Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/216



And serpents huge, whose rings embrace Some round leagues of the great Pacific; And men of central Ind, sans face, But not on that head less terrific!

Lo! he hath lit a brown cigar, A special smooth-skinned real Havannah, And swirling smoke he puffs afar— 'Tis sweet to him as dessert manna!

Away, away the reek doth go, In wiry thread or heavy volume; Now black, now blue, gold, grey, or snow In colour and in height a column!

His little eyes, deep-set and hedged All round and round with bristles hoary, Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged— Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory!

Well, I would rather be that wight, Contented, puffing, midst his tackling, Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight, In masquerade or senate cackling.