So sweetly wed
  To thy blanched, gradual thread,
  Like Desdemona to the Moor,
          Thou pleasure’s core.

  What woman’s lip
  Could ever give, like thy red tip,
  Such unremitting store of bliss,
          Or such a kiss?

  Oh, let me toy,
  Ixion-like, with cloudy joy;
  Thy stem with a most gentle slant
          I eye askant!

  Unseen, unheard,
  Thy dreamy nectar is transferred,
  The while serenity astride
          Thy neck doth ride.

  A burly cloud
  Doth now thy outward beauties shroud: 
  And now a film doth upward creep,
          Cuddling the cheek.

  And now a ring,
  A mimic silver quoit, takes wing;
  Another and another mount on high,
          Then spread and die.

  They say in story
  That good men have a crown of glory;
  O beautiful and good, behold
          The crowns unfold!

  How did they live? 
  What pleasure could the Old World give
  That ancient miserable lot
          When thou wert not?

  Oh, woe betide! 
  My oldest, dearest friend hath died,—­
  Died in my hand quite unaware,
          Oh, Baccy rare!

ANDREW WYNTER.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

  Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale,
    Or with alcohol moisten his thrapple,
  Only give me, I pray, a good pipe of soft clay,
    Nicely tapered and thin in the stapple;
  And I shall puff, puff, let who will say, “Enough!”
    No luxury else I’m in lack o’,
  No malice I hoard ’gainst queen, prince, duke, or lord,
    While I pull at my pipe of tobacco.

  When I feel the hot strife of the battle of life,
    And the prospect is aught but enticin’,
  Mayhap some real ill, like a protested bill,
    Dims the sunshine that tinged the horizon: 
  Only let me puff, puff,—­be they ever so rough,
    All the sorrows of life I lose track o’,
  The mists disappear, and the vista is clear,
    With a soothing mild pipe of tobacco.

  And when joy after pain, like the sun after rain,
    Stills the waters, long turbid and troubled,
  That life’s current may flow with a ruddier glow,
    And the sense of enjoyment be doubled,—­
  Oh! let me puff, puff, till I feel quantum suff.,
    Such luxury still I’m in lack o’;
  Be joy ever so sweet, it would be incomplete,
    Without a good pipe of tobacco.

  Should my recreant muse—­sometimes apt to refuse
    The guidance of bit and of bridle—­
  Still blankly demur, spite of whip and spur,
    Unimpassioned, inconstant, or idle;
  Only let me puff, puff, till the brain cries, “Enough!”
    Such excitement is all I’m in lack o’,
  And the poetic vein soon to fancy gives rein,
    Inspired by a pipe of tobacco.