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AIR. Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene. British sons no longer, now, Hurl the bar, or twang the bow; Nor of crimson combat think, But securely smoke and drink.
CHORUS Smiling yeărs, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.
Charmer of an idle hour,
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Thou, matur'd by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco ! fountain pure of limpid truth, That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care; And at each puff imagination burns. Flash on thy bard, and, with exalting fires, Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise, In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown. Behold an engine, wrought from tauny mines Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form’d, And glaz'd magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill. From Pætotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd, Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbib'd Each parent ray; then rudely ramm'd illume, With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, Mark'd with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds, Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, And many-mining fires : I all the while, Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm. But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join, In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, Stream life and joy into the Muses' bowl. O be thou still my great inspirer, thou My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon, While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin'd, Burst forth all oracle and mystic song.
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam. And you, court-insects, flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine my verse inspire, So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire. Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff; Yet all their claim to wisdom is--a puff: Lord Foplin smokes not-for his teeth afraid : Sir Tawdry smokes not-for he wears brocade. Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon; They love no smoke, except the smoke of town: But courtiers hate the puffing tribe--no matter, Strange, if they love the breath that cannot flatter! Its foes but shew their ignorance ; can he Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree? The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet) Rails at Tobacco, tho' it makes hin---spit. Citronia vows it has an odious stink ; She will not smoke (ye gods !)—but she will drink. And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can), Says, Pipes are us’d by that vile creature Man: Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim, While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame: Fame, of our actions universal spring, For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke-ev'ry thing.
BLEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense : So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's shrine, Drank inspiration from the steam divine. Poison that cures, a vapour that affords Content more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
And bid the vicar be my guest:
This village, unmolested yet
Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Britons, if undone, can go,
Where Tobacco loves to grow. The authors imitated in these poems are, Colley Cibber, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, Young, Pope, and Swift.