EVA WILDER MCGLASSON.

EDIFYING REFLECTIONS OF A TOBACCO-SMOKER.

SET TO MUSIC BY JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH.  AUTHOR UNKNOWN.  TRANSLATED BY EDWARD BRECK.

  As oft I fill my faithful pipe,
    To while away the moments glad,
  With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe,
    My mind perceives an image sad,
  So that I can but clearly see
  How very like it is to me.

  My pipe is made of earth and clay,
    From which my mortal part is wrought;
  I, too, must turn to earth some day. 
    It often falls, as quick as thought,
  And breaks in two,—­puts out its flame;
  My fate, alas! is but the same!

  My pipe I color not, nor paint;
    White it remains, and hence ’tis true
  That, when in Death’s cold arms I faint,
    My lips shall wear the ashen hue;
  And as it blackens day by day,
  So black the grave shall turn my clay!

  And when the pipe is put alight
    The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes,
  And soon dissolves in sunshine bright,
    And but the whitened ash remains. 
  ’Tis so man’s glory crumble must,
  E’en as his body, into dust!

  How oft the filler is mislaid;
    And, rather than to seek in vain,
  I use my finger in its stead,
    And fancy as I feel the pain,
  If coals can burn to such degree,
  How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

  So in tobacco oft I find,
    Lessons of such instructive type;
  And hence with calm, contented mind
    I live, and smoke my faithful pipe
  In reverence where’er I roam,—­
  On land, on water, and at home.

THE LOST LOTUS.

  ’Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East,
    There dwelt a race whose softly flowing hours
  Passed like the vision of a royal feast,
    By Nero given in the Baian bowers;
  Thanks to the lotus-blossom spell,
  Their lives were one long miracle.

  In after years the passing sons of men
    Looked for those lotus blossoms all in vain,
  Through every hillside, glade, and glen
    And e’en the isles of many a main;
  Yet through the centuries some doom,
  Forbade them see the lotus bloom.

  The Old World wearied of the long pursuit,
    And called the sacred leaf a poet’s theme,
  When lo! the New World, rich in flower and fruit,
    Revealed the lotus, lovelier than the dream
  That races of the long past days did haunt,—­
  The green-leaved, amber-tipped tobacco plant.

ANON.

THE SCENT OF A GOOD CIGAR.

  What is it comes through the deepening dusk,—­
  Something sweeter than jasmine scent,
  Sweeter than rose and violet blent,
  More potent in power than orange or musk? 
  The scent of a good cigar.