But not for thee nor me these things obscene;
  We have a higher pleasure, purer taste. 
  My draughts have been with thee of hippocrene,
  And our delights intelligent and chaste.

IV.

  Intelligent and chaste since we have held
  Commune together on the world’s highway;
  No Falstaff failings have my mind impelled
  To do misdeeds of sack by night or day;

  But we have ever erred on virtue’s side—­
  At least we should have done—­but woe is me! 
  I fear in this my statement I have lied,
  For ghosts, like moonlight shadows on the sea,

  Crowd thick around me from the shadowy past,—­
  Ghosts of old memories reeling drunk with wine! 
  And boon companions, Lysius-like, and vast
  In their proportions as the god divine.

  I do confess my sins, and here implore
  The aid of “Rare Old Ben” and other ghosts
  That I may sin again, but rarely more,
  Responsive only unto royal toasts.

  For, save these sins, I am a saintly man,
  And live like other saints on prayer and praise,
  My long face longer, if life be a span,
  Than any two lives in these saintly days.

  So let me smoke and drink and do good deeds,
  And boast the doing like a Pharisee;
  Am I not holy if I love the creeds,
  Even though my drinking sins choke up the sea?

GEORGE S. PHILLIPS (JANUARY SEARLE):  The Gypsies of the Dane’s Dike.

INVOCATION TO TOBACCO.

  Weed of the strange flower, weed of the earth,
  Killer of dulness, parent of mirth,
  Come in the sad hour, come in the gay,
  Appear in the night, or in the day,—­
  Still thou art welcome as June’s blooming rose,
  Joy of the palate, delight of the nose.

  Weed of the green field, weed of the wild,
  Fostered in freedom, America’s child,
  Come in Virginia, come in Havana,
  Friend of the universe, sweeter than manna,—­
  Still thou art welcome, rich, fragrant, and ripe,
  Pride of the tube-case, delight of the pipe.

  Weed of the savage, weed of each pole,
  Comforting, soothing, philosophy’s soul,
  Come in the snuff-box, come in cigar,
  In Strasburgh and King’s, come from afar,—­
  Still thou art welcome, the purest, the best,
  Joy of earth’s millions, forever carest.

HENRY JAMES MELLEN.

VIRGINIA TOBACCO.

  Two maiden dames of sixty-two
    Together long had dwelt;
  Neither, alas! of love so true
    The bitter pang had felt.

  But age comes on, they say, apace,
    To warn us of our death,
  And wrinkles mar the fairest face,—­
    At last it stops our breath.

  One of these dames tormented sore
    With that curst pang, toothache,
  Was at a loss for such a bore
    What remedy to take.