THE SMOKER.

———

BY THOMAS S. DONOHO.

———

[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]

I saw him after dinner,

And his face was like the sun,

When wearily he goes to rest,

His long day’s journey done.

The beef had made it hot,

And the wine had made it red,

And a cloud was all around it,

Like a curtain round a bed.

His chair was tilted back,

And his feet were on the wall,

And the sorrows of the world

Did not trouble him at all!

For though he toiled and puffed,

Like an engine, or a stove,

Yet smiled amid his labors

This “cloud-compelling Jove!”

Again I passed his dwelling,

In the darkness of the night;

And still I knew the Smoker,

Like a glow-worm, by his light.

His head was still thrown back,

And his feet were still on high,

And he had a most peculiar look

From out his half-shut eye.

’Twas morning; and I saw him,

This great Vesuvius man,

And o’er the news-full paper

His misty vision ran;

For still the fire was there,

And still the smoke was thick:

And I remembered me the tales,

Whose hero was—Old Nick!

I wondered if he slept?

Or ever went about?

Or was he only some machine —

For what? Ah, there’s the doubt!

Though puffing, always puffing,

He never seemed to go:

What good he did by staying there

Is more than yet I know.

A beggar-boy craved charity —

The Smoker “blessed his stars!”

And said, “he had no change to spare” —

Then sent for more cigars!

The patient wife at last complains;

He gruffly bids her cease:

“My home’s a bell; it’s very hard

I cannot smoke in peace!”