The True Leucothoë
Let others praise the god of wine,
Or Venus, love, and beauty’s smile;
I choose a theme not less divine,—
The plant that grows in Cuba’s Isle.
The old Greeks err’d who bound with bays
Apollo’s brow; the verdant crown
He wore, when measuring their days,
Grew in the West, where he went down.
An idle tale they also told;
They said he gave them frankincense,
Borne by some tree he loved of old;
If so, he gave a mere pretence.
For the true offspring of his love—
Tobacco—grew far o’er the sea,
Where Leucothoë from above
Led him as honey leads the bee,
Till on that plant he paus’d to gaze
Some moments ere he held his way,
And cheer her with his warmest rays,
Heedless of time or length of day.
Then with a sigh his brows he wreath’d
With leaves that care and toil beguile,
And bless’d, as their perfume he breath’d,
The plant that grows in Cuba’s Isle.
ANON.