Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain;
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,

Breeds no such prodigious poison
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;

Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,

Such as perplex'd lovers use,

At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,

Or in part but to express

That exceeding comeliness

Which their fancies doth so strike,

They borrow language of dislike;

And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe-
Not that she is truly so,

But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain❜d to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I

Would do any thing but die,

And but seek to extend my days

Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any title of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;

Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition

Of thy favors, I may catch

Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life

Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO

ABYDOS.

If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont

(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream broad Hellespont!

If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate, modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo-and-Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

'T were hard to say who fared the best:

Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!

He lost his labor, I my jest;

For he was drowned, and I've the ague

BYRON.

THE LISBON PACKET.

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo 's off at last; Favorable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,

Cases cracking,

Not a corner for a mouse

'Scapes unsearched amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,

We're impatient-push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor-
Stop the boat-I'm sick-O Lord!"
“Sick, ma'am, damme, you 'll be sicker
Ere you 've been an hour on board.”
Thus are screaming
Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax.Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reached her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kid, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapped in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.

BYRON.

"Hey day! call you that a cabin?

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab inWho the deuce can harbor there?" "Who, sir? plenty

Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill.".
"Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!

Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship Lisbon Packet.”

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Stretched along the decks like logs—

Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls.
"Here's a stanza

On Braganza

Help!"—"A couplet ?"—" No, a cup
Of warm water-'

"What's the matter ?"

"Zounds! my liver's coming up;

I shall not survive the racket

Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.”

Now at length we 're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back!

Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.

But, since life at most a jest is,.

As philosophers allow,

Still to laugh by far the best is,

Then laugh on-as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things.