Oh! how rapidly we travel,-- You are now a boy again.
You approach the open doorway, And before the old armchair You will stop and kiss the grandma, You will smooth the thin white hair; You will read the open Bible, For the lamp is lit, you see.
It is now your hour for bed-time And you kneel at mother's knee.
Still you linger at the hearthstone; You are loath to leave the place.
When an apple cut's in progress: You must wait and dance with Grace.
What's the matter with the music?
Only this: The pipe is broke, And a thousand pleasant fancies Vanish promptly with the smoke.
A.B. VAN FLEET.
PERNICIOUS WEED!
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a sentence at a time enough; The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, Then pause and puff, and speak, and pause again.
Such often, like the tube they so admire, Important triflers! have more smoke than fire.
Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys, Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
WILLIAM COWPER.
TWO OTHER HEARTS.
Full tender beamed the light of love down from his manly face, As he pressed her to his bosom in a fervent, fond embrace.
No cost of others' happiness found place within his thought; The weakness of life's brittle thread no dim forebodings brought.
But tenderer than the light of love, more brittle than life's thread, The shrouds that wrapped two other hearts gave up their withered dead; For, crumbling in his waistcoat, their glowing future dashed, Two excellent Havanas were very badly smashed.
_London Tobacco_.
THE SMOKE TRAVELLER.
When I puff my cigarette, Straight I see a Spanish girl,-- Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl, Languid airs and dimpled face, Calculating, fatal grace; Hear a twittering serenade Under lofty balcony played; Queen at bull-fight, naught she cares What her agile lover dares; She can love and quick forget.
Let me but my meerschaum light, I behold a bearded man, Built upon capacious plan, Sabre-slashed in war or duel, Gruff of aspect, but not cruel, Metaphysically muddled, With strong beer a little fuddled, Slow in love, and deep in books, More sentimental than he looks, Swears new friendships every night.
Let me my chibouk enkindle,-- In a tent I'm quick set down With a Bedouin, lean and brown, Plotting gain of merchandise, Or perchance of robber prize; Clumsy camel load upheaving, Woman deftly carpet-weaving, Meal of dates and bread and salt, While in azure heavenly vault Throbbing stars begin to dwindle.
Glowing coal in clay dudheen Carries me to sweet Killarney, Full of hypocritic blarney,-- Huts with babies, pigs, and hens Mixed together, bogs and fens, Shillalahs, praties, usquebaugh, Tenants defying hated law, Fair blue eyes with lashes black, Eyes black and blue from cudgel-thwack,-- So fair, so foul, is Erin green.
My nargileh once inflamed, Quick appears a Turk with turban, Girt with guards in palace urban, Or in house by summer sea Slave-girls dancing languidly, Bow-string, sack, and bastinado, Black boats darting in the shadow; Let things happen as they please, Whether well or ill at ease, Fate alone is blessed or blamed.
With my ancient calumet I can raise a wigwam's smoke, And the copper tribe invoke,-- Scalps and wampum, bows and knives, Slender maidens, greasy wives, Papoose hanging on a tree, Chieftains squatting silently, Feathers, beads, and hideous paint, Medicine-man and wooden-saint,-- Forest-framed the vision set.
My cigar breeds many forms,-- Planter of the rich Havana Mopping brow with sheer bandanna, Russian prince in fur arrayed, Paris fop on dress parade, London swell just after dinner, Wall Street broker--gambling sinner!
Delver in Nevada mine, Scotch laird bawling "Auld Lang Syne."
Thus Raleigh's weed my fancy warms.
Life's review in smoke goes past,-- Fickle fortune, stubborn fate, Right discovered all too late, Beings loved and gone before, Beings loved but friends no more, Self-reproach and futile sighs, Vanity in birth that dies, Longing, heart-break, adoration,-- Nothing sure in expectation Save ash-receiver at the last.
IRVING BROWNE.
SMOKING SONG.
With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl, As mist from the waterfall given, Or the locks that float round beauty's throat In the whispering air of even.
_Chorus_. Then drown the fears of the coming years, And the dread of change before us; The way is sweet to our willing feet, With the smoke-wreaths twining o'er us.
As the light beams through the ringlets blue, Will hope beam through our sorrow, While the gathering wreath of the smoke we breathe Shuts out the fear of to-morrow.
A magic charm in the evening calm Calls thought from mem'ry's treasure; But clear and bright in the liquid light Are the smoke-called dreams of pleasure.
Then who shall chide, with boasting pride, Delights they ne'er have tasted?
Oh, let them smile while we beguile The hour with joys they've wasted.
_College Song._
HOW IT ONCE WAS.
Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood, Or rather, sat, Drank beer in plenty, ate abundant food; For they to ancient customs still were true, And smoked, and smoked, because they surely knew What they were at.
William the Testy ruled New Amsterdam,-- A tall man he,-- Whose rule was meant by him to be no sham, But rather like the stern paternal style That sways the city now. He made the while A rough decree.
He ordered that the pipes should cease to smoke, From that day on.
The people took the order as a joke; They did not think, who smoked from childhood up, That one man such delight would seek to stop, Even in fun.
But when at last it dawned upon their minds That this was meant, They closed their houses, shut their window blinds, Brought forth tobacco from their ample hoard, And to the governor's house with one accord The burghers went.
They carried chairs, and sat without a word Before his porch, And smoked, and smoked, and not a sound was heard, Till Kieft came forth to take the morning air, With speech that would have burned them then and there If words could scorch.