n lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.

Forsaken of all comforts but these two,--
My fagot and my pipe--I sit to muse
On all my crosses, and almost excuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they do.
When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow,
Such cheerful expectations doth infuse
As makes me think ere long I cannot choose
But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now.
But having spent my pipe, I then perceive
That hopes and dreams are cousins,--both deceive.
Then mark I this conclusion in my mind,
It's all one thing,--both tend into one scope,--
To live upon Tobacco and on Hope:
The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

'Twas off the blue Canary isles,
A glorious summer day,
I sat upon the quarter deck,
And whiffed my cares away;
And as the volumed smoke arose,
Like incense in the air,
I breathed a sigh to think, in sooth,
It was my last cigar.

I leaned upon the quarter rail,
And looked down in the sea;
E'en there the purple wreath of smoke,
Was curling gracefully;
Oh! what had I at such a time
To do with wasting care?
Alas! the trembling tear proclaimed
It was my last cigar.

I watched the ashes as it came
Fast drawing toward the end;
I watched it as a friend would watch
Beside a dying friend;
But still the flame swept slowly on;
It vanished into air;
I threw it from me,--spare the tale,--
It was my last cigar.

I've seen the land of all I love
Fade in the distance dim;
I've watched above the blighted heart,
Where once proud hope hath been;
But I've never known a sorrow
That could with that compare,
When off the blue Canaries
I smoked my last cigar.

JOSEPH WARREN FABENS.

LATAKIA.

I.

When all the panes are hung with frost,
Wild wizard-work of silver lace,
I draw my sofa on the rug,
Before the ancient chimney-place.
Upon the painted tiles are mosques
And minarets, and here and there
A blind muezzin lifts his hands,
And calls the faithful unto prayer.
Folded in idle, twilight dreams,
I hear the hemlock chirp and sing,
As if within its ruddy core
It held the happy heart of Spring.
Ferdousi never sang like that,
Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay;
I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke,
And watch them ris