University of Virginia Library

IL REUMATICO TO HIS PIPE.

“SAW HIM.”

“The chamber where the good man meets his fate”
—Of poignancies rheumatic and the ills
Attendant, that obtrude to try and vex,
With direful visitings, the weary life,—
Is redolent with odors of Tabac
And liniments unguental that assail
The nostrils with a sharp appeal, until
Sternutatory echoes wake therein,
And oft a word suggestive not of prayer!
That meerschaum there, by generous friendship sent,
Is potent in its ministries when twinge
Spasmodic racks the suffering frame:
Then, when the paroxysms come, filled up
With fragrant “Durham,” and the match
Applied, ascends the curling phantom-cloud,
And mitigates the toe it may not heal.
Divine Tabac! There be who rail at thee,
And call thee vile; but, O, 'mid surging pangs,
How sweet the blast that calm nepenthe gives,
Emollient to pain's pervading thrill,
Which bounds like lightning o'er the trembling nerves
—The soul's surcease from brooding misery.
Give me my meerschaum at a time like this,
And any one may take the doctor's stuff.
I cry, as pangs obtrusive start along
The vibrant cords, “Ache, do your very worst;
If you can stand it, I can, thus prepared,
And hence defy you!” So the solace comes,
And for the season sweet relief obtains.
Out through the window, on the busy town,
I sit and gaze in pedal helplessness,
Envious of those who lofty ladders climb;
Or urchins there who dart along the way,
In ragged galligaskins, with their sleds;
E'en of the dogs, rude exponents of health,
Who tantalize me with their boisterous glee.
Give me my meerschaum, Nannie, and anon,
Through coyish openings in the vapory veil,
I'll see creation in another guise—
All softened to a calm, and harmony,
Most sweet, restored betwixt the world and me.
Run, climb, and wrestle, ye athletes; to me
'Tis vulgar thus to waste the vital powers,
While I upon the smoke can soar away
In ampler ethers, where sweet flowers exhale,
And airs celestial waft their breezes o'er
Perennial beds of amaranthine bloom!
No ladder rounds can climb as high as this;
No urchin scale this summit with his sled,
To slide recumbent to the earth again;
No step profane the precinct honoring me.
Friend and companion of my youth!—fire-tried
And singed by visitation scoriac—
The fiery trial thou hast sent to me
More grateful is than fruit of orient climes,
In whose mild sacrifice my heart delights,
—Maugre the protest of attendant femmes,—
And azure demons, exorcised, depart,
As on the ambient air the incense floats
From this my censer, eloquent with thee.
I wave my crutch in benison, and, renewed,
Hope tells the “flat-iron tale” of life again,
And steps that halt not with the ball and chain
Of fierce distemper which now hold me fast.
And thus I “puff,” with gratitude sincere,
The genius of the hour—my Banfield pipe.