;
118
And is a calm companion when I drink:
At home how sweetly does a pipe engage
My sense to relish Tully's moral page!
Or Homer's heav'n-aspiring muse divine,
And puffing measure each sonorous line!
But if to Tom's I stray to read the Daily,
Or at the tavern spend my evening gaily,
My pipe still adds, as the mild minutes pass,
Charms to the toast, and flavour to the glass.
Blest Indian leaf! what raptures I inhale
From each light breath of thy ambrosial gale!
Thou giv'st the soldier courage, to the hind
Repose, to captives sacred peace of mind;
Can'st wealth on merchants, state on kings bestow,
And to physicians only art a foe.
Thou sav'st, when pestilence spreads far and wide,
From that dread plague, and every plague beside.
Tho' by thy fumes the teeth are blacken'd o'er,
Thy ashes scour them whiter than before.
119
He, who can buy one ounce of Freeman's best!
If in this fob my well-fill'd box I feel,
In that my short pipe, touchwood, flint, and steel,
Gold I regard not, I can live without;
I carry every requisite about.
Whether my stomach calls for drink or meat,
Whether the cold affects me, or the heat,
The weed of India answers the demand,
And is the pleasing remedy at hand.
O noblest proof of nature's genial power!
O weed more precious than the choicest flower!
Thy vapours bland thro' every state engage,
Charm us when young, and solace us in age;
Adorn when fortune showers her golden store,
And breathe kind comfort when she smiles no more:
120
Abroad they give us no impediment;
But, mild associates, tend us night and day,
And if we travel cheer us on our way;
In town or country soft repose incite,
And puff us up with exquisite delight.’
| Original Poems and Translations | |