The curling wreaths like turbans seem Of silent slaves that come and go,-- Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime, Whom I behead from time to time, With pipe-stem, at a single blow.
And now and then a lingering cloud Takes gracious form at my desire, And at my side my lady stands, Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,-- A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!
O Love, if you were only here Beside me in this mellow light, Though all the bitter winds should blow, And all the ways be choked with snow, 'Twould be a true Arabian night!
T.B. ALDRICH.
MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.
Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude at home, Perchance an ultra-bilious fit Paints all the world an orange chrome.
When Fear and Care and grim Despair Flock round me in a ghostly crowd, One charm dispels them all in air,-- I blow my after-dinner cloud.
'Tis melancholy to devour The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six--my prandial hour-- With dread not easy to express.
And yet for every penance done, Due compensation seems allow'd.
My penance o'er, its price is won,-- I blow my after-dinner cloud.
My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay,-- I like it better on the whole; And when I fill it, I can say, I drown my sorrows in the bowl.
For most I love my lowly pipe When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd; At such a time behold me ripe To blow my after-dinner cloud.
As gracefully the smoke ascends In columns from the weed beneath, My friendly wizard, Fancy, lends A vivid shape to every wreath.
Strange memories of life or death Up from the cradle to the shroud, Come forth as, with enchanter's breath, I blow my after-dinner cloud.
What wonder if it stills my care To quit the present for the past, And summon back the things that were, Which only thus in vapor last?
What wonder if I envy not The rich, the giddy, and the proud, Contented in this quiet spot To blow my after-dinner cloud?
HENRY S. LEIGH.
THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.
When that last pipe is smoked at last And pouch and pipe put by, And Smoked and Smoker both alike In dust and ashes lie, What of the Smoker? Whither passed?
Ah, will he smoke no more?
And will there be no golden cloud Upon the golden shore?
Ah! who shall say we cry in vain To Fate upon his hill, For, howsoe'er we ask and ask, He goes on smoking still.
But, surely, 'twere a bitter thing If other men pursue Their various earthly joys again Beyond that distant blue, If the poor Smoker might not ply His peaceful passion too.
If Indian braves may still up there On merry scalpings go, And buried Britons rise again With arrow and with bow, May not the Smoker hope to take His "cutty" from below?
So let us trust; and when at length You lay me 'neath the yew, Forget not, O my friends, I pray, Pipes and tobacco too!
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
SWEET SMOKING PIPE.
Sweet smoking pipe; bright glowing stove, Companion still of my retreat, Thou dost my gloomy thoughts remove, And purge my brain with gentle heat.
Tobacco, charmer of my mind, When, like the meteor's transient gleam.
Thy substance gone to air I find, I think, alas, my life's the same!
What else but lighted dust am I?
Then shew'st me what my fate will be; And when thy sinking ashes die, I learn that I must end like thee.
ANON.
CIGARETTE RINGS.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; I'm too sleepy to read and too lazy to write; So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl, And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl.
In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimes There's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes; There's a world of romance that persistently clings To the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!
What a picture comes back from the passed-away times!
They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes; See how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes, As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!
He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes.
Ah, the dearest of voices delightfully sings Through the wind intertwining of Cigarette Rings!
How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time, When winds whispered low 'neath the tremulous lime!
How sweet, too, that bunch of forget-me-nots blue-- The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!
_Ah, the words of a woman concerning such things_ _Are weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!_
J. ASHBY-STERRY.
SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently sufficient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he designated himself, "Ralph Erskine, V.D.M." The peasantry throughout the North of England always called it "Erskine Song;" and not only is his name given as the author in numerous chap-books, but in his own volume of "Gospel Sonnets," from an early copy of which this version is transcribed. The discovery, however, by Mr. Collier of the First Part in a MSS. temp. James I., with the initials "G.W."
affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine's claim to the honor of the entire authorship. G.W. is supposed to be George Wither; but this is purely conjectural, and it is not at all improbable that G.W. really stands for W.G., as it was a common practice among anonymous writers to reverse their initials.
The history, then, of the poem seems to be this: that the First Part, as it is now printed, originally constituted the whole production, being complete in itself; that the Second Part was afterwards added by the Rev. Ralph Erskine, and that both parts came subsequently to be ascribed to him, as his was the only name published in connection with the song. See "Ballads of the Peasantry," Bell's edition. Variants of this song will be found on pages 86 and 150 of the present collection; the first is ascribed to George Wither, and the other is taken from the first volume of "Pills to purge Melancholy."