A TOBACCONALIAN ODE.

O plant divine! Not to the tuneful Nine, Who sit where purple sunlight longest lingers, Twining the bay, weaving with busy fingers The amaranth eterne and sprays of vine, Do I appeal. Ah, worthier brows than mine Shall wear those wreaths! But thou, O potent plant, Of thy broad fronds but furnish me a crown, Let others sing the yellow corn, the vine, And others for the laurel-garland pant, Content with my rich meed, I'll sit me down, Nor ask for fame, nor heroes' high renown, Nor wine. And ye, ye airy sprites, Born of the Morning's womb, sired of the Sun, Who cull with nice acumen, one by one, All gentle influences from the air, And from within the earth what most delights The tender roots of springing plants, whose care Distils from gross material its spirit To paint the flower and give the fruit its merit, Apply to my dull sense your subtile art! When ye, with nicest, finest skill, had wrought This chiefest work, the choicest blessings brought And stored them at its roots, prepared each part, Matured the bud, painted the dainty bloom, Ye stood and gazed until the fruit should come. Ah, foolish elves! Look ye that yon frail flower should be sublimed To fruit commensurate with all your power And cunning art? Was it for such ye climbed The slanting sunbeams, coaxing many a shower From the coy clouds? Ye did exceed yourselves; And as ye stand and gaze, lo, instantly The whole etherealized ye see: From topmost golden spray to lowest root, The whole is fruit. Well have ye wrought, And in your honor now shall incense rise. The oaken chair, the cheerful blaze, invite Calm meditation, while the flickering light Casts strange, fantastic shadows on the wall, Where goodly tomes, with ample lading fraught Of gold of wit and gems of fancy rare, Poet and sage, mute witnesses of all, Smile gently on me, as, with sober care, I reach the pipe and thoughtfully prepare The sacrifice. O fragile clay! Erst white as e'er a lily of old Nile, But now imbrowned and ambered o'er and through With richest tints and ever-deepening hue, Quintessence of rare essences the while Uphoarding, as thou farest day by day, Thou mind'st me of a genial face I knew. At first it was but fair, nought but a face; But as I read and learned it, wondrous grace And beauty marvellous did grow and grow, Till every hue of the sweet soul did show Most beautiful from brow and lip and eye. And thus, O clay, Child of the sea-foam, nursed amid the spray, Thy visage changes, ever grows more fair As the fine spirit works expression there! Blest be the tide that rapt thee from the roar And cast thee on the far Danubian shore, And blest the art that shaped thee daintily! And thou, O fragrant tube attenuate! No more in the sweet-blooming cherry-grove, Where the shy bulbul plaintive mourns her love, Shalt thou uplift thy blossoms to the sky, Or wave them o'er the waters rippling by; No more thy fruit shall stud with jewels red The leafy crown thou fashionedst for thy head. Not this thy fate. When the swart damsel from thy parent tree Did lop thee with thy fellows, and did strip From off thee, bleeding, leaf and bud and blossom, And bind the odorous fagot carefully, And bear thee in to whom should fashion thee And set new fruit of amber on thy tip, More grateful than the old to eye and lip, Ambrosial odors thou didst then exhale, Leaving thy fragrance in her tawny bosom. Thou still dost hold it. Nothing may avail To rob thee of the odorous memory Thou sweetly bearest of the cherry-grove, Where blossoms bloom and lovers tell their love. Bright amber, fragrant wood, enamelled clay, Help me to burn the incense worthily! Thou fire, assist! Promethean fire, unbound, The azure clouds go wreathing round and round, Float slowly up, then gently melt away; And in their circling wreaths I dimly spy Full many a fleeting vision's fantasy. Alas! alas! How bright soe'er before my view they pass, Whether it be that Memory, pointing back, Doth show each flower along the devious track By which I came forth from the fields of youth,— Or bright-robed Hope doth deck the sober truth With many-colored garments, pointing on To lighter days and envied honors won,— Or Fancy, taking many a meaner thing, Doth gild it o'er with bright imagining,— Alas! alas! Light as the circling smoke, they fade and pass, What time the last thin wreath hath faintly sped Up from the embers dying, dying, dead! So earth's best blessings fade and fleet away,— Nought left but ashes, smoke, and empty clay. Awake, my soul! 't is time thou wert awaking! For radiant spirits, innocent and fair, Walking beside thee, hovering in the air Adown the past, thronging thy future way, Wait but thy calling and the thraldom's breaking, Which, all unworthily, to sense hath bound thee, To bless thy days and make the night around thee As bright and beautiful and fair as day. Call thou on these, my soul, and fix thee there! Name nought divine which hath not godlike in it; And if thou burnest incense, let it be That of the heart, enkindled thankfully; And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, Nor let it poison all thy sight forever; Whate'er thou hast to do of worth, begin it, Nor leave the issue free to any doubt, Forgetting never what thou art, and never Whither thou goest, to the far Forever. And then shall gentle Memory, pointing back, Show blessings scattered all along thy track; And bright-robed Hope, shaming thy dreams of youth, Shall lead thee up from dreaming to the truth; And Fancy, leaving every meaner thing, Shall see fulfilled each bright imagining. Then shall the ashes of thy musing be Only the ashes of thy naughtiness; The smoke, the remnant of thy vanity And thorny passions, which entangled thee Till thou didst pray deliverance; the clay, That empty clay e'en, hath a power to bless,— Empty for that a gem hath passed away, To shine forever in eternal day.