Summer was passing--don't you recall The splendid harvest we had that Fall, And how when the Autumn died,--sober and brown,-- We trudged down the turnpike, and on to the town?
Sweet black brierwood pipe of mine! If you were human you'd be half divine, For when I've looked beyond the smoke, into your burning bowl In times of need You've been, indeed, The only comfort, sweetest solace, of my overflowing soul. We've been together nearly thirty years, old fellow! And now, you must admit, we're both a trifle mellow. We have had our share of joys and a deal of sorrows, And while we're only waiting for a few more to-morrows, Others will come, and others will go, And Time will gather what Youth will sow; But we together will go down the rough Road to the end, and to the end--puff.
Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe Thy scarred and blackened form, For thou to me wilt ever be-- Whate'er betides the storm-- A casket filled with memories Of life's Auroral morn.
Thou once wert fair like ivory rare; Spotless as lily white; Thy curving lines, like tendril'd vines, Were pleasing to the sight, And in thine ample bowl there lurked A promise of delight.
Like incense flung from censer swung Before some sculptured shrine, To float along with prayer and song To realms of bliss divine,-- Ascend thy fragrant wreaths of smoke And with my thoughts entwine.
Old pipe, old friend, o'er thee doth bend The rainbow hues of life, While sorrows roll across my soul, And peace is turned to strife, And Faith drifts o'er a sea of doubt With desolation rife.
Alas, that man or pipe e'er can Wax old or know decay; Alas, that heart from heart must part, Or Love can lose its sway. And death in life should cast its pall Athwart the troubled way.
Tho' love be cross'd, and friends are lost, And severed every tie; Tho' hopes are dead and joys have fled, And darkened is the sky; We yet can warm each other's hearts, Old meerschaum pipe and I.
I loathe all books. I hate to see The world and men through others' eyes; My own are good enough for me. These scribbling fellows I despise; They bore me. I used to try to read a bit, But, when I did, a sleepy fit Came o'er me.
Yet here I sit with pensive look, Filling my pipe with fragrant loads, Gazing in rapture at a book!-- A free translation of the Odes Of Horace. 'Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth, And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath Of orris.