The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 14/Number 86/A Tobacconalian Ode

 

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 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.
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.