MOTTO FOR A TOBACCO JAR.
Come! don't refuse sweet Nicotina's aid, But woo the goddess through a yard of clay; And soon you'll own she is the fairest maid To stifle pain, and drive old Care away.
Nor deem it waste; what though to ash she burns, If for your outlay you get good returns!
THE LAST PIPE.
When head is sick and brain doth swim, And heavy hangs each unstrung limb, 'Tis sweet through smoke-puffs, wreathing slow, To watch the firelight flash or glow.
As each soft cloud floats up on high, Some worry takes its wings to fly; And Fancy dances with the flame, Who lay so labor-crammed and lame; While the spent Will, the slack Desire, Re-kindle at the dying fire, And burn to meet the morrow's sun With all its day's work to be done.
The tedious tangle of the Law, Your work ne'er done without some flaw; Those ghastly streets that drive one mad, With children joyless, elders sad, Young men unmanly, girls going by Bold-voiced, with eyes unmaidenly; Christ dead two thousand years agone, And kingdom come still all unwon; Your own slack self that will not rise Whole-hearted for the great emprise,-- Well, all these dark thoughts of the day As thin smoke's shadow drift away.
And all those magic mists unclose, And a girl's face amid them grows,-- The very look she's wont to wear, The wild rose blossoms in her hair, The wondrous depths of her pure eyes, The maiden soul that 'neath them lies, That fears to meet, yet will not fly, Your stranger spirit drawing nigh.
What if our times seem sliding down?
She lives, creation's flower and crown.
What if your way seems dull and long?
Each tiny triumph over wrong, Each effort up through sloth and fear, And she and you are brought more near.
So rapping out these ashes light,-- "My pipe, you've served me well to-night."
_London Spectator_.
ODE TO MY PIPE.
O Blessed pipe, That now I clutch within my gripe, What joy is in thy smooth, round bowl, As black as coal!
So sweetly wed To thy blanched, gradual thread, Like Desdemona to the Moor, Thou pleasure's core.
What woman's lip Could ever give, like thy red tip, Such unremitting store of bliss, Or such a kiss?
Oh, let me toy, Ixion-like, with cloudy joy; Thy stem with a most gentle slant I eye askant!
Unseen, unheard, Thy dreamy nectar is transferred, The while serenity astride Thy neck doth ride.
A burly cloud Doth now thy outward beauties shroud: And now a film doth upward creep, Cuddling the cheek.
And now a ring, A mimic silver quoit, takes wing; Another and another mount on high, Then spread and die.
They say in story That good men have a crown of glory; O beautiful and good, behold The crowns unfold!
How did they live?
What pleasure could the Old World give That ancient miserable lot When thou wert not?
Oh, woe betide!
My oldest, dearest friend hath died,-- Died in my hand quite unaware, Oh, Baccy rare!
ANDREW WYNTER.
A PIPE OF TOBACCO.
Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with alcohol moisten his thrapple, Only give me, I pray, a good pipe of soft clay, Nicely tapered and thin in the stapple; And I shall puff, puff, let who will say, "Enough!"
No luxury else I'm in lack o', No malice I hoard 'gainst queen, prince, duke, or lord, While I pull at my pipe of tobacco.
When I feel the hot strife of the battle of life, And the prospect is aught but enticin', Mayhap some real ill, like a protested bill, Dims the sunshine that tinged the horizon: Only let me puff, puff,--be they ever so rough, All the sorrows of life I lose track o', The mists disappear, and the vista is clear, With a soothing mild pipe of tobacco.
And when joy after pain, like the sun after rain, Stills the waters, long turbid and troubled, That life's current may flow with a ruddier glow, And the sense of enjoyment be doubled,-- Oh! let me puff, puff, till I feel _quantum suff._, Such luxury still I'm in lack o'; Be joy ever so sweet, it would be incomplete, Without a good pipe of tobacco.
Should my recreant muse--sometimes apt to refuse The guidance of bit and of bridle-- Still blankly demur, spite of whip and spur, Unimpassioned, inconstant, or idle; Only let me puff, puff, till the brain cries, "Enough!"
Such excitement is all I'm in lack o', And the poetic vein soon to fancy gives rein, Inspired by a pipe of tobacco.
And when, with one accord, round the jovial board, In friendship our bosoms are glowing, While with toast and with song we the evening prolong, And with nectar the goblets are flowing; Still let us puff, puff,--be life smooth, be it rough, Such enjoyment we're ever in lack o'; The more peace and good-will will abound as we fill A jolly good pipe of tobacco.
JOHN USHER.
EPITAPH
_ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DESIRED THAT TOBACCO MIGHT BE PLANTED OVER HER GRAVE._
Let no cold marble o'er my body rise-- But only earth above, and sunny skies.
Thus would I lowly lie in peaceful rest, Nursing the Herb Divine from out my breast.
Green let it grow above this clay of mine, Deriving strength from strength that I resign.
So in the days to come, when I'm beyond This fickle life, will come my lovers fond, And gazing on the plant, their grief restrain In whispering, "Lo! dear Anna blooms again!"
THE SMOKER'S REVERIE.
(_OCTOBER._)
I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beechen tree, With its leaves by the autumn made ripe; While they cling to the stems like old age unto life, I dream of the days when I'll rest from this strife, And in peace smoke my brierwood pipe.
O my brierwood pipe!--of bright fancy the twin, What a medley of forms you create; Every puff of white smoke seems a vision as fair As the poet's bright dream, and like dreams fades in air, While the dreamer dreams on of his fate.