POETRY OF SMOKE. 53 



The dark-eyed train of the maids of Spain, 

 Neath their arbor shades trip lightly, 



And a gleaming cigar, like a newborn star, 

 In the clasp of their lips burns brightly. 



It warms the soul, like the blushing bowl, 

 With its rose-red burden streaming, 



And drowns it in bliss, like the first warm kiss, 

 From the lips with love-buds teaming. 

 FRANCIS MILES FINCH. 



TOBACCO. 



THE Indian weed, withered quite, 

 Green at noon, cut down at night, 

 Shows thy decay ; all flesh is hay. 

 Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. 



The pipe that is so lily-white 

 Shows thee to be a mortal wight ; 

 And even such, gone with a touch. 

 Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. 



And when the smoke ascends on high, 

 Thinke thou beholdst the vanity 

 Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe. 

 Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. 



And when the pipe grows foul within. 

 Think on thy soule defil'd with sin, 

 And then the fire it doth require. 

 Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. 



