I’ll learn to quote a stanza here,
A couplet there.  I’m very sure
’Twould aid my suit could I appear
Au fait in books and literature. 
I’ll do it! 
This jingle I can quickly learn;
Then, hid in roses, I’ll return
Her poet!

SHE.

The hateful man!  ’Twould vex a saint! 
Around my pretty, cherished book,
The odor vile, the noisome taint
Of horrid, stale tobacco-smoke
Yet lingers! 
The hateful man, my book to spoil! 
Patrick, the tongs—­lest I should soil
My fingers!

This lovely rose, these lilies frail,
These violets he has sent to me
The odor of his pipe exhale! 
Am I to blame that I should be
Enraged? 
Tell Mr. Simpson every time
He calls upon me, Patrick, I’m
Engaged!

ARTHUR LOVELL.

TO THE REV.  MR. NEWTON.

Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, “I can’t understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

  “Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
    I give to the company,—­pray do but note ’em,—­
  You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there,
    Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.

  “My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
    While you are a nuisance where’er you appear;
  There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses,
    Such a noise as turns any man’s stomach to hear.”

  Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way,
    And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging. 
  The Box in reply was heard plainly to say,
    “What a silly dispute is this we are Waging!

  “If you have a little of merit to claim,
    You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed;
  And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
    The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

  “Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
    No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus;
  We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,
    But of anything else they may choose to put in us.”

WM. COWPER.

A LOSS.

  How hard a thing it is to part
    From those we love and cherish;
  How deeply does it pain one’s heart
    To know all things must perish!

  And when a friend and comrade dear
    Is lost to us forever,
  We feel how frail are all things here,
    Since e’en best friends must sever.

  I, too, have lost a friend, who broke
    Its power when care was near me;
  And troubles disappeared in smoke
    When he was by to cheer me.

  But as friends fall when valued most,
    Like fruit that over-ripe is. 
  My loved companion I have lost,—­
    That friend my meerschaum pipe is!