Companion thou hast been for many a year; ’Tis I have colour’d thy once fair face black; I could not leave thee now without a tear, Thou, the last keepsake of my old friend Jack. He prized thee for thy shape――and then to hear How oft upon thy merits he hath spoken! Long may I smoke thee with my evening beer, My own loved pipe!――Confound it! it is broken!” ―――― ON THE PLEASURE OF A PIPE. Charm of the solitude I love; My pleasing, my glowing stove! My head of rheum is purged by thee; My heart of vain anxiety. Tobacco! favourite of my soul! When round my head thy vapours roll; When lost in air they vanish too, An emblem of my life I view. I view, and, hence instructed, learn To what myself shall shortly turn: Myself, a kindled coal to-day, That wastes in smoke, and flees away. Swiftly as these――confusing thought―― Alas! I vanish into naught. From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. December, 1871. ―――― LA PIPE. Je suis la pipe d’un auteur; On voit, à contempler ma mine D’Abyssinienne ou de Cafrine, Que mon maitre est un grand fumeur. Quand il est comblé de douleur, Je fume comme la chaumine Où se prépare la cuisine Pour le retour du laboureur. J’enlace et je berce son âme Dans le réseau mobile et bleu Qui monte de ma bouche en feu, Et je roule un puissant dictame Qui charme son cœur et guérit De ses fatiques son esprit. CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. _Translation of the above._ A Poet’s pipe am I; And my Abyssinian tint Is an unmistakable hint That he lays me not often by, When his soul is with grief o’erworn, I smoke like the cottage where They are cooking the evening fare For the labourer’s return. I enfold and cradle his soul In the vapour moving and blue That mounts from my fiery mouth; And there is power in my bowl To charm his spirit and soothe, And heal his weariness too. RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD. ―――― MY DARLING PIPE. Pipe, my darling, Fate is snarling―― Let her snarl. Thou art my love Thee do I love Best of all. In thy kisses, Truest blisses Ever dwell. Faithful ever, Pouting never―― Ah! ’tis well, Pipe, my darling, Fate is snarling―― Let her snarl ――――:o:―――― MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD. Some sombre evening, when I sit And feed in solitude at home, Perchance an ultra-bilious fit Paints all the world an orange chrome. When Fear, and Care, and grim Despair, Flock round me in a ghostly crowd, One charm dispels them all in air;―― I blow my after-dinner cloud.