It lay before me on the close-grazed grass,
Beside my path, an old Tobacco Quid':
And shall I by the mute adviser pass

Without one serious thought? now Heaven forbid!

Perhaps some idle drunkard threw thee there,
Some husband, spendthrift of his weekly hire,
One who for wife and children takes no care,
But sits and tipples by the alehouse fire.

Ah! luckless was the day he learnt to chew!
Embryo of ills the quid that pleas'd him first!
Thirsty from that unhappy quid he grew,

Then to the alehouse went to quench his thirst.

So great events from causes small arise,
The forest oak was once an acorn seed;
And many a wretch from drunkenness who dies,
Owes all his evils to the Indian weed.

Let not temptation, mortal, ere come nigh!
Suspect some ambush in the parsley hid !
From the first kiss of love ye maidens fly!

Ye youths avoid the first Tobacco Quid!

Perhaps I wrong thee, O thou veteran chaw,
And better thoughts my musings should engage;
That thou wert rounded in some toothless jaw,
The joy, perhaps, of solitary age.

One who has suffered fortune's hardest knocks, Poor, and with none to tend on his grey hairs, Yet has a friend in his tobacco-box,

And whilst he rolls his quid, forgets his cares.

Even so it is with human happiness,

Each seeks his own according to his whim; One toils for wealth, one fame alone can bless, One asks a quid, a quid is all to him.

O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong,

Whilst ought remain'd to chew thy master chew'd, Then cast thee here, when all thy juice was gone, Emblem of selfish man's ingratitude!

A happy man, O cast-off quid, is he

Who, like as thou, has comforted the poor. Happy his age, who knows himself like thee, Thou didst thy duty, man can do no more.

THEODERIT.

To a FRIEND

Settled in the COUNTRY.

field

Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given,
Almost excites my envy, This green
Sweet solace to the wearied mind muft yield;
And yonder wide circumference of heaven,

At morn or when the day-star rides on high,
Or when the calm and mellowed light of even
Softens the glory of the western sky,

Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye.
And when these scenes, these lovely scenes so fair,
Hill, vale, and wood, are hidden from thy sight,
Still thro' the deepness of the quiet air,

Canst thou behold the radiant host of night,
And send thy spirit thro' the infinite,
Till lofty contemplation end in prayer.

Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given,,
I not unenvying shall recall to mind,
In that foul town, by other fate confined,
Where never running brook, nor verdant field,
Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven,
Sweet solace to the wearied soul can yield.

On every stage from youth to age,

Still discontent attends.

With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,

And still remembers with a sigh,

The days that are no more.

When first Remembrance in the soul

Awakes her infant power,

"Tis but to teach the hard controul

That binds the present hour.