A POET'S PIPE.

A poet's pipe am I,

And my Abyssinian tint

Is an unmistakable hint

That he lays me not often by.

When his soul is with grief o'erworn

I smoke like the cottage where

They are cooking the evening fare

For the laborer's return.

I enfold and cradle his soul

In the vapors moving and blue

That mount from my fiery mouth;

And there is power in my bowl

To charm his spirit and soothe,

And heal his weariness too.

RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.