My nargileh once inflamed,
    Quick appears a Turk with turban,
    Girt with guards in palace urban,
    Or in house by summer sea
    Slave-girls dancing languidly,
    Bow-string, sack, and bastinado,
    Black boats darting in the shadow;
    Let things happen as they please,
    Whether well or ill at ease,
  Fate alone is blessed or blamed.

  With my ancient calumet
    I can raise a wigwam’s smoke,
    And the copper tribe invoke,—­
    Scalps and wampum, bows and knives,
    Slender maidens, greasy wives,
    Papoose hanging on a tree,
    Chieftains squatting silently,
    Feathers, beads, and hideous paint,
    Medicine-man and wooden-saint,—­
  Forest-framed the vision set.

  My cigar breeds many forms,—­
    Planter of the rich Havana
    Mopping brow with sheer bandanna,
    Russian prince in fur arrayed,
    Paris fop on dress parade,
    London swell just after dinner,
    Wall Street broker—­gambling sinner! 
    Delver in Nevada mine,
    Scotch laird bawling “Auld Lang Syne.” 
  Thus Raleigh’s weed my fancy warms.

  Life’s review in smoke goes past,—­
    Fickle fortune, stubborn fate,
    Right discovered all too late,
    Beings loved and gone before,
    Beings loved but friends no more,
    Self-reproach and futile sighs,
    Vanity in birth that dies,
    Longing, heart-break, adoration,—­
    Nothing sure in expectation
  Save ash-receiver at the last.

IRVING BROWNE.

SMOKING SONG.

  With grateful twirl our smoke-wreaths curl,
    As mist from the waterfall given,
  Or the locks that float round beauty’s throat
    In the whispering air of even.

  Chorus.  Then drown the fears of the coming years,
    And the dread of change before us;
  The way is sweet to our willing feet,
    With the smoke-wreaths twining o’er us.

  As the light beams through the ringlets blue,
    Will hope beam through our sorrow,
  While the gathering wreath of the smoke we breathe
    Shuts out the fear of to-morrow.

  A magic charm in the evening calm
    Calls thought from mem’ry’s treasure;
  But clear and bright in the liquid light
    Are the smoke-called dreams of pleasure.

  Then who shall chide, with boasting pride,
    Delights they ne’er have tasted? 
  Oh, let them smile while we beguile
    The hour with joys they’ve wasted.

College Song.

HOW IT ONCE WAS.

Right stout and strong the worthy burghers stood,
Or rather, sat,
Drank beer in plenty, ate abundant food;
For they to ancient customs still were true,
And smoked, and smoked, because they surely knew
What they were at.