Haven

Here, in mine old-time harbourage installed,     Lulled by the murmurous hum of London's traffic     To that full calm which may be justly called     Seraphic,     I praise the gods; and vow, for my escape     From the hard grip of premature Jehannun,     One golden-tissued bottle of the grape     Per annum.     For on this day, from Orient toils enlarged,     Kneeling, I kissed the parent soil at Dover,     Where a huge porter in his orbit charged     Me over;     Flashed in the train by Shorncliffe's draughty camp;     Gazed on the hurrying landscape's pastoral graces,     Old farms, and happy fields (a trifle damp     In places);     Passed the grim suburbs, indigent and bare     Of natural foliage, but bravely flying     Frank garlandry of last week's underwear     Out drying;     And so to Town; and with that blessed sight     I, a poor fevered wreck, forgot to shiver -     Forgot to mourn the Burden of my White     Man's Liver;     And felt my bosom heave, my breast expand,     With thoughts too sweet, too deep for empty cackle,     Such thoughts as nothing but a first-class Band     Could tackle:     Till, from its deeps, my celebrated smile     (Which friends called Marvel) clove my jaws asunder,     Lucid, intense, and all men stood awhile     In wonder!          Let none approach me now, for I have dined;     The fire is bright; Havana's choice aroma     Infects my being with a pleasant kind     Of coma;     Calmly I contemplate my future lot:     I reconstruct the past - it fails to strike me     With aught of horror (pity there are not     More like me!) -     My bosom's lord sits lightly on my breast;     The East grows dim; and every hour I stuck to it     Imparts a richer brightness to the West,     Good luck to it!