JOHNSON M. MUNDY.
A WARNING.
HE.
I loathe all books. I hate to see The world and men through others' eyes; My own are good enough for me.
These scribbling fellows I despise; They bore me.
I used to try to read a bit, But, when I did, a sleepy fit Came o'er me.
Yet here I sit with pensive look, Filling my pipe with fragrant loads, Gazing in rapture at a book!-- A free translation of the Odes Of Horace.
'Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth, And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath Of orris.
I longed for something that was hers To cheer me when I'm feeling low; I saw this book of paltry verse, And asked to take it home--and so She lent it.
I love her deep and tenderly, Yet dare not tell my love, lest she Resent it.
I'll learn to quote a stanza here, A couplet there. I'm very sure 'Twould aid my suit could I appear _Au fait_ in books and literature.
I'll do it!
This jingle I can quickly learn; Then, hid in roses, I'll return Her poet!
SHE.
The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint!
Around my pretty, cherished book, The odor vile, the noisome taint Of horrid, stale tobacco-smoke Yet lingers!
The hateful man, my book to spoil!
Patrick, the tongs--lest I should soil My fingers!
This lovely rose, these lilies frail, These violets he has sent to me The odor of his pipe exhale!
Am I to blame that I should be Enraged?
Tell Mr. Simpson every time He calls upon me, Patrick, I'm Engaged!
ARTHUR LOVELL.
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.
Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face, That you are in fashion all over the land, And I am so much fallen into disgrace.
"Do but see what a pretty contemplative air I give to the company,--pray do but note 'em,-- You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there, Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.
"My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear."
Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging.
The Box in reply was heard plainly to say, "What a silly dispute is this we are Waging!
"If you have a little of merit to claim, You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed; And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.
"Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus; We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, But of anything else they may choose to put in us."
WM. COWPER.
A LOSS.
How hard a thing it is to part From those we love and cherish; How deeply does it pain one's heart To know all things must perish!
And when a friend and comrade dear Is lost to us forever, We feel how frail are all things here, Since e'en best friends must sever.
I, too, have lost a friend, who broke Its power when care was near me; And troubles disappeared in smoke When he was by to cheer me.
But as friends fall when valued most, Like fruit that over-ripe is.
My loved companion I have lost,-- That friend my meerschaum pipe is!
_Judy_ (1873).
THE TRUE LEUCOTHOe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, and beauty's smile; I choose a theme not less divine,-- The plant that grows in Cuba's Isle.
The old Greeks err'd who bound with bays Apollo's brow; the verdant crown He wore, when measuring their days, Grew in the West, where he went down.
An idle tale they also told; They said he gave them frankincense, Borne by some tree he loved of old; If so, he gave a mere pretence.
For the true offspring of his love-- Tobacco--grew far o'er the sea, Where Leucothoe from above Led him as honey leads the bee,
Till on that plant he paus'd to gaze Some moments ere he held his way, And cheer her with his warmest rays, Heedless of time or length of day.
Then with a sigh his brows he wreath'd With leaves that care and toil beguile, And bless'd, as their perfume he breath'd, The plant that grows in Cuba's Isle.
ANON.