What changes all my scowls to smiles, And many a tedious hour beguiles, And ne’er by any chance me riles, Tobacco. Enlarger of our mortal ken, _Familiar_ of the artist’s den, Beloved by literary men―― Tobacco! Far kinder than the kindest friend, O, teach us how your powers blend! And from your heavenly throne descend, Tobacco! E. H. S. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. April, 1873. ―――― THE WEED. When roses droop beside the wall, When lily petals fade and fall, What swiftly rises, covering all? The Weed. When starts the widow on the chase, To fill “the late lamented’s” place, What decorates her pretty face? The Weed. When coffee’s served and wine runs low, When conversation waxes slow, What brings the after-dinner glow? The Weed. ―――― A SMOKE. What comforts me when I am sad, Or when I’ve got the toothache _bad_, Or when the money market’s mad? A smoke. What soothes me if I dine not well, When lies about me people tell, Or friendship proves a hollow sell? A smoke. What quiets indigestion’s pangs, And takes the edge off hatred’s fangs, And salves misfortune’s cruel bangs? A smoke. ――――:o:―――― HYMN TO SAINT NICOTINE. (_Imitation of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes._) Strange! that this gently breathèd cloud So far, far sweeter unto me, Than all that this green earth enshroud, Or float above the sea. My meerschaum, when thy mouth I greet, No lady’s lips seem half so sweet. I look upon the fair blue skies, And naught but empty air I see; But when thy circling cloudlets rise, It seemeth unto me Ten thousand angels spread their wings, Within those little azure rings. Tobacco hath the choicest leaf That ever western breeze hath fanned; Its healing odour gives relief To men of ev’ry land. This precious herb to me doth yield More joy than all the broider’d field. O, comrade! there be many things That seem right fair in truth or joke; But sure from none among them springs A richer charm than smoke. Let us not puff our pipes alone, But join two altars both in one. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. December, 1871. ――――:o:―――― PARODY OF DR. WATTS, BY AN ANTI-SMOKER. How doth the nasty, dirty man, Go smoking every hour; And spend his money wastefully On Old Nick’s favourite flower. How wistfully he seeks his pipe, How glad he doth it light; And smokes the foul thing all the day, And feels quite ill at night.