RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.

MY CIGAR.

  In spite of my physician, who is, entre nous, a fogy,
  And for every little pleasure has some pathologic bogy,
  Who will bear with no small vices, and grows dismally prophetic
  If I wander from the weary way of virtue dietetic;

  In spite of dire forewarnings that my brains will all be scattered,
  My memory extinguished, and my nervous system shattered,
  That my hand will take to trembling, and my heart begin to flutter,
  My digestion turn a rebel to my very bread and butter;

  As I puff this mild Havana, and its ashes slowly lengthen,
  I feel my courage gather and my resolution strengthen: 
  I will smoke, and I will praise you, my cigar, and I will light you
  With tobacco-phobic pamphlets by the learned prigs who fight you!

  Let him who has a mistress to her eyebrow write a sonnet,
  Let the lover of a lily pen a languid ode upon it;
  In such sentimental subjects I’m a Philistine and cynic,
  And prefer the inspiration drawn from sources nicotinic.

  So I sing of you, dear product of (I trust you are) Havana,
  And if there’s any question as to how my verses scan, a
  Reason is my shyness in the Muses’ aid invoking,
  As, like other ancient maidens, they perchance object to smoking.

  I have learnt with you the wisdom of contemplative quiescence,
  While the world is in a ferment of unmeaning effervescence,
  That its jar and rush and riot bring no good one-half so sterling
  As your fleecy clouds of fragrance that are now about me curling.

  So, let stocks go up or downward, and let politicians wrangle,
  Let the parsons and philosophers grope in a wordy tangle,
  Let those who want them scramble for their dignities or dollars,
  Be millionnaires or magnates, or senators or scholars.

  I will puff my mild Havana, and I quietly will query,
  Whether, when the strife is over, and the combatants are weary,
  Their gains will be more brilliant than its faint expiring flashes,
  Or more solid than this panful of its dead and sober ashes.

ARTHUR W. GUNDRY.

TO C.F.  BRADFORD.

ON THE GIFT OF A MEERSCHAUM PIPE.

  The pipe came safe, and welcome, too,
  As anything must be from you;
  A meerschaum pure, ’twould float as light
  As she the girls called Amphitrite. 
  Mixture divine of foam and clay,
  From both it stole the best away: 
  Its foam is such as crowns the glow
  Of beakers brimmed by Veuve Clicquot;
  Its clay is but congested lymph
  Jove chose to make some choicer nymph;
  And here combined,—­why, this must be
  The birth of some enchanted sea,
  Shaped to immortal form, the type
  And very Venus of a pipe.