At Yeni-Djami, after Rhamadan, The pacha in his palace lolls at ease; Latakieh fumes his sensual palate please, While round-limbed almees dance near his divan.
Slaves lure away _ennui_ with flowers and fan; And as his gem-tipped chibouque glows, he sees, In dreamy trance, those marvellous mysteries The prophet sings of in the Al-Koran!
Pale, dusk-eyed girls, with sequin-studded hair, Dart through the opal clouds like agile deer, With sensuous curves his fancy to provoke,-- Delicious houris, ravishing and fair, Who to his vague and drowsy mind appear Like fragrant phantoms arabesqued in smoke!
FRANCIS S. SALTUS.
IN ROTTEN ROW.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no regret For all the tumult that had been.
The distances were still and green, And streaked with shadows cool and wet.
Two sweethearts on a bench were set, Two birds among the boughs were met; So love and song were heard and seen In Rotten Row.
A horse or two there was to fret The soundless sand; but work and debt, Fair flowers and falling leaves between, While clocks are chiming clear and keen, A man may very well forget In Rotten Row.
W.E. HENLEY.
THE DUET.
I was smoking a cigarette; Maud, my wife, and the tenor, McKey, Were singing together a blithe duet, And days it were better I should forget Came suddenly back to me,-- Days when life seemed a gay masque ball, And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.
As they sang together, the whole scene fled, The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air, Stately Maud, with her proud blond head, And I seemed to see in her place instead A wealth of blue-black hair, And a face, ah! your face--yours, Lisette; A face it were wiser I should forget.
We were back--well, no matter when or where; But you remember, I know, Lisette.
I saw you, dainty and debonair, With the very same look that you used to wear In the days I should forget.
And your lips, as red as the vintage we quaffed, Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you laughed.
Two small slippers with big rosettes Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there, While we sat smoking our cigarettes (Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets!) And singing that self-same air: And between the verses, for interlude, I kissed your throat and your shoulders nude.
You were so full of a subtle fire, You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette; You were everything men admire; And there were no fetters to make us tire, For you were--a pretty grisette.
But you loved as only such natures can, With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.
They have ceased singing that old duet, Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey.
"You are burning your coat with your cigarette, And _qu'avez vous_, dearest, your lids are wet,"
Maud says, as she leans o'er me.
And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise, "Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes."
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
MY CIGARETTE.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry?
Why this small tear, So pure and clear, In each blue eye?
"My cigarette-- I 'm smoking yet?"
(I'll be discreet.) I toss it, see, Away from me Into the street.
You see I do All things for you.
Come, let us sup.
(But, oh, what joy To be that boy Who picked it up.)
TOM HALL.
A BACHELOR'S VIEWS.
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least its embers; A dog, a glass:-- 'Tis thus we pass Such hours as one remembers.
Who'd wish to wed?
Poor Cupid's dead These thousand years, I wager.
The modern maid Is but a jade, Not worth the time to cage her.
In silken gown To "take" the town Her first and last ambition.
What good is she To you or me Who have but a "position"?
So let us drink To her,--but think Of him who has to keep her; And _sans_ a wife Let's spend our life In bachelordom,--it's cheaper.
TOM HALL.
PIPES AND BEER.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old under-ground room I knew, And sip cheap beer, and be glad for it, With a wild Bohemian friend or two.
And oh, it was joy to loiter thus, At peace in the heart of the city's stir, Entombed, while life hurried over us, In our lazy bacchanal sepulchre.
There was artist George, with the blond Greek head, And the startling creeds, and the loose cravat; There was splenetic journalistic Fred, Of the sharp retort and the shabby hat;
There was dreamy Frank, of the lounging gait, Who lived on nothing a year, or less, And always meant to be something great, But only meant, and smoked to excess;