From thy rare bowl doth scent the liberal air
  With incense richer than the woods of Ind. 
  E’en to the barren palate of despair
  (Inhaled through cedar tubes from glorious Scinde!)

  It hath a charm would quicken into life,
  And make the heart gush out in streams of love,
  And the earth, dead before, with beauty rife,
  And full of flowers as heaven of stars above.

  It is thy virtue and peculiar gift,
  Thou sooty wizard of the potent weed;
  No other pipe can thus the soul uplift,
  Or such rare fancies and high musings breed.

  I’ve tried full many of thy kith and kind,
  Dug from thy native Asiatic clay,
  Fashioned by cunning hand and curious mind
  Into all shapes and features, grave and gay,—­

  Black niggers’ heads with their white-livered eyes
  Glaring in fiery horror through the smoke,
  And monstrous dragons stained with bloody dyes,
  And comelier forms; but all save thee I broke.

  For though, like thee, each pipe was black and old,
  They were not wiser for their many years,
  Nor knew thy sorcery though set in gold,
  Nor had thy tropic taste,—­these proud compeers!

  Like great John Paul, who would have loved thee well,
  Thou art the “only one” of all thy race;
  Nor shall another comrade near thee dwell,
  Old King of pipes! my study’s pride and grace!

III.

  Thus have I made “assurance doubly sure,”
  And sealed it twice, that thou shalt reign alone! 
  And as the dainty bee doth search for pure,
  Sweet honey till his laden thighs do groan

  With their sweet burden, tasting nothing foul,
  So thou of best tobacco shalt be filled;
  And when the starry midnight wakes the owl,
  And the lorn nightingale her song has trilled,

  I, with my lamp and books, as is my wont,
  Will give thee of the choicest of all climes,—­
  Black Cavendish, full-flavored, full of juice,
  Pale Turkish, famed through all the Osman times,

  Dark Latakia, Syrian, Persia’s pride,
  And sweet Virginian, sweeter than them all! 
  Oh, rich bouquet of plants! fit for a bride
  Who, blushing, waits the happy bridegroom’s call!

  And these shall be thy food, thy dainty food,
  And we together will their luxury share,
  Voluptuous tumults stealing through the blood,
  Voluptuous visions filling all the air!

  I will not thee profane with impious shag,
  Nor poison thee with nigger-head and twist,
  Nor with Kentucky, though the planters brag
  That it hath virtues all the rest have missed.

  These are for porters, loafers, and the scum,
  Who have no sense for the diviner weeds,
  Who drink their muddy beer and muddier rum,
  Insatiate, like dogs in all their greeds.