XCVII
O Thou who sought our Fathers to enslave
And ev'n the Pipe to Walter Raleigh gave,
I love you still for your Redeeming Vice
And shower Tobacco Leaves upon your Grave!
XCVIII
Then let the balmed Tobacco be my Sheath,
The ardent Weed above me and beneath,
And let me like a Living Incense rise,
A Fifty-Cent Cigar between my Teeth.
XCIX
Havana's Witch-fog murks my Horoscope
Until my dream-enamoured Senses grope
Towards the Light, where in her opal Shrine
Smiles Hopefulness, the great Reward of Hope.
* * * * * * *
C
Let those who to this daedal Valley throng
And by my tumid Ashes pass along,
Let them be glad with this consoling Thought:
I got a Market Value for my Song.
CI
And some expectant Devotee who knocks
At that poor House where once I rent my locks,
In vain may seek a Last Cigar and find
My Muse asleep within an empty Box.
Hammam
Notes
I - "Sours the Milk of Life;" thunderstorms, earthquakes and artificial
commotions of the earth are popularly and quasi-scientifically believed
to have the effect of turning milk from sweet to sour; so here the Milk
of Life is soured by the sudden advent of the Brat of Death (Care,
perhaps, who is said to have killed a cat on one occasion).
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