For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
  Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. 
  For thy sake, TOBACCO, I
  Would do anything but die,
  And but seek to extend my days
  Long enough to sing thy praise. 
  But as she who once hath been
  A king’s consort is a queen
  Ever after, nor will bate
  Any tittle of her state,
  Though a widow or divorced,
  So I, from thy converse forced,
  The old name and style retain,
  A right Katherine of Spain;
  And a seat, too, ’mongst the joys
  Of the blest Tobacco Boys,
  Where, though I by sour physician
  Am debarr’d the full fruition
  Of thy favors, I may catch
  Some collateral sweets, and snatch
  Sidelong odors, that give life
  Like glances from a neighbor’s wife,
  And still live in the by-places
  And the suburbs of thy graces,
  And in thy borders take delight,
  An unconquer’d Canaanite.

CHARLES LAMB.

A WINTER EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE.

  Nicotia, dearer to the Muse
  Than all the grape’s bewildering juice,
  We worship, unforbid of thee;
  And as her incense floats and curls
  In airy spires and wayward whirls,
  Or poises on its tremulous stalk
  A flower of frailest reverie,
  So winds and loiters, idly free,
  The current of unguided talk,
  Now laughter-rippled, and now caught
  In smooth dark pools of deeper thought
  Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
  A sweetly unobtrusive third;
  For thou hast magic beyond wine
  To unlock natures each to each;
  The unspoken thought thou canst divine;
  Thou fill’st the pauses of the speech
  With whispers that to dreamland reach,
  And frozen fancy-springs unchain
  In Arctic outskirts of the brain. 
  Sun of all inmost confidences,
  To thy rays doth the heart unclose
  Its formal calyx of pretences,
  That close against rude day’s offences,
  And open its shy midnight rose!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

MY PIPE AND I.

  There may be comrades in this world,
    As stanch and true as steel. 
  There are:  and by their friendships firm
    Is life made only real. 
  But, after all, of all these hearts
    That close with mine entwine,
  None lie so near, nor seem so dear
    As this old pipe of mine.

  My silent friend—­whose voice is held
    Fast for my ear alone—­
  Stays with me always, well content,
    With Darby to be Joan. 
  No fickleness disturbs our lot;
    No jars its peace to smother;
  Ah, no; my faithful pipe and I
    Have wooed and won—­each other.

  On clouds of curling incense sweet,
    We go—­my pipe and I—­
  To lands far off, where skies stay blue
    Through all the years that fly. 
  And nights and days, with rosy dreams
    Teems bright—­an endless throng
  That passing leave, in echoing wake,
    Soft murmurings of song.