And the lorn nightingale her song has trilled,

I, with my lamp and books, as is my wont,
Will give thee of the choicest of all climes,--
Black Cavendish, full-flavored, full of juice,
Pale Turkish, famed through all the Osman times,

Dark Latakia, Syrian, Persia's pride,
And sweet Virginian, sweeter than them all!
Oh, rich bouquet of plants! fit for a bride
Who, blushing, waits the happy bridegroom's call!

And these shall be thy food, thy dainty food,
And we together will their luxury share,
Voluptuous tumults stealing through the blood,
Voluptuous visions filling all the air!

I will not thee profane with impious shag,
Nor poison thee with nigger-head and twist,
Nor with Kentucky, though the planters brag
That it hath virtues all the rest have missed.

These are for porters, loafers, and the scum,
Who have no sense for the diviner weeds,
Who drink their muddy beer and muddier rum,
Insatiate, like dogs in all their greeds.

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,