[Papaver. l. 270.  Poppy.  Many males, many females.  The plants of this class are almost all of them poisonous; the finest opium is procured by wounding the heads of large poppies with a three-edged knife, and tying muscle-shells to them to catch the drops.  In small quantities it exhilarates the mind, raises the passions, and invigorates the body:  in large ones it is succeeded by intoxication, languor, stupor and death.  It is customary in India for a messenger to travel above a hundred miles without rest or food, except an appropriated bit of opium for himself, and a larger one for his horse at certain stages.  The emaciated and decrepid appearance, with the ridiculous and idiotic gestures, of the opium-eaters in Constantinople is well described in the Memoirs of Baron de Tott.]

275 On crystal pedestals they seem to sigh,
        Bend the meek knee, and lift the imploring eye. 
        —­And now the Sorceress bares her shrivel’d hand,
        And circles thrice in air her ebon wand;
        Flush’d with new life descending statues talk,
280 The pliant marble softening as they walk;
        With deeper sobs reviving lovers breathe,
        Fair bosoms rise, and soft hearts pant beneath;
        With warmer lips relenting damsels speak,
        And kindling blushes tinge the Parian cheek;
285 To viewless lutes aerial voices sing,
        And hovering Loves are heard on rustling wing. 
        —­She waves her wand again!—­fresh horrors seize
        Their stiffening limbs, their vital currents freeze;
        By each cold nymph her marble lover lies,
290 And iron slumbers seal their glassy eyes. 
        So with his dread Caduceus HERMES led
        From the dark regions of the imprison’d dead,
        Or drove in silent shoals the lingering train
        To Night’s dull shore, and PLUTO’S dreary reign
295 So with her waving pencil CREWE commands
        The realms of Taste, and Fancy’s fairy lands;
        Calls up with magic voice the shapes, that sleep
        In earth’s dark bosom, or unfathom’d deep;
        That shrined in air on viewless wings aspire,
300 Or blazing bathe in elemental fire. 
        As with nice touch her plaistic hand she moves,
        Rise the fine forms of Beauties, Graces, Loves;
        Kneel to the fair Inchantress, smile or sigh,
        And fade or flourish, as she turns her eye.

305 Fair CISTA, rival of the rosy dawn,
        Call’d her light choir, and trod the dewy lawn;
        Hail’d with rude melody the new-born May,
        As cradled yet in April’s lap she lay.

[So with her waving pencil. l. 295.  Alluding to the many beautiful paintings by Miss EMMA CREWE; to whom the author is indebted for the very elegant Frontispiece, where Flora, at play with Cupid, is loading him with garden-tools.]