Drawing water from the well,
    Delving sand upon the hill,
  Going here and there for Nell,—­
    That’s her helpmate, willing Will.

  Yonder, in the waning light,
    Hand in hand the truants come,
  Nell so fearful lest the night
    Should fall around her far from home.

  Fading, fading, skyward flies
    This joy-picture you have limned;
  Pipe of mine, the quiet skies
    Of my life you leave undimmed.

  Nell and Will are lovers now;
    There they stray in dying light. 
  That’s a kiss!  Ah, well, somehow
    Nell’s no more afraid at night!

GEORGE COOPER.

SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.

SUNG TO THE SMOKERS.

  Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
    Not like mists that mask the sea,
  Not like vapors round the fountains,—­
    Soft and clear and warm are we.

  Hear the tempest, how its minions
    Tear the clouds and heap the snows! 
  No storm-rage is in our pinions;
    Who knows us, ’tis peace he knows.

  Soaring from the burning censers,
    Stealing forth through all the air,
  Hovering as the mild dispensers
    Over you of blisses rare,

  Softly float we, softly blend we,
    Tinted from the deep blue sky,
  Scented from the myrrh-lands, bend we
    Downward to you ere we die.

  Ease we bring, and airy fancies,
    Sober thoughts with visions gay,
  Peace profound with daring glances
    Through the clouds to endless day.

  Not like clouds that cap the mountains,
    Not like mists that mask the sea,
  Not like vapors round the fountains,—­
    Soft and clear and warm are we.

L.T.A., in London Society.

SMOKE AND CHESS.

  We were sitting at chess as the sun went down;
  And he, from his meerschaum’s glossy brown,
  With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.

  The cherry stem, with its amber tip,
  Thoughtfully rested on his lip,
  As the goblet’s rim from which heroes sip.

  And, looking out through the early green,
  He called on his patron saint, I ween,—­
  That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,—­

  While ever rested that crown so fair,
  Poised in the warm and pulseless air,
  On the carven chessman’s ivory hair.

  Dreamily wandered the game along,
  Quietly moving at even-song,
  While the striving kings stood firm and strong,

  Until that one which of late was crowned
  Flinched from a knight’s determined bound,
  And in sullen majesty left the ground,

  Reeling back; and it came to pass
  That, waiting to mutter no funeral mass,
  A bishop had dealt him the coup de grace.

  And so, as we sat, we reasoned still
  Of fate and of fortune, of human will,
  And what are the purposes men fulfil.