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Of cares or creditors—the best wine in town
You'll get from Lynch—the cash must be paid down.

xxiv.

But if you are a bachelor, like me,

And spurn all chains, even though made of roses,
I'd recommend cigars—there is a free
And happy spirit, that, unseen, reposes
On the dim shadowy clouds that hover o'er you,
When smoking quietly with a warm fire before you.

xxv.

Dear to the exile is his native land,

In memory's twilight beauty seen afar:
Dear to the broker is a note of hand,
Collaterally secured—the polar star
Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes,
And dear are Bristed's volumes at "half price;"

xxvi.

But dearer far to me each fairy minute

Spent in that fond forgetfulness of grief;
There is an airy web of magic in it,
As in Othello's pocket-handkerchief,
Veiling the wrinkles on the brow of Sorrow,
The gathering gloom to-day, the thunder cloud tomorrow.