I watched the ashes as it came
    Fast drawing toward the end;
  I watched it as a friend would watch
    Beside a dying friend;
  But still the flame swept slowly on;
    It vanished into air;
  I threw it from me,—­spare the tale,—­
    It was my last cigar.

  I’ve seen the land of all I love
    Fade in the distance dim;
  I’ve watched above the blighted heart,
    Where once proud hope hath been;
  But I’ve never known a sorrow
    That could with that compare,
  When off the blue Canaries
    I smoked my last cigar.

JOSEPH WARREN FABENS.

LATAKIA.

I.

  When all the panes are hung with frost,
  Wild wizard-work of silver lace,
  I draw my sofa on the rug,
  Before the ancient chimney-place. 
  Upon the painted tiles are mosques
  And minarets, and here and there
  A blind muezzin lifts his hands,
  And calls the faithful unto prayer. 
  Folded in idle, twilight dreams,
  I hear the hemlock chirp and sing,
  As if within its ruddy core
  It held the happy heart of Spring. 
  Ferdousi never sang like that,
  Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay;
  I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke,
  And watch them rise and float away.

II.

  The curling wreaths like turbans seem
  Of silent slaves that come and go,—­
  Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime,
  Whom I behead from time to time,
  With pipe-stem, at a single blow. 
  And now and then a lingering cloud
  Takes gracious form at my desire,
  And at my side my lady stands,
  Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,—­
  A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!

  O Love, if you were only here
  Beside me in this mellow light,
  Though all the bitter winds should blow,
  And all the ways be choked with snow,
  ’Twould be a true Arabian night!

T.B.  ALDRICH.

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.

  ’Tis melancholy to devour
    The gentle chop in loneliness. 
  I look on six—­my prandial hour—­
    With dread not easy to express.

  And yet for every penance done,
    Due compensation seems allow’d. 
  My penance o’er, its price is won,—­
    I blow my after-dinner cloud.

  My clay is not a Henry Clay,—­
    I like it better on the whole;
  And when I fill it, I can say,
    I drown my sorrows in the bowl.