Pipe and Pouch Part 16

Fashioned like a satyr's head, Crowned with fire, glowing red, Quaintly carved and softly sleek As Afric maiden's downy cheek.

Comrade of each idle hour In forest shade or leafy bower; Lotus-eaters from thy power Ne'er can break apart.

Darkly colored from long use With tobacco's balmy juice From snowy white to ebon turned By the incense daily burned.

Laid at night within thy case Of velvet soft--thy resting place-- Whence with leering, stained face Daily thou must start,--

To soothe the dreamer's every care, To glow and burn and fill the air With thy curling perfume rare: As thou charmest gloom away, With the dreamer rest for aye Friend of youth, and manhood ripe All hail to thee, thou meerschaum pipe!

_New Orleans Times Democrat._

SUBLIME TOBACCO.

But here the herald of the self-same mouth Came breathing o'er the aromatic South, Not like a "bed of violets" on the gale, But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, Borne from a short, frail pipe, which yet had blown Its gentle odors over either zone, And, puff'd where'er minds rise or waters roll, Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd, And reek'd, 'midst mountain billows unabashed, To aeolus a constant sacrifice, Through every change of all the varying skies.

And what was he who bore it? I may err, But deem him sailor or philosopher.

Sublime tobacco! which from east to west Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest; Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opiums and his brides; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping on the Strand; Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers, wooing the caress More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties,--give me a cigar!

LORD BYRON:

_The Island, Canto ii., Stanza 19._

SMOKING AWAY.

Floating away like the fountains' spray, Or the snow-white plume of a maiden, The smoke-wreaths rise to the starlit skies With blissful fragrance laden.

_Chorus._ Then smoke away till a golden ray Lights up the dawn of the morrow, For a cheerful cigar, like a shield, will bar, The blows of care and sorrow.

The leaf burns bright, like the gems of light That flash in the braids of Beauty; It nerves each heart for the hero's part On the battle-plain of duty.

In the thoughtful gloom of his darkened room, Sits the child of song and story, But his heart is light, for his pipe burns bright, And his dreams are all of glory.

By the blazing fire sits the gray-haired sire, And infant arras surround him; And he smiles on all in that quaint old hall, While the smoke-curls float around him.

In the forest grand of our native land, When the savage conflict ended, The "pipe of peace" brought a sweet release From toil and terror blended.

The dark-eyed train of the maids of Spain 'Neath their arbor shades trip lightly, And a gleaming cigar, like a new-born star, In the clasp of their lips burns brightly

It warms the soul like the blushing bowl, With its rose-red burden streaming, And drowns it in bliss, like the first warm kiss From the lips with love-buds teeming.

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse If I can a pa.s.sage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the pa.s.sion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle, Some few vapors thou mayst raise The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and n.o.bler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The Old World was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The G.o.d's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Baccha.n.a.ls.

These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou His true Indian conquest art; And for ivy round his dart The reformed G.o.d now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume, Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain.

Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell.

Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite--

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.

'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use At a need when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her c.o.c.katrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamore, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more, Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart.

While their sorrow's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

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 t.i.ttle 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 un.o.btrusive 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.