Sweet black brierwood pipe of mine! 
If you were human you’d be half divine,
For when I’ve looked beyond the smoke, into your burning bowl
In times of need
You’ve been, indeed,
The only comfort, sweetest solace, of my overflowing soul. 
We’ve been together nearly thirty years, old fellow! 
And now, you must admit, we’re both a trifle mellow. 
We have had our share of joys and a deal of sorrows,
And while we’re only waiting for a few more to-morrows,
Others will come, and others will go,
And Time will gather what Youth will sow;
But we together will go down the rough
Road to the end, and to the end—­puff.

ARTHUR IRVING GRAY.

MY MEERSCHAUM PIPE.

  Old meerschaum pipe, I’ll fondly wipe
    Thy scarred and blackened form,
  For thou to me wilt ever be—­
    Whate’er betides the storm—­
  A casket filled with memories
    Of life’s Auroral morn.

  Thou once wert fair like ivory rare;
    Spotless as lily white;
  Thy curving lines, like tendril’d vines,
    Were pleasing to the sight,
  And in thine ample bowl there lurked
    A promise of delight.

  Like incense flung from censer swung
    Before some sculptured shrine,
  To float along with prayer and song
    To realms of bliss divine,—­
  Ascend thy fragrant wreaths of smoke
    And with my thoughts entwine.

  Old pipe, old friend, o’er thee doth bend
    The rainbow hues of life,
  While sorrows roll across my soul,
    And peace is turned to strife,
  And Faith drifts o’er a sea of doubt
    With desolation rife.

  Alas, that man or pipe e’er can
    Wax old or know decay;
  Alas, that heart from heart must part,
    Or Love can lose its sway. 
  And death in life should cast its pall
    Athwart the troubled way.

  Tho’ love be cross’d, and friends are lost,
    And severed every tie;
  Tho’ hopes are dead and joys have fled,
    And darkened is the sky;
  We yet can warm each other’s hearts,
    Old meerschaum pipe and I.

JOHNSON M. MUNDY.

A WARNING.

HE.

I loathe all books.  I hate to see
The world and men through others’ eyes;
My own are good enough for me. 
These scribbling fellows I despise;
They bore me. 
I used to try to read a bit,
But, when I did, a sleepy fit
Came o’er me.

Yet here I sit with pensive look,
Filling my pipe with fragrant loads,
Gazing in rapture at a book!—­
A free translation of the Odes
Of Horace. 
’Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth,
And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath
Of orris.

I longed for something that was hers
To cheer me when I’m feeling low;
I saw this book of paltry verse,
And asked to take it home—­and so
She lent it. 
I love her deep and tenderly,
Yet dare not tell my love, lest she
Resent it.