Chapter 56 No.56

But here the herald of the self-same mouth[395]

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south,

Not like a "bed of violets" on the gale,

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale,

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown

Its gentle odours over either zone,

And, puffed where'er winds rise or waters roll,440

Had wafted smoke