Can we on such a kindred tear bestow? They, who, in life, were every just man's foe, A plague to all about them!--oh, no, no.
What though sepultured with the funeral whine; Why, sorrowing on such tombs should we recline, Where truth, perhaps, has hardly penn'd a line.
--Yet, what if here some honest man is laid Whom nature of her best materials made, Who all respect to sacred honor paid.
Gentle, humane, benevolent, and just, (Though now forgot and mingled with the dust, There may be such, and such there are we trust.)
Yes--for the sake of that one honest man We would on knaves themselves bestow a tear, Think nature form'd them on some crooked plan, And say, peace rest on all that slumber here.
SURVEY OF AN OLD ENGLISH TOBACCO BOX INSCRIBED 1708[193]
Written in a dearth of tobacco, by Hezekiah Salem.
Had I but what this box contained Since good Queen Anne in Britain reigned, My happiness would be increased To more, perhaps, than she possessed.
This box, in many a pocket worn (And to be used by some unborn) Has been unfilled a week or more, And curses the tobacco store,
Which now has had its turn to fail; The door shut up, the man in jail Who late behind the counter stood And vended what was pretty good.
("And are you here?--the turnkey said, "I rather would have seen you dead!"-- --Yes! I am here--the man replied-- And better so than to have died!)
This box again, in spite of that, Shall be repackt with--I know what-- Again I'll fill its empty chest With old Virginia's very best.
The fragrance of that mild perfume Again shall cheer the reading room, Again delight your men of wit Who have the taste to relish it.
This box I deem a small estate Where all my prospects are complete, Whose oval round, and clasp, confines The riches of Potosi's mines.
My best ideas here are sown, (And best expressed when most alone) Here, every muse can find a place Yet take no atom of its space.
Tobacco! what to thee we owe, Is what alone true smokers know: To thee they owe the lively thought, And joys without repentance bought.
To thee they owe the moral song, The night that never seems too long, The pleasant dream, refreshing sleep, And sense that all should strive to keep.
It cures the pride of self-debate, And pensive care, and deadly hate; And love itself would nearer bring, Did females love this coaxing thing.--