Pipe and Pouch Part 22

A man should hold some rank above his fellows To justify his smoking such a pipe!

What country gave it birth? What blest of cities Saw it first kindle at the glowing coal?

What happy artist murmured, "Nunc dimittis,"

When he had fas.h.i.+oned this transcendent bowl?

Has it been h.o.a.rded in a monarch's treasures?

Was it a gift of peace, or prize of war?

Did the great Khalif in his "House of Pleasures"

Wager and lose it to the good Zaafar?

It may have soothed mild Spenser's melancholy, While musing o'er traditions of the past, Or graced the lips of brave Sir Walter Raleigh, Ere sage King Jamie blew his "_Counterblast_."

Did it, safe hidden in some secret cavern, Escape that monarch's pipoclastic ken?

Has Shakespeare smoked it at the Mermaid Tavern, Quaffing a cup of sack with rare old Ben?

Ay, Shakespeare might have watched his vast creations Loom through its smoke,--the spectre-haunted Thane, The Sisters at their ghostly invocations, The jealous Moor, and melancholy Dane.

Round its...o...b..d haze and through its mazy ringlets, t.i.tania may have led her elfin rout, Or Ariel fanned it with his gauzy winglets, Or Puck danced in the bowl to put it out.

Vain are all fancies,--questions bring no answer; The smokers vanish, but the pipe remains; He were indeed a subtle necromancer, Could read their records in its cloudy stains.

Nor this alone. Its destiny may doom it To outlive e'en its use and history; Some ploughman of the future may exhume it From soil now deep beneath the Eastern sea.

And, treasured by soma antiquarian Stultus, It may to gaping visitors be shown Labelled: "The symbol of some ancient cultus Conjecturally Phallic, but unknown."

Why do I thus recall the ancient quarrel Twixt Man and Time, that marks all earthly things?

Why labor to re-word the hackneyed moral [Greek: Hos phyllon genee], as Homer sings?

'[Omega][sigmaf] [phi][upsilon][lambda][lambda][omega][nu]

[gamma][epsilon][nu][epsilon][eta], as Homer sings?

For this: Some links we forge are never broken; Some feelings claim exemption from decay; And Love, of which this pipe is but the token, Shall last, though pipes and smokers pa.s.s away.

W.H.B.

MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE.

I have a little comforter, I carry in my pocket: It is not any woman's face Set in a golden locket; It is not any kind of purse; It is not book or letter, But yet at times I really think That it is something better.

Oh, my pipe, my little brown pipe!

How oft, at morning early, When vexed with thoughts of coming toil, And just a little surly, I sit with thee till things get clear, And all my plans grow steady, And I can face the strife of life With all my senses steady.

No matter if my temper stands At stormy, fair, or clearing, My pipe has not for any mood A word of angry sneering.

I always find it just the same, In care, or joy, or sorrow, And what it is to-day I know It's sure to be to-morrow.

It helps me through the stress of life; It balances my losses; It adds a charm to all my joys, And lightens all my crosses.

For through the wreathing, misty veil Joy has a softer splendor, And life grows sweetly possible, And love more truly tender.

Oh, I have many richer joys!

I do not underrate them, And every man knows what I mean, I do not need to state them.

But this I say,--I'd rather miss A deal of what's called pleasure, Than lose my little comforter, My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.

Forsaken of all comforts but these two,-- My f.a.got and my pipe--I sit to muse On all my crosses, and almost excuse The heavens for dealing with me as they do.

When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow, Such cheerful expectations doth infuse As makes me think ere long I cannot choose But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now.

But having spent my pipe, I then perceive That hopes and dreams are cousins,--both deceive.

Then mark I this conclusion in my mind, It's all one thing,--both tend into one scope,-- To live upon Tobacco and on Hope: The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer day, I sat upon the quarter deck, And whiffed my cares away; And as the volumed smoke arose, Like incense in the air, I breathed a sigh to think, in sooth, It was my last cigar.

I leaned upon the quarter rail, And looked down in the sea; E'en there the purple wreath of smoke, Was curling gracefully; Oh! what had I at such a time To do with wasting care?

Alas! the trembling tear proclaimed It was my last cigar.

I watched the ashes as it came Fast drawing toward the end; I watched it as a friend would watch Beside a dying friend; But still the flame swept slowly on; It vanished into air; I threw it from me,--spare the tale,-- It was my last cigar.

I've seen the land of all I love Fade in the distance dim; I've watched above the blighted heart, Where once proud hope hath been; But I've never known a sorrow That could with that compare, When off the blue Canaries I smoked my last cigar.

JOSEPH WARREN FABENS.

LATAKIA.

I.

When all the panes are hung with frost, Wild wizard-work of silver lace, I draw my sofa on the rug, Before the ancient chimney-place.

Upon the painted tiles are mosques And minarets, and here and there A blind muezzin lifts his hands, And calls the faithful unto prayer.

Folded in idle, twilight dreams, I hear the hemlock chirp and sing, As if within its ruddy core It held the happy heart of Spring.

Ferdousi never sang like that, Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay; I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke, And watch them rise and float away.

II.