Volume 98 — EXIT IN FUMO.

O solace of sore hearts, soul-soothing pipe! Was ever trail-exhausted Indian, Tired mariner, or hungry working-man, Or sore-tried toiler, of whatever type, More needed comfort from thy blessed bowl Than brooding Bismarck in his exiled hour? He who, when storms about his land did lour, Faced them, and rode them out, and to the goal Of glory, and to safety's haven brought His mighty charge! Memories of foes outfought, And rivals out-manœuvred, stir his soul, His strong stark soul, as there he sits and shrouds That granite face in thick tobacco-clouds Blown from the "long, and valuable" gift Wherewith a grateful Master's genial thrift Rewards the service, "long and valuable," Of such a Servant! Later time shall tell The tale of that strange parting, of the schemes That set asunder autocratic youth And age, perchance, imperious. But, in truth, Wise age discounts the worth of boyish dreams; 'Tis well that youth, betimes, should bear the yoke! Maybe the Mighty Chancellor's career Is far less like, whatever may appear, Than the proud Emperor's plans to—end in smoke!