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And serpents huge, whose rings embrace
Some round leagues of the great Pacific;
And men of central Ind, sans face,
But not on that head less terrific!
Lo! he hath lit a brown cigar,
A special smooth-skinned real Havannah,
And swirling smoke he puffs afar—
'Tis sweet to him as dessert manna!
Away, away the reek doth go,
In wiry thread or heavy volume;
Now black, now blue, gold, grey, or snow
In colour and in height a column!
His little eyes, deep-set and hedged
All round and round with bristles hoary,
Do twinkle like a hawk's new-fledged—
Sure he hath dreams of marvellous glory!
Well, I would rather be that wight,
Contented, puffing, midst his tackling,
Than star-gemmed lord or gartered knight,
In masquerade or senate cackling.
