EPIGRAMS. 197 
To poets give the laurel wreath, let heroes have their lay, 
Of roses twine for lovely youth the garland fresh and gay; 
But we poor mortals, quite content, life’s fev'rish way pursue, 
Can we but crown our foolish pates with wreaths of fragrant blue, 
Convinced that all terrestrial things which please us or provoke, 
Of ashes come, to ashes go, and only end in smoke. 
: Pocosmipo, 
Whilst cannon’s smoke o’erwhelms with deadly cloud 
The soldier’s comrades in a common shroud, 
And whilst the conflagration in the street, 
With crushing roar the ruin makes complete, 
Tobacco’s smoke like incense seeks the skies— 
Blesses the giver, and in silence dies! 
Theta. 
Use me well, and you shall see 
An excellent servant I will be; 
Let me once become your master, 
And you shall rue the great disaster! 
As coin does to he who borrows, 
T’ll soothe your cares and ease your sorrows; 
Abuse me, and your nerves I’ll shatter, 
Your heart I’ll break, your cash I’ll scatter, 
Use, not Abuse. 
The savage in his wild estate, 
When feuds and discords cease, 
Soothes with the fragrant weed his hate, 
And smokes the pipe of peace. 
Long may the plant good-will create, 
And banish strife afar : 
Our only cloud its incense sweet, 
And this our only jar. 
Scire Facias. 
Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said; 
T’ll have to smoke, or I'll be dead? 
If so, then let the caitiff dread! 
My wrath shall fall upon his head. 
*Tig plain he ne’er the Plant hath read; 
But ‘‘ goody ” trash, perchance, instead. 
Dear Cope, good night!—Yours, Master Fred. 
