Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/682

672 A TOBACCONALIAN ODE.

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 com, 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,

Bom 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!

Wben 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 firail 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.